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Strangely, it’s still warm, like he slipped it off his thick wrist and into my pocket just moments ago. Maybe it’s the extreme fatigue, or maybe I’m just a certified psychopath now, but for some reason, I lift it to my nose and breathe in its scent. The tangy cocktail of leather and lingering aftershave sparks a small, flickering flame in the pit of my stomach, and for a dark, dangerous moment, I’m back in the bar. Surrounded by slow swirls of amber, flashes of silver, and glittering green.
I reflexively clench my thighs together.
Christ, I must be tired, because fuck him. I don’t care who he is or how many bodyguards he has, he came at me with a hammer. The worst part? It seemed to be some sort of joke to him.
I fall back on the bed and let out a little laugh. I can’t help it, because, despite being petrified at the time, I’m still heady from the adrenaline rush of it all. Big wins only come from big risks, and, well, I definitely risked it all tonight.
My amusement settles on my skin like dust and gives way to a dull ache behind my breast. To be honest, I’ll miss my grifting ways. I’m not giving up the game because I’m bored with it, but because it’s the right thing to do.
I’ve always known it was wrong, which is why I’ve spent the last three years trying to find a career that’s right. When I arrived in Atlantic City, the first thing I did was scope out the casinos, and the second was sign up for a library card. Every Monday, I’d stand in front of the For Dummies section, close my eyes and brush my pointer finger along the spines. Whatever book I landed on I had to read, no matter how boring the topic. My logic was that maybe, just maybe, I’d find something within the pages that shone light on the darkness inside of me. Something that came close to the thrill of card counting or edge sorting or lifting a wallet out of a man’s slacks while he was distracted by my tits.
But so far, no dice. German Grammar. Real Estate. Trainspotting. Every book I’ve picked up has bored me to tears.
I get up off the bed and walk over to my suitcase to put the watch in its front pocket for safekeeping. I’ll figure out how I’ll sell it tomorrow.
As I scoop up a pile of clothes from the bed, something lying underneath it catches my eye.
A card.
I pick it up and flip it over.
Sinners Anonymous. The letters are embossed in gold, and underneath, there’s a number printed in silky black digits. I stare at it for a few heavy seconds, and then without thinking I snatch up the burner phone I bought at a truck stop somewhere in the Midwest and punch in the number.
The line rings three times, then it clicks into the voicemail service.
“You have reached Sinners Anonymous,” a woman’s robotic voice says. “Please leave your sin after the tone.”
There’s a long beep, followed by a static silence.
I sink onto the bed. Close my eyes and draw in a deep breath.
“Hello, old friend. It’s been a while.”
