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Where to start? The bar, of course. After three years of fishing for marks in Atlantic City, I’ve noticed men who sit by the bar are more likely to take my bait. Maybe it’s because the short distance between them and the bartender means they’re more likely to get drunk and stupid.
My gaze slides to the bar and the lone figure leaning against it. The soft lighting evades him; everything but the broad planes of his shoulders and the sharp lines of his suit is concealed. But the moment I see a flash of amber in his glass and a glint of silver on his wrist, I know it doesn’t matter what he looks like.
I kick my suitcase under the table and stride toward the bar, attempting a sexy strut, which is pretty hard in Doc Martens.
Reaching the bar feels like stepping on stage. I’m an actress, and while the leading man is always different, this role is mine. Has been since I turned eighteen and realized that, as a high-school drop-out, the alternative to putting my swindling skills to use was flipping burgers while a man barked orders over my shoulder, all for the privilege of seven-twenty-five an hour.
Despite feeling that familiar buzz of excitement just before the curtain goes up, there’s a sadness biting at my edges, because I know this will be my last ever performance.
I’m going to make it my best.
Act One: Engage the mark in conversation.
I come to a stop two seats from where my freshly-appointed mark is leaning. Without so much as a glance in his direction, I slide off my coat and let it slip slowly down my shoulders to my hips, before draping it over the back of the stool. Before I started using the For Dummies books to aid my Grand Quest, my mission to find a career path outside of robbing stupid men, I worked at a strip joint for a while. It was all going well until a john poked at my belly and asked if I’d lied about my weight on my application form. I didn’t quit because of his remark—I got fired because I sank my teeth into the hand he prodded me with.
It was then I decided I probably didn’t have enough self-control to shake my ass for ungrateful men, but the whole experience wasn’t a complete waste of time. Not only did I have actual female friends for a while, but I also learned this coat trick.
Immediately, I know it worked, because it suddenly feels like I’m standing in front of an open flame.
His gaze is warm, just like the satisfaction pooling in my lower stomach. It heats my cheek before sliding down my side and stopping at the high slit in my dress. As always, I pretend I haven’t even noticed his presence, let alone felt his stare.
I slide my thighs across the butter-soft leather seat and smile at the bartender. Dark hair, soft features, and a grin made for customer service. It takes a few moments of rusty recognition until I realize it’s Dan. We were in the same school year at Devil’s Dip High, and I used to copy his science homework. It takes him a few seconds to recognize me too, and when his mouth drops open to strike up a conversation, I give a small shake of my head.
Thankfully, he closes his mouth, cuts a look to the man beside me, then plasters that polite smile back on. “Hey, there. What can I get you?”
Phew. I glance down to my left, at the large, suited forearm resting against the bar. Something stirs inside of me and it is too far south to feel appropriate. I want to believe it’s because of the very expensive Breitling on his wrist, one with a clasp I could unbuckle in my sleep, and not because his olive-skinned hand is so large it makes the whiskey glass he’s holding look like a fucking thimble.
Christ. I almost forget my next line.
“I’ll have whatever he’s having.”
Silence. The type so dense that if you heard it on the other end of a phone call, you’d glance at your cell, frown, and say, “Hello?”
It feels like forever until Dan stops staring at me. He clears his throat and turns to the wall of liquor to fix my drink.
Glass clinks. Louis Armstrong seeps through the speakers, and unease drips into my bloodstream. This is the moment the mark is meant to speak up. The moment he says something chauvinistic, like, Oh, I thought girls didn’t drink whiskey? To which I’d toss my hair over my shoulder, bat my lashes and reply with something equally as cliché. Well, I’m not like other girls.
But…nothing. My little fish hasn’t even shown interest in my bait, let alone taken a bite. I hold my nerve for as long as it takes for Dan to slide over a low-ball glass and a napkin, and then I turn to face my mark.
Holy shit.
You’re not meant to look like that.
Our gazes clash, and immediately, I know I’m not the first woman to lock eyes with this man and lose their heartbeat.
He’s not just handsome; he’s beautiful, and in a way that isn’t up for debate, regardless of personal preference.
Tanned skin, black hair faded to perfection, and cheekbones you could chip ice off of.
His stare is just as likely to give me frostbite, too.
“I’m not interested.”
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
“Apology accepted.”
He turns his attention back to his cell, picking it up off the bar and unlocking it with a quick swipe of his thumb.
