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A beautiful woman like her with confidence like that is just as sexy as she is dangerous to someone like me. Using pretty girls to lure in mafia leaders shouldn’t be such a tried-and-true strategy, but men will be men. I’ve lost more than one man to such a trap in my time in the Bratva, and it’s never been easy to tell the man’s wife the circumstances of his death. I would be far more willing to die in a hail of bullets than to be drawn into the prospect of sex by an enemy.
Because of this, I need to avert my gaze and focus on the task at hand. She could very well be there to get me to follow her. Perhaps the briefcase itself is just a decoy, and the woman carrying it is the real trap. I’m not about to let myself find out.
After she’s out of my line of sight, I realize that I’m glancing around the room to find someone who might look like her that I can use as a diversion. Even a brief glimpse of her has brought my mind to the wrong place, and it’s been long enough since I had sex for such a distraction to create problems for me. I could fuck any girl in this room that I wanted, but now I want the only one I can’t have. Irony has never been my friend, and this is the case now more than ever.
I wander the casino for just a bit longer before I decide to call it a night. The sooner I accept this failure, the sooner I can figure out how to make sure nothing like this ever happens again. Every loss is too costly to let go of, and now I’ve lost time as well. The new drug could very well end up in Grisha’s hands by tomorrow morning if I don’t change course and find the fault in my plan.
Just as I’m about to head out the door for the night, a blonde woman in her mid-forties walks up to me with a devious look in her eye. She’s got the body of a career sprinter with a couple of teenage kids and a soft tan that brings out the blue of her eyes. She’s stunning, but for some reason, I don’t find myself interested in the least.
“Heading out a little early, I see?” she says with an intentional, coy smile.
“Yeah, I guess so. No luck for me,” I reply.
She places her hand on my arm, lightly squeezing my bicep. “I think we should leave together. Maybe we can both end up lucky after all.”
Clearly, she has a routine that she’s worked down to a science in order to get what she wants. Her eyes are glittering with expectation, and I almost feel sorry for her when I shrug her hand off my arm.
“Sorry, I’m just going to head upstairs alone. Thanks though,” I reply.
Her expression is hurt, maybe a little sour, but she returns to her table without issue.
3
Faye
It takes me a full fifteen minutes to peel myself from my bed just to get up and pour a glass of wine. I’m not even that much of a wine drinker usually, though I always admired people who could get into it. Wine feels so much more sophisticated than the fruity, vividly colored cocktails I find myself drinking when I’m out with my friends.
Speaking of my friends, I’m absolutely dreading the moment they ask me how this trip went. I still have three days left, but I’m so bored and forlorn that I’d rather just go home and tell them I got food poisoning. Being alone and heartbroken in my apartment is one thing, but feeling that way in a place where everyone around you is having the time of their life cuts even deeper. I’ve seen enough wedding chapels and questionable new couples for a lifetime, and even though I know their chances of making it are slim, I’m still jealous as ever. Even the illusion of domestic bliss feels better than whatever the hell I’m going through.
The hotel left two bottles of complimentary wine in some empty buckets that I presume I was supposed to fill with ice. Even the two stupid wine bottles remind me how alone I am here. I considered booking a honeymoon suite just for the irony and spite of it, but now I know that would have been a huge mistake.
Even though I’ve never been a fan of red wine, I’m momentarily transfixed by how pretty it looks in the glass. I know it’s likely going to taste like permanent markers and burnt cranberry sauce, but I can at least pretend that I’m a proper adult for a bit. I suppose it’s better than being forced to drink coffee IPAs with Cody and his friends. I’ve never retched so hard in my life from alcohol.
Just before I’m able to lift the glass to my lips, I’m startled by a sudden, aggressive pounding on the door. The entire wall rattles as the pounding continues, but I’m too stunned to react at all.
“Open up! This is the police!” barks an authoritative male voice on the other side of the door.
Shit, could this be because of the briefcase? All I did was bring it up to the front desk. How much trouble could I possibly be in?
I’d jumped a bit when the pounding first started, and some of the wine in my glass jumped with me. I have a big red stain on my teal sweatshirt, and if I were a suspicious cop, it could easily look like a smear of blood.
Of course, it would take two seconds to rule out a bloodstain, but my mind is racing with all the worst possibilities.
“Open this goddamn door or we’ll do it for you!” screams the voice again.
With my legs shaking uncontrollably, I approach the door with my head high, prepared for a confrontation. I’ve never had to interact with the police in a way that made me nervous like this, but I have nothing to hide. I’ve done nothing wrong. At the very least, they’ll have a hell of a bureaucratic nightmare to deal with if they mishandle me for no reason.
As the pounding begins once again, I open the door with the chain still engaged. “Yes, can I help you?” I ask with my voice lowered a bit. I can’t match the masculine snarl in the cop’s voice, but I can sound pretty damn close to a mean high school receptionist if I try hard enough.
Without a word, the cop shoves past me, breaking the chain off the wall.
Any bravado I’d had before fails me as a state of shock prevents a reaction once more. The first cop barrels through the doorway with another cop tailing close behind. They immediately begin to toss the room, throwing all of my clothes and makeup to the floor as if they’re pretending to look for something they know they aren’t going to find.
As I remain stuck to the wall in fear, I notice that the cops’ uniforms look rather slovenly and ill-fitting. I’ve never seen police officers who look like that without having been in some kind of fight. If that were the case, I’d expect them to have much bigger fish to fry than whatever imagined crime I’ve committed in their eyes.
“What are you doing here? Why are you destroying my room?” I plead helplessly. I feel like such a little girl whining in the corner of the room while these men tear everything apart.
“What areyoudoing here? Huh? What did you come to Vegas for?” growls the other cop. Now that I’ve had a chance to listen, this man’s accent doesn’t sound American at all. I can’t judge his origins, of course, but I’m still puzzled as to why a foreigner would want to work for the American police force at all.
