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I shake my head and click onto the most recent text.
GREG HUNTER: I have an actress for you. She’s perfect.
ME: Send me the address.
I’ve known Greg for maybe five years which is a long time in Vegas. He’s got some scratch, but he’s a lowlife loan shark when it comes down to it.
I give the driver the address and close the privacy screen, leaning back onto the cool leather seat.
My recent recurring daydream of a life away from here on some sandy beach without the stink of broken dreams and stale liquor washes over me.
I close my eyes, my head rest on the top of the set then clear my mind and go to that quiet space I’ve cultivated with an unlikely mediation practice over three decades.
I breathe as the images turn vibrant. I’m on the beach under one of those fucking palm frond umbrellas with a smoking hot little triple cherry virgin-looking blonde giving off Marilyn Monroe vibes, and she’s rubbing a nine-month round belly, wearing this tiny as fuck yellow string bikini.
Her face isn’t clear, but I know who it is. I know exactly who it is.
Her epic double-D’s are spilling out of the tiny triangle top. She’s got a ring on her finger with a ruby the size of a Sweet Tart. It’s the ring my mother put into my hand on her deathbed. It was the only valuable possession she managed to hide from my POS father who left us both high and dry when I was ten.
My dick springs to life, thick as a corn cob and I practically double over like I’ve taken a fist to the gut.
It’s the girl from the shelter. I know it.
I’m fucking losing it. I need to get the fuck out of this town.
In my vision, the girl is smiling and so am I. That’s how I know it’s not real. I never smile.
chapterthree
Dietrich
I’m sportinga battering ram of a boner when the car stops outside the two stories of crumbling plasterwork and peeling paint a few blocks from the POS Stratosphere Hotel and Casino.
I consider beating off in the back of the car and leaving that fuck Zeneli a little dried-up DNA, but I need to get this shit sorted and buy back my life.
There will be plenty of time for a one-eyed blast off to visions of sexy, barely legal blondes.
The house attached to the address Greg gave reminds me of where I grew up in Miami, reeking of desperation with its dirt yard and a 1990’s Cadillac Seville in the driveway with red duct tape on the taillights.
I grab the folder with the information I’ve put together on my “daughter” and let myself out of the car.
I’m halfway up the cracked concrete path when Greg bursts out of the front door with his arms as wide as that shit-eating grin on his face.
“Hawk!” He uses my nickname like we pledged Phi Kappa Bullshit together back in the day.
I nod. “Where’s the girl?”
He pats my shoulder, guiding me to the door. “You’re gonna love her. She’s nineteen, has done some stage work, and is the daughter of a very good friend. She’ll do whatever because,” He leans into my ear as I push him away and he finishes in some super, double secret code ring voice, “her fatherowesme.”
“Fine, but no doe eyes or crocodile tears when I don’t massage her ego.”
“She won’t let you down, man. She’s gonna be fucking Meryl Streep for you,” he replies, cocking a brow on a theatrical mafioso sniff.
The toe of my black Santoni loafer barely touches the first step before a flash of brown fur comes balling out the door, ears pinned back at a dead run.
“Oh fuck.” Greg sticks out his foot, trying to block the furry escape artist. “Hannah is going to kill me for letting that dog out…”
Greg’s too fat to make a move so I spin, and in one long stride, I’ve scooped up the little wiener dog by the belly before he gets pancaked by the garbage truck that’s whizzing by. Lucky for the people that live here, he’s clean, smells good and has a green neon collar embroidered with the house address.
