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I scroll down further, and I read that her mother is deceased. Her father is unemployed, and she’s an only child and works at a Mexican restaurant.
Alright, all of this is good to know, but I pay my private investigators for the more salacious details.
Moving even further down on the screen, I finally get to the juicy stuff. According to my sources, Katarina’s dad seems to have quite a bit of gambling debt. In an attempt to get out of said debt, he borrowed money from the type of people you don’t want to borrow money from. When her dad couldn’t pay them back, they busted one of his kneecaps and put him in the hospital.
It’s evident that Katarina is counting cards to pay off her father’s debts. And according to the notes on here, she has been kicked out of every casino back home. Apparently, this isn’t the first time Katarina has had to bail her father out of a tight spot. The last time, I’d say they wanted to send a message because there’s a hospital report in the file showing she got beaten up pretty badly. There’s a photo of her sporting a black eye and busted lip. The hospital suspected domestic violence, but I know a warning from a bookie when I see one.
Her dad sounds like a real asshole.
I lean back in the chair and look back at the monitors zoomed in on her lovely face.
I could be a nice guy and help Katarina out with her little money problem, but nice isn’t something I’m typically described as. I don’t see that changing anytime soon.
But maybe I could give her an offer—a trade of sorts. I could give her a way we could both be happy. She could pay off her debts…and I could climb between those luscious legs of hers.
Taking one final look at the screen, I decide to at least put the offer on the table. Whether or not she takes it, this will be Katarina’s last night counting cards in my casino, and if she’s not careful, it may be one of her last nights on Earth.
It’s time she learns one fundamental fact:The house always wins
Chapter Two
KATARINA
Looking down at the casino chips in front of me, I mentally tally them in my head. I’m slowly inching toward the total amount I need to bail my dad out of trouble…again.
Never did I think I would be in Vegas counting cards , but considering I need more money than I ever have before, and I’ve been banned from every casino in Atlantic City, Vegas was the only logical option. After all, waiting tables barely supports me, let alone my father’s bad habits.
But this is it. This is the last time I bail him out, and I made sure to tell him that. To further drive the point home, the second I pay this money, I plan on getting the fuck out of Atlantic City. I’m going to start over somewhere completely new, and as awful as it sounds, I have no intention of telling my dad where I’m going.
I love the man, but his vices are too much to bear—not to mention the fact that I fear for my own safety. The people my dad owes money to already sent a message about a year ago, and I don’t intend on ever going through that again—no matter what I have to do.
And let’s be honest, counting cards earns you a whole hell of a lot of enemies. One of these days, I know it’s going to bite me in the ass, and my luck will run out, so to speak.
The dealer lays out another two cards, and I come out on top…again. He gives me a sly look, and I know I need to throw in a couple of losing hands to try to throw him off any whiff of cheating.
I bet low, so my losing hands don’t hit me too hard.
Trying to be pleasant, the dealer asks, “So, where are you from?”
“New York,” I lie. Okay, it’s only partially a lie. I was born in New York and raised there until I was ten. That’s when my mom died, and everything went to shit.
I went from a penthouse on Park Avenue with a silver spoon in my mouth to losing absolutely everything.
After losing my mom, my dad went into a deep, dark depression. When he wasn’t drowning his sorrows in a bottle of Jack Daniels, he was gambling away every penny we had. We lost everything, and Dad moved us to Atlantic City to be closer to the casinos, constantly convinced he could win our money back.
Spoiler alert: he never did.
Things got so bad that I moved out when I was sixteen. Since then, I’ve done what I’ve had to so that I could get by—some of it I’m not exactly proud of.
The dealer pulls me from my thoughts, clearing his throat, waiting on me to make my bet. Once I do, he takes a shot and asks if I’m single.
Didn’t see that coming.
I explain to him that I have a boyfriend. That is a lie. I haven’t dated anyone in forever, and even when I did, it was never anything serious. Truthfully, it’s barely ever been more than a booty call. I guess I’m okay with that. A girl needs to get laid, but I’m a little too fucked up for anything more.
It’s sweet that the dealer hit on me since I really tried to make myself look more homely to avoid any interaction like this—or any interaction in general. Since I arrived, I’ve tried my best to stay off the radar. If you’re not careful, counting cards can garner you a lot of unwanted attention, and I didn’t want to make that worse by dressing all fancy. Going unnoticed is critical.
And I think I’ve done a pretty good job of it…until I see two very large men in all black suits walking over to the table. For a moment, they look like they’re going to walk right past, so I try to play it cool. But it doesn’t take long for them to stop right behind me.
