From Cassidy Barker’s side of the blackjack table, the casino floor was a symphony of calculated loss and manufactured joy. The incessant, cheerful chime of a nearby slot machine paying out a minor jackpot was just a percussive accent to the low, steady hum of a hundred simultaneous conversations. Herhands, however, were silent. They moved with a liquid economy of motion that belied the complex mathematics spinning behind her eyes. Shuffle, cut, deal. The rhythm was second nature, a muscle memory so deep it left her mind free to wander. And it always wandered.
Two of hearts to the honeymooners on seat one. A seven to the desperate salesman on three. Face card to the wannabe pro on five, who thinks his sunglasses make him look mysterious instead of like a man who forgot to take out the trash.
Her internal ledger kept a running tally, a silent game she played to stave off the soul-crushing boredom. The count was hot. Not just warm, but sizzling—a high-card-heavy shoe that any decent card counter would be drooling over. The salesman on three should be doubling down, but he was too busy sweating through his shirt to notice. The honeymooners were too caught up in each other to care.
It was this—this constant, whirring calculus—that her most recent ex had never understood. “You’re always in your head,” he’d said last week, the final words in a relationship that had fizzled out with less drama than a losing hand. “It’s like you’re a million miles away.”
He wasn’t wrong. Most of the time, shewasa million miles away, calculating what to do with the rest of her life. Something other than this. The problem was, she had no idea what that something else was. A degree? In what? A new city? Which one? For a woman who could track the probability of a ten-point card appearing with ninety-eight percent accuracy, her own future was a complete statistical anomaly.
A bride, judging by the ridiculously new-looking ring on her finger—hesitated, her hand hovering over her two cards. A soft nineteen. The dealer’s up-card was a six. Cassidy’s mind supplied the odds in a flash.
She caught the young woman’s eye for a fraction of a second, giving the slightest, almost imperceptible shake of her head. “Insurance is a sucker’s bet, folks,” her voice in a low, even monotone, expressed the standard casino line that was, for once, the absolute truth.
The husband nodded, pulling his wife’s hand back. “She’s right, honey. We stand.”
Cassidy played out the hand, flipping her down card to reveal a four. She hit, pulled a nine, and busted. She paid out the table’s winnings with a practiced, neutral expression. It was a small act of rebellion, a tiny nudge of the odds in someone else’s favor. It was all the control she had here.
Her gaze drifted past the players, over the sea of heads. The casino floor buzzed with its usual Friday night chaos—slot machines continuously chiming, dice clattering, voices rising and falling in waves of excitement and disappointment. After three years, it all blurred into background noise. Just another shift. Just another night of watching people gamble away rent money while she calculated her own odds of getting out of this life. She’d grown up in the foster system, passed between houses like a well-worn deck of cards, learning early that the only person you could ever truly count on was yourself. She had no family photos in her small apartment, no sentimental heirlooms. Just a growing savings account and a vague, persistent ache for roots she’d never had. She wanted more than this transient life, more than the fleeting connections of the casino floor. She just didn’t know how to get it.
The pit boss appeared at the edge of her vision, tapping his watch. Shift change. Relief washed over her, cool and immediate. She finished the hand, expertly cleared the table, and pushed a neat stack of chips toward her replacement. “Table’s all yours.”
“Anything exciting?” The woman slid into the seat.
“Never is.” She walked away from the table, the noise of the casino floor already receding. She navigated the endless labyrinth of employee hallways, the scent of industrial cleaner a welcome change from the cloying perfume of the main floor. In the stark, fluorescent light of the locker room, she shed the dealer’s uniform and the professional calm that went with it. In her own clothes—jeans and a soft, worn t-shirt—she felt anonymous again. She felt like herself. Whoever that was.
Her phone buzzed with a text from the leasing office.Reminder: Response needed on lease renewal by Monday.
For a brief while she’d forgotten that the landlord was raising the rent on her tiny one-bedroom apartment with leaky pipes and noisy neighbors. Three days to decide if she was staying or going. In the last two weeks since she’d gotten notice of the rent increase, she’d looked at a few other apartments, not much cheaper, not much better. She was definitely going to have to make up her mind. Stay or leave. Though she knew what she’d do. What she always did. Stay with the familiar. She’d done enough moving from place to place the first eighteen years of her life, she was tired of packing.
Heading out into the artificial dusk of the casino’s shopping promenade, she felt the familiar pull of restlessness. Another night done. Another small deposit made into the escape fund. Maybe tomorrow she’d look at those college brochures again. Maybe she’d finally fill one out. Or maybe she’d just keep doing what she’d always done—surviving one day at a time, waiting for something to change while knowing it probably never would.
Chapter Two
Kade zipped his duffel bag and gave the hotel room one last scan. Wallet, phone, keys—all accounted for. His redeye didn’t leave until after midnight, which left him with too many hours to kill in Vegas with nothing to do but think. Dangerous territory.
Sully’s wedding had been quick and perfect—twenty minutes at a chapel with fake flowers and real vows, followed by champagne toasts and his friend’s ridiculous, love-struck grin. Now, down the hall, in a suite filled with more champagne and a field of chocolate-covered strawberries, the newlyweds were happily ensconced for the long weekend. Kade figured they probably wouldn’t surface again any time soon, not even for food. Whoever said a man couldn’t live on love alone had never met Sully and his bride—or, for that matter, any of the Sweet siblings.
Making his way down the elevator, he crossed the bustling lobby and checked out, leaving his duffel bag with the bell desk. Now, with nothing better to do, he wandered toward the casino floor, which beckoned him with its manufactured energy—the chiming of slots, the rattle of dice, the low murmur of voices. White noise for the brain. Perfect.
Kade found an empty spot at a blackjack table and slid into the chair, exchanging cash for chips. The dealer, a middle-aged man with efficient hands, nodded a greeting and drew the firstcards from the dealer’s shoe. Kade played mechanically, his mind only half on the cards. Hit. Stay. Double down. It was something to do with his hands while his thoughts wandered.
From his seat, he had a clear view of several other tables. He was scanning the room, a habit ingrained by years of training, when a commotion from a nearby table pulled his attention. A man—forties, rumpled suit, clearly several drinks past his limit—was leaning heavily on the felt, his voice carrying over the ambient noise.
“Come on, sweetheart, smile for me,” the drunk slurred at the dealer, a young woman with dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t look so serious.”
From where he sat, he couldn’t see her face, but he could see the tension in her shoulders. She dealt the next hand without acknowledging the comment.
The drunk lost a hand, and then another, his mood shifting from loud and annoying to louder and obnoxious. The sloppy man slapped the table. “Hit me again.”
The dealer dealt him a card—nine of clubs. Bust.
His face reddened as she swept away his chips. “This is bullshit,” he slurred. The guy was losing, and he was taking it out on her.
To her credit, the woman maintained her professional calm. This probably wasn’t the first or last drunk she’d have to handle.
His own game forgotten, Kade watched the drunk grow louder and the dealer’s stance stiffen. Where the hell was security?
The jerk lost another hand, the dealer reached to collect the chips, and the drunk’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.
