Chapter 1: Mae
“More shots!” the rowdy group of bachelor-party men hollers from across the bustling casino floor of Cypress’ Palace, a monument to indulgence and excess Their voices cut through the noise of slot machines and drunken yelling like nails on a chalkboard.
I force a tight smile as I set another round on their table, ignoring the crude whistles and leering gazes that trail my every move. Incessant, rude, and utterly shameless—this group is everything that I hate about this job. But hate doesn’t pay my rent, buy food, or cover the bar exam that I still haven’t been able to afford. Hate doesn’t chip away at the mountain of student loan debt that feels like it’s been crushing me since my parents decided to cut me off during the last semester of my law degree. And hate doesn’t make me the kind of person that I want my daughter to look up to someday.
I sigh and head back to the bar to pour the group the additional shots that they’ve demanded. The bartender on the first floor of the casino shoots me a pitiful look as she glances back towards the group I just left behind. She’d eyed the men the moment that they'd walked into the casino and knew they were going to give me a hard time the second they took up residency at a table inmysection for the night. But that seems to be the case lately, difficult men seem to flock to me like a magnet. I’m not sure what it is about me, maybe I have a sign that sayshey, come over here and shit on me,written on my forehead.
"I hate this," I say as I slam my drink tray down on the countertop of the bar dramatically.
"You're doing great, Mae," she responds, her voice soft and reassuring.
I’ve been at this job for five months now, and not a day goes by that I don’t fantasize about the day when I’ll be able to afford to walk away from it forever. The constant noise, the drunks, the obscene stares—it all grates on me. But desperation has a way of dulling your pride. That’s how I ended up here in the first place, after my ex-husband, Vance, took the last of the little financial support I had in the divorce and disappeared.
By the time the ink had dried, all I had left was a shaky full-custody agreement for our daughter, Elsie, and a mountain of debt that he’d left behind. Not that the custody arrangement mattered much—Vance was never really a father anyways. I’m pretty sure he’s forgotten he even has a daughter. His wealthy family hasn’t been any better, their supposed generosity only extending to the production of male heirs.
The last time I left Vance for good—because yes, I’d tried and failed before due to not being able to stand on my own two feet financially—I was determined to rebuild my life. I scraped together enough to rent a tiny apartment in a semi-decent part of Las Vegas, found a reliable landlord who didn’t ask too many questions, and re-enrolled in school to finish the one class standing between me and my law degree. I was so close. So,freakingclose.
For a while, it felt like I was finally moving forward. I threw myself into studying for the bar, juggling school, work, andmotherhood like my life depended on it—because, let’s face it, it did. But here I am, one year and one finalized divorce later, not celebrating my newfound freedom but pouring shots for trashy, handsy men while Elsie is at home with my best friend, and the only other person I would ever trust her with, Sienna.
I hate being away from Elsie. The thought of her with anyone but me makes my chest ache. But at least she’s with Sienna and not Vance—or worse, his cold, calculating family. If I thought my family was bad, well, Vance’s is right up there. Honestly, I think Vance always knew he wasn’t cut out to be a father. Luckily for us, that meant he was rarely around, and his absence spared Elsie and me from receiving the punishment of his anger.
Who knows where he is now? He disappeared a few weeks after Elsie was born, and thankfully, he’s stayed gone. Almost four years of silence, and I pray it stays that way forever.
Looking back, being married to him feels like a fever dream, a lifetime ago, or maybe even someone else’s life. I hardly recognize the woman I was back then—naive, hopeful, and so willing to believe in the promises that he’d made. I’m ashamed of the way that I let the people around me manipulate my choices and tell me what was best for me. Had I felt like I’d had a voice from the start, I would have never married Vance in the first place, pregnancy or not.
I finish pouring another round of shots and line them up on my tray in a neat manner while giving myself time to straighten out my thoughts. Then, moving effortlessly back through the loud and overly crowded casino, I place them on the table in front of my guests as a game of craps unfolds around me.
“Hey babe,” the man, who I presume is the groom of the group based on the stupid pin adorning his polo shirt, places his hand on my lower back, his fingers graze the exposed skin revealed by my skimpy uniform and it makes me wish I could fold up inside of myself like an origami dragon. If it was possible to become smaller simply out of repulsion, I’d be a speck of dust on theground right now.
I fight the urge to visibly recoil as I force a polite smile because I’m a professional, and I need their tips tonight or Elsie and I are going to be in a tough spot with bills this month.
“You want to go up to my suite later? There’s something I'machingto show you,” he says with a thick Texan accent emphasizing the word aching and grabbing at the crotch of his worn jeans. His eyes cast dramatically downward, studying my frame, and then back up to me, lust and desire radiating through his pitiful eyes.
He’s wasted. But all I can see is Vance in his face in a very similar situation during our short, two-years of legal marriage.
How many women had Vance picked up in bars and hotels before coming back to see me while I was pregnant carrying our daughter?
That thought makes me want to vomit all over Mr. Groom’s face, which is now just an inch from mine and reeking of tequila and cigarettes. I guess it’s a blessing he'd disappeared so quickly after Elsie was born. That way, most of our marriage and divorce, were spent apart. Struggling, yes, but at least I wasn’t struggling while taking care of a baby and a giant man-child.
“Sorry, can't. I'm working,” I grit through my teeth because I hate that I’m apologizing to a man who doesn’t deserve it. I force a pageant worthy smile and shrug as if I was actually considering his offer.
“Oh, come on. How about a kiss instead then?” he says, grinning again and doing his best to muster up what I assume is supposed to be hooded, sensual eyelids. Instead, he comes across as droopy and dumb and I’m very confident that describes him perfectly.
I set my tray on the table and fold my arms over my chest. “How about instead I join your game? A game of street craps, no house involvement other than the roll. If I’m right, you give me the full table winnings. If you’re right, I’ll give you that kiss.”
Didn’t say where it’d be, though.
A salacious grin spreads across his face, revealing a piece of loose tobacco stuck in a tooth. “Sounds good, darling,” he drawls in that same Texan accent that I’m thankful to have removed from my vernacular when I separated myself from my family back in Texas permanently. All I can think about now is how damn good it’s going to feel to kick this guy’s ass.
I’ve been watching their game all night. Craps is all about outcomes and predictions, and despite my background in political science and recent law degree that I’ve completed, I’m a master with numbers and what they don’t know: wicked smart.
The dealer, a friend of mine and coworker looks my way for my bet.
“Big red,” I state firmly.
The groomsmen around the table all “ooh and aah” around me as they realize what I’ve just said. Big red is the same as the any seven bet and means that I’m shooting for seven. Any combination of the two dice that equal seven would be a win. Sure, it’s the riskiest possible bet to make and with the worst house edge. But I’m a gambler and I always bet on myself.
The groom raises his overly bushy brows with a smirk. “Don't pass bet."
