She leans down, resting her elbows on the bar. “Because you look like a cop. And no one wants to get drunk next to a cop in a casino.” Flashing jazz hands beside her face, she adds, “It’s a trap!”
My face falls as I scan my attire and posture. And yeah... she’s right. I look like a cop.
Technically, I’m a special agent at the FBI. But whatever.
Before I can protest, she dashes away as fast as her aging body will let her.
Too bad for Katrina, there’s only one casino in the area. And I had a shitty fucking day, so I need to be here tonight. This place helps me block out all the bullshit I don’t want to think about.
I tug at my tie, loosening it up and yanking it off my neck. Then I untuck my shirt and scuff my hair to look unkempt. Maybe if I’m not soput together, my profession will be less obvious.
Not sure any of that will help, considering the stiffness is on the inside as well as the out. But I don’t want to draw attention to myself. If Katrina is to be believed, I stick out like a sore thumb.
I don’t want that. Not because I’m here in any work capacity—I’m not—but I prefer to blend in. After all, I’m just a man fighting his demons.
And enjoying the view for some sick reason. Probably because I’m a masochist at heart.
On the first night I got this deep into the casino, I recognized the curvy blackjack dealer, despite the change in hair color from the last time I saw her. Ever since, I have found myself picking seats with a view of her. Oddly enough, I’m unsure whether I’m watching her out of old protective habits or because I don’t trust her.
Probably a bit of both.
More likely, it’s the twisted obsession I’ve never been able to shake.
With that, my attention returns to her blackjack table right as another dealer approaches. I toss back my glass and chomp on an ice cube while I study the interaction betweenLittle Miss Perfectand the other woman, who appears to be taking her place. Must be Lila’s break time.
Although there’s nothing unusual happening between the two dealers, I notice Lila’s eyes tracking a man hanging out by a slot machine a few feet from her table.
My hackles rise, along with the hair on my forearms.
Something is . . . off.
As the other dealer takes over, Lila sharpens her glare at the man before leaving the pit. He drifts a few feet behind her, following her as she goes.
If mySpidey Sensesweren’t already tingling, they would be now.
Without warning or reason, she pauses to cast a fierce glare over her shoulder in his direction. Instantly, he backs off and looks around the room, trying to act casually.
Damn.
Never saw her make a face like that before. Not when we were kids, and not over the last year of watching her.
I’ve only ever known Lila Kent to be cavity-causingly sweet. She’s a master at pretending to be the kind of sugar that makes your stomach ache when you have too much. Cotton candy and Jolly Ranchers. That’s her.
On the outside.
So what is it about that guy that has her shooting daggers and breaking her candy-coated facade?
Katrina arrives with the salad I didn’t order right as I’m rising to investigate. I need to get to the bottom of this... whateverthisis.
Once an agent, always an agent.
I grab my drink to give me something to do with my hands. “Kat, I’ll be right back.”
She pouts, glancing at the salad briefly.
“Eat it yourself if you’re hungry.”
“Dessertanda salad?Plusthe five dollars you’ll leave me at the end of the night? Wow. You’re such a giver. Another shift of tips like these, and I’ll be well on my way to financial independence.”
