One sentence, Dmitri? After he’d spanked me so much I still felt it? I didn’t know if I should be pissed or worried, so I’d settled on pissed.
Benji said, “Well, you’re just in time. Karin’s ten minutes out.”
Like clockwork. In less than an hour, I’d be on a dance floor. Vegas was the capital of electronic dance music; even our local club had EDM Saturdays. After so much work, I craved one wild night out—and I’d dressed accordingly.
I pulled my Bee deck of playing cards from my purse, then mindlessly cut and shuffled for comfort, warming up with basics. Pinky cut, false cut, double cut, the false riffle shuffle.
“Bad day?” My brother knew me all too well.
“It was fine.” It was shit. Though I should’ve caught up on sleep, I kept replaying what the Russian had done to me.
When I’d pictured the look in Dmitri’s smoldering eyes—and the glint of his piercing—I’d gotten so horny I’d had to take the edge off. Repeatedly.
Then I’d broken down and looked up Vika. It was a Russian diminutive of Victoria, an endearment. I’d sighed like a sap.
Yet all that had been before I’d known he wouldn’t call me the entire day. I flashed cards from my right palm to my left, lifting a king of hearts.
Benji asked, “You never heard from him?”
Everyone in the family now knew I’d fooled around with the richest mark we could ever imagine—but hadn’t set my claws. Why had I even expected him to call? Talk about reaching for the stars! I’d reached for a different galaxy!
Roughly eighteen hundred male billionaires existed in the world. Only one out of every four million people was that rich.
My suggestion that we cut him loose now embarrassed me. “He texted that one time.” I gave Benji a breezy nod that would convince anyone but a fellow grifter. “He’ll call tomorrow.” Long cons had taught me to be patient. I drew on that inner well.
“Hey, that’s a big mark for anyone.”
The unspoken words hung in the air: But especially for you, Vice. With my six busted cons. Everyone was so focused on my recent failures, they seemed to have forgotten my years of success.
I’d had such a great start, and all the support I could ever need.
My mom loved to tell our friends: “I remember when Vice pulled her first card hustle at four.” Her voice would grow thick with emotion. “Her hands were so tiny, she could barely palm-deal. And don’t get me started on her first three-card monte.”
In a monte, the dealer would shuffle around three cards, two black and a queen of hearts, using misdirection to obscure the queen. Dealers of montes were called broad tossers because of the queen card.
Mom had home movies of me hustling tourists, lisping, “Can you keep your eyeth on the queen, thsir?”
Benji whirled back around toward the desk. “Here comes the congressman’s limo.”
The Midwestern lawmaker was a married father of four—who’d told Karin he was a childless movie producer from California, a widower since his wife had passed away in a “fiery car crash.” So Karin had told him she was a divorced, childless waitress and aspiring actress.
Benji tossed me his phone. “Check out the texts he sent right before he met up with Karin.” Benji had cloned the congressman’s phone while Karin had distracted the man.
If we’d gotten a clone of Dmitri’s phone, maybe I would have a better understanding of what was going on up in that penthouse villa.
I scanned the politician’s exchange from an hour ago as he’d played up his day of meetings and told his (strangely alive) wife, Sheila, that he was about to pass out for the night and he’d call in the morning. The woman had responded that he was working too hard and that she and the kids couldn’t love him more. Then, his cherry-on-top text: There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my family.
I wanted to vomit.
As Karin and her “date” laughingly strolled up the walk, Benji murmured into the mic, “Earpiece check. Check.”
Behind the mark’s back, she gave a thumbs-up sign.
Benji said, “Get me a sound bite about his ‘dead’ wife, luv, and I’ll buy drinks all night.”
Another secret thumbs-up.
I’d seen Karin do this dozens of times. She was so sexy and skilled, she never even had to touch a bare dick. After her customary striptease, she’d tell the mark to lie back in bed and show her how badly he wanted her. He’d sprawl and grip his junk, then she’d kneel over it. Taking her time, seeming about to slide down, she’d say smutty things while the guy gawked with utter desperation on his face.
Boo-yah. Money shot. Oftentimes, from one angle, it’d look like he was inside her.
As soon as Benji had collected enough evidence to hold up in a potential divorce, he would go bang on the door, acting like a murderous ex-husband. On cue, Karin would hurry the mark out the back door.
Damn it, I could do this—if I could ever lure a guy back here. Did I want to kiss a man I knew was a lowlife? No. But that didn’t matter. . . .
As Karin poured a round of drinks, beginning to tighten the noose, I stowed my cards and pulled out my phone, hoping I’d missed a text chime.
Nope.
My unread e-mail number blinked. I found offers from my former design school, a downloadable “hot fireman” calendar from Gram, and a seamstress forum newsletter.
I knew I’d get another message from Brett tomorrow. Initially, his fight to win me back had consisted of long, remorseful voice messages, with him swearing he wouldn’t have gone all the way with that bombshell.
Benji said, “Well, you’re just in time. Karin’s ten minutes out.”
Like clockwork. In less than an hour, I’d be on a dance floor. Vegas was the capital of electronic dance music; even our local club had EDM Saturdays. After so much work, I craved one wild night out—and I’d dressed accordingly.
I pulled my Bee deck of playing cards from my purse, then mindlessly cut and shuffled for comfort, warming up with basics. Pinky cut, false cut, double cut, the false riffle shuffle.
“Bad day?” My brother knew me all too well.
“It was fine.” It was shit. Though I should’ve caught up on sleep, I kept replaying what the Russian had done to me.
When I’d pictured the look in Dmitri’s smoldering eyes—and the glint of his piercing—I’d gotten so horny I’d had to take the edge off. Repeatedly.
Then I’d broken down and looked up Vika. It was a Russian diminutive of Victoria, an endearment. I’d sighed like a sap.
Yet all that had been before I’d known he wouldn’t call me the entire day. I flashed cards from my right palm to my left, lifting a king of hearts.
Benji asked, “You never heard from him?”
Everyone in the family now knew I’d fooled around with the richest mark we could ever imagine—but hadn’t set my claws. Why had I even expected him to call? Talk about reaching for the stars! I’d reached for a different galaxy!
Roughly eighteen hundred male billionaires existed in the world. Only one out of every four million people was that rich.
My suggestion that we cut him loose now embarrassed me. “He texted that one time.” I gave Benji a breezy nod that would convince anyone but a fellow grifter. “He’ll call tomorrow.” Long cons had taught me to be patient. I drew on that inner well.
“Hey, that’s a big mark for anyone.”
The unspoken words hung in the air: But especially for you, Vice. With my six busted cons. Everyone was so focused on my recent failures, they seemed to have forgotten my years of success.
I’d had such a great start, and all the support I could ever need.
My mom loved to tell our friends: “I remember when Vice pulled her first card hustle at four.” Her voice would grow thick with emotion. “Her hands were so tiny, she could barely palm-deal. And don’t get me started on her first three-card monte.”
In a monte, the dealer would shuffle around three cards, two black and a queen of hearts, using misdirection to obscure the queen. Dealers of montes were called broad tossers because of the queen card.
Mom had home movies of me hustling tourists, lisping, “Can you keep your eyeth on the queen, thsir?”
Benji whirled back around toward the desk. “Here comes the congressman’s limo.”
The Midwestern lawmaker was a married father of four—who’d told Karin he was a childless movie producer from California, a widower since his wife had passed away in a “fiery car crash.” So Karin had told him she was a divorced, childless waitress and aspiring actress.
Benji tossed me his phone. “Check out the texts he sent right before he met up with Karin.” Benji had cloned the congressman’s phone while Karin had distracted the man.
If we’d gotten a clone of Dmitri’s phone, maybe I would have a better understanding of what was going on up in that penthouse villa.
I scanned the politician’s exchange from an hour ago as he’d played up his day of meetings and told his (strangely alive) wife, Sheila, that he was about to pass out for the night and he’d call in the morning. The woman had responded that he was working too hard and that she and the kids couldn’t love him more. Then, his cherry-on-top text: There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my family.
I wanted to vomit.
As Karin and her “date” laughingly strolled up the walk, Benji murmured into the mic, “Earpiece check. Check.”
Behind the mark’s back, she gave a thumbs-up sign.
Benji said, “Get me a sound bite about his ‘dead’ wife, luv, and I’ll buy drinks all night.”
Another secret thumbs-up.
I’d seen Karin do this dozens of times. She was so sexy and skilled, she never even had to touch a bare dick. After her customary striptease, she’d tell the mark to lie back in bed and show her how badly he wanted her. He’d sprawl and grip his junk, then she’d kneel over it. Taking her time, seeming about to slide down, she’d say smutty things while the guy gawked with utter desperation on his face.
Boo-yah. Money shot. Oftentimes, from one angle, it’d look like he was inside her.
As soon as Benji had collected enough evidence to hold up in a potential divorce, he would go bang on the door, acting like a murderous ex-husband. On cue, Karin would hurry the mark out the back door.
Damn it, I could do this—if I could ever lure a guy back here. Did I want to kiss a man I knew was a lowlife? No. But that didn’t matter. . . .
As Karin poured a round of drinks, beginning to tighten the noose, I stowed my cards and pulled out my phone, hoping I’d missed a text chime.
Nope.
My unread e-mail number blinked. I found offers from my former design school, a downloadable “hot fireman” calendar from Gram, and a seamstress forum newsletter.
I knew I’d get another message from Brett tomorrow. Initially, his fight to win me back had consisted of long, remorseful voice messages, with him swearing he wouldn’t have gone all the way with that bombshell.
