Page 44 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

saddest space in nevada

Reagan

I hate this stupid, starched, tight-necked uniform. Stupid white shirt making me sweat like a pig. Stupid black bow tie choking me. Stupid casino job and stupid Russian hockey dude stalking me.

Yeah, I see you staring at me like a creeper. In my head, I keep thinking of all the things I’d like to say to the hulking monster with the good hair as I work through my shift, my feet aching inside my sensible, black dress shoes.

I can’t decide whether I’m glad for the distraction or if it’s annoying. Maybe it’s a little of both? Regardless, he is really pretty to look at.

With his lazy pompadour and his perfect lips and his deep blue sea-colored eyes.

With his tatted-up athlete’s body looking like he’s carved in stone instead of a mere mortal made of flesh and bone.

With what I’m betting are some serious washboard abs hiding beneath that long-sleeved T-shirt he’s wearing for nobody’s benefit.

See? This is not good. I’m obviously conflicted in how I feel about Mikhail-the-maybe-creeper showing up twice in one day.

Is he hot? Affirmative. Is he mysteriously aloof and stealthy? Also, affirmative. Is he working for a Las Vegas crime lord on the side of his hockey gig? Unknown.

This is all very confusing and distracting. Also, I need no men in my life right now. As evidenced by the last man I dated who got me into the ditch out of which I’m currently trying to crawl.

Also, I really hate this job, and this fact is what consumes my thoughts for much of each shift I work.

I came to Vegas for college, majored in hotel and tourism, and then couldn’t find a job in hotel and tourism that paid more than the casino.

I still hope to move over to event planning for the Tangiers, but for now, this pays the bills.

And there are some bills, unfortunately.

Bills that keep me up at night and cause me to break out in a cold sweat.

It’s not that I mind working the casino games.

Sometimes, the people are funny. Sometimes, crazy things happen.

Sometimes, people win big and really deserve it.

Sometimes, people lose big and really deserve it, too.

If I were a writer, I could write a whole book about the characters I see in this place.

Some are sad and make my heart hurt. Some are happy and funny, and I bask in being their friend for the evening.

Does that make me pathetic? No, Reagan, it’s called loneliness.

Truly, it’s been a while since I’ve had friends.

Early in college, really. But then things went sideways in my life, and it was all I could do to hang on, let alone make time for real relationships.

So yeah, sometimes this job makes me feel like a human for a minute.

A real person and not this ghost I’ve become.

I go to work. I go home. I go to the gym. Lather, rinse, repeat.

And sometimes I get the shakedown from Russian crime dudes in between all of that.

It’s not what I expected for my life when I came to Vegas as a starry-eyed freshman who’d never left the state of Ohio. By graduation, though, my view of the future was much more in line with reality.

As my shift nears its end, I notice my hottie stalker, Mikhail, manhandling his very drunk friend.

The friend is loud and grinning despite barely being able to stand.

They gather up their chips and head over to the cashier’s window to check out.

My late-night replacement comes, and I slip away, back to the employee lounge, hoping that’s the last I’ll see of Mikhail.

Our lounge is decidedly less glamorous than the front of the house.

It’s really just a medium-sized room with a few tables, some chairs, and a wall of lockers.

There are two vending machines, as well as an iPad, where we swipe our badges to clock in and out.

The walls are a drab taupe, and the only adornments are a few framed photos of some of the casino’s most famous performers.

It’s a far cry from the overstimulating, opulent environment of the floor.

Because it’s the saddest space in Nevada, I try not to spend too much time in here.

So I grab my backpack, clock out, head for the back door, and then into the alleyway that fills the space between the casino and its adjoined hotel.

My apartment is only a few blocks from work, so I usually walk.

Tonight, I feel oddly anxious as I make my way up the dark alley and out to the brightly lit Strip.

Something claws away in my stomach. Hunger? Fear?

Determined not to let nerves rule me, I grab a slice of pizza about the size of my head from the walk-up pizza window on the way home.

It’s covered in grease and cheese, and I shove the goodness in my face the second it comes my way.

The first bite is hot and gooey and burns my tongue, but it would not be an overstatement to say that pizza is one of the great loves of my life.

Feeling slightly better after my small fix, I step off the curb with my building in sight.

Just as I make the final last steps before being home free, the hairs on my neck stand on end.

I’m grabbed by rough hands, pulled into the alleyway, and shoved against the wall, my pizza falling from my hand as I try to throw whatever punch or kick that’ll get me free.

But the guy has me thoroughly pinned, one strong hand pressing against my windpipe.

“Each struggle takes more of your air.” He sneers in a heavily accented voice.

Breathe, breathe, I think, looking around wildly.

Oh fuck. Can anyone see me? Stay calm. Get a description.

Reluctantly, I force my eyes back to my attacker.

It’s not Mikhail. Definitely one of Sodorov’s goons.

He’s wearing a brown suit. A tie. If he didn’t have the long scar on his cheek, he’d look like an executive.

His breath is acrid, and one of his front teeth is chipped as he gives me a predator’s smile.

I know better than to scream, but I do spit at him, the mark landing on his chin and earning me a knee to the gut. Air whooshes out of me in a rush. I’d double over if not for the fact I’m still being held by a meaty hand, the worst kind of flesh collar pinning me to the wall.

“Mister Sodorov requests your presence,” he says close to my ear. “Now you’re going to come with me, and you’re going to behave yourself.”

“Now, why would I agree to that?” I squeak, my voice hoarse. “I’ve answered all your questions. I don’t know anything about Sodorov’s missing money. I told him already.”

“He thinks you’re lying. Video doesn’t lie, little girl.

And you’re a little slut who has reason to take an extra cut.

We know it’s you, so fess up, tell us where you’ve hidden the money, and we’ll keep your punishment manageable.

Maybe a finger or two. Maybe just a night with the guys at the house. ”

My stomach turns violently at the threat, tears welling instantly in my eyes, quickly overflowing to streak down my face.

I’m so pissed that I’m crying right now.

I want to look strong and capable, and here I am, immobile, ready to throw up, and crying like some kid that just fell off a bike.

“You have the wrong person,” I manage to plead. “Please! Just let me go—”

The force holding me up against the wall and the restriction to my airway suddenly evaporates, along with my attacker. I heave in much-needed breaths, desperate to stop the dizziness.

And then I notice how I’m free.

The goon is on the ground.

With Mikhail on top of him, a brutal beatdown in progress.

He’s snarling in a language I don’t recognize as he punches the enemy again and again, the sound of fist against flesh enough to turn my stomach a second time. Sodorov’s lackey manages to scoot away and get to his feet, wiping the blood from his lip before running down the alley and into the night.

My feet won’t move. I know I should run, get to my apartment, and lock the door.

But all I can do is stare into space. A handsome face comes into view.

Mikhail. Not a stalker but my rescuer. He’s saying something to me but, there’s a rush in my ears, my own heartbeat, and I can’t hear him. Not at first.

The volume suddenly returns in a rush. “Are you hurt?” He’s asking me a question. I take a deep breath as he asks again, “Are you okay?”

“I-I th-think so.” I focus on his face and nod, breathing in the wonderful night air, filling my depleted lungs with glorious oxygen.

“Let me walk you to your apartment? Should we call the police?”

“No police…please!”

He puts up his hands. “Okay. Fine. I’ll get you home, then.”

Nodding, I follow him to where his drunk friend is sitting against the building around the corner, eyes heavy-lidded, half-eaten hot dog about to fall out of his hand.

“Aiden!” He kicks the bottom of the guy’s shoe. “Wake the fuck up, man.”

Aiden stirs, blinking slowly as the world comes back into focus. He grins and shoves the rest of the hotdog into his mouth as he stands clumsily, using the wall for support.

Mikhail shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but while his reaction seems so totally normal, I can see how his chest rises and falls, how he rubs at the top of his hand, now scuffed and raw from the fight.

He saved me…

“Mister Sodorov requests your presence…Video doesn’t lie...And you’re a little slut who has reason to take an extra cut. Tell us where you’ve hidden the money, and we’ll keep your punishment manageable. Maybe a finger or two. Maybe just a night with the guys at the house.

I could have been taken…fuck.

We don’t talk as we head inside nor as we step into the elevator. Aiden leans heavily on Mikhail, still obliviously drunk, grinning. Mikhail hits the number three button and explains, “Let me get him situated in my apartment first?”

I nod again, following behind them as they head down the hall, Mikhail unlocking his door and leading Aiden inside.

I step only a foot inside his apartment, too scared to remain alone in the hallway, watching blankly as Aiden is told to lie down on the couch.

A moment later, Mikhail is back, asking, “Ready?”

I nod for the third time, grateful not to have to speak. My throat’s far too sore anyway…

Back in the elevator and up two more floors, still silent. It’s not until we get to my own apartment door that I’m able to articulate a “thank you.”

He waits at my door, his eyes scanning the space. “I’m just downstairs if you need anything.”

I give him a fourth nod, the only response I appear capable of making right now.

“What’s your name?”

“Reagan. Reagan Marlowe.”

“Mikhail Zelenka.” He holds out his hand.

I take it, thinking in the moment how weird and normal it is to shake the hand that just threw punches to rescue you.

To learn his full name. To realize he just saved me from something terrible, or quite possibly, my life.

I’m too scared to even contemplate that last one.

I can’t stop the rush of understanding that comes to me with such force, I know it’s the truth as he steps back and pulls my door closed.

Mikhail Zelenka is my own personal guardian angel, and I owe him…I owe him my life.