Page 65 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

Reagan

Henri Sodorov is here. I feel sick.

He’s alluring as a snake, with his dark hair slicked back and his pointed nose.

His suit is custom, fitting his wide shoulders like it grew right out of him.

Women, and some men, are magnetized by him as he wanders around the casino as if he owns the place.

He oozes money and power, a heady combination for likely everyone but me.

For me, he looks like the Grim Reaper, ready to harvest my soul.

He smiles and laughs and raises his drink glass, the life of the party, as he welcomes himself back to his favorite casino.

People scurry to meet his demands. When he takes his seat at the blackjack table, he’s smiling, but when he slides his attention to my roulette station, the smile melts away, and his eyes go hard.

He’s not here to have fun. He’s here to show me he knows where I am, that he still doesn’t believe I don’t have his money.

It sends a shiver straight down my spine and into my shoes.

Thankfully, it’s busy tonight, and I get a lot of action at my table. It doesn’t take away the skin-crawly feeling I have, knowing how closely I’m being watched, but it does help me focus on other things. Still, the moment someone comes to give me a fifteen-minute break, I go straight to Raul.

“Sodorov won’t stop staring at me. Can I go work at the restaurant tonight? Or somewhere away from the blackjack section?”

“Reagan,” he says, not even looking up from his ever-present clipboard, “It’s too busy tonight and I’m already understaffed. We have a tour bus that just unloaded. Please, just work your station and ignore him.”

“How can I ignore a man who has clearly positioned himself to intimidate me?”

He sighs loudly, throwing his head back. “Just go take a breather. Get a drink of water. Get back out there and finish your shift. Nothing is going to happen to you here.”

“Sure, but the minute I walk out the door—”

“Reagan,” he snaps, “stop being a conspiracy theorist. Just get to work.”

My teeth hurt, I’m gritting them so hard.

Raul has not, for one second, taken my safety seriously throughout this ordeal.

“I have given statements; they’ve done a sweep for fingerprints on and around the financial computers.

There is nothing tying me to this crime, and yet I’ve been abused and intimidated ever since.

And he’s still allowed to walk in here and get treated like a king while he continues to abuse and intimidate me. ”

Raul meets my eye. “Money talks, Reagan, and he has a lot of it. He was the one whose money got stolen. He was the one who was robbed.”

I stare at my boss for a long moment, long enough to make it uncomfortable, before stomping off. I do as he told me. I get a drink of water. I do a breathing exercise. I go back out to my station.

Late in the shift, one of Sodorov’s goons comes to the table and places a bet. He’s the scarred one from the alley. I act professionally, as if I don’t recognize him. As if he’s just another customer. He stares me straight in the eye and smirks.

He loses his bet but places another. And another. Every time, he smirks. He stares. And every time, my anxiety ratchets up a notch, my stomach flipping wildly, the noise of the casino blending into an incomprehensible roar in my ears. My throat tightens.

By some miracle, I stave off the panic attack that threatens to leave me in the fetal position on the floor.

I breathe and smile and act like nothing is wrong until my next break.

It’s a long shift today. I’m tired, and I’m emotional, and I run straight to the bathroom to throw up.

I work to get my breathing back under control.

I cry for a moment just to get it all out.

When I finally feel calm enough, I wash up and head back out, only to run straight into Peter.

Oh fuck. Could this night get any worse?

“Hey, Reggy,” he says with all the warmth of a snake. He is a snake.

I can’t believe I ever thought he was handsome. Or good. Now, all I see is a skinny dude in a cheap suit.

My face hurts, I scowl so hard. “Don’t call me that.”

“Henri tells me he might have proof it was you who took his money. Last chance to come clean on your own.”

“Fuck off, Peter,” I snarl. “The FBI has questioned me. I am not a suspect.”

“Maybe not to the FBI,” he says, examining his fingernails, blasé to the max.

“There is no reason for them to consider me a suspect when I’m paying on my loan. On time. Every month. I’m not running. Any evidence they claim to have is a lie. Why would I still be working here if I had any money?” Asshole.

He makes a noise that tells me he doesn’t think they care. As I move to shove past him, telling him I need to get back on shift, he grabs my arm roughly. “There are ways to work it off, as you well know, Reagan.”

“And you well know, Peter, I’m not doing that, ever.” They can’t force me into sex work, even though he’s tried suggesting it before.

Peter smirks at me and says, “The big guy with all the ink can’t protect you twenty-four seven.”

I ignore his comment and pull my arm loose, feeling the sting of an emerging bruise as I head back to my station.

Looking around, I realize Sodorov has left the blackjack table.

He’s surely elsewhere in the casino. I’m relieved he’s not there to stare at me, but I’m also nervous about what corner he might be lurking behind.

At the end of my shift, I debate calling Mikhail to come walk me home.

I know he will, but I also don’t want him thinking he has to come rescue me every time.

He’s my friend, not my bodyguard. As I clock out and change into sweatpants and a hoodie, I think about how lonely the past couple of years have been.

I plodded through classes and work, trying to dig myself out of this dreadful hole I’ve been living in.

But I miss the friends I made when I came to school.

I miss having friends, period. I miss meeting people for coffee and going out to a club dancing.

There was a time when I was relatively carefree.

As I said to Mikhail, I once felt positive and felt like I had my whole life and all kinds of opportunity in front of me. This is definitely an “old and new me.”

Mikhail has given me reason to hope I can have it all back. His friendship has been everything to me lately. And here I thought he was one of the bad guys when I first saw him.

Also, I know I more than like him. Maybe a lot more. As in I might love him.

Should I tell him? I’m just not sure. He’s tried so hard to set boundaries between us, to show that he cares for me as a person, as a friend, not just as a sexual partner.

But the chemistry between us is just as real, and we both know it.

I’ve tried pushing him away, but I can’t deny that I feel something for him I haven’t felt…

well, ever, for anyone who came before Mikhail Zelenka, my superhero, my gorgeous Mr. Hockey.

I nearly float to the front of the casino as I think about all of this.

I think about going and surprising him from here.

Showing up at his door and telling him tonight just how much I care about him and that I want to explore this more than friendship thing happening with us.

I even think about telling him I’m falling in love with him.

My romantic thoughts are curtailed straight back into harsh reality as I step outside of the Tangier’s doors.

I don’t feel safe walking, what with Sodorov lurking about tonight, so I hail a cab, eager to make the short commute back to my apartment building.

I’m about to text Mikhail to see if he’s up as I slide into the seat.

What I don’t expect is the big Russian who slides in next to me, shutting the door and giving an address that is most definitely not mine.

As the cab moves, I feel a gun pressed against my side. The goon leans over and whispers, “Keep your mouth shut or I will shoot you.”

So, I keep my mouth shut, my hands on my phone, hidden in the pocket of my sweatshirt.

And we ride away into the dark night.

It takes forever until we finally pull into a long drive far outside of town. As soon as I see the mansion, I know it must belong to Henri Sodorov himself.

No!

How can this be the end?

Just when I’ve found something worth living for.