Really, the only difference between Mike Vasuco and most any other a middle aged male divorcee was that he had just won a huge lottery. Suddenly he was so much richer than he had ever, in his wildest dreams, ever considered.
And he didn't tell anyone, to start. Of course, he would share with his family and kids, and probably even with the ex, but that would be later – that would be when he returned to reality – some new sort of reality.
Recalling a fantasy from years earlier, Mike figured this was fantasy money – what else could you call it – so he decided to try to realize one or two of his long time fantasies. Later he'd buy himself a Porsche Carerra 4 convertible, but now he was in Las Vegas to really blow some cash having fun. Before getting there, he had arranged for an easily accessible bank account, and had put a couple hundred thou in it.
He had this wild, wild plan that he'd hatched way, way back, so before he'd come, he'd visited a 'spy' shop back home, and bought a mini-surveillance system. Now, after several hours fiddling in his posh suite, it was all set up – totally inconspicuous – wired into his laptop.
"Time to motor," he'd hummed to himself, finishing off the iced glass of JD. "Let's go fishing!" While Mike was not really a loner, he had, through the years following his divorce, got to be very comfortable with himself. He had a lot of friends and was active in several groups, but he could manage very well on his own, when he needed to – and now, was one of those times. Tucking in his $150 shirt and straightening his collar, he flipped the room key-card into his pocket and headed for the gaming floor.
Mike knew sort of who he was looking for, but was surprised to locate a subject so quickly. Less than an hour after he'd begun cruising the room, he saw her. Meg was clearly a woman in trouble.
She was sitting on a stool, back to the slot machine, eyes wide, the lights of the casino flickering in her deer-in-the-headlights stare, motionless amidst the auditory barrage of chirps and trills, dinging and ringing that was gambling hall.
She was frozen in indecision; didn't know what to do; couldn't know what to do. It had all been so new to her – so exciting, that she had been mesmerized. And it had only been, what, three days?
She was on a special get-away trip awarded to herself and several of her mates from work The girls she'd come with were out watching some shows. They said they were already bored with the gambling! But she'd been seduced by the freedom of being alone – for the first time without hubby – and the thrill of winning.
She'd started at the slots, but, when they were not making her rich, she moved to the tables, and soon found that she could spend – lose – her money much too quickly at Blackjack or Roulette; even poker was less lucrative than she had naively expected – or at least hoped. Eventually she returned to the slots, into which, she proceeded to pour most her cash over the following couple days.
She had sat there, until just before Mike had come upon her, desperately pumping the very last of her cash, everything available through her debit card, slapping the 'Play Again' button like automaton. Continuing to delude herself with the erroneous, wishful-thinking idea that, odds were, she'd eventually win back her mounting losses. She had lost the very last of her funds. And, she realized, she couldn't get any more without her husband finding out. "But," she pointed out to herself, "he just can't find out!"
And so it was, her sitting frozen in despair, that Mike found her and began to chat her up. He commiserated – softly, sympathetically, like he knew exactly what was wrong, as he did, having surmised correctly. She was initially distracted – reluctant, even – subdued almost to the point of being catatonic. As Mike gently inched the conversation along, she was barely able to admit that she had royally fucked up, indeed, was still unwilling to completely acknowledge her dire straits. Mike just continued offering comforting words – quiet, calming, encouraging; listening attentively when she spoke, like the trained therapist he had been prior to his lottery win.
After a while, he took her over to the nearby bar and got her a drink. Slowly, by degrees, he calmed her down. "Could be worse," he pointed out, raising an eyebrow in emphasis. "By the way," he said, after a moment, in a light, casual tone, "I'm Mike."
"Meg," she replied – a bit of life flowing back into her voice. "Actually, Mary Margaret, but I go by Meg," she added, getting flustered by her own unnecessary explanation. Mike noted, despite all the agro, that she had a delightful accent.
He learned that she was a thirty-something married woman from the Liverpool area, who had won the trip at work, and was there with colleagues, but without her husband.
Meg had dressed in a somewhat risqué fashion, figuring, originally, if her gambling was just a little bit naughty – as she felt it was; she'd told her husband that she wasn't going to gamble – she'd may as well dress the part.
Mike thought she looked really good in her tight mini-skirt; slinky top, over a low-cut bra, revealing an inviting décolletage; heels; big glittery earrings and necklace; and heavier than usual make-up. He thought she was probably trying for young trendy, and it may even have worked in back home Liverpool, but, there, in Las Vegas, what she'd achieved was more of a-little-over-the-top skanky – a little more tarty than chic.
Still, he appreciated that her outfit accentuated her soft curves, showing off her voluptuous figure and impressive bosom to full advantage, her heels highlighting her shapely legs.
Sipping her drink, eying him over the rim of the glass, Meg felt herself beginning to relax. Although she couldn't understand what compelled her to confide in a total stranger, she began to speak – softly, confidentially. As the details of her unfortunate situation emerged, Mike shook his head gravely, "Geez, that's rough."
"I'm not usually this stupid," she sighed, "but sitting in the hubbub, it was like I'd fallen under a spell."
"That happens," Mike agreed, "probably more often than you think." His concern and sympathy were genuine – he really was a kind, thoughtful guy – but he had fantasized about something like this far too often, for far too long, not to seize this golden opportunity.
