(or "Lust Comes in a Little Black Dress")
*****
"Dealer shows seventeen . . . and draws a four. That's twenty-one, and you bust, sir." The dealer reached out to scoop up the meager number of chips from in front of me, arching one eyebrow as he nodded towards the remaining pile sitting near my half-empty beer glass. "Would you like to purchase more chips, sir?"
Shaking my head, I just scooped up what I had left and muttered, "Nah, thanks anyway." I rubbed the side of my face -- feeling two nights worth of red-stubble there -- before I picked up my glass and took two swallows. Making a face (never could stand warm beer!), I turned to flag down a waitress in a maroon cocktail dress as she ambled by. "Hey, honey . . . some Killian's?" I held up my glass.
With a smile, she took the glass from my hand and said, "Right away, sir." Sashaying away, she put the glass on her tray and made her way among the blackjack tables; pausing ever so often to offer service to a couple of other patrons along the way.
Turning away from the table I was at, I leaned back and sighed, staring out over the casino floor. The usual Friday night crowd was in attendance; young and old, locals, 'weekenders' and out-of-towners, couples, families and the swinging single . . . all milling about the islands of slots and gaming tables, looking for entertainment and a really big score.
This, for better lack of a term, is my natural environment. Name's Steven.
I came to Vegas ten years ago as a freckle-faced college kid, barely twenty-one and full of piss, vinegar and the desire to see Sin-City up close and personal. After all, watching cable shows and movies with the 'Rat Pack' in them just doesn't compare to the real thing. I was there with some buddies of mine, and . . . well, to cut to the chase, I've been back on a two-trip-a-year schedule since and, after my sixth year I made one trip a one-way affair and never looked back since. Granted, the job market out here's limited for anyone with a Liberal Science's major, but I quickly learned how to play the games. Poker brought home the bacon for the first couple of years, but Blackjack's my forte.
I'm no whale -- a high roller, that is -- but I make enough scratch to keep a nice little place just outside of the city limits, and enjoy myself.
Thing of it is, being a thirty-something anything in Vegas, one tends to get a little jaded after a while. Oh, there's plenty to do here, and what with the casinos and hotels popping up and pulling out all the stops to pull in the guests from the world over, the action never quits. Yet, for people like me -- one step removed from the old 'Hands, like over at the Sands or the Gold Nugget -- the neon and the glitz tends to . . . well, lose something overall after living here for a while.
That's why I'm here, at my favorite casino, bored out of my skull on a Saturday. The money's been like a barometer all night . . . rising and falling, but the comps have been good (can't say no to free drinks and a quick spin around the buffet). Though I'll be honest, a little pleasurable company would pick things up in the right direction. Granted, it can't hide the fact I've got this head-start on a middle-aged spread and that my face won't grace the cover of Cosmo . . . but, hey, I never come into town just to look for 'tail' alone. Sex, that is. At least, not tonight anyways. Or, so I thought.
Just then, the waitress returned with a fresh beer, placing it beside me on the rail with a smile and an offer for more, if I wanted to stay and keep playing. I just smiled and waved her off, turning to take my drink and throw back a good swallow of the cold, biting brew. Damn! Good stuff!
So, where was I? Yeah . . . sex, I can take it or leave it. I'm not exactly a monk or anything, but I've got more than enough practical knowledge to know I'm fairly good at it. Last couple of trips to the Bunny Barn ended with no complaints, at least. I keep clean and at least I'm really selective as to whom I bed down with.
Still, tonight wasn't about scoring . . . I was there to relax, drink, play cards and hopefully go home with a little more that the 'pocket money' I came in with.
Well it was about that time that all my plans for that evening started getting off kilter. It's like when someone tosses a pebble onto the loose rocks of a steep shale. Starts out small, but then one thing leads to another, and another and then . . . fuckin' rock slide, kids.
And for this night, the 'pebble' in question, came in the form of a lady . . . who was making her way across the casino floor, right by the clear space beside where my table sat.
Lady? This wasn't just a lady. It was a woman . . . as in
'WOO-Man
!'.
The female in question looked well-made and fit -- if the lines and thews of her exposed arms and legs were anything to go by -- yet she had curves in all the right places; not stocky or bulked like a body-builder would be. Tall for her frame, she moved through the casino crowd like perpetual-motion personified, wrapped in pale skin that looked a shade shy above 'milk', yet with a complexion that practically screamed 'cream'. She came clad in this black halter-top dress that came down to a few inches above her knees, with a flirty slit on one side and a decollate that showed off her rather impressive cleavage. She wore little else than a pair of black, strapy stiletto heel shoes, a set of black fingerless fishnet gloves that ended in a small band around each bicep and a black choker. That last item had a single, flat silver cross hanging right above the center of her collarbone.
Walking my eyes up her frame, I spied the small clutch in her right hand, and the single band ring riding on her left index finger. Further on, I caught sight of the bare traces of some inking on her left arm -- hidden mostly under the band of her glove. Then, I made my way up to her face. Dark eye shadow and purple lipstick made her face and pale-white hair stand out all the more . . . like she was some voluptuous zombie-Gothic type.
Christ!
I thought,
This is some 'dish!
Truth be told, in spite of that Gothic outfit, I was looking at a pure stone fox. From the way a smile flicked across her kisser as she swept her own eyes over the crowds passing by her, I just knew she knew it, too. A gal like that . . . surer than taxes and death, was bound to attract trouble.
Proof in point: the sudden appearance of some tall, linebacker-sized guy, just popping up in front of her like he'd dropped in from sub-space. He had the typical tourist attire -- loud shirt, pleather pants and bargain-mart penny loafers. He clearly had been drinking since noon, and was making gestures with the beer bottle in his right hand towards our Lady there. This chump was practically screaming the fact that he was on the prowl for Vegas tail, and subtlety wasn't part of his tactics.
Our Lady had stopped, standing there speechless as he went through his pitch, before she shifted back on one foot, crossed her arms under her breasts and frowned; her dark eyes hooded as she glared at Mr. Smoothy. After several minutes, when he finished talking, her mouth moved -- what she said, I couldn't hear for the sudden burst of cheers from the table behind me -- but it was clear from her body language that she wasn't the eager little 'fish' that could be enticed to nibble on Mr. Smoothy's line. She chose then to say something; short, to the point and clearly something he didn't want to hear.
It only took the sight of a rush of red, creeping up the back of his neck and on up into his swayback haircut, to make up my mind for me. I can tell when shit's turning ugly . . . and brother, this was going to go from there to fugly in oh-point-three seconds. Normally I don't get in the middle of an approaching storm, but I've got this thing about not wanting to see a gal get roughed up by some boozed up idiot.
Shoving off from the table, I started towards the pair, just in time to hear Mr. Smoothy growl something . . . to which Our Lady there replied to, saying sharply, "I chose when an' where I like to party,
pauvre con!"
Blinking, Mr. Smoothy stopped being so smooth, as he snapped, "What're you sayin', bitch?!"
At that, Our Lady gave him a faux-smile and said tartly, "I am saying . . .
tu m'emmerdes,
or as you would say 'get
fucked!'"
With that, she turned on a dime and started to walk away.
At that point, Mr. Smoothy snarled and threw down his beer, shattering the bottle on the carpet. That was all the warning Our Lady got, before he reached out and snagged the arm nearest to him and jerked her back around. "Hey, cunt! No one talks like that t'me!"
She had her feet braced, her one free arm swinging back behind her as she tensed up; the hand holding her clutch curling around it like she was going to smash it into the side of his head. From the set of her jaw, I could see in that second she meant to show this tourist just what he was uncorking from the bottle . . .
She never got the chance, because I stepped in on his close side, and aimed a chop at the arm holding onto her -- aiming for the exposed, soft tissue at the fold of his elbow. I wasn't out to break the joint, just hit him hard enough to wake up his 'funny bone' and make him let her go.
It worked. He jerked his arm back, yelping as he felt the glass-spider-feeling go racing down that limb. "What th-!?"
"I believe the lady's not interested, chum." I said, moving to put myself ahead of her, but not in front of her. Figured that wouldn't be smart. Giving Mr. Smoothy my best 'College Dean' impression and said, "If I were you, I'd go look for my entertainment . . . elsewhere."
He was wriggling his arm, but the lingering pain wasn't enough to cool his jets. "Just who do you think you are, bub!?" With a snort, he locked eyes with me. "I'll kick yer chubby ass for stickin' yer nose in where it don't belong-!"
I never saw the punch coming, but the effect afterwards is something etched in my memory forever; In mid-rant, Mr. Smoothy's nose flattened into a strawberry-shape, accompanied by a crunch of bone and squelch of cartilage. For a second, he just hovered there, shocked into silence as his eyes crossed to focus on the ruin of his schnozola. Then, with a whimper, he tottered backwards on to his heels.
I turned my head, just in time to see Our Lady holding her left fist, rubbing the now-reddened knuckles as she swore something in French that I couldn't catch.
Concerned, I started to reach out to her. "Hey, Ma'am-?"
Big mistake of the night, at least for me. Mr. Smoothy, while hurt bad, wasn't hurt bad enough to go down after that punch. He'd rebounded and come at me with a fist the size of a wrecking ball, and planted it alongside my head, sending me crashing to the casino floor.
Dazed, I tried to shake off the onset of cobwebs quickly . . . last thing I needed was more lumps from this lunkhead! Turning around on my knees, I had my fists balled up to meet him, but let them drop when I saw one of Our Lady's feet snapping out in a vicious kick -- landing squarely in his 'sweets'. I couldn't help but wince, because she hit the dude with enough force to pick him up off the floor a good two feet! With such a blow, all Mr. Smoothy could do was cup his crotch and let a high-pitched squeak spill out of his lips before he collapsed into a fetal ball on the floor.
Scowling at the downed drunkard, Our Lady spat at his moaning form -- "
Encule!"
-- before turning to look at me, her eyes still glowing with indignant fire.
Well, some big help I was, right kids?
Standing up, I shook my head and gave the dude one last look before I simply said, "Sucks to be you, chum."
Our Lady shot me a look, and from the way she was looking at me, I was probably going to get my ass chewed for stepping in to help her, when she clearly didn't need my help at all.
About that time, several security goons from the casino's staff showed up and corralled Our Lady; asking several questions at once (Hell, all the cameras in these joints, and now they show up?). Well, at least the problem was in their hands, not mine. Giving her one last shrug, I said, "Sorry, ma'am.", before I turned and headed off back towards the blackjack tables.
