Dark Exposure Page 2

  At the Exchange counter, I push the receipt under the reinforced glass. The man tending the counter, or the banker, if I pretend I'm playing Monopoly, glances at it. He picks the flimsy receipt up and studies it for a signature, and turns it over in his hand. He smiles when he looks at me. "Congratulations." It's a practiced, well-used smile.

  "Thanks," I say, a little too quietly. I raise my voice, "Thanks," so he can hear me.

  He smiles and squats down behind the counter, before raising himself up with a bundle of chips and a stack of cash. "Would you like to cash out or turn this into chips?"

  "Can I bet over at the card tables?"

  "You can now," he gives me his practiced smile. "The buy-in for most of the tables over there is 500 dollars."

  "Oh," I say, as that kind of explains everything. I nod. "Can I do half-cash and half-chips?"

  "Certainly," he says. After separating the cash and chips, he pushes both to me through the opening under the glass. Instead of getting colored, cheap paper, I'm getting the real deal. His speaker clicks on one final time as I take the payout, "Good luck and thanks for playing," he says.

  I toss the cash into my purse, and suddenly feel self-conscious. A thousand dollars in my purse? That feels wrong and strange. I tighten my grip on the straps and start to look around for anyone who might have watched the payout happen. The only people near me are guards at the entrance doors into the back hallways of the casino, and some old men playing on the slots.

  How late is it anyway? How many hours have passed?

  I head back to the machine that paid out and sit down again. I'm surprised no one has swept in and stolen my seat, but then again, the machine is probably tapped out for the night. I jam my elbow between the glowing screen and the metal slots and rest my chin on my knuckles, thinking what I should do now. The cash is nice, but I still don't have a room for the night. I really don't want to drive back home.

  I glance across the velvet rope to the card tables and catch the olive-skinned man cheering from another win. The dealer pushes chips toward him with a rake; it looks ridiculous. I want some of that fun.

  He looks up and has a faint smile on his lips still. He nods to me and I stare at him in surprise, my jaw dropping open. I point at myself, "Me?"

  He nods and beckons for me with his hand. His lips move, but I can't read them or hear them. He's pointing at me. Of all the people here. Me.

  — — —

  I nervously walk up to the velvet rope and shuffle my feet near the entrance. There's one security guard manning the rope, and his eyes are making me nervous. I try and act casual, like I'm just seeing what's on the other side of the rope, but I avoid eye contact with the bouncer. Even without looking though, I can feel him considering me, since he gets to choose who comes inside. He parts his lips to speak, but is interrupted by the olive-skinned man shouting from his seat. His voice has a thick accent but I can't place it.

  "Miss, are you going to play or loiter?" the security guard says. I break eye contact with the olive-skinned man and stare up at the hulking monster. My face flushes and I immediately want to leave. Just then, the olive-skinned man comes up behind the guard and touches his shoulder. The guard turns and looks over his shoulder, and his stoney face disappears as the olive-skinned man smiles at him. With what I'd call humility, the shorter man pats the guard on the chest.

  "She's okay, Derrick, she's with me," he says. His voice is like chocolate syrup, dreamy and mouth-watering.

  The guard grins sheepishly, as if he's even won over by the man's charms, and he nods. "Of course, Mr. Azzo."

  Derrick, as big as a foot ball player, leans over and clicks open the brass enclosure for the velvet rope. I pass through the threshold, feeling lightheaded and dizzy, which is how I always feel when I'm somewhere I don't belong. Looking past the guard and Mr. Azzo, I definitely get that feeling from all the other patrons over here. These aren't retirees bumbling around the quarter slots...

  Mr. Azzo extends his hand and invites me to join him. I grasp his fingers, feeling his soft hands and blushing at how his eyes seem to light up the moment our hands touch. He doesn't say a word, but guides me to the table where he's betting. My mouth is parched and dry, and I feel like I need to run away before he realizes what kind of mistake he's made.

  No, you can't think like that Lily, you have to be something. Be brave, don't shrink away from this. This sexy guy wants to talk to you, touch you, anything, just let him. Who knows what could happen? Don't push that away just because you're scared.

  He takes his seat and I stand awkwardly next to him. He taps the man sitting adjacent to him. "Would you mind moving down a seat for the lady?" he says.

  The man, burly and large, considers the offer. He looks like the kind of guy who, if he wasn't sporting a trimmed beard and expensive suit, would look perfectly at home in a pair of loafers and sweatpants. He glances at me with a frown, but when he looks at Mr. Azzo again, he nods. He moves down a seat, forcing all the other patrons to scoot down one as well. I feel embarrassed, like everyone at the table blames me for having to move. I whisper a thanks to the burly man, but, just like with the guard, my voice seems to have vanished into the air. It must be the thirst getting to me.

  I take my seat and notice how warm it is already. The heat seeps through my thighs, and it's actually kind of nice. Mr. Azzo takes my hand and taps my fingers on the table, where his cards are. "You see? Do that if you want to hit."

  "I don't even know how to play blackjack," I finally manage to say. He doesn't frown, but smiles instead. Jesus, what am I even doing here?

  "That's fine. I trust you," he touches my leg a little as he says it, giving me a complimentary squeeze. I might have just walked away from anyone else, but from him, it seems reassuring. Like he actually does trust me.

  Which only convinces me more that I'm getting pranked. Who trusts me? I feel my face burn just at the thought of it. Who does this guy think he is? His fingers graze my knuckles as he retracts his hand back and threads his fingers together. The way his eyes scan the other people and their chips, it's like he's a hawk surveying a field for a mouse to snatch up. I couldn't tell when I was so far away, but was this the same look he was giving me?

  The women that were hanging on to him have disappeared. I want to ask what happened to them, but that might set him off. Maybe he'll think I'm jealous? Or that I'm too clingy? This guy could be completely crazy for all I know.

  He raises his hand and the dealer deals him in the next round. I stare at the cards as they flit to each person at the table, their blue backs hiding their values. Finally we get a card, and by we, I guess I mean the strange-accented man and I. Mr. Azzo drags the card toward the edge of the table. He isn't wearing a wedding ring, and I breathe a sigh of relief to myself. He tilts the card to reveal it for both of us. It's the ace of spades. I didn't buy-in or anything for this round, so I feel even more awkward stealing a seat from someone who could be an actual playing customer. The dealer doesn't seem to mind, his expression plaintive as ever.

  The man touches my hand again and I shimmer. My face burns and I try to hide my pink cheeks from him. When I look up again, he's still staring at me, without a hint of judgement. His dark green eyes are like the ocean, seemingly bottomless and, in a way, just as scary. He smiles and his white teeth are perfectly taken care of. He can't be some poor guy from my town, not at all.

  He leans in close to me and whispers in my ear, his voice tickling my skin and making chills run up and down my spine. I squeeze my legs together as he speaks, trying to fight my own embarrassment. He explains, "An Ace is worth one point or eleven points, depending on what you decide. The goal is for your card total to be better than the dealer, or to hit twenty-one. If we go over twenty-one, we lose. Face cards are all ten points." While he's talking, his lips are brushing against my ear with each breath of air. I'm motionless, but so overwhelmed that I'm not sure I even heard a word he said. I have a feeling my lips are parted, but I don't care. The whole room
has been washed away, leaving just me and this green-eyed, olive-skinned, foreign man with his fingers barely resting on my thigh, and lips against my ear.

  The dealer goes around the table and asks each person what they want to do. A woman who looks a decade or two older than me folds. I decide that this man invited me here to actually do something. He doesn't want me to be a passive woman who can't even make a call on such an obvious choice. I tap the card and catch him grinning at me as the dealer dishes out another card. This time, it's a king of spades. Bets are called, others are raised or given up entirely. Chips pile up in the center of the table as the dealer collects them all together into a neat pile. The dealer goes around the table and everyone reveals their cards, and we're dead on 21. The dealer continues to deal himself cards, then suddenly stops and looks up at us.

  "Congratulations, Mr. Azzo, you win again," the dealer says in a monotone, rehearsed voice. Everyone else grumbles a bit and the olive-skinned man collects his winnings. The large man who moved his seat for me curses loudly and walks away with his remaining chips. I watch him leave. He's impatient for Derrick to raise the rope and let him through.

  "Time to cash out," my accomplice whispers to me. He gathers up his chips. "I'm cashing out," he says to the dealer. The dealer pulls out a tray for the chips and hands it to him.

  "Thank you for playing," the dealer says. The man with eyes like the sea shuffles the chips and places them in the plastic tray. After finishing up, he stands and extends his elbow for me. I blush and brush some fallen hair away from my face. I haven't felt this tongue-tied since high school. As we walk toward the Exchange counter, he starts talking to me again.

  "What's your name?" he asks, his thick accent making me strain to put the words together. He isn't Spanish... surely with a last name like Azzo he must be Italian.

  "Lily," I leave it at my first name. I don't want him to know who I am. Not yet. Isn't that part of the fun?

  "'Lily,'" he repeats. He smiles a little and he sucks a little more of my heart to the top of my chest as he inhales. "A beautiful flower and name. Fitting for a woman like you."

  Now he must be messing with me. My cheeks hurt from smiling, and I look away as we reach the counter. He pushes his bin of chips under the glass. It's the same man who just cashed out my winnings. The man glances at me with his trademark smile, clearly recognizing me. As he attends to Mr. Azzo, I like to think that the banker is giving me silent kudos for snagging the hottest guy in the casino. I doubt he is though.

  "I assume cash, Mr. Azzo?" Does everyone in this joint know his name? Who is he anyway?

  "Yes, please. Thank you, Max," Mr. Azzo says.

  I feel flushed and warm. I can't comprehend what's going on, what time it is, or anything. What am I even doing here? I should be at home. I should be with Patrick lighting off some firecrackers, maybe throwing some poppers at each other. Sure he was with a girl, but everyone makes mistakes, right? My heart races just thinking about it, and anger bubbles over. Thankfully, both of the men are too busy to notice my little panic attack.

  Max takes the winnings from under the counter, where I assume there's a small safe, and places them in a lined briefcase with little partitions. It's like the briefcase was purpose-built for this. A whole factory making briefcases for casinos to handle cash. Insane. Max pushes the briefcase through the partition, and it just glides through without more than a breath of air between the case and the frame. Someone like me had to crunch the numbers for the investment of luggage purpose-built for casinos, and they succeeded.

  Mr. Azzo takes the briefcase and carries it like it's light as a feather. The way the case scraped against the counter with Max's hands pushing it, I'm sure it weights a lot. The Italian man extends his elbow again and we start walking off the casino floor.

  "What's your name? I got your last name, Azzo, from nearly everyone at this point," I tease.

  He flashes a sideways grin at me. "Giovanni. Giovanni Azzo."

  I realize we're heading up toward the hotel. "Uhm..." I start, seeing if he'll pick up where I'm going with my hesitation. He looks at me and stops at the bottom of the steps.

  "Yes?"

  "Where are we going?"

  He chuckles, a low and growling kind of sound. It makes my arms feel soft like butter. "My room, of course." His words make me feel even more rubbery. I manage to lock my knees to stop from falling over into his arms. That would just be too much.

  I agree to his offer anyway, because I have no where else to stay. Clearly my two thousand dollar winnings aren't enough to get me a room offered, so I can't imagine what it'd take to get one. As Giovanni and I turn the corner toward the elevators, I catch the receptionist staring at me with a face full of bewilderment. I want to flip her off, saying, 'you thought I was trash? Look who I'm with!' but I resist and settle with a hard, cold, stare back.

  The elevator dings open for us, and we step inside together. Our elbows and shoulders are touching, and I feel like I should be moving to separate us. I also feel like stepping closer, and doing things to him that I never did to Patrick.

  In the enclosed elevator, I can smell his scent even more than I could on the floor. A cologne of some sort, or is that just how he smells? His tuxedo is very well tailored, and I realize that he must be hiding lean muscles under a suit that he must have spent more on than my entire year's salary to buy. He has a mustache, but it's neatly trimmed. I usually don't go for guys with any facial hair, but... with him, for one night? I can make an exception.

  My fingers clench my thigh. I hope he doesn't see what he's doing to me. What he's making me feel. But, the elevator car is mirrored.

  I catch a sideways smile from him again, and a low chuckle. Anything could happen tonight, if I let it. I don't have to be stupid office-worker-Lily-who-has-a-cheating-boyfriend. Just this once, I could be someone much more exciting, can't I?

  CHAPTER 2

  Giovanni steps out of the elevator first and extends his hand in a gesture down the right hall. I follow his fingers and look at the room numbers. They aren't numbers at all, but names.

  They're suites. Holy crap. This is a whole floor dedicated to suites. The carpet feels more plush than the stuff down in the casino floor, which is more comparable to my office carpet. The air has a subtle scent to it, like there's a mister somewhere keeping the whole common area fresh. The wallpaper and fixtures all look brand new, as if they just changed them last week. I can't imagine what these rooms cost per night.

  I didn't even know this place was that fancy. I guess after the velvet rope and security guards, I shouldn't be surprised. It's just... the town I'm from isn't that fancy and this place is kind of out of the way. But it's along a state border, so maybe there's a lot of cross traffic. Lots of tourists, lots of rich people.

  Giovanni stops in front of a room that's tucked off to the side of one hall. The other halls branch and seem to eventually dead end, but this dead end has a little alcove for one more room. I'm turned around and disoriented just following him through the halls, especially without any room numbers to guide me in any direction.

  He pulls out his keycard and swipes it across the door lock. The knob clicks open with a whir and a buzz. He pushes the door open without any effort. It's dark, but he only takes a second to turn the light switches on. My jaw just drops.

  Vaulted ceilings with fans, a huge bed, which has to be a king judging by my twin at home. The bedroom is separated by a small step down into the living area. Every surface is polished wood with gold trim on everything. There are two huge bay windows that are open to the desert outside, the dry night's air wafting into the room and getting caught in the fans. The view is vertigo-inducing. The carpet is plush and even nicer than the hallway, and all the lights evoke a warm and soothing mood. I'm ready to call my parents and announce my engagement, to a hotel room.

  He slips past me, either unaware or used to my dumbfounded look, and he flicks the light on in the bathroom. It's a master bathroom with a jetted bathtub and sep
arate stone-floor shower. Three faucets line the long counter which has a mirror bigger than my car. Three faucets? That's so bizarre. A strange-looking second toilet is next to the first one, and I realize in a flush of embarrassment that it's the first time I've ever seen a bidet.

  Giovanni grins as he slips past me again, his scent wafting to me and making me dizzy. He sets down his briefcase full of cash next to the walk-in closet and takes his jacket off. He hangs it up and then takes his shoes off, unlacing them methodically and with care. I've never seen anyone take such care of their belongings. I know that I usually just kick my tennis shoes off and leave them heaped up in the entryway, at least.

  Is he actually rich? Or does he just come to this hotel and pretend that he is? Maybe he's just a gambling addict? I watch him cross the room, socks, slacks, and button-down only. He's too composed, too smooth to be an addict. They always seem... off-kilter. All of his clothes just look expensive. Like they should be behind glass.

  God his ass looks fine in those slacks. His jacket was hiding such a view from me this whole time.

  "Would you like a drink, Ms...?" he probes for my name. I nod.

  "Lily is fine." I sit on the foot of the bed and awkwardly try to straighten out the creases in my pants. Even in my work clothes, I'm too underdressed to even be in this room.

  "Ms. Lily, what would you like?" He presents the small bar that's tucked away behind the entertainment stand. All sorts of liquors and brandies are stocked, almost like a full bar would have. Several bottles of wine are tucked away at the bottom shelf, and I point at one of them. "Wine?" he asks, looking at the bottles then to me again for confirmation.

  "Yes," I say. My lips are dry, and I resist licking them. I don't want to get lipstick on my teeth somehow. How romantic, going in for the kiss and showing off all the lipstick caked on my front teeth. Giovanni steps behind the bar and assumes the role of a bartender, pulling up some wine glasses and grabbing the wine bottle with a firm touch. While he's preoccupied, I excuse myself to the bathroom and close the door.