The décor is glossy and rich, with bold, bright colors, varied textures and fabrics, gazillion-foot ceilings, and expansive, art-lined corridors. If I’m not mistaken, Roger Thomas did the last remodel, and I think it’s…amazing. I’m scrutinizing his extravagant potted plant choices when it dawns on me that I should try to call Lizzy again.

I do, and it’s the same as last time: no answer after several rings, then voicemail.

I pick a comfortable looking, bumblebee yellow couch and sink down onto it. “Lizzy,” I hiss into the phone, “I’m down in the casino, and I need you. Where are you?”

I hang up, feeling tears burn in my eyes, and decide I’m not going to be some drunk girl crying in a casino lobby. Maybe I can walk off my buzz and figure out how to get to Hunter’s penthouse.

Figure it out?

I should just go ask!

Du-huhhh.

I cut through a few private casino rooms filled with people doing special things—oops—and finally make it to an information desk, where I ask a stern-looking middle-aged guy about Hunter West’s penthouse.

He frowns at me. “Ma’am, we don’t give out our residents’ information without prior resident authorization.”

“But…can’t you just call him?”

“I suppose I can try.”

No dice.

When he hangs up the phone, I’m feeling desperate. “You’re sure?”

He nods.

I narrow my eyes at the man, then press my lips together and lean forward a little. Lower my voice, in case bad people are around. “Sir…I don’t mean to be a diva, but…I’m not a bad person. I’m not a criminal. That’s what I mean.” I’m floundering. I stand straighter, throw my shoulders back. Pretend I’m not drunk. “My father is Trent Dalton. You know, the computer guy?” I raise my eyebrows.

“I know who Trent Dalton is, ma’am. Everyone does.”

I smile a little. “Okay, so, then, it’s okay to let me into Hunter West’s room. Up to his room, I mean. Up to. Not into.”

“I’m sorry ma’am. Not without prior resident authorization.”

I nod a few times before turning away.

I call Lizzy two more times without success.

“This is a bad day,” I murmur to myself. “Bad night. This is a bad month.”

A few minutes later, I’m dawdling near a vast room decorated like the pages of a Japanese manga and filled with slot machines, when a bulky man in a staff suit grabs my elbow.

“Ma’am, may I help you?”

I shake my head, removing my elbow from his presumptuous grasp. “No, I don’t need anything.”

He frowns at me, looking suspicious, and I sigh. “I’m looking for some friends, but I’ll find them eventually. Maybe.”

His eyebrows—dark, I notice—scrunch like fuzzy caterpillars. “Ma’am, are you intoxicated?”

I blink, surprised by the question. “Is that abnormal? This is a casino!” I hate to be terse, but I don’t appreciate his manner.

His hand grasps my elbow again. “Please come with me, Miss. We can get this sorted out at the security station.”

“Is this a joke?” I tug against his grasp, trying to wrap my addled mind around what he’s telling me. “Did I get paged or something?”

His fingers, locked around my wrist now, are almost crushing. “Come with me now, Miss. We’ll get this sorted out when we get there.”

I bite my lip, looking him over as he walks half a step ahead of me. My eyes dart all around the hall, crammed with thrill-seekers of every nationality, gender, and age. I can’t find anyone dressed in a uniform like this man’s, and I’m too buzzed to remember what the other employees were wearing.

All my mother’s warnings play in my head like a recording stuck on a loop. All the things she’s told me about being kidnapped. Dad’s wealth is notable. And I told them who I am!

With my heart pounding, I jerk my hand away. “I’ll need to see some ID, sir.”

With my heart pounding, I jerk my hand away. “I’ll need to see some ID, sir.” I back away from him, already glancing around for somewhere to run if he acts shady.

Time seems to hang in place, the bright, loud scene around me freezing as my heart gallops.

The man rushes forward to grab me, looking meaner—more sinister—than he did before, and that’s all it takes. I turn and run.

3

MARCHANT

When Jenkins stops the Bentley at the doorway of the Wynn, I’m still working on my blunt.

“Hey dude, we’re here,” Jenk calls over his shoulder. He’s got some new tracks thumping, and with his tortoiseshell glasses and his toothpaste commercial smile, he looks a little ridiculous: my 20-year-old chauffeur. The deal is, I pay for his college and he drives me around to shit like this. Call me crazy, but I need it to be someone younger than me. I feel like hell every time I see an old guy driving someone. Shouldn’t he be fly fishing or watching Andy Griffith or some shit?

I didn’t stab the cherry out when I pressed the blunt into the ash tray, so I take another quick hit and nod as smoke pours out my nostrils. “Yeah, I noticed.” The flickering blue glow of the pools in front of the casino makes this difficult to miss.

I straighten my jacket and fuck with my tie and run my fingers through my newly trimmed beard. I don’t want to get out, but…I kind of have to.

I tuck the .38 in my pants pocket as I reach for the door handle, and Jenk reaches back and slaps my shoulder. “You want me to wait around, right?”

I blink at him, replay his words, then shake my head. “Nah. Go home and study, man. You’ve got…finals?”

He laughs. “Two weeks ago.”

“What?” I rub my dry eyes, trying to make sense of this.

“Two weeks ago. Finals already happened, dude. I’m on a break right now, so I can wait as long as you need.”

I shake my head again. “Park her at the Sahara location and go home. I’ll call a cab or something.”

“You sure?”

Goddamn, this kid is persistent. I cut my eyes at him, trying not to let my foul mood show. “Yeah, man. I got it.”

That’s a lie. But I still owe a guy some money, and I don’t need to involve the kid in whatever might happen. What is it they say? Bad impression. No—it’s bad example. Kids are vulnerable, and I’m an example, right?

It’s Friday night—still early, but the Wynn is hopping. The weed keeps me mellow, so the crowd doesn’t bother me much. I hurry through the massive, marble-columned hallway, trying to keep my head down as I walk toward the private room that’s reserved for the Hearts for Heroes fundraiser Hunter roped me into. It’s for the cardiac unit at the local children’s hospital, and there’s some elaborate system they’re using to raise the money. Something with teams. We’re calling ours the Love Inc. team, even though Hunter set everything up, and we’ve got a couple of extra people.

I feel like an asshole with this gun in my pocket, and I’ll look like one if security sees it, but I can’t take the risk of getting jumped by Hawkins. Rex Hawkins, the guy who’s been threatening to shoot me in the back.

Fuck him. I said I would pay. I just need a little longer to get the money moved. Fuck Hawkins for starting that fight last week at Tao. Fuck Tao, too. I got a month-long ban and a ride to the South MLK police station, and Hawkins got nothing.

I try to shove my anger down as I turn sideways to get past a group of Asian men in pastel business suits. I need to keep my mind on tonight, not get lost in that other shit. But I can’t help it; I wish I was at Tao playing blackjack. I wish I could find Rex Hawkins and kick his fucking ass.

I press my hand against my pocket and remind myself that guns are terrible things. I’m not a gun guy, right? I’m all about the party.

I should throw the gun out.

Where? A trash receptacle? No way. The cameras pick that shit up. I rub my slacks again, but my mind is fucking hazy. I don’t know what to do with the damn thing.

The room we’re in is big, with high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, marble floors, and lots of black, fringed chandeliers that look, to me, like video-game monsters. Tonight the lights inside of them are glowing red. I guess in honor of the whole hearts thing.

Kids with heart defects. Now that shit is sad. Really goddamned sad. When I think about the kids, I need a fucking drink.

This dude comes up, and I swear I’ve got some magic fucking powers, because he’s got a tray loaded with alcohol. I grab what looks like Long Island iced tea and down it before he can make it to the next person.

“Let me grab another one, dude.” I shove a hundred into his palm and grab two more drinks.

“One for my friend,” I mutter as I step away.

Take that, Hawkins. I’ve got enough money to come through this shit. I’m solvent. I finish the second drink and sit the empty glass by a potted palm tree. My eyes are burning like a motherfucker. My hands itch. Fuck. I’m jumpy as shit. Maybe I should go. I could probably make it over to Tao’s in less than half an hour if I could get a police escort.

I rub my eyes again. Okay, the cops probably wouldn’t do that for me. Not unless I get in trouble. Maybe I should go find Hawkins and shove my fist into his tenth-grade-looking face again. Baby-faced motherfucker.

I cast my bleary gaze around the room. Crowded. Lots of important types here. The mayor and shit. Wonder where the hell Hunter is. I can’t remember who’s on our team. It’s fucking hot in here. I’d love another blunt. Maybe I should go.

I fiddle with the gun and think about going to the bathroom and flushing it down the toilet. I don’t need a gun. I’ve got my fists. Guns kill people—right? I don’t want to do that. I’m a nice guy.