Hard Luck

The complete upending of my life started with a hastily arranged wedding in the Black Diamond Hotel, Las Vegas. Not mine, thank fuck. I didn’t do marriage. Hell, I didn’t even date. My one and only attempt at a serious relationship had ended in death—his and not mine, clearly—and I’d long since returned to the world of superficial hookups and no-strings sex.

The loved-up fools in question were my former roommate-slash-fuck-buddy and his girlfriend of about a week, although she’d worked for him for a few months, so I guess that him bitching about his emails or whatever counted as courtship in their book. Anyhow, I’d been invited to witness him make what was possibly the second biggest mistake of his life, and since Vegas was the closest thing I had to a home, I figured I’d go for the free food. And, it turned out, the handsome-in-the-rough guy at the bar.

That had been five hours ago. Now, I felt for the next step, toes outstretched, the tile cool against the soles of my feet. Nice knowin’ ya, hot stuff. In thirty minutes, I’d be back in my own bed, ready to snatch a few hours’ sleep before I hit the gym at six. Did sex count as cardio? I mean, it had certainly raised my heart rate. Cole had been a ten until he tried the whole cuddling thing afterward—I’d signed up for a quick fuck, not a cosy tête-à-tête. This was why I usually hooked up with assholes. They didn’t give one single shit about my feelings.

They didn’t ask for anything more than a wet pussy.

They didn’t abuse my trust and put my career—and my life—in danger.

Silently, I shifted my stilettos to my other hand and checked my G-Shock. Ten past two. If I picked up a pizza on the way home, would that be classed as a late dinner or an early breakfast?

What if I chased it with vodka? Dinner, right?

On second thought, it was lunchtime in Italy, so a glass of vino would be more appropriate.

To my left, a grandfather clock ticked steadily, and I timed my footsteps with the movement. Step, step, step. The house wasn’t quite what I’d expected from a man like Cole. I’d figured him for an “untidy hotel room” kind of guy, but what I found when he took me back to his place was a big old ranch-style home set on a generous lot in McNeil, full of old tchotchkes and vintage furniture that looked like the real deal. A small part of me had wanted to ask him why he was living in a time warp; but the bigger part wanted a fast orgasm and an early night. One orgasm had turned into three, all better than expected, which was why I was exiting stage left in the early hours. Cole was fast asleep in his king-size bed, face down and dead to the world.

I’d taken one last, lingering look at his ass before I walked out the door.

So long, beautiful. It’s been fun.

I paused in the living room to check my phone. It was my lucky day—an African prince wanted to send me fifty million bucks, and all I had to do was pay the admin fee. If the poor dumb schmuck had known what I did to African princes with dubious ethics, he’d have done his utmost to stay off my radar. I clicked over to the Order of Service app. I forget who came up with the name for our group chat. Probably Echo.

Me: Anyone near McNeil?

Storm: Yes, but twenty thousand feet up.

Me: Then shouldn’t you be concentrating on flying the plane?

Storm: I’m a woman. I can multitask. Besides, this baby practically flies herself.

Storm was the newest member of the Choir. Our pilot. She split her time between testing experimental aircraft that officially didn’t exist and supporting our little team. 

Two years ago, our mentor, Priest, had been given a a brief: build a new special forces unit, but make it female. We were an experiment. What, if anything, could women do that men couldn’t? The answer? A lot. We were smart, and we were sneaky, plus we had a genetic advantage—nearly everyone underestimated us.

Tulsa: It’s 2 a.m. Just stay until morning. Ride the dick again.

Uh, no. It would be harder to sneak out in daylight, and what if Cole was an early riser? He might suggest getting breakfast, or worse, want to talk. I shuddered at the thought.

Me: Negative.

Sin: Playing poker, can pick you up after?

Me: Are you winning?”

Sin: Of course.

Me: Don’t worry, I’ll take a cab.

Not from Cole’s place. I always liked to cover my tracks. People said I was paranoid, which was true, but just because I was paranoid didn’t mean nobody was out to get me. 

Usually, I didn’t shit in my own backyard, or fuck people from it either. I preferred a clean break. But pickings had been slim today at the Black Diamond—the options included a selection of drunk idiots from a bachelor party who probably wouldn’t be able to get it up, an array of sweaty executives, or a cowboy named Boyd who kept calling me “little lady.” Cole had been sitting at the bar on his own, occasionally looking around but mostly staring into his drink as if it held the answers to life. I could assure him that it didn’t. Anyhow, he didn’t belong. He showed no signs of gambling, he wasn’t spending like he had an expense account, and he didn’t talk to anyone. The Black Diamond was the fanciest joint on the Strip. If he wanted to have a deep and meaningful conversation with a Jack and Coke, there were cheaper places he could have done that.

I’d sipped a cocktail as I wrote his life story in my head. Maybe he’d wiped out at the poker table? Or had he come to Vegas to get married, only to be ditched at the alter by a cheating fiancée? In my experience, either experience could make a man open to a hookup, although the last jilted husband I’d fucked had started crying afterward, and did I really want to deal with that again?

I flipped my lucky coin, the 1804 dollar that came from the father I’d never met. Heads, I’d move on. Tails, I’d talk to the guy at the bar.

Lady Liberty looked up at me.

And suddenly, the coin didn’t matter anymore because he rolled up the sleeves on his dress shirt, and holy forearm porn…