Casino Girl
Baxter and Holt #2
by Leslie Wolfe
Genre:
Crime, Suspense Thriller
Crime, Suspense Thriller
In Las Vegas, secrets are deadly.
The girl
When a beautiful, young girl is killed in the high-roller Pleasure Pit of the exclusive Scala
Casino, the news reverberates for hours among the ritzy clientele.
Before taking the stage where she found her death, Crystal was last
seen boarding an unmarked helicopter for a late-night flight to an unknown destination.
Casino, the news reverberates for hours among the ritzy clientele.
Before taking the stage where she found her death, Crystal was last
seen boarding an unmarked helicopter for a late-night flight to an unknown destination.
The money
The stakes are high at the roulette table, and the players are hot-blooded.
Among them, a stone-cold killer watches, waits, and kills without leaving a single
Among them, a stone-cold killer watches, waits, and kills without leaving a single
trace of evidence. Rien ne va plus but death.
The game
The name of the game is murder, and it doesn’t stop with Crystal’s demise. Anyone who
threatens to expose the killer’s identity will soon find they’re being targeted.
threatens to expose the killer’s identity will soon find they’re being targeted.
In Las Vegas, secrets can kill.
Two mavericks make an intriguing team.
Baxter and Holt trust each other with their lives, only not with their darkest secrets.
Baxter and Holt trust each other with their lives, only not with their darkest secrets.
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1
Odds
They’re
called quasi-strippers.
They don’t
really bare it all, like real strippers do behind the darkened glass doors of
specialty adult clubs, but they aren’t exactly fully dressed either while they
perform.
Crystal
preferred the term exotic dancer. Five nights a week she took the small stage
at the center of the high-limit blackjack tables, in the glamorous Scala
Casino. Five nights a week she danced and smiled and undulated her perfect body
to the rhythm of sultry songs, carefully chosen to lure the gamblers’ attention
away from the cards and the ever-diminishing stacks of their chips. In the
background, nothing is more Vegas than the Scala Casino floor, filled with a
million noises, dazzling lights, and excess adrenaline. Nothing is more alive.
That’s where
she belonged, among the glitter and the gold, the glitzy and the rich.
She wore
strappy lingerie with black and gold lace accents on beige silk, designed to
trick the mind’s eye into believing she was naked. Black, knee-high stiletto
boots completed her attire, her black, garter-belt straps attached to them,
sexy and kinky and fun. The appreciative looks she basked in that night told
her she’d chosen her ensemble well. It was going to be a profitable evening.
The familiar
music seemed a bit too loud, making her wince, a little dizzy. She grabbed the
pole tighter, aware she was dancing out of rhythm, but knowing the customers
were too far gone to notice. It was almost four in the morning, and by that
time, most of them were pleasantly inebriated, high on their own excitement and
maybe more, living the Vegas dream.
The only danger
was that asshole, Farley, a fat, lewd pig who liked to scream at the girls,
giving them a hard time for everything they did, right or wrong regardless. Two
minutes of being late or changing clothes mid-shift and she’d get pulled inside
the pit manager’s office for another scolding session.
But she held
her head up during those moments, aware they were going to pass and even more
aware they were meant to intimidate her into offering sexual favors in return
for a privileged work atmosphere.
Oh, hell, no.
Not ever.
Not even if the prick turned blue in the face from too much screaming, or his
waiting-to-happen stroke knocked him dead right before her eyes.
But even
Stan Farley was looking away that moment, focused on a newly arrived high roller
who’d taken a seat at one of the blackjack tables with a view of the stage. She
didn’t know that one, but judging by the way Farley fawned over him, he must’ve
been someone important.
Someone
rich.
Someone who
didn’t care that the odds at his blackjack table were stacked higher against
him, just because the table came with a view of full inviting cleavage and
tight little buns.
Hers.
She felt
beads of sweat bursting at the roots of her hair and forced some stale air into
her lungs. Maybe the air conditioning was off, or something. The cigar smoke
made it almost unbreathable, but it was an acceptable tradeoff for being
allowed to work the high roller pit, not some fifty-cents-minimum roulette
floor, where the tips were always Washingtons, never a Franklin and rarely a
Lincoln, and not a whole lot of them to count at the end of a shift anyway.
No, she’d
been lucky, and her luck had started to play in her favor about a month after
she’d been hired. For that she probably had Devine to thank.
Her sweaty
palms made it difficult for her to get a good grip on the shiny, chrome pole,
but she managed a back hook spin and landed facing Devine. Her best friend
danced some 30 feet away, on a small, elevated stage set among four, high-limit,
roulette tables.
She waited
until she could make eye contact with Devine and waved discreetly at her best
friend. Just seeing her smile back made her feel less lonely, less vulnerable.
Maybe she was going to be okay. Maybe things would work out after all.
Without
realizing, she put her palm on her belly in a soft, caressing gesture, aimed to
comfort the tiny sparkle of life growing inside her. She wasn’t showing a baby
bump yet, but soon that would change, and with it, her entire life as she knew
it.
She skipped
out of rhythm again, but soon snapped out of her trance, motivated by Farley’s
mean glare. She focused on her customers for a while and, within a few minutes
of smiling provocatively and wiggling her rear, a crisp fifty-dollar bill
landed under the thin strap of her thong, delivered by long, hairy fingers that
reached lower and lingered longer than was necessary.
Sometimes
she was happy the payout was 6:5 instead of 3:2 on a blackjack at the tables
facing her; those jerks deserved to pay.
But she
smiled at the man who’d delivered the tip and mocked a reverence without
letting go of the pole. Then she let herself fall into a back bend and frowned
when she saw Farley was approaching.
“What the
hell is wrong with you, huh?” he snapped, after grabbing her arm and pulling
her close. The music was loud, and no one could hear his words; not that anyone
would care if they did. “Could you be bothered to do your job tonight? A deaf
penguin has more rhythm than you.”
“I’m working
it, Stan, what the hell? I haven’t taken a break in two hours.”
“The hell
you are, bitch. You see those bozos? If they’re looking at their cards instead
of your ass, you ain’t earning your keep.”
He let go of
her arm and disappeared before she could say anything. He was a two-faced
creep; with her and the other girls he showed his real charm. For all the patrons
and the rest of the Scala staff, he was a perfect gentleman, always dressed in
an impeccable suit and starched, white shirts, pleasantly smiling and
accommodating.
She knew
better than to let him get under her skin.
But her head
was spinning, and she held on tight to the pole, not as part of her routine,
but for much-needed balance. The music changed, and she welcomed the new beat,
one of her favorites. She knew the playlist by heart; the casino had a limited
supply of premixed tracks, but the customers didn’t seem to care.
Cheers
erupted at the table in front of her, and one of the players lifted his arms in
the air, beaming. The croupier pushed an impressive pile of chips in front of
the man, and she quickly flashed her megawatt smile and made lingering eye
contact. He didn’t disappoint; he picked one of the chips and sent it flying
her way. She caught it gracefully, then placed it on the floor, next to the
pole. Her barely-there panties weren’t made to hold casino chips.
When she
looked up, she startled.
It was him.
It was Paul, and he was furious, by the angle of his eyebrows, by the deep
ridges flanking his mouth.
He stood
right there, next to her stage, glaring at her with a loaded gaze filled with
such hatred that her breath caught. He beckoned her to come closer without
making a single gesture. She approached him hesitantly and crouched to bring
their eyes on the same level, aware not even Farley would dare say a word. She
shot a quick glance toward Devine’s stage, but she was gone, nowhere in sight.
His eyes
drilled into hers, close enough she could see his dilated pupils. Without a
word, he shoved a purple and white chip deep inside her bra, then grabbed the
thin strap, pulling her closer to him. He said something, keeping his voice low
and menacing. She couldn’t make out his words but didn’t dare to ask. She
wanted to explain herself, wanted him to understand her motives, but she
couldn’t find her words.
She didn’t
want his money, and she didn’t deserve his anger.
When he
finally let go of her strap and pushed her away, she almost fell. Her knees
were shaking, and she felt the urge to sit for a moment, to catch her breath.
She grabbed the pole tightly and did a clumsy back slide against the shiny
surface, landing hard on her butt, then folded her legs to the side. She let
her head hang low, and her long, wavy hair covered her face, hiding the fear in
her eyes until it subsided a little.
Then she
wrapped her hands around the pole again, planning to stand and do a pirouette,
but her arms and legs felt numb, listless. She tried to breathe, but air
refused to enter her lungs. Frantic, she looked around, searching for someone,
anyone, who could help. Only one man was looking at her, but her desperate and
silent plea was misunderstood.
The man
licked his lips, arranged his crotch with a quick gesture, then looked away at
another dancer.
She gasped
for air a couple of times, then the bright lights of the casino seemed to dim,
inviting darkness to engulf her view of the lively floor. Silence came, heavy,
palpable. Against it, not even her own heart beats could be heard.
Defeated,
she let go. Her body landed on the stage floor with a loud thump that no one
heard. Unnoticed, a white and purple casino chip fell out of her top and rolled
onto the floor, stopping under a table.
For a long
moment, Farley thought the immobile pose was part of Crystal’s routine, some
new dance move that she was trying. Customers really enjoyed seeing girls
crawling on the stage; it made the viewers feel powerful, superior, in control.
By the time Farley realized he’d been wrong, she was already gone. His chubby
fingers felt for a pulse and found nothing.
Now he’d
have to call the cops and close the pit. His worst nightmare.
Leslie Wolfe is a bestselling author whose novels break the mold of
traditional thrillers. She creates unforgettable, brilliant, strong
women heroes who deliver fast-paced, satisfying suspense, backed up
by extensive background research in technology and psychology.
traditional thrillers. She creates unforgettable, brilliant, strong
women heroes who deliver fast-paced, satisfying suspense, backed up
by extensive background research in technology and psychology.
Leslie released the first novel, Executive,
in October 2011. It was very well received, including inquiries from
Hollywood. Since then, Leslie published numerous novels and enjoyed
growing success and recognition in the marketplace. Among Leslie’s
most notable works, The Watson Girl
(2017) was recognized for offering a unique insight into the mind of
a serial killer and a rarely seen first person account of his
actions, in a dramatic and intense procedural thriller.
in October 2011. It was very well received, including inquiries from
Hollywood. Since then, Leslie published numerous novels and enjoyed
growing success and recognition in the marketplace. Among Leslie’s
most notable works, The Watson Girl
(2017) was recognized for offering a unique insight into the mind of
a serial killer and a rarely seen first person account of his
actions, in a dramatic and intense procedural thriller.
Leslie enjoys engaging with readers every day and would love to hear from you.
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