Page 6 of Femme Fatale
I liked her then, the way she didn’t flinch from the ugly stuff.
“Want to see something?” I asked, and she nodded.
I got up, straddled the Harley, and fired it up. The engine caught and thundered, echoing off the casino’s concrete face. I revved, then let the clutch out just enough to roll slow and easy through the lot. Calypso hopped on behind me, no hesitation, just trust in the machine and maybe a little in me.
I pulled a lazy circle, then cut left, just missing a parked car by inches. It was a trick my dad taught me: ride the clutch, feather the brake, let the bike float, but never lose control. Calypso laughed, her arms gripping my waist, and for one second, it was just two women and a beast of a bike cutting up the night.
I braked at the far end of the lot, and she hopped off, grinning wide. “Nice move,” she said.
I killed the engine. “My father taught me. He would have told me you were trouble.”
She shrugged. “I am. But maybe that’s what you need.”
The other women were waiting by their bikes. Stephanie gave me a nod, and I nodded back. Something had shifted, and I knew it.
Calypso offered her hand. I shook it, her grip strong and rough and honest.
“See you tomorrow,” she said. “Try not to get dead before then.”
She straddled her own ride—a deep-blue Harley that looked custom as hell—and tore out of the lot, the engine scream trailing behind her like a promise.
I stayed in the parking lot a little longer, watching the red glow of her taillight merge with the blur of Vegas. I could feel the old parts of me shifting, waking up.
I wasn’t sure if I was scared or excited. Maybe both.
I didn’t sleep that night. Instead, I rode. I took the Harley north, past the strip, out to where Vegas gives up on neon and lets the desert reclaim its own. It was easier to think with the wind clawing my face, and even easier to remember why I’dsworn never to let myself be anyone’s pawn again. Every time I thought about the casino chip, the folder of the missing and the dead, and Stephanie’s words, I felt that old iron resolve tighten around my spine.
At sunrise, I drifted back to Aces Wild. The first drunks were already losing their paychecks on penny slots, the first cigarette butts of the day pooling by the entrance. I changed into a clean shirt, found my casino manager still at the bar, and told him to send anyone looking for me to the conference room. I needed a minute to gather my thoughts before the show started.
At nine sharp, the four women returned. This time, they came without pageantry, no slow roll through the casino, no parade of leathers and patches, just in and up, like they owned the place.
Stephanie had maps. Rolled, rubber-banded, stained with old whiskey. She unrolled them with the flat of her palm. “You ready to talk business?” she said, not waiting for permission.
I shrugged. “That’s why we’re here.”
She spread out the first map. It was a map of the Vegas city grid, but marked over with a highlighter, with sections coded in blue and red. “Here’s the problem,” she said. “Zeke’s taking territory. Six new houses in the last year. Brothels, gaming rooms, laundromats. Yours is the last good independent spot left.”
Pearl stabbed a finger at the map. “These red lines? They’re fronts. If you go down, Zeke controls half the flow in and out of Clark County. He’ll franchise, and all of us lose leverage.”
I knew how the math worked. Control the cash, control the people. Control the people, control the city.
“What’s your solution?” I asked.
Stephanie met my eyes. “You run the Vegas chapter. Royal Harlots. You keep the casino, we back you, and you back us. No buy-in, just loyalty.”
I looked around the table. Goblin was watching me with that predator’s focus. Calypso looked bored, but she tapped the table in a steady, coded rhythm. Pearl just waited, calm as a loaded gun.
“Why me?” I said. “Why not Mary, or some other legacy?”
“Because you’ve got skin in the game,” Pearl said. “You know the business, you know the city, and you don’t freeze up when it gets hot.”
Stephanie pulled out a folder—the kind that always means contracts, secrets, or both. “You’re smart, Selene. Smarter than you look. Zeke wants the city, but he doesn’t know it like you do.”
Calypso finally spoke. “And your riding’s not bad, either.”
I barked a laugh. “You offering me a job or a date?”
“Maybe both,” she said, not smiling.
