Page 7 of Femme Fatale
The mood changed then. For the first time, the offer felt real, not just an inevitable shakedown. I thought about Mary and her brothel, the girls she watched over, the customers who just wanted to be left alone. I thought about my father’s bike and the thousand miles I’d run to get here, and how, for the first time in my life, the idea of power didn’t make me want to run.
I drummed my fingers on the tabletop. “What’s in it for me?”
Goblin grinned, all teeth. “Besides not ending up as fertilizer in the Mojave?”
“Yeah. Besides that.”
Stephanie leaned in. “Protection. Resources. And the freedom to run your place the way you want. No overhead, just obligation to the sisterhood.”
Pearl added, “You get to expand. Take your girls from the brothel, make them part of the club. Hell, make them shareholders.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
Calypso shrugged. “You piss off Zeke. Which is always a bonus.”
I sat with it. I didn’t want to admit it, but the idea of running the Vegas crew—hell, of being President—felt right. Dangerous, but right. I’d always been outside the system, always made my own rules, but the truth was, I’d been waiting for someone to recognize what I was worth.
I reached for the folder, thumbing through the top page. It wasn’t a contract. It was a set of bylaws. Simple, blunt. Loyalty, discretion, protection. No violence against sisters. No narc-ing. Always pay your dues.
I signed my name at the bottom with a hotel pen. The room exhaled, like they’d all been holding their breath. I hadn’t noticed I was holding mine, too.
Stephanie produced a cut from her duffel—real leather, black, hand-stitched with the Royal Harlots insignia. The patch said, “Las Vegas President.” She handed it to me, a heavy object that smelled of newness and oil. “Congratulations,” she said. “You’re the first.”
I put it on. It fit like it had been tailored for me.
Pearl poured out whiskey, five shots lined up on the table. “To the new order,” she said, voice almost reverent.
We all drank, and for the first time, it didn’t burn.
Goblin howled, a short, wild sound that made the windows shake. “Vegas is ours, ladies.”
Stephanie grinned, her mask slipping for just a second. “Let’s see what you do with it, Selene.”
They filed out, leaving me alone with the map, the whiskey, and the vest. I felt the weight of it, the responsibility, and the danger. But it was better than the loneliness.
I looked out the window, saw the Harley parked alone and proud. I thought of the old woman at the lake, the way she’d handed me the money and said, “Be our daughter.” I thought of Buck, and the way he’d trusted me to run the place better thanhe ever could. I thought of every girl who’d walked through my casino hoping to win, and how few ever did.
I poured myself one last shot, held it up to the window, and the waiting city.
“To the next game,” I said, and drank.
Chapter Three
Selene
Exactly seven days had passed since the Duchess and the other three showed up at my casino and made me an offer of a lifetime. So far, neither Zeke nor Kara had made an appearance, but I knew that only meant they were planning something brutal.
I eyed the stack of folders on my desk and flipped the top folder open. Joker. No real name, just the handle, and not the DC kind. Six feet even, lean as a whip, eyes that never smiled. She fought bare-knuckle for ten years and trained in several martial arts. You can always spot the ones who’ve learned to take a punch and get up grinning.
A text from Stephanie buzzed my phone. “Clock’s ticking. Show me what you’ve got.”
I ignored it for a moment, just to prove I still could. I lit a cigarette and watched the Las Vegas sunrise paint the strip in radioactive pink, then hit the reply. “I’m working on it.”
I grabbed my helmet, the one my father wore but also the one I’d modified to fit my head, and then shrugged into the cut. I locked up and left Marty with the keys.
The pawn shop was on Stewart, halfway to Nellis, an ugly building jammed between a vape lounge and a Vietnamese bakery. The sign outside read “WE BUY GOLD,” but everyone knew the real currency here was pain. I found the back entrance by the grease trail of spilled takeout and the scuffed footprints that always led the same way.
A guy with cauliflower ears and a tattoo of Calvin pissing on a Ford sized me up at the door. “No guns,” he said.
