High Card: A Billionaire Shifter Novel (Lions of Las Vegas Book 1) Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page Book 1

  Chapter One Summer

  Chapter Two Landon

  Chapter Three Summer

  Chapter Four Landon

  Chapter Five Summer

  Chapter Six Landon

  Chapter Seven Summer

  Chapter Eight Landon

  Chapter Nine Summer

  Chapter Ten Landon

  Chapter Eleven Summer

  Chapter Twelve Landon

  Chapter Thirteen Summer

  Chapter Fourteen Landon

  Chapter Fifteen Summer

  Chapter Sixteen Landon

  Chapter Seventeen Summer

  Chapter Eighteen Landon

  Chapter Nineteen Summer

  Dedication

  About Author May Ellis Daniels

  Copyright

  High Card

  Lions of Las Vegas Book 1

  May Ellis Daniels

  I been caught stealin’

  Once, when I was five…

  Jane’s Addiction

  CHAPTER ONE

  SUMMER

  WE CALL THEM honeypots.

  Rookie roulette croupiers who are too stupid or stressed to spot one of the best-known scams in gambling history.

  Tonight’s honeypot is shaping up to be particularly sweet.

  I wave across the casino floor to my boyfriend for this particular evening, glance down the roulette table to make sure I have the croupier’s attention, then shout at my boyfriend to come on over and join me.

  For an instant all eyes are on me.

  Perfect.

  Then the croupier glances across the casino floor to see who I’m calling. She’s curious. It’s the most natural thing in the world. A harmless distraction. My supposed boyfriend waves, raises his drink, points to the slot machine and grins like a goof having the time of his life in good ol’ Las Vegas.

  That’s when I make the play.

  First I slip a dark brown five hundred dollar chip under two red five dollar chips. Pinch the chips between my fingers and tuck my hand inward, hiding the big-money chip from the croupier and the other players at the table. Then, moving casually, I lean down to place my bet.

  This is the first danger point.

  If I’m spotted now—

  Without looking up to see if I’m busted, I angle the two red chips toward the front of the table so the croupier can’t see the five-hundred dollar chip hiding underneath. I set the chips down on lucky number thirteen, a first column bet with a payout of two to one. Take an enthusiastic sip of my Long Island Iced Tea, giggle, waver slightly on my chair, shake my fists at the spinning wheel and make it seem like I’ve got my entire life riding on that one roulette spin.

  Which is…ha ha on me…the truth.

  Even worse, I hate iced tea.

  Stiffs call the move I’m about to pull past-posting.

  Grifters like me call it the Savannah.

  Conventional wisdom says the Savannah is one of the fastest ways to get yanked by a scowling security meathead and shoved into a cold metal chair in a cinderblock room deep in the bowels of the casino.

  But that’s bullshit. What happens is the casino calls the Nevada gaming commission guys and you get sent to prison. Dreary, boring stuff. Unless you’ve got a history of being a grifter.

  A lifelong history.

  Unless your name’s been blacklisted across the entire state—

  Then you get the back room.

  The scowling meathead.

  Maybe even a ball-pean hammer to the fingers.

  Yeah. I have a lot riding on tonight not going haywire.

  The Savannah’s a one-shot scam. You either hit it and collect or you bail and hustle on out. The croupier can’t see the brown chip hidden underneath. But the eye in the sky straight above has to. You need the eye to see the big-money chip so if you hit, you have evidence the chip was actually there for the whole spin when the croupier cries foul. But that’s a problem, because it means there’s evidence of the scam occurring as it’s happening, and a trained security tool will spot that brown chip tucked under the reds and call it in.

  Leaves very little wiggle room if you have to make the dash—

  Tonight I’m playing the fish. The dumb-as-hell casino novice just out for a good time. It’s my standard role. I’ve got it dialed. I’ve got a suburban UNLV college-girl look going on: tan leather platforms and a pair of skinny jeans and a flowing retro-style lavender blouse that’s dressy but not too flashy. Add a vintage necklace, a half-drunk smile, a decent quality wig and I’m good.

  Kind of like the outfit, actually.

  Might be the best thing about the entire evening.

  Unless the Savannah comes through.

  Then this evening will be one for the record books.

  Oh, I almost forgot. Little Miss College Girl needs an accomplice. A jocky, bored, overprotective boyfriend. One who’s playing like he’s regretting ever having introducing his college sweet to the evils of Las Vegas gaming—

  “Lets get out of here, Annie. It’s getting late,” my boyfriend says as he slides into the chair next to mine.

  “Thought you loved gambling?” I say, acting shocked.

  “Not my night. Let’s roll.”

  “But Jacky-love this is so cool!” I almost squeal, taking another sip of booze and flinging my arms around ‘Jack,’ whose real name is Jay. I plant a sloppy kiss on my accomplice’s five o’clock shadow, smearing pink lipstick, then say, “I really can’t believe how much I like this. The…thrill. Oh my god and the money? Look! I’m up like…thirty-four dollars!”

  Jay flicks the croupier an apologetic smile for his nitwit girlfriend’s behavior.

  Meanwhile, the roulette wheel’s spinning and the five hundred chip is sitting pretty on the table and the play is in full swing, too late to back down now, too late for cold feet and excuses because me and Jacky-love, we’re committed. I’m tingling all over. Little sparks of electricity coursing through me. Adrenaline and the body’s cocktail of natural stimulants surging through my blood.

  Is thieving a rush?

  Bet your ass.

  Especially when you do it to eat.

  But like any other drug…you develop a tolerance. An easy play like picking pockets from wandering tourists or wallets from the purses of rich-bitch socialites at the day spa loses its charm. Like anyone else, a grifter wants to move up in the world. Craves the big score. The one that’ll get remembered.

  That’s what tonight’s about. It’s a graduation, of sorts.

  “C’mon, Annie. Let’s get out of here,” Jay repeats in a tone like he means it. “We got finals tomorrow—”

  “One more round?” I ask, batting eyelashes and flipping hair. I lower my voice just enough to be heard by everyone. “I haven’t been this excited since I saw Drake at Coachella. Maybe later, you and I could—”

  “You want one more spin, girl?” the croupier interrupts.

  I look at ‘Jack’ for approval. He sighs and flings his hands up in surrender, then settles beside me, eyeing the spinning wheel. Jay’s a heavily-muscled, clean-cut guy wearing ironed grey slacks and a navy blue golf shirt. Him and me go way back. I was eleven and he was thirteen when we started doing jobs together. It doesn’t come quite as naturally to him, but he’s reliable. Doesn’t show up drunk or high. In this business that’s a major selling feature.

  Now, nine years and a few drama-filled flings later, here we are.

  Haven’t exactly lit the world on fire, have we?

  The roulette wheel’s c
licking along.

  The stacked chips are on the table.

  One brown lurking under two reds.

  This is the easy part. All I have to do is keep my shit together and play at being excited, which isn’t hard: I am excited.

  Two people are playing the table with me. Neither are in on the scam. A paunchy middle-aged guy with shiny cheeks and a sharp widow’s peak, and another guy who is so dull-looking I almost forget he’s there. Both pretend to study their chips while Jack and me smooch and paw at one another.

  The paunchy guy gives a little sigh of frustration.

  The wheel’s spinning.

  Finally sowing…

  Thing is, it’s nearly three in the morning on a Tuesday night. This cute little college girl should be in bed. That’s what the men behind the cameras are thinking. Which means we’ve got to make a move, and quick, or the night’s a zero.

  I can’t afford another zero. No one in the crew can.

  That’s a problem.

  Best time to steal is when you don’t need to.

  And there it is. So subtle and insidious I hardly notice it.

  Doubt. Fear.

  The body’s a funny thing. Half the time it reacts without conscious thought to a bunch of shit—thoughts, emotions, even memories—we’re barely even aware of. We live our lives with the illusion of control. But get scared, or worried, or have someone throw a punch at you…then see how much control you really have.

  That’s what’s happening now. Without meaning to, I tense up. Overgrip my Long Island. My smile becomes tight. Fake-looking.

  They’re on to you.

  The thought comes from nowhere.

  Explodes into my head.

  The tool’s on his way—

  Shit. A thought like that in the middle of a play can get you killed.

  Jay senses it. He leans his shoulder to mine. Steadying me.

  Only a few more seconds—

  I’ve been at the table for forty minutes. Caught a rumor from the grifter underground that this table might be worth a look. Most rumors are bullshit, like nearly everything in Vegas. But there’s that mystique. The town has a reputation to uphold. Even now, with the Strip like another Disneyland full of khaki-wearing tourists and their obnoxious greasy-faced children squealing buy me this buy me that…there’s still that wild west, big-money mystique.

  The big score.

  The one lucky night to make all the unlucky ones fade away.

  So here I am. Trying to relax and keep it together at the same time.

  Trying to bring opposites together.

  Grifting’s a Zen thing.

  Or maybe I could just use some luck.

  Thing is, I’ve lived in Vegas my whole life. I know there’s no such thing as luck. You either win or you lose. Or more truthfully, usually you lose and you lose and you lose some more, until you’re dead or on the street.

  Because tonight, if I lose, I’m going to prison for a very long time.

  I take a quick breath and focus on what I can control: the play.

  Let my mind wander over how I’ve sized up the croupier.

  Tonight’s honeypot is a middle-aged woman, kind of pretty in a worn-out way, hair streaked and pinned up, glasses that are probably fake intended to give her a more serious look, lips surrounded by wrinkles from a lifetime of smoking. My bet is she spent her twenties dancing, then you know time just crept up on her, the new girls kept rolling in and the money didn’t, the manager had that heart-to-heart well okay we can move you to the serving floor, hun, tips are pretty good and there’s less groping. So then it was two decades serving watered-down free drinks. Not what she expected from life but hey there’s a roof over her head and the bills are mostly paid and the days slipped by until finally the noise of the floor invaded her dreams, the slots dinging and ringing and buzzing.

  She woke up one morning and realized she couldn’t wash the cigarette stink from her skin. Could’t keep the sound of the slots from ringing in her head. But now we’re twenty years later and she’s still living paycheck to paycheck. Options: expired. Opportunity: gone. Sure she got raises now and then, small ones, because she was a hard worker and dependable, never showed up for work wasted like some of the other girls, but the raises never kept up with how everything’s getting so fucking expensive.

  Rent. Food. Gas. You name it.

  Throw a child or three in there.

  Father fucked off long ago.

  Get the picture?

  Then this big new casino was rumored to be opening up.

  Biggest in the world. Run by that gorgeous blonde-haired businessman. Born in California but moved to Europe to make his fortune in…what? Solar Power? Windmill farms? Something like that.

  Anyway, what’s his name?

  Landon Stone.

  The new casino posted hiring ads everywhere. They couldn’t find enough croupiers and pit bosses and dealers and stickmen and all the other souls needed to keep the world’s largest, most expensive casino running twenty-four-seven.

  What a fucking hunk of flesh Landon Stone is, the croupier thought when she first saw the want-ad. Seems like an all right guy, too. In the news. Donating to shelters and food banks. Might be an okay guy to work for.

  So our fifty year old cocktail waitress decided to take a six month dealer’s course. Put herself deep in hoc to do it. She always liked roulette. The little white ball chiming as it bounces across the numbers. How the wheel slowly rolls to a stop, the motion almost hypnotic, like there’s a lesson hidden for her in that wheel, if only she could see it—

  Trouble is right now she’s so green and nervous she keeps bungling the spin. Her hand slipping off the metal rung. The wheel limping along for a few half-assed turns. Juggling the rake around like she’s about to take her own eye out. Glancing back at the pit boss who’s hovering over her like a shadow. Flashing him a tight smile that says it’s my first night. I’ll get better.

  She won’t have a chance to.

  It’s her first and last night on the job.

  I’m hoping to rob her rich-as-hell boss blind.

  What do they say. There’s no such thing as victimless crime?

  The play won’t hurt Landon Stone or his casino one goddamned bit.

  But it’ll hurt the croupier. Ruin her last shot.

  Wanna know what a grifter calls that?

  Lousy luck.

  Happens to us all.

  And that spinning wheel? The table with my five hundred-ten dollar bet riding on it? What’s the life lesson hidden there?

  Nothing. It’s a fucking roulette table, not a fortune cookie.

  ***

  “I think…I’d like to change my bet?” I ask my boyfriend, making sure to widen my eyes into a stumped-idiot-girl look. “Can I do that? Is it too late? Is that wrong? I mean I’d—”

  Jay runs his index finger over my wrist.

  Cut it out.

  Fuck him. Chickenshit.

  My nerves are buzzing like Nascar.

  Just one fix. Up the ante. Raise the stakes. Roll her harder through the curve. For better or worse. I mean, what else does a no-name girl have to look forward to?

  “But I think I can do that? I mean…the wheel hasn’t stopped?”

  Two to one odds on a five hundred ten dollar bet’s only a grand and change. Split between me and Jay and the other two that are in on the job, minus the four hundred I have to pay the guy who sold me the intel on the honeypot croupier. That’s like two hundred bucks. Okay, it’s enough to keep the lights on in mom’s apartment.

  But after that?

  Nothing.

  “Can I change my bet?” I ask the croupier, a little louder, like I’ve made up my mind. Like I’m a modern woman and can do as I damn well please. “I’m still learning and I think I have a good feeling…” I flutter my hands in front of my face for effect. “I have a good feeling or ha ha maybe it’s the Long Island…but can I?”

  The croupier watches the wheel slow, leans on her rake, ca
sts the pit-boss a glance—

  Keep your eyes on me, you nervous ninny.

  “Is it too late to change?” I repeat, my voice suddenly far too serious for the role I’m playing.

  Shit. I’m losing it—

  Jack rolls his eyes. “Aww it’s a good bet love keep it where it is.”

  “You can still change. She hasn’t called the bets.”

  The paunchy middle-aged guy. He’s half-smiling, half-leering in my direction. I give him an eyeful of cleavage in gratitude. “I can? She hasn’t…oh that’s right. Did you hear that, Jason? The crouper..uh…”

  “Croupier,” the middle-aged guy corrects.

  “Croupier!,” I giggle. “She hasn’t called the bets so I can change—”

  Jay shakes his head.

  He doesn’t even have to act looking upset.

  “You can change it,” the croupier says, eyeing the wheel and my stack of chips. This is a big moment. If she sees the five hundred brown under the two reds she’ll freak out, tell me I need to call such a large bet.

  Then it’s game over.

  My gut spins as the rookie croupier studies my chips—

  “Is dis the high-rolling table?” a tall, impossibly thin black-haired woman wearing a silver sequined and seductively low-cut gown asks, leaning over the side of the roulette table and blocking the croupier’s view of my stack with her ample tits.

  Maya. About fucking time.

  “More like the sorority house,” the balding middle-aged guy answers. “Here. Mind if I grab you a cha—”

  “Sorority? I know not this word. I am from the Russia…”

  Maya purrs the ‘r’ in Russia out nice and long. The middle-aged guy licks his lips. The croupier—and everyone else at the table—are all focused on Maya.

  Which is the point.

  Girl’s got my back.

  Quickly, I slide my stacked chips to the double zero’s in a low-percentage bet called the basket.

  The basket pays out at eleven to one.

  Double zero’s are my second luckiest number. I’ve always loved James Bond. I give an excited hoot, then smack my Long Island off the table with my elbow.