I get so tired of this city sometimes. There was a time when I thought I'd never get sick of it. Vegas is so impressive the first time you see it- all lights and glitter and 24-hour fun. Just like they say in the movies about it.
I came here with my boyfriend just after I'd turned twenty-one, and my eyes glazed over with all of it instantly. And man, was it was a blast- until it all went wrong with Joe and his growing gambling problem. He took out loans and gambled them away, losing job after job for abusing casino privileges. He fell fast and hard; another familiar story in this city.
Of course, he blew town. Woke up one morning… no more Joe. He didn't even leave the last measly frozen burrito in the fridge for me.
Fast forward through two and a half confusing years, and I'm still here, except now all I do is carry change from old lady to old lady, each of them sucking down their salty dogs and martinis and plunking coins into slots like there's no tomorrow. The casino I work at isn't on the strip. Not even on Fremont. It's nowhere in the middle of Vegas, so obscure that even the owner seems to have forgotten it existed, since no one can remember ever meeting him.
Twenty-three. No prospects, no boyfriend, no family except my brother in the Army and a loser stepfather somewhere in Texas. Not even a freaking cat to come home to at night. All I had going for me was that I looked good in that skimpy change-girl outfit.
"Dead Endsville, baby!" Some liquored-up, tired-looking woman once said that to me as I'd walked up to the entrance of The Venetian a few months ago.
I'd come to the strip looking for fun after a bad night at the casino, fending off drunken men who thought that dropping wads of cash on the tables gave them license to grope the help.
I glanced anxiously at that old woman, her bleary gaze seeming to peer right through to my worst fears, and shuddered as I walked inside the hotel.
I tried to shake it off as I stood watching the fake gondoliers, but she was right. I was stuck in a rut, trapped by a town that, if it hadn't already, would end up corrupting me to the core. And what in the world did I have besides looks that would eventually fade?
Well, I did have my car. I'd saved for that rust heap- saved even more to fix it up- for as long as I'd been working that crappy job. A cherry-red '62 Chevrolet Nova convertible. It was a piece of shit when I got it for $500. But I bought parts and worked on that baby myself until it was in tip-top shape. Except the paint job- I had that professionally done.
Okay, so she's no Ferrari, but I look damn good driving down the strip. And what I love to do most is take my car out and drive away. Just go tour the Nevada back roads, top down, radio blaring oldies, sometimes stopping to look at the stars, always hoping the sun won't rise. But, inevitably, dawn always creeps over the horizon with the scorching heat of the sun, and reality comes crashing back down.
The last couple months, every Friday night, I'd end up at this old diner somewhere between here and Laughlin. Just another greasy spoon joint to stop in at and get a 3 a.m. breakfast after driving through the desert all night. It sure beat staying out 'til dawn and getting depressed about where my pathetic life ranked in the scheme of things.
But pulling up to that same diner last Friday night, the radio bleating with the sounds of an Elvis marathon, I knew all too well what it really was that kept me coming back, and why I felt a glimmer of something to look forward to when I went there. And, also, why I'd dressed in my most eye-popping short red dress that night.
I couldn't keep my eyes off him. Thirty something, sitting there with a white cowboy hat shading his face, hunched over a cup of coffee, keeping to himself. He was six feet plus of raw male sexuality, relaxed as he could be, always in the corner booth.
It drove me nuts that I couldn't really see his eyes under the rim of that hat. I could sure see his mouth, though. It was delectably wide with lips redder than most, like they would feel hot to the touch. Strong jaw, clean-shaven, bronzed skin, and well-developed muscles threatening to be fully defined underneath a loose, white snap-down shirt that was tucked into tight, worn out blue denims. Well-worn but polished black boots. Short, dark hair- well trimmed judging by the look of his short sideburns, and big, strong hands that wore no rings (yes!).
There was nothing I wanted more than that man. He was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen, and he was at that diner every Friday night just like me.
Not that the stubborn prick ever noticed I was there. I'd find any excuse possible to walk by his booth; take the long way to my table or the restroom, or to the old jukebox, hoping to grab his attention as I walked slowly past. But that white cowboy hat of his never tipped upwards to indicate that he ever saw anything but that cheesy old Formica tabletop. Sometimes he'd be looking at a newspaper, but it was always laid flat on the table, not even leaving me a chance to catch his eye when he turned the pages.
A few weeks ago, I'd started wearing my sexiest perfume, again hoping to get him to look at me as I passed by. But the man had no reaction at all, like he was devoid of olfactory senses.
So, one night, I "accidentally" dropped my purse by his table as I walked past, making sure to give him an eyeful of cleavage when I bent over to pick it up. The sonofabitch didn't move even one muscle. I may as well have been flashing a brick wall.
But last Friday night, I was bringing out the big guns. Conscience and modesty be damned- I would not be ignored any longer, even if I had to throw myself at him.
Screwing up all the courage I could muster, I got up from my table and walked over to the jukebox. After perusing the selection for a few moments, the perfect song leapt out. I fed a quarter into the slot and an electronic arm moved over rows of shiny black vinyls before selecting a single disc and swinging it into place. Keeping in the spirit of the evening, Elvis started to croon that it was now or never.
I turned around and took a deep breath. There he was, hunched over his corner table as usual, that delicious-looking mouth of his on the rim of a coffee mug.
I walked over as alluringly as I could and sat down at his booth across from him, tossing my purse and keys casually down on the table. Not saying anything, I propped my elbows on the table, chin on my hands, and leaned over towards him, waiting for his reaction.
For what seemed like an eternity, he was silent.
But then, at last, his lips spread into a slow, cool smile as he took a long sip of black coffee.
"Well, if it isn't Miss Chevy Nova," he said after he swallowed it down.
So he had noticed.
I opened my mouth to utter a witty, sexy line that I'd been reciting in my mind all night, but he caught me off-guard by suddenly swiping my car keys off the table.
"Let's go for a drive."
Stunned by his command, I sat there gaping at him as he stood up and threw ten bucks on the table.
And finally, I could see his eyes- big, brown, totally at ease, and looking down at me like he'd expected this all along. He picked up a worn black leather jacket that he languidly tossed over his shoulder.
He flashed a charming grin as he stuffed his wallet into his back pocket.
"Well, are you just gonna sit there and let me take your car, sweetheart, or are you comin'?"
There was no time to waste. I couldn't get up fast enough, and followed close on his heels until we reached the door. It's bell jingled as he opened it for me, tipping his hat.
If only I'd known it would be this easy, I thought. I would've thrown myself at him weeks ago.
He took the lead and I followed him out to my car, admiring his gorgeous rear and the easy strut he walked with, his boots clicking on the pavement. He opened the passenger door for me and I slid in, noticing what a handsome face he had now that I could really see all of it. He'd tipped his hat back and was smiling at me as he shut the door. I melted at that smile and stared sappily up at him.
