Beneath the Neon Veil

The Mirage casino is a madhouse tonight, and I’m right in the thick of it. The table’s buzzing, cards flipping, chips clinking, voices shouting over the racket of the slot machines. I’m dealing blackjack, my fingers moving fast, smooth as ever. The neon lights overhead paint everything in this electric glow, bouncing off the polished wood. It’s loud, it’s bright, and it’s home, whether I like it or not.

“Mind your bets, mate, the house always wins,” I say, tossing a grin at the tourist in the loud Hawaiian shirt. He’s got a stack of chips he’s too drunk to count, and he laughs like I’ve told the best joke in Vegas. My East London accent always gets them, cuts through the noise like a knife. Been here five years, and it still marks me as the odd one out. Not that I mind.

I flip a card, a queen of spades, and the table groans, another bust. “Better luck next hand,” I tell them, scooping up the chips. The air’s thick with cigarette smoke, stinging my eyes, but I keep the smile on. It’s part of the gig.

Then I feel him before I see him. Marcus. My eyes flick up, and there he is, striding across the floor like he owns it. Marcus Reid, pit boss, all broad shoulders and quiet grit. He’s got this way about him, steady, sure, like he could calm a storm just by standing in it. His dark hair’s a bit messy tonight, and his tie’s loose, but that’s Marcus. Doesn’t need to try too hard.

He stops at my table, hands in his pockets, and our eyes lock. It’s quick, but it’s there, this spark that’s been growing since we said the words three weeks back. My chest does a little flip, same as always.

“Keep the patter light, Jules,” he says, voice low and easy. There’s a half-smile tugging at his mouth, the kind that makes me want to lean over the table and kiss it off him. But I don’t. Not here.

“Light as a feather, boss,” I shoot back, smirking. “Just keeping the punters happy.”

He nods, lingering a second longer than he needs to. “You’re doing fine,” he says, then adds, softer, “Always do.” My grin widens, and I flick another card out, ace of hearts, just to keep my hands busy. He’s still watching, and I catch myself teasing, “What’s this, then? Got a soft spot for strays, have you?”

Marcus chuckles, a rumble I feel in my bones. “Something like that,” he says, and he’s off, moving down the pit to check the next table. I watch him go, that steady walk, the way he nods at the dealers like he’s got their backs. He’s had mine since day one, five years ago, when I showed up in Vegas with nothing but a duffel bag and a busted heart. Family back in London didn’t take kindly to me coming out. Called it a sin, told me to sod off. Marcus gave me a job, a couch, and then, well, everything else.

The table’s rowdy again, pulling me back. A woman in a glittery dress slaps down a bet, giggling with her mates. I deal, keeping the chatter going, but my head’s still half with Marcus. Three weeks ago, I told him I loved him. Bloody hell, I’d been holding it in for years, pacing our flat with a glass of whiskey like some nervous git. He kissed me, and that was that. Now it’s real, and I’m still getting used to it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Claire. Claire Delaney, cocktail waitress, weaving through the crowd with her tray balanced like it’s a weapon. She’s got this tight smile plastered on, the kind that doesn’t reach her eyes. Her blonde hair’s pulled back, and she’s moving fast, dodging players like she’s done it a million times. She probably has. Vegas born and bred, Claire is.

She’s close now, near my table, and I catch her looking. Not at me, exactly, more at Marcus, then me, then Marcus again. Her eyes narrow, sharp as glass, and I feel a prickle on my neck. I’ve seen that look before. Not friendly, that’s for sure. She’s been off since Marcus reported her last year, caught her skimming tips, got her knocked down a peg. Fair’s fair, but she didn’t see it that way.

“Soft spot for strays, huh?” I mutter under my breath, dealing the next hand. It’s a throwaway line, but Claire’s close enough to hear. Her head snaps my way, just for a second, and her smile twists into something colder. Then she’s gone, slipping through the crowd like a shadow.

The casino’s alive around me, a mess of noise and light. Slots jangle in the distance, this constant chime that never stops. Chips clack as players shove them across the felt, some laughing, some cursing. The air’s heavy, smoke, sweat, and that sharp tang of spilled beer. It’s a mix of dreamers and losers here. The wide-eyed ones, fresh off the plane, thinking they’ll hit it big. The regulars, hollowed out, chasing a win they’ll never get. I’ve seen it all, night after night.

I’m mid-deal when Claire ducks out of sight, heading for the break room. She’s quick about it, like she doesn’t want anyone clocking her. Curiosity tugs at me, but I shake it off. Got a table to run. I flip a king of clubs, and the tourist in the Hawaiian shirt whoops like he’s won the jackpot. He hasn’t, but I let him have his moment.

Time drags on, the shift wearing me down. My legs ache from standing, and the smoke’s got my throat scratchy, but I keep going. Marcus is still out there, pacing the pit, and every now and then, I catch his eye. Keeps me steady, that does.

It’s late, past midnight, probably, when I spot Claire again. She’s back from the break room, tray empty now. She’s standing by the bar, messing with her phone, her face lit up by the screen. I can’t see what she’s looking at, but her jaw’s tight, like she’s biting down on something hard. Her eyes flick up, and they land on me. Not Marcus this time, just me. There’s something in that stare, something heavy, and it makes my gut twist.

She pockets the phone, slow and deliberate, and heads back to the floor. Her tray’s still empty, but she’s moving with purpose now, weaving past the slots and the drunks. Her eyes don’t leave me, not till she’s too far to see. I deal the next hand, ten of diamonds, and try to shake the feeling. Probably nothing, I tell myself. Claire’s just Claire, prickly, pissed off, same as always.

But as I watch her vanish into the crowd, those sharp eyes stuck on me, I can’t help thinking: maybe it’s not nothing. Maybe it’s something. And in a place like Vegas, something can turn bad fast.