Jazz music hummed through the casino's speakers, broadcasting the same repetitive ten or so songs to closed ears. The staff of the Sierra Madre worked tirelessly to maintain a casino that has yet to open its doors; scrubbing bathrooms twice a day to ensure their cleanliness, fixing uninhabited beds every morning that haven't been slept in, maintaining the holograms and ensuring that their protection and standard functions are operating properly, perfecting recipes down to a pinch or two of salt, and the entertainers practicing their routines under the scrutiny of Sinclair, the owner of the City of Gold.
Small clouds of smoke filtered through Dean Domino's lips, careful as to stay hidden from the security camera and to avoid setting off the smoke alarm. Three hours of performing was routine for the musician, but abiding by Sinclair's strict rules was adding stress on the man. Dean wasn't allowed to have a drag under Sinclair's meticulous gaze for fear of hoarse singing voices. Scoffing, Dean realized how this mirrored his schoolboys days where he would sneak into the bathroom for a quick cigarette.
"King?"
From reflex, Dean stubbed out the cigarette into the palm of his hand, masking his pain by wearing a toothy grin as he faced the door of his dressing room. A partition carved from sleek Moroccan wood obstructed Dean's vision from the doorway, but a familiar giggle sounded out; a giggle that belonged to a Miss Vera Keyes.
She slinked out from behind the partition, her footsteps falling a bit heavy and her body swaying a tad. The way she was acting could have easily been excused by tiredness, but Dean knew the reason to her sluggish movement. She was high on Med-X and stimpaks to curve the pain from her body that was attacking itself constantly -a terminal autoimmune disease.
"Mind if I join?" Vera asked, gazing at Dean through her thick lashes.
Her voice was simply heavenly. It was a deeper, more mature voice that was as smooth as silk. It had an entrancing ability, lulling listeners into a dreamlike state. It's comparable to the sensation of being out on the open sea, calm and gentle, underneath the night sky.
"Please do." Dean was subconsciously inching forward, already enthralled by her.
Sighing, Vera plopped herself down in a seat across from Dean. For a few moments, she simply stared at the ceiling as a look of sorrow flashed across her features. The dressing room was silent beside for Dean's lighter flicking open and lighting a fresh cigarette. Dean took a long drag, and then passed it to Vera.
"Thank you," she mumbled, rolling her head to the left till it rested against her freckled shoulder.
"Rough day?"
"Yes, Sinclair continues to ignore the bombing threats and continues to worry about this strange sludge in the pipes." Vera paused to fiddle with the cigarette between her fingers. "He solely cares for the Sierra Madre and money."
Sadness and another indescribable emotion leached onto Vera's features, aging her considerably. The wrinkles around her eyes became more pronounced, her smile lines draped around her mouth. Her foundation was layered thickly onto her face, accentuating her textured skin.
"Sinclair cares for you," Dean remarked softly.
Vera's eyes trailed from the ceiling to Dean's gaze; her iries appeared faded, they used to be such a deep chocolate color. Despite this, she gave Dean a venomous look.
"He cares for me, but do I want him to?" Vera snapped. "I feel gross, impure when he showers me in lavious gifts and kisses me, going on about how much he loves me. I hate this guise I have to wear to him and everyone else! This stress is causing me to have more flair ups, and I'm tired of this. I just want to be happy already!"
"You'll be happy after we rob Sinclair blind," Dean said, placing a hand on her knee in an attempt to comfort you. "I promise."
Forcing a smile, Vera nodded in response, and a silence settled once more.
The two performers were painfully aware that they were using each other: Dean needed Vera's charm to fool Sinclair and Vera needed Dean's physicality to carry whatever Sinclair stored in his vault. Vera had idealistic dreams that the money gained from the theft would conjure a cure for her illness; Dean was a simple man, only wanting the money just to possess it.
When they first reunited in the Sierra Madre, their old flame rekindled vibrantly with gentle romantic gestures, wandering hands, and deep kisses. Despite the passionate romance, Dean's greed infested him. After several weeks of contemplation, Dean convinced Vera to aid in the robbery that would take place amidst the wildness that would be the casino's grand opening to the public. As the awaited time drew near, Dean's jealousy towards Sinclair grew to insufferable heights and Vera became increasingly tired of Dean, Sinclair, her illness… Everything.
Now, their contrived love and upcoming theft was the only thread keeping them together.
A knock sounded off Dean's partition, surprising Vera and causing her to drop the cigarette from her fingers onto the floor. Afraid of it starting a fire, she quickly smeared it into the rug with her shoe.
"Why does it smell like smoke in here?" a familiar blondie asked in an accusatory way. Grimacing, Sinclair straightened his tie. "Dean?"
"You caught me," Dean said half-heartedly with his signature toothy grin.
Unamused, Sinclair ignored Dean and directed his attention to Vera. His cold face softened when he looked at Vera to the point it seemed as if he were a different person, as if he was mirroring Vera's thinning frame. His shoulders shrank and face sunk. Sinclair outstretched his hand to her, and Vera wordlessly took it and stood.
"I'll talk to you later, King of Swing," Vera sighed, leaning against Sinclair for support. An indescribable emotion glinted in her eyes. Hurt? Happiness? Confusion? A mixture of all of three?
They promptly left, closing the door to the dressing room behind them. Dean picked up the remains of the cigarette, and for a few seconds, stared at the blemish. It gave him an unnerving feeling, seeing the beautiful, Indian rug that was now forever tainted with ash.