"It's a hot night – the natives are restless," one of them joked as they rounded the corner to the strip.
"These aren't natives, they're tourists. And of course it's hot, we're in the middle of the bloody desert. Remind me which one of you tossers thought this would be a good holiday for a man just back from Afghanistan?"
"Oh relax, John, this is our stop."
They had approached the entrance to a club called "The Twilight Zone" (clever), where the bouncer wasn't stopping anyone who looked remotely of age. The crowd outside was full of smokers, drinks in hand, who were chatting loudly, clearly already buzzed (or maybe never sobered). Standing slightly apart, just to the left of the door, was a tall man in a designer suit that was inappropriately dark for the heat, despite it being gone eleven at night. The man raised an inscrutable eyebrow at John as he passed at the back of the pack.
Without knowing quite why, John stopped. A song he vaguely recognized, "Voodoo Mojo," was pouring its electronic bass rhythm onto the pavement. He turned his back on the noise and considered the sky, devoid of stars for the city glow.
"Sweating by the light of the moon, eh?" He offered to the man, who made him feel simultaneously self-conscious and strangely bold. By way of reply, the man lifted an unlit cigarette to his lips and leaned slightly forward. John paused a moment, then, struck by sudden comprehension, hurried to fish a "What Happens in Vegas" novelty lighter from his jeans pocket. He stood staring a moment after transferring the flame. Inhale: poison green eyes. Exhale: icy blue.
'Well then," he said dumbly, "I guess I'll just…" He rolled his shirtsleeves, wishing he could shed his skin, and made his way into the bump and the grind.
Two hours, five tequila shots, and – for some unknown reason – one margarita later, John was finally feeling alright. This is why people come to this city, he thought, making eye contact with a group of drunk women in short skirts at the edge of the dance floor, apparently having as much fun as you can in your clothes.
"Later!" one of the guys yelled into his ear over the pounding of a song that sounded suspiciously like the three before it. "Time to lose a little money."
They wound their way around a bar, through rows of slot machines, around – another bar? (fuck, no wonder everyone's always wasted in this town) – and finally, through a large archway labeled "Vertigo."
"So, what'll it be, mate?" Two of their number waved from a blackjack table. John scanned the room. "Craps," he decided. Best to go for a game of chance. At least if I lose, it won't be my fault.
"Hard eight!" John's head was spinning. He didn't know how it had happened, but the stack of chips in front of him had grown steadily into several towers, and the crowd around the table had swelled while the number of actual players had dropped to only two. Having finally given up on blackjack, the last two members of his group sidled up to the table.
"What's going on? What'd we miss?"
"Not too much," John answered, smirking. He nodded toward his only opponent. "Just rolling the bones with 'Jimmy No-dice.' Gonna take him for a couple weeks pay."
"Victor," the bloke across the table corrected bitterly. John couldn't be certain through the thrum of the crowd and the copious amount of alcohol flooding his veins, but he thought he detected an English accent.
"Victor, then," he acquiesced, throwing out his most charming smile. "You don't seem to have too much more to wager. How about a friendly bet between countrymen," he ventured.
Victor inclined his head in silent, grudging assent.
"If you lose this roll… I take your girlfriend home."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Then, as if choreographed, it parted, creating a corridor between the table and the club. John's heart stopped. He couldn't believe who came walking out.