This is a Vegas story.

This is also a love story, the kind that gets told between hands and the tumble of the die across a felt table, fingers snapping, lips licked in anticipation, a sea of chips clattering against the brain.

Love is not unlike gambling. You roll, you play, you give everything you have or you give as little as possible. You trip into bedrooms like bets and you place the entire contents of your heart on one kiss, one smooth cheek. Winner takes all. What you risk reveals what you value.

And then it becomes an addiction. You're adding up days in your head, trying to figure out how much time you have left, how many more sheets you can muss before the long legs won't wrap around you anymore, before her hair doesn't spread across your pillow quite the same way. You come back time and time again, you drink in her irises like you're gulping down whiskey. Her lips become a liquor, heavy on the mind. You bet quickly, recklessly. You end up on your knees and you end up there often. And when she walks away, you grow thin and tired and you shake with the effort of remembering. There is nothing but the need and the gnawing at the heart. If you can't have her, you can't live. If you can't have her...

This is a Vegas story, and a love story. You can get it cheap here, and you can get as much of it as you want, but to score big, you learn to risk it all. And when you lose love, you have to learn how to move on to the next table and join the next game.

Or you break the rules. You throw out the game, and you learn how to steal it back.