A path of swirly-patterned carpet leads to a bank of silver elevators on the far side of the gaming area. Instead of heading to the 30th floor, I wander toward the restaurant on the opposite end.
Slipping inside the vacant dining room, I sidle around piles of construction materials and plastic sheeting. The overhead lights are off, the workers gone for the day. If this is Bissara’s new location, Trace didn’t waste time starting the renovations. When a small round stage at the center comes into view, I know I’m in the right place.
I stride toward the platform, circling the eight-foot diameter. It rises to chest level without steps to climb on. So I kick off my flip-flops and hoist myself up to stand on the dark acrylic surface.
Glass walls separate the restaurant and gaming area, dampening the blaring beeps and tinkles of slot machines. But I can see them—the kaleidoscope of neon lights illuminating the serious faces of addicts doing what they need to do.
That’s six million patrons strolling through my doors and resting their eyes on the art you create through movement.
The stage is certainly visible from the most active gaming areas, but gamblers aren’t looking around at the scenery. They sit in a trance, focused on their drug, determined to win. None of them would notice a belly dancer in the restaurant.
“Are you lost?” An unfamiliar masculine voice drifts from the shadowed corner near the entrance.
I turn and spot a dark figure reclined at one of the tables. “Nope. Are you?”
“I work here.” The man stands and walks toward me, dressed in a white collared shirt, black pants, and black vest. “I’m a blackjack dealer.”
He nods at the casino tables beyond the glass, where men and women wear uniforms like his, their hands busy with cards and chips.
As he approaches, I lower to the edge of the stage and dangle my legs over the side.
Dark hair, slim build, and trimmed beard, he’s neither ugly nor handsome. But I don’t trust that smile. It’s too assertive and greasy.
“I’m James.” He holds out a hand.
“Danni.” I clasp his clammy fingers and pull back, keeping the exit behind him in my periphery. “Shouldn’t you be working?”
“I’m on break.” He licks his lips as his eager gaze sweeps over my skinny jeans and pauses on my shoulder, which is bared by the wide neck of my slouchy shirt.
Dancers aren’t shy about showing skin, and I’m no exception. James can leer all he wants if he keeps his hands to himself.
He bends closer, resting a hand on the stage beside my hip. “This might come across as a little aggressive…”
“It’s only aggressive if you have something aggressive in mind.”
“Go out with me tonight.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Well, you’re a beautiful woman.” He leans a hip against the platform. “It just so happens I have a thing for beautiful women.” His smile twists suggestively. “I get off work in an hour. What do you say we get to know each other?”
A smart girl would tell him to get lost, but I’m a glutton for mischievous conversation. “What would getting to know each other involve?”
His eyebrows jump up, and he quickly smooths his expression. “Dinner?”
“I already ate.”
“Drinks?”
“Then what?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Uh…”
“Tell me exactly how you imagine getting to know me, James.” I trap my bottom lip between my teeth and release it. “Or are you afraid to say?”
A shadow moves at the edge of my vision. It’s out of focus, but I make out a tall silhouette in the doorway behind James. I don’t shift my gaze. I don’t have to. The sensation of being lividly and intensely glared at tells me exactly who lingers at the entrance of the dining room.
“I have lots of ideas.” James scratches his beard and scrutinizes my body with slimy intent, oblivious of the casino owner standing behind him. “I don’t know if I should say—”
“You better spit it out before my employer gets here. He hasn’t had sex in years, and it’s turned him into an intolerable, angry ogre.”
“You work here?”
“Nope. What happens after drinks, James?”
“Okay, so I’m thinking…” He fiddles with his necktie. “I’ll take you home. And kiss you. And touch you. And make sweet love to you.”
I don’t even try to hide my cringe. “Boring.”
“What? Which part?”
“Make sweet love? Dude, you can do better than that.”
“I don’t know wha—”
“Do you like anal play?” Knowing Trace is listening makes it damn hard to keep a straight face, but somehow, I manage it.