Working Class Vegas Vamp is a free urban fantasy serial, usually publishing on Tuesdays. It is unedited and subject to change. If published later, it may differ significantly, and will probably include additional material. Typos and English errors are likely; feel free to leave a comment or write me at am {AT} amscottwrites.com (revised as a standard email address. Pesky bots!) Available for a limited time only!

Chapter 3

 

When the sun fell below the horizon, I woke. The sheet still draped my body, and my security measures were in place. My phone, and my body, told me it was nine minutes to eight and the sun was down. I breathed into my daily mediation. When the singing bell chimed on my phone, I rose, pulled on a workout bra and shorts, and began my yoga routine. The double dose of mind-body work might seem like overkill, but control was key to survival in a hostile environment surrounded by temptation.

At the end, I stared at the ceiling, and wished I could fall back asleep like a human. But wishes weren’t horses or gold bars, so I got ready for the day—or night, in reality. Vegas was almost perfect for a working-class vamp—plenty of decent paying night shift jobs, ever-changing management that didn’t ask questions, and special service providers readily available. For example, I had three alternate identities, including disguises, ID, transportation and cash secured in different locations around the city, along with a fourth in a hidden safe built into my bed.

Sadly, I didn’t have alternate, permanent lightsafe lairs, but plenty of paranormals owed me favors. A few friends hated Theoden as much as I did, even if none of them had his power or money. They had something better—the loyalty of found family. I could count on shelter for a day or three. Theoden had scions and cash, but those broke under threat.

Anyone would break under enough pressure, but I also knew that Theoden rarely went to those extremes, preferring to use influence and money to get what he wanted. He thought of himself as civilized, when in fact, he was anything but. Lots of humans and paranormals had found that out the hard way.

But thinking about the admittedly hot vampire billionaire didn’t pay my considerable bills. I showered, moisturized, painted my face and curled my silver-streaked hair into beachy waves.

A black leather halter top topped by a bolero jacket, with tuxedo pants and thigh-high platform boots rounded out my look. All the bartenders and wait staff–male and female–wore variations on tuxedos. We got a generous allowance for our personalized outfits. And the drag costume designers were happy to help us out, since many of our choices sold well to civilians. Versions of my outfit had graced many “best woman” wedding attendants at Vegas wedding chapels and elsewhere.

I made more money dressed in a short skirt with spike heels, but it wasn’t worth the hassle of dealing with drunk idiots who didn’t understand the word no.

Nor was it worth the temptation to teach them the error of their ways.

I gathered my bag and keys, unlocked my lair, and listened at the barely cracked door. A snuffling noise meant Clover was sleeping. Guess I’d put off our discussion one more day. That meant I’d have plenty of time for a blood box and a brisk walk to the show rather than calling a car. Every penny I saved strengthened my safety net.

In the kitchen, I stretched to the top shelf and retrieved two boxes, popping the straw in one and sucking it down without pausing while putting the other in my bag. After flattening the box, I threw my boots in the waterproof pocket in my tote, and left the apartment, locking it behind me. Hopefully Clover would wake in time for her shift, but if she didn’t, it wasn’t my problem. We had a deal, and babysitting wasn’t part of it. If she missed the rent again, she was out. I had plenty of potential roommates and she knew it. It wasn’t about the money, but the security of a daylighter who owed me. Maybe I wouldn’t have that discussion at all; I’d just kick her to the curb and get a new human. Or maybe a were—they were physically stronger and only a liability near the full moon.

I trod the covered walkway, avoiding the soft spots in the concrete, and trotted down the rickety stairs to the parking area below. The elevator was broken again, but I wouldn’t risk being trapped anyway.

Rustling from the dumpsters meant someone had left the gates open again, letting homeless scavengers inside. Most of them were harmless, but this complex housed quite a few elderly and handicapped residents; they’d learned to carry pepper gel or tasers to scare off the few bad apples who wanted more than the leftovers they could get from the garbage. I’d make another complaint to the apartment managers, but it would do little good. The complex was falling apart, and the slum lord owners didn’t care. The only thing keeping this place full was the convenient location just a short distance from the Vegas Strip.

A brisk walk got me to the backdoor of Casino Royale, where I held my card to the lock and entered my code. I trudged up the mostly empty, plain concrete hallway to the back door of the Fantastique Bar, got through the locks, put my platform boots on and threw my things in my locker. I slid my phone into the inner pocket in my bolero–the opening was at the back of my neck, protecting my spine and making it hard to steal–and entered the bar.

Swiping my card into the closest terminal, I clocked in, and brought the house lights up. Under the bright LEDs, the shiny black and silver plastic looked cheap and cheesy, but with stage lighting, it turned glamorous and glittery. I checked the main floor and the semi-private boxes, but the cleaning crew had done their usual stellar job. The bar, an edifice of black lacquer and chrome with comfortable leather stools, gleamed too. I pulled fruit from the fridge and sliced, prepping the cocktail stations for a busy night, hoping that Theoden wouldn’t show up.

Over the next hour, staff and performers trickled in. Someone turned on music, but kept the level low in the house. The volume would rise during prep time, until it was at pre-show levels just before opening at ten pm. The first show was at eleven, the second at one am with a forty-five minute break between. Early by Vegas standards, but it worked well with the other shows in the Royale. It worked well for me too. I got home well before sunrise even at summer’s height.

“Going to be a slammer tonight,” Troy said. He worked hard and looked great in his tuxedo pants with suspenders, bow tie and no shirt. He was extra popular with bridal parties. “Hotel is full of tech-bros.”

“Ugh. Those guys are terrible tippers,” Janice whined. She tossed her long, straight, honey blonde hair over her shoulder. “And they don’t take “no” for an answer. Hope security’s on top of it tonight.” Janice wore a shiny black satin corset with ribbon lacing and her shirt was short and tight. She glided through her tables carrying heavy trays overhead on towering stilettos without ever spilling. Being a werewolf helped. I wished she was available for more shifts, because the patrons loved her.

“No worries, we got you.” The gargoyle security team lead, Matias, grumbled from his post at the end of the bar. His gray-tinged skin, along with a little natural glamor, made him hard to see against the dark walls. I’d known he was there, but only because I could hear him breathing. Once the show music started, he’d fade into the background until a threat brought him out. Then, his six-six height and massive shoulders did most of his job—except for the idiots too drunk to see.

“Thanks, babe!” Janice threw him an air-kiss.

Troy growled. “I’ll protect you.”  Her packmate wasn’t a fan of interspecies dating.

If it was fully consensual and didn’t impact our work environment, I didn’t care. Troy could snarl all he wanted if he did his job and didn’t get in anyone’s way. But he didn’t have to worry; Janice wasn’t interested in Matias. She just liked to tweak Troy’s nose.

I couldn’t blame her. Troy was pretty, but not very bright, and he had delusions of pack leadership. Knowing the reputations of the alpha, beta and omega of the Vegas Strip pack, I found that highly unlikely. He’d remain a mid-pack enforcer until he died.

“No, you’ll stay behind the bar, working, or Char will have your blood for dinner.” Janice wagged her finger in front of Troy’s face.

He sneered, but couldn’t help glancing at me. I stared back, and licked my upper lip. I’d never take blood from him, but he didn’t know that. He turned away, stacking cocktail shakers at his station. Janice laughed and twirled her tray.

Yup, pack leadership was unlikely if he couldn’t stare down one working-class vamp.

***To be continued***

Working Class Vegas Vamp Copyright © 2024 by AM Scott. All Rights Reserved.