Chapter Text
Ian leans back in his chair, desperately trying to keep his eyes open. Working the security night shift at the casino is always pretty brutal. Watching the wall of surveillance monitors, which usually remain completely devoid of any activity, is akin to watching paint dry.
Granted, he isn’t working alone. He has Sue to keep him company, which usually helps him stay awake, but tonight, listening to her drone on about how her husband fell asleep during sex last night just isn’t doing it for him.
He’s losing his battle and letting his heavy eyelids drop closed just as Sue’s voice cries out, causing his eyes to immediately snap open.
“Ian! Check this out!” she all but yells, practically giddy with the excitement of finally having some action after staring at nothingness all night.
He glances at all of the monitors, none of them showing any signs of activity, except for one. The swimming pool. He leans in closer to the monitor, as close as he can possibly get, until his nose is practically touching the glass, and he sees a flash. Just a flash. A flash of pale skin... and a lot of it.
“Ho-ly shit,” he whispers, leaning so close to the monitor that his breath fogs the glass, annoyingly blocking his view for a split second.
Is that...?
Does he...?
Are those...?
But it disappears in an instant. A splash of water follows, and he sees movement in the pool.
“I’ll let you have this one, Gallagher,” Sue says. And Ian’s not going to argue with that.
It’s not the first time that someone’s broken into the pool. Even at night, the summer heat in Vegas remains stifling, so it’s not unheard of. Ian knows the drill. He stands up and tucks in his shirt, trying to look presentable, like he hadn’t just been nodding off on the job.
He walks down to the pool area, and as he gets closer to the entrance, he hangs back, just poking his head around. Just enough to catch a glimpse. After all, he needs to know what he’s walking into, right?
And yeah, someone is definitely in the pool. He sees that pale skin again, and toned, tattooed arms that break through the water’s surface as the man skims across it with an effortless freestyle stroke. Is this guy swimming laps?
When the guy gets to the edge of the pool, he does a flip turn that exposes a perfectly round ass as it pops out of the water. Holy shit. He’d suspected it, but he hadn’t dared to make assumptions. But yeah. It’s confirmed. This guy is completely naked.
Ian should be making his presence known somehow, should be embarrassing the hell out of this man. But he can’t. He’s frozen, mesmerized.
“IAN!” a loud, staticky voice booms through the silence from the walkie-talkie. Reaching into his pocket, he quickly turns the volume down. Fucking Sue.
Pressing the button, he speaks harshly into the device, “What do you want, Sue? Over.”
“Stop ogling the eye-candy and get him out of there. Over.”
“I’m not ogling. Over.”
“There’s a camera, idiot. Over.”
He turns the walkie-talkie off and raises his middle finger in the direction of that blinking red light, before moving to stand against a wall — one that he knows for a fact is a blind spot, completely out of the camera’s view.
But it’s too late. Ian’s walkie has betrayed him, made his presence known, and he watches as the man stops swimming and pokes his head out of the water. He raises his arm, which looks to be covered in a full tattoo sleeve, punctuated with tattoos on his knuckles — spelling a word that Ian can’t quite make out — and pushes his wet, black hair out of his eyes.
And Ian immediately recognizes him. It’s that guy from the casino. The one he’s been watching so, so closely. He’s here, and he’s naked, and he’s so close, and he’s... holy fuck, he’s getting out of the water.
The man grasps the edge of the pool and pulls himself up, just as Ian catches a glimpse of something glimmering on his chest as it catches the light. Yep, he was right… nipple piercings. Something flutters through his stomach. Tattoos and piercings? Hmm, Ian didn’t know they even did anything for him, but this guy... this guy he’s been watching is just so... so different from anyone else that’s ever caught his attention before. Focus, Ian.
“The pool’s closed,” Ian says around a rough swallow, his voice not coming out nearly as commanding as he would’ve liked.
But the guy’s just walking, slowly approaching Ian where he’s standing, and still completely fucking naked. Ian feels a droplet of sweat slowly crawl down his temple. Why the fuck does Vegas have to be so goddamn hot? Shit.
“I know. But I felt like goin’ for a swim. It’s hot as fuck out here,” the guy says, stepping closer still. Ian notices that the man is sporting a mischievous smirk; not that he’s paying much attention to his face.
Eyes up, Ian. Don’t look down. Fuck, he really, really tries. But damn it, his eyes flit down across the length of the man’s body, and he feels his blood rushing south.
The impish grin on the man’s face grows, and now there’s a little gleam of... something in his strikingly blue eyes. His tongue juts out to lick his bottom lip just before he catches that lip with his front teeth.
“See somethin’ you like, Ace?”
*****************************************************
*Three Weeks Earlier*
Mickey stares, eyes trained on the deck of cards, as the dealer deftly shuffles and deals. The numbers come together. They always have. Mickey’s instantly able to visualize the configurations of the cards before him and in the deck. He taps on the table. Holds his hand out flat, palm down. Collects his chips. It’s a practiced dance that Mickey’s been honing for as long as he can remember, starting with those underground gambling rings his father, Terry, used to drag him into. Who’d have thought those skills might come in handy in Vegas one day?
Numbers have come easily to Mickey for as long as he can remember, and he prides himself on having a memory like a steel trap. He never thought it was a big deal. Growing up in the Back of the Yards on the South Side of Chicago, it wasn’t as if he was going to be in the Mathletes club at school. He never even went to school. But being good with numbers came in handy for dealing, scamming, and hustling — crafts that he’d pretty much perfected growing up the way he did.
Once he started to figure out how to count cards, he and Terry had made a great team in the underground gambling rings. And by a “great team” Mickey means that he would basically do all the work while Terry would shit-talk and keep all of the winnings. They made their fair share of enemies along the way, and thankfully it was Terry’s ass who ended up getting into it with the wrong guys and wound up six feet under as a result.
But here, standing at a blackjack table in a Las Vegas casino, it’s completely different. Mickey is on his own, and he’s far from an expert hustler, but he does pretty well if he says so himself. He takes home a decent amount most nights, enough to help pay the bills and come up with the money for Mandy, so he calls that a win in his book.
This casino, the one at the Gilded Oasis hotel, is high on his list of favorites to frequent. He manages to take home a pretty penny each time he visits. Tonight is no different. His pile of chips grows and grows, along with the feeling of pride in his chest.
All is going according to plan. If only it wasn’t for that goddamn casino security guard who clearly has his eye on him. Mickey sees him every time, staring, watching, following. And he honestly can’t tell if it’s curiosity or fascination that’s the driving force behind the man’s watchful eye. He’s never approached Mickey, never done anything. He just watches.
It can’t be because the guy’s suspicious he’s counting — he’s clearly not a pit boss, otherwise he would’ve kicked him out by now — but it causes Mickey’s hackles to go up and puts him on heightened alert. Maybe he doesn’t mind it so much, though. He has eyes, after all. So fuckin’ sue him. The guy’s not bad to look at. In fact, he’s hot as hell.
So yeah, Mickey’s noticed him, too. Fucking hell, has he noticed him. That bright red hair, the smattering of freckles that Mickey would love to see up close and personal, the closely trimmed beard that’s just this side of a five o’clock shadow — he imagines the scratchiness of it, the painful pleasure of it rubbing against his inner thighs — and the glasses that Mickey would love to see all steamy and fogged up. The guy looks so put together, so uptight, and Mickey just wants to mess him up in every way possible. If he’s being honest, it’s pretty fucking hard to tear his eyes away from the unwavering stare of the redhead and focus on the cards.
But the guy is casino security. He has his eye on Mickey for whatever reason, and Mickey needs to play it cool, try to stay under the radar. He can still feel the redhead’s eyes boring holes into him, laser-focused, but it’s fine. Mickey’s almost done here anyway, already collecting his chips and ready to cash out. He won’t be back at this casino for several more days. Tomorrow, it’s onto a different one. He knows how to play the game.
He’s hit up most of the casinos along the Vegas strip. He has his favorites, sure, and he of course steers clear of hustling at the Obsidian, the one where he works.
Mickey cashes out and exits through the casino doors, heading quickly in the direction of his car, which he’s parked a reasonable distance away. While his apartment is close to the strip, he doesn’t want to be walking all the way home with a wad of cash on him, and he definitely doesn’t want to park close enough that his car and license plate will be spotted by security.
As he starts his car, he checks the clock on the dash to see that it’s 4:00 am. This is typical for him — working evenings as a cocktail server and then going to a different casino to win some cash after his shift (unless he’s found a guy to hook up with, maybe a quick blowjob to take the edge off) before heading home in the early morning hours.
His job as a casino cocktail server has definitely come in handy. It allows him to practice counting cards even when he’s not actively playing. He gets to hang out at the tables under the guise of serving drinks and engaging in conversation with high-rolling assholes. And no one ever has a clue what he’s doing. In fact, everyone seems to love his company. His threatening knuckle tattoos are always a hit, his flirtiness coupled with his crassness, his complete lack of a filter, his brash, no-nonsense and zero-fucks-given attitude — especially in contrast to the slicked back hair and pressed, polished look that he’s expected to sport at work — seem to attract inordinate amounts of attention from men, women... anyone who’s into dudes, really.
And Mickey embraces it. He’s got it, and he’s going to use it to his fucking advantage. Gone are the days of him hiding in the closet, being ashamed and embarrassed of who he is, being scared to come to terms with his sexuality. All of that shit was buried along with Terry when the old prick kicked the bucket, and any remnants of it stayed on the South Side when Mickey finally left.
Stretched out on the couch in near darkness, Mandy’s wrapped in a blanket — not because she’s cold, but because she needs the comfort.
Her blonde hair is still slicked back and stiff with hairspray, pulled into an elaborate updo — a staple for nearly every dancer at the Liquid Diamond, the high rollers’ burlesque club at the Gilded Oasis. Her once impeccable makeup is now running down her face and onto the throw pillow her head is resting on.
Though she’s only been home about an hour, she’s put quite a dent in the bottle of wine currently sitting on the floor — it had been a really shitty night.
Snaking an arm out from the confines of the blanket, she reaches for the wine, pausing when she catches the sound of movement at the door.
“Goddamn piece of shit!” she hears Mickey shout, clearly ignoring the late hour. “Fuckin’ hate that lock,” he says as he enters their apartment, slamming the door shut.
She peers at him from the couch.
“The fuck’s wrong with you?” he asks, walking toward her. “It’s a million fuckin’ degrees outside and you’re under a blanket? You sick or somethin’?”
She sniffles, then pulls the blanket over her head so he can’t see her tear-soaked face.
“Mandy,” he says, yanking the blanket down.
“Don’t!” she cries out, covering herself back up.
“Holy shit! What happened? Who did that to you?”
“Nobody,” she says, her response muffled by the blanket.
“Bullshit!”
“Jesus, Mickey, it wasn’t anything like that,” she says, still hidden.
“Then why’s your face look so nasty?”
She scoffs, then throws the blanket off of her. “It’s just my makeup you idiot.”
“Gross. You’re getting it all over the couch.”
Huffing, she sits up, planting her feet on the floor. “Shit,” she whispers, almost knocking over the wine bottle. She picks it up and places it on the coffee table.
Mickey plops down on the opposite end of the couch. “Seriously, what happened?”
Sniffling, tears start falling down her cheeks again. “I, uh... I was walking the floor, getting my tips after my final act, and I got cornered.”
“What? By who?”
“It was that loan shark, McDermott. Him and two of his goons were sitting at a table just like any other customer. I didn’t even realize it was him until they had me surrounded so I couldn’t run away.”
“That motherfucker! Oh, I'm gonna kill him. What the fuck did he want?”
“He said I’m running out of time and need to pay at least 50% really soon.”
“How soon?”
Mandy shrugs. “I don’t know, he didn’t say.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Mickey sighs. “How in the hell are we supposed to know when we need to pay that asshole by then?”
“Fuck, Mickey, I’m really scared.”
“I know, but don’t worry, we’ll figure it out. I promise. Oh, that reminds me..." leaning to the side, he reaches into his pocket. “Here,” he says, tossing a wad of cash onto the table, “got some more for ya.”
Sniffling again, she’s unable to stop the heavy flow of tears from falling. “Thank you. I’m so sorry I got you mixed up in all of this.”
“Mands,” he whispers, “this isn’t your fault.”
“But it’s not your problem, it’s mine. It’s not fair you had to move out here because of me.”
Scooting toward her, he puts his arm around her shoulders, pulls her close, then makes them both fall back against the cushion. “I didn’t have to move out here. I could’ve just stayed in Chicago and let you deal with this shit on your own. But you’re my little sister and I wanted to move out here to help you.”
“But you wouldn’t have had to if I’da listened to you in the first place.”
“Well..." he says in a teasing tone. She slaps his chest. “I tried tellin’ you Kenyatta was a grade A prick.”
“I know, but I didn’t have anything goin’ for me back there and he was gettin’ me out. I really wanted to make something of myself. Now I’m stuck — well, we’re stuck — paying for his gamblin’ debts while he’s fucked off to who knows where.”
“You shouldn’t have to pay the price for the shit that dickhead pulled. I’m gonna help you even if I have to hustle money out of every casino along the strip. Though, we could always sic Iggy and Colin on his trail.”
She grins. “Yeah, they’d love to go on a little manhunt. But he’s not worth any jail time.”
They lay there in comfortable silence, until she hears Mickey’s breathing change.
“Hey,” she whispers, tapping him.
“Hmm?’
“You’re falling asleep. We better go to bed.”
“Mmm. Yeah, you gotta wash that shit off your face.”
“And you gotta wash the casino stench off.”
“Fuck you, I don’t stink.”
“If you say so.”
Mickey playfully pushes her to the edge of the couch. She stands and tosses the blanket over the armrest. Holding her hand out to him, he takes it and she yanks him up.
Before he has a chance to get away, she wraps her arms around him, hugging him tightly. “You’re the best big brother. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You and me’ve always stuck together,” he says, awkwardly patting her back. “I got ya.”
Releasing her hold on him, she sniffles loudly and stands up straight. Smiling, she says, “I know. Thanks.”
They separate, turning around to head to their respective rooms.
“Night, asswipe.”
“Night, skank.”
Mandy chuckles.
* *
Mickey steps into his bathroom to brush his teeth before hopping in bed. Undressing, he gets a whiff of himself — he does stink. Groaning, he turns on the shower and steps under the spray, letting the cool water wash away the day.
He turns off the shower, dries himself off, then heads into his room to throw on some boxers. It’s all he sleeps in these days. Vegas is hot as hell itself, even at night. Especially now, when the summer weather’s started to kick in. If he didn’t live with his sister, he’d probably walk around the apartment naked all day.
As he lies in bed, finally letting his body succumb to his desperate need for sleep, he thinks about tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day. Another chance to get more money for Mandy. He needs to keep his head in the game and play his cards right — pun intended.
He’s not going to let anything, or anyone, fuck up his game.