All In

ALL IN

Written by Molly Bryant

Copyright © 2013 by Molly Bryant
Any resemblance in persons, living or dead, places, events, or locales is coincidental. All characters in this works are fiction and are produced from the author’s imagination.
Chapter One

Vice

'What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas'…it applies to me as I was conceived, born, and raised in the City of Sin. Half of my teenage years, I don’t remember much as my life has been one giant, fucking riot.

It started out as ditching a few classes, then days, then a week here or there to sling blow, grass, yellow-sunshine, liquid x, and even dappled into smack once. Sad to say that I fully blame the one person who I’m supposed to call ‘mom’ for my fine childhood life. The second I was taken to the trailer park after she gave birth to me, my entire life had changed. I remember numerous times that I had woken up hungry in the middle of the night as she would forget to feed me dinner. I would stop in the middle of the hallway to find strange men in my living room making my mother scream things that I wish to forget. I’d just go back to bed pressing my dirty, little fingertips into my ears and I would wait to eat at school. One specific memory that still haunts me to this day is the smell of alcohol, and stale cigarette smoke with a hint of crack spiraling through my senses like a vortex.

At some points in my life, I truly hated my ‘mom’ for the things I had gone through. Until I finally grew up and realized that she was living her own life the only way she knew how. I am there for her when she needs me which is usually to kick some guy out of her house who has over stayed his welcome, when she needs money for whatever it is she needs in which I don’t think I want to know, or when her bills and rent are due. It saddens me to no end that she never calls me otherwise, but I don’t mind giving her money as long as I know she is okay.

The best thing that came from my childhood was when I met my best friend Skip at the age of eighteen. Skip had seen me standing out in front of the corner store in my dirty ripped jeans, Misfits t-shirt, and holey Chuck Taylors from endless nights of pounding the Vegas concrete in search of a sale. He then climbed out of his sleek, black 67’ Chevelle and stared at me for a moment from over his Wayfarer sunglasses. I took in his tatted arms, and James Dean like attire. I had no idea how the hell he knew I was selling, he knew though. Skip knew as if I were holding a sign above my head stating that I had a pound of grass in my backpack.

He shook his head and said, “There is a hell of a lot easier way to make ends meet,”

I literally laughed in his face. Not that he had to twist my nuts or anything, I went with him anyway. At that time in my life, what did I have to lose? Absolutely nothing, besides the five miles it would take me to walk back to the corner store.

“All in,” I slid the fifty-six grand in Bellagio chips across the green felt.

“Bullshit,” Chase looked up with his blue eyes narrowed at me. His pretty boy, blonde hair disheveled from the stress that was upon him. The stress I was causing upon him, I smiled.

Chase Miller is a big time roller and drug dealer here in Vegas. He also owns the Nostalgia Casino which is known for the sexy, tattooed, pin-up style woman. Nostalgia holds the hottest, big money poker tourneys. I had never been there before as I try to steer clear from the drug scene, it always seemed to cause me trouble. Chase was consistently sending me invites to his tournaments at Nostalgia’s. I threw away every one of them so he took it upon himself to enter into the Bellagio tourney just to play against me.

I shrugged my shoulders as I leaned back into my chair. “Hey, you can fold em’ or shove them bastards in the middle,” I held my poker face as I ran my hands through my short, messy black hair.

“Kid, you got shit,” he laughed, matching my chips. Who the hell was this guy calling me kid when I was now twenty five years old. Shit, dude was barely my age.

Chase and I were the only two left in the Bellagio tournament. I sat there staring at him for a moment until he flipped his cards. My leg was shaking anxiously as I held my breath.

“Three of a kind, ace high,” he smiled widely. I stared at his cards intently. Jackass… I forcefully released the breath I was holding in as I sat forward, grabbing my cards.

I flipped them. “Royal flush, baby.” I laughed not being able to contain my excitement any longer. “Hell yes!”

“You mother fucker,” Chase shook his head back and forth staring at my cards.

I know you must be thinking that Skip taught me how to play poker. No, no he didn’t… that is my own fan-fucking-tastic skill I never knew I had until Skip talked me into to hitting up one of the casinos. He actually taught me how to prick and stick memories, pictures, hopes, and dreams with indelible color. I’m an artist with the love of bodies for canvas, a tattoo artist. When I first met Skip, I had zero ink. Now my six-foot, muscular frame is left with less than thirty percent of tattoo real estate.

After I had jumped into the Chevelle with Skip that day at the corner store, he pulled up to a run down building. At first I had been nervous not knowing anything about this guy and was curious as to why he had brought me to a vacant shit hole, in Vegas no less. I was ready to pull my gun from my backpack and kill the bastard at any given second if necessary. But, I had held my anxiousness well and followed suit where he showed me the beginnings of something tenacious, something solid.

“Welcome to Mad Tatter,” Skip said as we stood in the studio.

I told him, “I can’t tattoo, but good luck with it,” I went to leave thinking this guy was a joke to pick some random dealer off of the street and offer him a position such as the one he was offering myself.

“You can draw,” he had said quickly. His voice echoed the empty walls. Apparently the place wasn’t open for business just yet. It was in the making with red glittered tables, and black granite counters aligned. The floor was black and white checkered tiles. With some serious elbow grease, and some paint… he could make a killing.

I stopped. That I could draw, but how the hell did he know that?

“I’ve seen the wicked shit you can do with a pencil and paper,” he removed his sunglasses and stared at me.

“Dude, how the fuck do you know anything about my drawings?” I drew up until I hit my tenth grade year in high school then I had dropped out.

“We had art together in ninth grade, your name is Vice Jackson right?” Skip sat on one of the tattoo tables, then tossed his Wayfarers aside. His legs dangled, they swayed back and forth making me feel even more anxious.

“Yeah,” I eyed him again. My mom had a thing for Miami Vice when I was born. “Wait… your real name isn’t Skip, it’s Keegan isn’t it?” I pointed.

Thinking back, I remember him sitting across the long art table from me. He was an extremely quiet kid, never talked. He would just sit there in his jeans that were too small for him, stained second hand polo shirts, and the relentless kids that would torment him for his mother sticking him in his sisters hand-me-down tennis shoes with butterflies on them; those too were holey. I had never seen his parents. We would have school functions and I remember Keegan and me being the only two waiting out in front of the school for a ride home that would never come. You would think that we would have been the best of buddies considering, but when you have to take care of yourself, the last thing you want is to take care of someone else.

“Yup,” he sighed, then crossed his arms. I didn’t pry as to why he had changed his name from Keegan to Skip. I didn’t give a shit as it was none of my business. We all have a past, and we all have demons... enough said.

“Like I said, I can’t tattoo.” I shrugged.

“Learning the tatools is easy, I’ll teach you,” he grinned.

Mad Tatter had stayed closed for the several weeks it took us to clean up and paint the outside. Skip and I had spray painted a sick ass mural of our own version of Alice in Wonderland in the sense of Mad Tatter; I have to say that I always thought Alice would be sexy as hell covered in body art and a sleazy outfit. Instead we named her Malice. It was our Malice in Inkland on the back wall of the shop. We stocked up on the necessities of equipment and furniture, and stayed closed long enough for me to learn how to use the tatools. We went through pounds of pig skin during the process and when Skip felt confident enough, I graduated onto his skin.

“If you hurt me, I will fucking kill you,” he warned, quickly raising his head from his folded forearms.

“Shut the hell up and lay back down, pussy,” I laughed.

Over an hour and a half later, Skip turned with his back facing the elongated mirror against the wall next to Malice. He took a glimpse of the blue and red vintage anchor upon nearly the entire vicinity of his calf with ‘Skip’ encrypted on it. He smiled widely.

“That is sick, Vice.” he stared at it for a few more moments. “What made you do the anchor?” he nodded toward me.

“To me, you’re grounded. You knew what it was you wanted to do with your life and you did it,” I truly respected him for that, and still do. If it weren’t for Skip, I would more than likely be back in jail or worse, I could have been dead.

“I see,” he clapped his hands and rubbed them together excitedly. “Let’s open up this biatch!”

~

“Vice!” Skip and I stopped down the street from the Bellagio as we heard one jackass calling my name.

“Shit, it’s Chase,” Skip said under his breath, nudging me with his elbow.

“What do you want, Chase?” I clenched my jaw tightly, turning around. If there was one person in Vegas that I could not stand, it was Chase Miller. He was given a silver spoon and thanks to daddy, was given a fat check to start Nostalgia. If only his father knew what he used the money for.

I watched his slender build in his thousand dollar jeans, and designer button up shirt looking boy-band as hell. He rushed up to Skip and I, his bodyguards in tow.

“I believe you have money that belongs to me, fag,” he let the word 'fag' roll from his lips too long.

“Excuse me?” I took a step forward. “Did you just call me a fag, Miller?” His bodyguards dressed like the Men in Black came forward.

“Back off, boys,” Chase held his hand up making them step down.

“I whooped your ass. Your money belongs to me,” I pointed at his chest wanting to drive my finger through his heart.

Chase laughed, brushing my finger from his chest. “When I say you have money that belongs to me, I want to invite you to Nostalgia’s poker tourney next week so I can win the fifty six thousand dollars that belongs to me, back,”

“No,” I shook my head as I shrugged my shoulders.

“What the hell is wrong with you? You're stubborn as a fucking child! How can you say no to sexy ‘wiggle-girls’? I’ll even let you pick which ever one you want. They are guaranteed,” he urged.

“Nope, whores aren’t really my thing,” I stood there staring at him, completely calm. He was becoming extremely upset.

“What the fuck is your problem with my Casino, Jackson?” My last name slowly rolled from his mouth.

“Nothing is wrong with Nostalgia Casino, Miller. It’s who owns it. I hear he is a real dick,” I heard Skip laugh from behind me. “Now, if you would excuse me. I have one hundred-seventy two thousand dollars to go blow and when I say blow, I mean spend the money. Not snort it away. No need to get so excited,” I shrilled like a girl which pissed him off even more.

“You can say no all you want to, Vice. You will play at my Casino!” he yelled from behind us. I raised my hand and flipped him off as we kept walking until we blended with crowd of people walking down the strip.

“Why don’t you just go kick his ass in his own house and maybe he would get off your nuts,” Skip paid for his hotdog at the vendor we stopped at.

“I just won fifty six thousand from him. I have nothing left to prove,” I dug a five out of my jeans pocket and handed it to the hefty, gray haired man wearing a 'It's A Dog Eat Dog World' t-shirt with a picture of hot dogs complete with feet and tails on them across the front. “Thank you,” I grabbed my hotdog.

“So what now?” Skip asked, mouth full of food as he sat in the grass next to the vendor wagon.

“Now, we celebrate,” I waggled my brows.

One of the finer things about living in Vegas is you are always guaranteed a good time. There are always sexy chicks hanging around the Casinos, clubs, and bars while on vacation. You never have to worry about any of them becoming too clingy like the tattoo groupies and tree frogs. Yes, there is a difference. The tattoo groupies just hang out at the shop daily and are always getting petty, meaningless, mini tats just to be around the artists. A tree frog are those that will sleep with any artist to get free work done. I can’t stand either, so I steer clear from them. I can spot them from a mile away. The tree frogs are easy, literally… skimpy outfits, and are forever sporting new tats. I like the vacationers, they have no clue who I am, or what I do. I like to keep it that way. Makes life much more simpler.

“Do you know who you look like?” Blondie slurred in my ear as we walked down the strip. I had my arm around her as she was tripping over her eight inch silver heels. If she fell in the black mini dress she was wearing, it would indefinitely be embarrassing… for the both of us. I would want to leave her there to fend for herself. But, I couldn't do that, it would make me an asshole.