Unforgettable!

XV Like you do

15.1 Luc

On Saturday night I'm in charge of the roulette table.

It's tiring. I have to make sure no one wins too much but enough to stay in the game and all the big winners are familiar faces. The house always wins and all that. But I like looking sharp and bossy in my black shirt and tie and announcing winning numbers with the confidence of a God. It's almost the end of my shift, when one of the players suddenly stands up, knocking his chair over, and points a finger at me.

"You do something to the wheel, don't you," he says. He looks over forty, his clothes are worn and cheap, and he has lost a few big bets tonight. He's drunk and petty, just like most big losers here. I feel sorry for him, but this is a casino, not a charity – we don't just donate money to the desperate and stupid.

I can only give him a little sympathetic smile. I clear my throat and switch into my I'm-a-professional mode.

"Your accusations are offensive, khun," I say, my voice is cold and authoritarian. "I can assure you, our casino has a strict fair-play policy. I'm very sorry, luck is not on your side tonight."

"Luck my ass," the man hisses. "It's your fault!" He leans across the table and grabs my tie. He moves quite fast for a drunk person while my reflexes are kind of numb after a long shift. There are some surprised gasps from other guests. I bat the man's hand away and gently pushes him back with my best passive-aggressive smile that says 'Do that again and you end up in a coma'. But the drunk petty loser clearly isn't fluent in non-verbal communication. He lets go of the tie but grabs my wrist instead.

"You stole my money!" he yells at my face. "You'll give it back! Or I tell everyone you cheat and rob people here!" He continues this rant but I don't listen. I'm staring at our hands.

I'm wearing white gloves, the ones all the casino workers have to wear. But there, between the glove and the sleeve, is a line of my exposed skin. Now, it is covered by the hand of the drunk gambler.

The fuck. Why the hell does he keep talking?

The man pulls my hand, dragging me closer and then he grabs me by my neck. There are panicked screams and restless movements around them. I'm shocked as fuck. I'm standing on my tiptoes, half-hanging over the roulette wheel.

I look at the guy – there's not even the slightest confusion on his face, he's not dropping dead to the floor, he's just breathing heavily, reeking of alcohol and sweat.

I am the one who is shocked and confused. My mind is going mile a second. Am I dreaming? Is it another nightmare? Did I fall asleep in the locker room? Again? There's no static electricity in the touch, no hair raising, no shivers. But I can feel the man's hand squeezing my neck, the skin of his fingers is hot and rough. I can feel the pressure on my throat and growing nausea. I pinch myself, just to be sure. It hurts.

"I tell everyone you are all crooks!" the man keeps shouting. "I tell everyone you are fooling people here!" He shakes me. There're tears in my eyes, but I don't even try to push the man away. I just stand there in a daze.

What is going on? My heart starts pounding for real. It worked, hasn't it? The cure. The pills. How can it be possible?

When the security guy drags the drunk away, I double over the table and cough. I feel a bit dizzy. I hope I won't throw up right here.

Ton is immediately by my side, patting my back.

"Dude," he whispers in awe.

I know exactly what he means but I still have to ask, "Did you see it?" My voice is rough. I cough again.