Chapter 2 – Allow me to introduce myself

ROCCO

There’s nothing like the chase…why not? It’s a casino after all. That quick look away, followed by another hopeful glance, that’s the shit I live for. That hope, the wanting to make something happen with another person, even if just for a night. 

So I do. I go over and introduce myself in a deep quiet voice as the owner. That’s when they really notice my eyes and face. I buy them a drink and the dance begins. 

Not as often these days, I’m twenty-eight now and the tottery, tipsy bachelorette with a fifty-fifty shout of throwing up on my suit has lost its appeal. Same with the angry cougar, the flirty psychotic, and the fake ice queens. Last week though a beautiful divorcee with a penchant for biting came into my world. Different but I was glad for the shifter healing after the mauling she gave me. All good fun though. 

There is nothing you cannot do if you set your mind to it. Unfortunately, my mind is as jumpy and impulsive as a jack-in-a-box. All my best ideas get caught up in the mediocre ones, so I find myself leaping from plan to plan. 

I promise I’ll try to keep to the point. Don’t make me turn the charm on you too. I've got sex appeal and I'm not afraid to use it. As long as you’re not a shifter too?

Anyway, the casino, now that was one of my very best ideas. The Gilded Falcon. My pride and joy. Rich red carpets, a dozen red felt topped playing tables with rich mahogany everywhere else. I went against gold. Too much gold always looks tacky, too little looks like you can’t afford it, so none.

The same could apply to me. I know the rich women who ply me with compliments and tips see me as a potential bit of rough for the night. I try to show some restraint, I don’t want any angry husbands smashing up the place after all. But as I say, the good ideas and bad ideas flow together sometimes.

Most women quickly get bored, losing their money quickly they flutter their way over to the bar, where either I, Jacob or Callum, my co-owners are all too happy to entertain them. The longer we harmlessly flirt, the longer their good men get to gamble, win-win. 

The long bar is a work of art, a swirling mix of clear glass and mahogany. Ripples of colour merge with the glass in waves, flowing from one material to the next. “It’s a mystery,” they coo, their manicured fingernails always seeming to roam until they land on my hand, our eyes meeting once more across the bar. 

Sparks and a smile and the chase is almost complete. 

I know I sound overconfident. Blame my olive skin, dark eyes, black hair, strong jaw, and so I’ve been told, a deliciously winning smile. It’s rare for the odds to go against me once they are sat at the bar.

In my defence it is rare to find an ugly shifter, our genes are solidly epic. For the women who didn’t like the look of me, they had two huge slices of Scandinavian trees to admire in Callum and Jacob. Sporting blond hair, blue eyes and bigger physiques than me, they always got second, third and fourth glances. 

They never took up their offers though, seeing mixing with humans as a waste of time. Jacob wore his yellow, blonde hair long and tousled over his forehead whereas Callum kept his head of ice blonde hair clipped short, military-style, emphasising the brightness of his icy eyes.

We always wear dark suits, immaculate white shirts but no tie. I keep the top button loosened just enough to encourage you to peek. You will discover that yes, my body is as sculpted as you dared to hope. 

By the way, I’m Rocco. Rocco Valence, and feel free to say “oh like Valencia,” or “you do look like you’re from Europe,” and I’ll happily act like I’ve never heard such an idea before and give you a winning smile. 

I’m not a bastard I promise. Nobody gets hurt because nobody gets promised anything.

Not that you would care either way. Not if you were hanging around until closing, stirring your drink aimlessly. Watching me like a panther as I manoeuvre around the room. I'll be making sure to flick my eyes back to yours just enough. Would you want to be planning a future with me, or just how quickly you can drag me to a hotel room?

The only woman in my life right now is some Miss Wilding who relentlessly emails me checklists for one party that they are holding tomorrow. I imagine her in various guises as I answer all her demands. A sexy military style blonde with a cane, perhaps a dark, vampish brunette with a whip? Maybe I’ve got it totally wrong and she’s a waspish old woman in a cardigan? All her communication suggests I’m in for punishment regardless. I cannot wait to meet her, I will bet you now that she is the only one in workwear. I know the type.

Like I say it’s all a game, gambling, and women. One strict rule though. Humans only. In both aspects of my life. 

Absolutely no shifters are allowed in the Gilded Falcon.

One of the main reasons I moved to the city was to get out of pack life. There is such an alpha-male ego-busting neediness to highly ranked shifters. If every guy at the table looks like he’s been sprinkling steroids on his cereal the tension soon rackets when cards don’t land how they want. Not the atmosphere we’re seeking.

Plus I don’t want a reputation for violence. Finally, don’t forget, there are still the old arts in the shifter community. I don’t want anyone with a handle on Fate playing cards in my house if you catch my drift. It’s a tricky enough game to make a good profit in any way.

I still get mocked mercilessly by Jacob and Callum for stopping the big fishes from losing too much. I remind them it’s a high-wire act. Take too much, openly celebrate the customer's failings and they won’t come back.

“You’re in the wrong game,” Jacob had said to me one night after calling a taxi for one roulette addicted banker. It was just us three closing up, another epic Friday night completed with happy winners, including us.

“What game should I be in then?” I replied as I cashed up and locked the huge green safely. It was wider and taller than all three of us together, the huge contraption immovable, even against explosives. I’d had it tested.

“Gigolo,” he had laughed back, continuing to put glasses away in the glossy racking. I laughed as I helped them line up the bottles for the next evening. Private party tomorrow, a potential big payday ahead.

 Did I mention I'm six foot two? The most desirable height I've heard.

Go on, you know you like the sound of me.