Karma
By
Nikki Sex
Copyright 2013 by Nikki Sex
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.
To Betty, my Goodreads pal, a courageous and inspiring woman, who needed to have her own story told.
Table of Contents
1. Domino Effect
2. Cracks
3. The Frenchman
4. A Proposal
5. Fate
6. Marcy Paget
7. Bugatti
8. Passion
9. Security Officer
10. Interview
11.Fishing
12. Games
13. Katie
14. Trent Berger
15. Personality Disorder
16. Baiting the hook
17. Sunset Park
18. Andre's Profession
19. Live Feed
20. Scene
21. Marcy's Obsession
22. Mike Thompson
23. Surprise
24. Concerning Completion
25. The Plan
26. Finishing the Book
27. Pain
28. Punishment
29. Climax
30. The Pool Guy
31. Kiss
32. Love
33. Confessions
34. Surprise
35. Conflict
36. Thanksgiving
37. Detective
38. Happiness
39. Practice
40. DIY
41. Marcy
42. Tension
43. Mike
44. Feel, Don't Think
45. Grinding
46. Wow
47. Mine
48. Morning After
49. Lunch
50. Passion
51. A Day in Bed
52. Baby
53. Assignation
54. Marcy and Debbie
55. Calamity
56. Cops
57. The Wheel Turns
58. PMS
59. Master
60. Play
61. Spanking
62. My Turn
63. Wedding
Epilogue
1. Domino Effect
Orange and red, with colorful splashes of blue and yellow - the Las Vegas casino carpet was downright tacky.
The human brain found such floor coverings both mesmerizing and welcoming. A vibrant carpet, combined with low, mellow lighting created a safe, cozy feeling. What could be better than having casino customers happily kick back and enjoy themselves? Within a homey environment, a gambler would want to stay, play… and continue to lose their money.
No one was nearby when Marcy saw the man accidentally drop a $100 dollar bill on that colorful carpet.
Everything seemed to stop as the crisp flat note beckoned, singing songs of security and comfort. "Take me…take me… take me," it chanted, shining as bright as the halo on a Christmas tree angel.
Marcy figured that the damn thing was probably as enticing as the apple… just before Eve decided to take a bite. For one long moment, an instant in time that seemed more like an hour, Marcy considered picking it up herself. Going against her principles.
Stealing, in fact.
A battle began inside. This was not her money. She didn't earn it.
Her mind dazzled her with rationalizations. A part of her quickly explained that the man would never miss it. And she deserved a small break for Christ's sake. The determined honest side of her didn’t argue. It sent its disapproval through uneasy waves of shame and guilt, making the entire argument nearly a 'no contest.'
Growing up in Vegas, Marcy promised her strict father that she would never ever work in a casino. Casinos were 'Dens of Iniquity' according to him. Her dad's father had been a Baptist minister. Marcy grew up being regularly reminded that, "As you sow, so shall you reap." This was a common sense sentiment with which she wholeheartedly agreed. For how could it be any other way?
But her dad was long gone, and casinos paid five times the money she might earn from any other job she may be able to get. Marcy was broke and on her own. After covering food, rent and childcare there wasn't much left for anything else. With debts and a seven-year-old daughter, she needed cash. Lofty principles like keeping a pledge to her dead father simply didn't seem as important anymore.
But how far down will I have to go? she wondered, worrying her bottom lip. Surely I've already hit rock bottom?
The customer only took one step when she called out, "Sir!" As she moved out around the bar toward him she added, "Sir, you dropped your money."
The big man turned.
From the back, the man seemed as large and solid as an old oak. From the front, his face was gnarled and weather-beaten like the bark of an aged tree. Marcy saw that he was well on the wrong side of sixty, stocky with a rounded paunch. He wore blue jeans, a light blue western shirt, and cowboy boots. Only a wide brimmed Stetson was missing… and his horse.
The stranger appeared to Marcy as if he had used his body hard all his life. His once, no doubt impressive muscular frame, with the passing of time, was slowly turning into fat. The gentleman looked down, saw his money, and bent to pick it up.
"Well thank you, little lady," he said in a strong Texan accent as he straightened. His lined face was flushed, a sign of high blood pressure or perhaps too much enjoyment of the finer things of life.
The stranger's grandfatherly smile, when he looked at her, warmed Marcy's heart. It was expansive and generous. Genuine pleasure gleamed in his surprisingly vivid blue eyes.
"Not many people would have pointed that out," he observed. His deep gritty voice easily carried over the cacophony of change-clinking sounds, bells, sirens and whirring slots that made a continuous background noise in the casino. "At least not in a place like this."
He gave her a considering gaze. Marcy couldn’t be offended by the big man's shrewd examination of her from head to toe. He regarded her as if she was something he didn't often see.
"I'm a-thinking, young woman, that you come from prime stock," he said. He ran his hand absently through his short white hair, looking as if he almost expected to find his hat there. "I bet cha dollars to donuts that there are no nooses hanging on your family tree."
Having never heard that illustrative expression, Marcy took a moment to process it, and then burst out laughing. The gentleman's big chest shook as he laughed with her.
"Yep," he nodded sagely. "Your mama surely raised you right."
"Thank you, Sir," she said. A warm sting instantly burned in the back of her eyes even now, a year after her mother's death. First laughing and now wanting to cry. Talk about emotional whiplash. She blinked a number of times, preventing tears.
What next? Am I just over tired?
"That she did," Marcy finally added, clearing her throat. "I was very lucky. I couldn’t have had a better mother in the whole world."
Her sudden surge of grief must have been obvious because he said gently, "Oh, has she passed, then? Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Sure as shootin' she'd be proud of you. Greed is one of the seven deadly sins, you know." He smiled. "There's plenty of greed in a place like this. I think your honesty deserves a reward darlin'." The big man drawled the last word.
He handed her the $100 bill, and Marcy hesitated. She needed the money… oh, did she need that money! Yet accepting it still didn’t sit quite comfortably with her.
He must have sensed her resistance. "You take it sweetheart," he said kindly, grasping her hand in his much lar
ger one, and pressing the crisp note into it. "I'm still in tall cotton even after all I've lost tonight. I want you to have it." He gave her a wry crooked smile as he squeezed her fingers and let them go. "Consider it a tip… for luck."
Marcy just looked at him for a moment, hardly able to speak because her throat seemed suddenly so thick. This big-hearted cowboy was generous and kind. Mean people never made Marcy cry. It was the nice ones that slid right through her barriers, slamming into her heart and causing an unexpected landslide of emotion.
"Thank you so much," she said, "for this… and for what you said about my mother."
The big man's blue eyes met hers and a sympathetic smile lingered on his lips. With an understanding nod, he turned and left.
Marcy didn't steal the hundred dollar bill. She had no idea of how much good fortune that one ethical choice was destined to bring her. Just like knocking over the first of a chain of dominos, being given this $100 note was only the beginning of her good karma.
2. Cracks
Returning to her work space, Marcy quickly began making another round of cocktails for the girls to hand out. It was a steady ongoing task that kept her occupied.
Working as bartender tonight, ten waitresses relied on Marcy to keep them supplied with alcoholic drinks. The girls wore sexy, low cut, dark cocktail dresses that accented their curves. They breezed around the casino light and graceful as black swans gliding on a lake. Their function was to offer free drinks, helping gamblers feel special and important - not to mention raising their blood alcohol levels to intoxication. It was all part of the plan to ensure that the customers spent more money.
When Marcy applied for this job, she wore a bra with falsies in them. These made her breasts press together with an impressive 36 double D. At thirty-four she was older than most. In a casino, female staff were all young and attractive or at the very least enticing eye candy. Marcy's boobs were large already, but a fake rack gave her a better chance to get the position.
For over six months Marcy had been working at the Bellagio. With tips and extra shifts she was finally beginning to get on top of her financial problems.
Sandy, a blonde bombshell arrived and handed in her empty tray. The pert young waitress's long hair was pulled back in a ponytail. "Whew!" she said, leaning against the bar and rolling her eyes. "Three different men in my station want to sleep with me real bad."
"How can you tell?"
"Honey, haven't you noticed that all men display subtle hints when they want to bed a woman?"
"Oh? Like what?" Marcy said, pushing a full tray of drinks toward her.
Sandy pursed her lips, tapped her chin and gave her a saucy grin. "Well, some of the more obvious ones are talking, looking in a woman's direction, and breathing."
Marcy put a hand over her mouth, smothering her bark of laughter into a giggle. Her fellow casino employees were the best. No matter what was happening they managed to make her laugh.
"Are any of them good prospects?"
Sandy gave her an ironic snort. "I'm not sure yet. After my last loser boyfriend I'm planning to use my head rather than my hormones to judge. I'll let you know as soon as I figure out if any of them have a real job or money in their bank accounts."
Holding her tray with one hand over her shoulder, Sandy nodded her goodbye. Flashing a cheeky grin she sauntered back to her customers.
"Can you tell me the time?" an older woman walking by asked.
"Oh, I'm sorry I don't know it myself," Marcy said. "But I think it is probably about eight o'clock in the evening."
"Thank you," the woman said and went back to her slots.
Marcy wasn't wearing a watch; employees weren't allowed to wear them. There were no clocks in the casino either. What better way for a customer to lose track of time?
That was why windows were near an entrance only. Within the walls of a casino the gamblers internal clock disappeared and they fell into a trance-like state. The lighting was the same, soft and calming. It was impossible to see out once inside. No one could view the sun going down, or coming up with the dawn. This confused biorhythms and sleep patterns.
This restful sameness was disorienting, even to Marcy - and she worked here. It was in the casino's best interest to make the outside world nonexistent. Everything a patron needed was right here, so why would they leave?
In the time she had been working at the Bellagio, Marcy had come to recognize the regulars. When one of them slumped by, she flinched as a pang of remorse stabbed at her. She hated seeing the gamblers that came here day after day. They had no life.
Tourists coming in, having fun and losing their money were one thing. What was the sin in that? They paid for an experience and they received one. Yet the regulars were trapped. To them a casino must be like Dante's Inferno. Gambling could be so addictive. Marcy felt like an unwilling cog in a well-orchestrated machine: A machine that helped to suck their lives away.
I hate this job!
Marcy's own life circumstances were outside her control. It was almost like giving up a piece of herself every time she went against her own sense of right and wrong. Working in a casino had been the start, but today signified something worse. Her skin went cold as she recalled how the $100 bill had tempted her, and how close she had come to taking it.
I seriously considered stealing, something I would have never, ever have even contemplated before.
A number of basic principles had been drummed into Marcy as a child. These were fundamental to her personality and upbringing: be self-sufficient, do the right thing, be honest, be kind to others, and work in a job you're proud of. Yet out of necessity, Marcy had gratefully accepted the help of the Salvation Army. She also sought and took employment in a 'Den of Iniquity.' The last two years were a dark time. It was as if cracks had begun to appear in the foundation of her soul.
Would I have stolen that money?
Shaking her head, her lips curved in a smile. I might have, but I didn't. I was tested, but chose not to succumb to temptation.
Marcy was barely conscious of the blaring siren sound of a nearby winner. Clinking coins and screams of excitement were insignificant background noise, as her thoughts were so focused.
I didn’t take the money, she reassured herself, and the tsunami wave of calming relief that flooded her didn't feel out of proportion at all.
3. The Frenchman
Marcy kept working at her normal rapid pace despite her bone-deep fatigue. For her, hard work was no problem. Still, if she didn’t get a good night's sleep soon, the whole world would probably be reading about her in the newspapers.
She could see the headlines now, "Ex-Wife Dismembers Husband's Member." The idea tickled her, but there was a lot of truth to it, too. The mental picture of Marcy taking an axe to Trent was a recurring image that couldn’t be banished.
Yet the idea of lodging the axe in his head (the one on top of his shoulders) was what drew her most.
Marcy wouldn’t murder her ex, Trent Berger, on her own behalf; because she was glad he was gone. It was what he was doing to their daughter that had her worrying and lying awake at night.
Trent left them the moment he had finished school, when their daughter, Katie, was four years old. Now three years later, Katie was learning that any attention he had given her in the past had been a lie. For her father didn't value her.
Why couldn't Trent keep a promise to visit his daughter just once?
Selfish, self-absorbed prick.
How had she ever fallen for a man like him? But Marcy knew the answer. Trent was handsome and charming, and she had been young and "in love" and incredibly naive. What was love anyway? Marcy wondered. A chemical reaction? Hormones? A form of madness that attacked the innocent?
One of the dealers, a lanky older divorcé, trailed through the maze of casino rooms giving her a smile and a wink. "You're doing a double, I see," Todd said. "Do you need a lift home?"
Marcy gave him a wan smile. Her crap car had broken down again. Todd's ride would
save cab fare, but she hated to encourage him. "Thank you," she said. "I'd appreciate it, Todd."
Todd made her laugh and occasionally gave her a lift, yet he was clearly hoping to date her. Marcy lost even more of her rare and precious sleep worrying about that. She hated confrontation and was concerned that Todd would be upset by her rejection
Finally getting up her nerve, Marcy took the time to explain to Todd that it wasn't him it was her. She just wasn't interested. Dating was totally out of the question. It hadn't made a bit of difference. Todd continued pursuing her, certain that he would someday break down her resistance.
The last thing I want is a man in my life again, she mused. Even if I had the time.
Despite everything, Marcy was free now and no longer needed to be an emotional babysitter for her ex-husband. She should have given her ex's new trophy wife a medal for taking him on. Of course, with the woman's age Marcy figured that perhaps Trent was getting some sort of karmic repercussion. Truthfully, his wife was almost young enough to need a babysitter herself.
Marcy frowned feeling snarky and uncharitable. It seemed like sour grapes, but in truth it wasn't. Was she ashamed to have wasted the best years of her life on him? You bet. But even with her financial problems, she was glad to have escaped the selfish jerk.
Debra, Trent's new wife, had been married to him for three years – probably just long enough for a number of cracks to show in Trent's charming yet totally false persona.
Would Debra be starting to figure out that her husband didn't love her? That he was using her? He was a clever manipulator, critical and nitpicky. He used guilt to make others feel wrong or stupid. Had Trent started up his temper tantrums yet? Yelling and threatening if he didn’t instantly get his way?
Marcy was certain that Trent had no concept of love. Marcy felt sorry for his new wife. The poor woman had no idea of what she had signed up for. Debra, no doubt sweet and naïve, had married Trent when she was twenty-two years old.
I was twenty-two when I married him, too, Marcy realized with a sigh. But I'm older and wiser now.
If only Trent would show their daughter, Katie, some attention. That, Marcy did resent on Katie's behalf. Mainly because Katie continued to ask about him. The poor kid felt abandoned by her father.