Blake Crouch: Grab

She opened her purse, checked her phone.

A new text from Isaiah: north patio by the waterfall

She paid her cover charge and entered the club.

The place was mobbed and loud beyond any level of pleasure she could conceive of. Straight on, the DJ booth was manned by a cleancut white kid whose real job you would never suspect outside these walls. Behind it, a waterfall crashed into a lake. Paths branched off the dance floor, one leading toward the main bar, the other to what she guessed was a VIP lounge.

The decor and vibe felt seedy, dark, and elegant all at once.

The strobe was disorienting, the heat on the dance floor massive.

As she skirted through, two men caught her eyes and tried to lure her in.

The air redolent of alcohol, cologne, sweat.

She fought her way to the doors leading out onto the north patio.

Despite it being summertime in the desert, it was cooler outside the crush of pheromones.

The pool teamed with schools of bikini-clad women and ripped men.

The stimulation dizzying.

She wanted a drink. A hit of crystal.

It was the most beautiful nightclub she'd ever seen, and to be here carefree and high would have been exhilarating.

To be here on a job, she had to admit, was a close second.

Even outside, there was no place to sit. Every table either filled or reserved.

She spotted Isaiah standing near a table in the far corner, tucked in beside the waterfall. He was laughing and he looked good—designer blue jeans, Red Wing boots, black-T under a green velvet bomber jacket. He stood with four other men, far outnumbered by the entourage of women surrounding them.

It took Letty several minutes to make her way through the crowd to the outskirts of Isaiah's table.

She stood alone.

So much movement, so much conversation all around her.

Lanterns hung from the trees and she could just hear the white noise of the falling water.

Nine hours ago, she'd been talking to Isaiah at the crater.

Seemed like years ago.

A trainwreck of a thought barreled through her mind.

There are so many women here more beautiful than you. Richter is surrounded by them. Why would he give you the time of day? Why should he? You look out of place here. You had to pay extra just to get inside—

Stop. Maybe challenging the thought works on a job, too?

Quit being insecure.

This isn't the hardest thing you've ever done.

You know how to make people like you.

I need a drink.

No you don't.

Yes I do.

She let the stimulation overwhelm her.

The smell of champagne like spring in the air.

The starless Vegas sky.

The voluptuous architecture of the Wynn.

The bright blue of the pool and the yellow glow behind the ninety-foot waterfall.

The red heat inside the club.

The infectious groove as the DJ remixed a song she liked—the Cowboy Junkies covering "Ooh Las Vegas."

Everyone around her was moving. She let her hips begin to sway. Everyone was here to have fun and so was she. So was Richter.

She had this.

Letty moved closer to their table.

There.

Talking to one of the orbiting women who looked just bimbo enough to possibly be an escort.

Richter was shorter than she'd imagined. Barely five-ten. He wasn't handsome, just put together nicely. Retro glasses. A short-sleeved button down that seemed to shimmer. No belt. Shiny black wingtips. No jacket.

In that case, she'd be mining the front pockets of his slacks. Back pocket would be better. Cargo pants pockets ideal. But front pocket was workable, and his pants didn't look too tight. In fact, it was more in her comfort zone than a grab from an inner jacket pocket. A pants pocket is a pocket. What you see is what you get, with tightness being the only variable. An inner jacket pocket that you couldn't see was full of surprises. Like zippers. Snaps. Buttons. All manner of things to snag probing fingers.

She could feel her adrenaline begin to spike as she approached. She drew within range of Richter and the bimbo. The woman stood on legs that looked too insubstantial to support her top half.

Richter was staring at her with a glazed look that Letty hoped was boredom.

She inched closer.

Overheard the bimbo shouting: "Yah, I've been out here about a year and a half. It's pretty fun, you know. Lots to do. Sometimes, I wake up and it's like, I live in Vegas, right? Like, oh-my-God!"

Letty looked up at Richter.

Eye contact.

He said, "And what's this? Another fly come to suck off our bottle service?"

He turned away from both women, called out, "Gentlemen, let's roll."

Letty shoved down the flush of rage.

Do not let him leave.

But she couldn't think of a single play to stop this from happening.

Bimbo said, "Asshole," and stormed off.

Richter and the rest of his crew headed out, with Isaiah bringing up the rear.

He didn't even look at her.

8

Letty's feet were killing her. She eased down into one of the chairs at the empty table.

Steaming.

In shock.

She'd choked.

Her first job since last Christmas, and she'd blown it.

A promoter materialized—cute brunette with chopped hair. Amazing dress. Nametag read Jessica.

She smiled at Letty and knelt down so she didn't have to shout.

"Hi, what's your name?"

Letty said, "Gidget."

"Well, Gidget, this is actually a reserved table. I have a group I need to put here."

Screams from the next table over drew Letty's attention. Looked like a bachelorette party unfolding. Pure, smashed joy.

Letty slid back into her pumps, struggled onto her feet.

"All yours."

# # #

Letty headed back toward the dance floor. Just wanting to get out of the noise, out of the movement.

Inside, it was impossibly more crowded than before.

A wall of bodies.

The music ear-rupturing.

The bass heart-stopping.

She moved along the perimeter.

A group of three guys at a table called out to her with Boston accents. They were working their way through a 1.75L bottle of Jack and they reeked of desperation. Any other night, she'd have had a drink and grabbed their wallets.

It took her five minutes to push through the crowd and past the entrance into the front lounge.

The barrage of self-destructive thoughts firing away.

You've lost it.

You're washed-up.

Then she was passing a line of nightclub hopefuls that snaked through the lobby of the Wynn.

Then she was outside, sucking down gulps of exhaust-tinged desert air.

She kicked off her shoes and carried them.

Her head swirling.

She felt her phone vibrate. Opened her purse.

A text from Isaiah: wtf was that?

Good question.

She hit him back: location?

He answered: stand down see u tomorrow

# # #

She went up to her room, but she couldn't calm down. Couldn't stand the thought of lying in bed playing her epic fail over and over again.

She needed to score.

Challenge the thought.

I need to get high.

Challenge the thought. Think about your son. Think about—

I need to get high.

# # #

She wound up at the Zebra Lounge, a bar in her hotel with tons of seating upholstered in zebra print. Onstage, dueling pianists played something fast and obnoxious.

She sat at the bar. Hadn't had a drink since starting rehab in Charleston, and she wanted to fall off the wagon with something big and noisy.

While the bartender made her Long Island Iced Tea, she studied him, trying to get a read on whether he would further her ultimate ambitions for the evening.