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Feb. 15th, 2014 06:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
un_glovedHaving never been the biggest fan of gambling, the central point of Vegas' charm was admittedly lost on Rogue. She liked the glitz all right, she liked the neon, and though she knew full well she didn't have taste discerning enough to know which casinos toed the line between tacky and fun, most of her friends seemed to gravitate toward the classier establishments, so she was happy enough to spend her time there. She had a room at the Cosmopolitan, a large glass casino and hotel that seemed to take its interior cues from James Bond 60s Chic, but filtered through the lense of a teenage girl who was absolutely obsessed with crystal chandeliers. It was incredibly ostentatious, and sparkly, and she was fine with it. It was also next to the Bellagio, and she could watch the fountain shows from her window. It was nice, at night, twenty stories above the noise, watching the spray all lit up.
She'd ventured down the strip a ways, having lost her usual escorts to a poker tournament at Harrah's, and had wound up at the Aria. She liked it. It was slick and modern but everything in it was dark wood and slate, and it was the closest to nature she thought Vegas probably got.
Seemed damn criminal that the cheapest blackjack table at the Aria was twenty five dollars, but nothing was real, money included, so other than the chafing it put on her principles she couldn't care too much. Even when she was losing. Which she was.
"Y'all're gonna chase me back to the slots," she sighed, feeling only slightly mollified when the other three men at the table raised their voices in protest. They weren't real, either, but she could appreciate that the island had provided bodies to humor her vanity. She wasn't even showing any skin- she'd been tempted to take to the town in an emerald green dress with a princess neckline and a slit to the thigh, but had rebelled against it at the last moment and gone instead for high-waisted black skinny jeans, a sequined white top that stopped right where the jeans started, a white tuxedo blazer with a black leather collar and skulls printed on the lining, and black pumps with honest to god spats buttoned onto them. It wasn't white tie, but she figured it was close enough to fit any dress code she might encounter.
"You keep takin' my cards and you keep bustin' my ass," she continued, pointing to a bland but handsome suited young man and then the dealer.
"Least you could do is push me but y'all won't be happy 'til I'm down to my last chip. Penny slots are callin' my name, I can hear 'em from here." She smirked a little against her folded fingertips (perfectly manicured, the spa had been her first destination upon waking up in Tabula Vegas. She'd been there for hours. Her hair hadn't looked so good, or so straight, in ages) and tucked her chin against the heel of her hand. There was another protesting chorus of offers to front her.
"This could be your lucky hand," the dealer said.
"Oh, sugar, if you knew my luck," Rogue drawled, thoughtfully turning her last four chips over between her fingers. With a short breath outward, she stacked them neatly in the circle marked on the felt table top and shook her head a little. The cards she got were good at a glance but the dealer had a nine and her seventeen looked perilous in comparison. Hit and bust, or stay and lose to the dealer by mere inches?
She really hated gambling.
"Typical," she sighed, taking in the cards on the table, knowing no other player would have been allowed so lengthy a pause to consider their options.
"What is a girl to do?"
She'd ventured down the strip a ways, having lost her usual escorts to a poker tournament at Harrah's, and had wound up at the Aria. She liked it. It was slick and modern but everything in it was dark wood and slate, and it was the closest to nature she thought Vegas probably got.
Seemed damn criminal that the cheapest blackjack table at the Aria was twenty five dollars, but nothing was real, money included, so other than the chafing it put on her principles she couldn't care too much. Even when she was losing. Which she was.
"Y'all're gonna chase me back to the slots," she sighed, feeling only slightly mollified when the other three men at the table raised their voices in protest. They weren't real, either, but she could appreciate that the island had provided bodies to humor her vanity. She wasn't even showing any skin- she'd been tempted to take to the town in an emerald green dress with a princess neckline and a slit to the thigh, but had rebelled against it at the last moment and gone instead for high-waisted black skinny jeans, a sequined white top that stopped right where the jeans started, a white tuxedo blazer with a black leather collar and skulls printed on the lining, and black pumps with honest to god spats buttoned onto them. It wasn't white tie, but she figured it was close enough to fit any dress code she might encounter.
"You keep takin' my cards and you keep bustin' my ass," she continued, pointing to a bland but handsome suited young man and then the dealer.
"Least you could do is push me but y'all won't be happy 'til I'm down to my last chip. Penny slots are callin' my name, I can hear 'em from here." She smirked a little against her folded fingertips (perfectly manicured, the spa had been her first destination upon waking up in Tabula Vegas. She'd been there for hours. Her hair hadn't looked so good, or so straight, in ages) and tucked her chin against the heel of her hand. There was another protesting chorus of offers to front her.
"This could be your lucky hand," the dealer said.
"Oh, sugar, if you knew my luck," Rogue drawled, thoughtfully turning her last four chips over between her fingers. With a short breath outward, she stacked them neatly in the circle marked on the felt table top and shook her head a little. The cards she got were good at a glance but the dealer had a nine and her seventeen looked perilous in comparison. Hit and bust, or stay and lose to the dealer by mere inches?
She really hated gambling.
"Typical," she sighed, taking in the cards on the table, knowing no other player would have been allowed so lengthy a pause to consider their options.
"What is a girl to do?"
