Morrison (Caldwell Brothers)

The first pull is a loss. The next twenty goes in, and with the next pull, I get my cash back. My third pull, I lose.

A man like me isn’t superstitious; a man like me is calculating. This loss doesn’t mean I lose. It tells me where to start.

This is a ritual I do every damn time. If I lose, I start off away from the Strip, where the limits and the rules are lower. When I win, I hit the Strip first, where there are more rules, tighter slots, and higher limits.

Is there a method to my madness? I’ve switched shit up more than twenty times and learned that this way sets the tone for my game. “My game”—you heard that right. Most people play a game, but not me. The game is mine. I run the game.

I walk out into the dry desert air. My pores immediately shrivel up, my face flushes, and I breathe deep, feeling like I’m suffocating. I’m not suffocating, though. The burn is my welcome back. Game time. I hail a cab and settle in.

“3111 Bel Air Drive,” I tell the cabbie as I climb into the air-conditioned vehicle.

It’s dusk, a time of day when there is just something about the lights in Vegas that sets off a surge of energy in my body. I feel alive, like I have a purpose bigger than the skyscrapers and casinos, brighter than the lights on the Strip. I am bolder in Vegas, and I like bold.

When the cab drops me off in front of my condo, I feel a grin spread across my face. No, it isn’t a mansion. It isn’t even a single-family home. The building I now own a piece of has a gate and twenty-four-hour surveillance. I own fifteen hundred square feet of something.

It has two bedrooms, three baths, a state-of-the-art kitchen, and a living room that houses not just a big-screen, but a huge-screen TV and a Bose surround sound system. I also have a garage, and it is the first place I go to, in order to make sure my Porsche is sitting pretty and unharmed inside.

As the garage door lifts and I look at her, I feel pride swell inside my chest, because everything I own is paid for. I don’t owe anyone shit.

Tomorrow, she and I will cruise the streets and find some nice, tanned Vegas ass to celebrate with, to give me a proper welcome back to the bright lights and big city.

I whisper into the night, “I’m back, motherfuckers, and ready to continue building my wealth. You ready?”

Falling asleep on a mattress I bought online that wasn’t a hand-me-down or from the secondhand store in downtown Detroit was one of the best things I did here. This bed was made for a king. It’s hypoallergenic, a must for me. I am allergic to dust, apparently, which was why I spent so much time at the doctor’s as a kid. I’m sure it’s also the reason Momma didn’t go often herself.

She had set up a payment plan when I was younger, and the old man bitched about the bills. Five bucks a week was what it was. Five bucks a week, and I paid that shit off with my first big win.

The description read “California King: plush pillow top with cool foam.” I saw “King,” and I saw cool. Then I looked in the mirror and gave myself a wink. It was made for me, so I one-clicked that bitch. I’m so glad I did, too. I love this damn bed.

No more sleeping on an old mattress on the floor. I was sleeping king.

I love being king, but in Vegas, I wasn’t a king. Here in Vegas, I am Aces. I walk into any casino, and they know who I am. I have a nice ride, and I’m dressed to impress. I’ve always had to fake it till I actually make it, but looking around my room, I’d say I made it.

I wake up early in the morning and stretch, wanting to get a jump on the day, starting with a run. My body needs to be tired so sitting inside a casino for hours doesn’t drive me insane.

I head into bedroom three, turn on the Bose surround sound, and jump on the treadmill, also bought online and delivered to my door. Hell, I even had them set up the treadmill. I didn’t want to fuck up a five-thousand-dollar piece of machinery.

After my run and shower, I throw on a pair of gray dress pants, a white wifebeater, and a blue button-down, collared shirt. Blue makes my eyes pop. Then I stand in my walk-in closet, checking out my look in the mirror.

“Spot on, of course.”

I go into the bathroom, towel off my hair, grab some gel, and make sure every hair is in place—the look isn’t complete without that. I shave, something I slacked on back in Rock City, then grab my silver Rolex off the counter, strap it on, step back, and admire the reflection in the mirror.