Whispers on the Felt

Rory POV

The Siren’s Call is buzzing tonight, like someone’s gone and kicked a damn beehive. I’m stuck behind the bar, sloshing drinks out quick enough to keep the crowd from moaning, but not so fast they catch my hands shaking when I’m knackered. The air’s thick with cheap cologne, stale beer, and that weird metal whiff off the slots clanging away in the corner. Neon lights—red, blue, green—flicker down from above, splashing across the scratched-up bar top. Atlantic City ain’t Vegas, not by a long shot, but it’s got its own heartbeat, and I’m smack in the middle of it, pouring my night away.

“Rory, mate, whiskey sour, chop chop!” some loudmouth hollers, flapping a tenner like he’s signaling a plane. Sunburned nose, tacky shirt—screams tourist from a mile off. I chuck him a grin, snag the bottle, and get pouring. “On it, pal. Don’t blow it all on the slots, alright?” He cackles, and I flick a lime twist into his glass with a lazy twist of my wrist. Been at this gig a year now—mixing drinks is half knack, half chat, and I’ve got both in spades.

The bar’s my little empire, jammed between the blackjack tables and the slot machines. Prime spot to watch the madness go down—drunks tripping over their own feet, dealers flicking cards, and every now and then some big shot swaggering in like he owns the joint. But my eyes keep wandering past all that, hunting for him. Leo Navarro. He’s out there somewhere, doing his floor manager thing. Black shirt, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, cutting through the crowd smooth and quiet-like. He’s not loud like me—doesn’t need to be. One glance from him, and you’re hooked.

I catch him over by the roulette wheel, muttering something to a dealer. His dark hair’s all mussed up tonight, like he’s been raking his hands through it too much. Then he turns, and bam—his eyes lock on mine through the haze. Just a split second, but it’s plenty. My chest does that dumb lurch, like I’m some soppy teenager. I shoot him a quick, cocky smirk, and he gives me this tiny nod back—barely anything, but it’s ours. No one else gets it. Not yet.

“Oi, Rory, you pouring or just daydreaming?” Jude’s voice snaps me out of it. He’s slouched over the bar, all gangly arms and messy blond hair, looking half-dead. Slot tech, decent bloke, bit of a shambles. We clicked back when I started—bonded over shitty coffee and shittier shifts.

“Calm down, Jude,” I say, sliding him a beer. “What’s got your knickers in a twist tonight?”

He takes a gulp, then leans in, voice dropping low. “Slots are playing up again. Spitting out less than they ought to. Third time this week, man.”

I cock an eyebrow. “What, they sulking or something? Sick of losing to the punters?”

He snorts. “Maybe. Or someone’s fiddling with ’em. I dunno, just saying.”

I tuck that little nugget away—Jude’s got a knack for sniffing out trouble, even if he’s too idle to do much about it. The slots are the casino’s cash cow; if they’re off, heads’ll roll. But before I can dig deeper, I spot something—Frankie Russo. He’s camped out in his usual booth, sipping gin like it’s his lifeline. Greasy hair, flashy suit, and a smirk that makes me want to deck him. Regular, sure, but not the good kind—more the sort who’d flog your nan for a quick buck. And he’s got his eyes glued to Leo. Not just looking—staring, like a starving mutt eyeing a steak.

It rubs me wrong. Always has. Something about Frankie gets under my skin, but Leo reckons he’s just a blowhard with deep pockets. Tonight, though, that stare’s got an edge—sharp, greedy. I shake it off, turn back to Jude. “What, you reckon the machines are cursed now?”

He grins. “Could be. Or this place is just falling to bits.”

“Fair point,” I say, tapping my water glass against his beer. The night drags on—more drinks, more banter, more racket. I keep half an eye on the punters, half on Leo. He’s ace at his job—smooth with the dealers, cool with the drunks. But there’s this tightness in his shoulders I can’t unsee. Something’s brewing. I feel it, like that prickly vibe before a storm rolls in.

Hours later, the place finally quiets down. Clock hits 2 a.m., and my feet are screaming. I’m wiping down the bar, chucking empty bottles into the bin with a loud clatter. Leo’s wrapping up too, doing his last sweep of the floor. I catch his eye, tip my head toward the back door. He nods, and my pulse kicks up a notch. Smoke break—our little routine.

Outside, the air’s sharp and salty, smacking me awake after the casino’s sweaty heat. Boardwalk’s dead quiet, just the waves thumping and the neon sign buzzing overhead. Leo’s leaning on the wall, flicking his Zippo to light a fag. I grab one too, even though I’m meant to be quitting. He hands me the flame, his fingers grazing mine, and there’s that spark again—same as always.

“Rough one tonight?” I ask, puffing smoke into the dark.

He shrugs, letting his drag out slow. “Same as ever. You?”

“Bloody tourists and their whiskey sours,” I say, flashing a grin. “Could be worse, I suppose.”

He cracks a smile—small, real, the kind that makes me want to grab him and sod the consequences. I don’t, though. Not out here. Too many chances of someone clocking us, even this late. We just stand there, quiet, the glow of our smokes lighting up his face. He looks knackered—lines around his eyes deeper than usual. I’m about to ask what’s eating him when his phone goes off.

He yanks it out, steps away fast like he doesn’t want me seeing. I frown, propping myself on the wall as he answers. His voice is low, clipped. “Need more time,” he mutters. My ears prick up—who’s he on with? He glances back, catches me watching, and his face goes blank, shut tight. “Gotta go,” he says into the phone, then hangs up sharpish.

“You alright?” I ask, keeping it casual, but my gut’s churning.

“Yeah,” he says, plastering on a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “Just work crap.”

Bollocks, he’s lying. I know him too well. That smile’s fake as hell, and the way he won’t meet my gaze says more than he thinks. I take a drag, let the smoke sting my throat. “Right,” I say, letting it slide for now.

We finish our smokes without another word, waves crashing in the background. He heads inside first, and I hang back a minute, staring out at the black water. Something’s off. It’s gnawing at me, cold and sharp. Leo’s my anchor, the one solid thing in this chaotic mess of a life. But that call, that look—he’s keeping secrets. And I’ve got this sinking feeling it’s gonna pull us both down.