Page 7 of Spade

Aces shook her head. I had. Word on the street was they’d pulled a literal patch-over by scalping the last president and nailing the skin to their clubhouse wall. Selene didn’t mention that, but she knew I knew.

“They’re in North Vegas now,” Selene went on, tapping the folded paper. “Set up shop on one of the commercial strips. You won’t find them on any ride-out videos. They’re running quiet, at least for now.”

Aces’s forearms tensed under her cut. “Running what?”

Selene smiled without showing teeth. “Illegal sperm bank. Off-book. Not even pretending to play it legal. No permits, no registry, no oversight. Just rows of chairs, pumps, and the promise of cash for a cup.”

It was a move so weird I almost laughed, but Selene’s voice didn’t allow for that kind of reaction.

“Who’s their target?” I asked.

Selene watched me a second longer than normal. “Desperation market. Men with records, or no paperwork, or nowhere else to go. They’re tapping into the bottom half of the city’s gene pool. Word is they’re paying cash. Up front, fast.”

Aces grunted. “Why the fuck do we care? Let the Queens siphon off every sperm donor in Clark County. Doesn’t touch our trade.”

Selene lifted the folded paper and slid it across the table. “Because they’re moving product through a front that’s been in our club’s name since before I patched in. The address is here. I want to know what’s behind the door before I decide how to respond.”

I picked up the paper. The address was scrawled in Selene’s hand, blocky and impossible to misread. I memorized it and slid it back.

“Recon only?” I asked.

Selene’s lips twitched—maybe a smirk, maybe just a tic. “Eyes only. I don’t want a confrontation, not yet. If there’s heat, you ghost it and come home. If they clock you, don’t lead them back to us.”

“Any bodies in play?” Aces asked, already framing the job as a problem to be solved.

Selene shook her head. “Nobody’s been hurt. Nothing flagged on any of our usual channels. It’s probably a hustle, but I want confirmation.”

Aces nodded, shoulders rolling loose. “Fine. When?”

“Tonight,” Selene said. “After closing. Take your time. I want all the details.”

I met her gaze. She held it, steady as a leveled pool cue.

“Understood,” I said.

She waited, just a beat, like she wanted to ask me something else, but didn’t.

“Dismissed,” Selene said, and flicked her eyes to the door.

Aces pushed back first, the legs of her chair making the only sound in the room. I followed her out, the address burned into my head, the weight of Selene’s attention heavier than the Glock I kept tucked behind my belt.

The bone room door shut behind us, sealing in the orders and the old smoke, and we walked the corridor together in silence.

“Can you believe this shit?” Aces said. “Fucking sperm bank. Guys can’t get their cocks sucked on the street, so they pay to have a fucking robot suck them off.”

I shrugged and gave her a little chuckle. “Men don’t care who or what is giving them a blowjob as long as there’s a happy ending.”

Aces nodded. “I get it. Two nights ago, I had some meathead hit on me in the casino. Tall guy. Fucking lean and cut like an athlete. I think he played pro ball. But he had a face only a mother could love.” She lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “Thirty minutes after talking in the bar, his face was buried between my legs. Two minutes after that, I covered the guy’s face with a nice, long squirt. Asshole got pissed and left.”

“I was like, so fucking what. I got mine. Haven’t heard from him since.”

I shook my head, trying to remember the last time a man went down on me. Way too fucking long.

***

Two hours later, the city flipped inside out. All the shine of the strip collapsed to a cold glow, and the real Vegas surfaced, a wet scab of empty lots and dead signage. We left the bikes on a cross street two blocks away, just past a busted-out bus stop where a three-legged dog nosed through a sandwich wrapper.

Aces set the tempo—deliberate, quiet, not looking for confrontation but ready to burn it down if we had to. We walked shoulder to shoulder, boots loud on broken sidewalk, and neither of us spoke until the main drag spat us into the hollow shell of the north end.