Locke couldn't help but tap his pocket.
There... lay a condom.
Don't misunderstand; Locke hadn't bought it himself. In fact, if he told the truth, people might not believe him: George had slipped it into Locke's pocket during that final "passing of the torch" hug at the house.
As for why? Locke figured it was George's way of saying: "Have your fun, but don't let any lives be created."
Perhaps... Helen had shared a similar talk with Gwen.
Gwen kept her head down for a moment before looking up, her face slightly flushed as she met Locke's gaze.
Locke opened his mouth, but no words came out. This "car" had arrived so suddenly it left him blindsided.
Gwen cleared her throat and shifted her gaze toward the room that was clearly the master bedroom. "Let's take this one, then."
It was a large room. They could sleep together, but as long as things didn't go "too far," it shouldn't be a problem.
Locke walked over, took a look, and nodded. "Alright."
A second later, Locke's attention was caught by a detailed schematic of the cruise ship hanging on the wall. With a quick sweep, he integrated the map into his Memory, then got to work helping Gwen unpack.
Once they finished, they headed to the top deck's open-air atrium. Kahn and Cindy were already there, holding complimentary drinks and waiting for them.
"Bourbon," Locke said to a passing waiter with a smile. "Thank you."
Dressed in a sharp suit and standing nearly 185cm tall, Locke looked far older than a boy under twenty-one. No one questioned him.
Gwen glanced at the bourbon in his hand and shook her head. "Drink less. We haven't even hit international waters yet."
Technically, until they hit the high seas, Locke drinking was illegal.
Locke chuckled and downed the glass in one go, rinsing his mouth as the waiter watched in awe. He and Gwen then walked toward Cindy and Kahn.
Cindy raised an eyebrow at the empty glass in Locke's hand but said nothing. While the law said one thing, teenagers "sneaking" drinks was the norm. At sixteen, if you didn't have a fake ID that said twenty-one, you hadn't truly experienced a American youth.
"Want one?" Locke offered to Kahn.
"...Thanks, maybe tonight."
"Suit yourself." Locke shrugged. "The bourbon here is actually quite decent."
Since they were on the VIP deck, the quality of the spirits was naturally higher than in the standard cabins. You couldn't exactly charge someone $250,000 for a ticket and then serve them $9 swill.
Locke turned his head to see Cindy and Gwen already deep in discussion about which of the ship's restaurants to visit for dinner.
"The Poseidon has three casinos," Locke noted.
"Hmm?" Kahn stood next to him, sounding skeptical. "Have you ever been to a casino?"
Locke shrugged. "I've been to Las Vegas a few times. Does that count?"
Kahn let out an "oh." "I've been to Atlantic City, but I didn't even get inside. They caught my fake ID at the door."
Locke offered his sympathies. Just like the drinking age, casinos were strictly off-limits to those under twenty-one.
But again, people in the US matured early. For most, pretending to be twenty-one at fourteen might be hard, but for Locke, it was easy. Texas didn't have many "contracts," so if he wanted to save money, he had to diversify his income.
Texas folk are straightforward; getting a 90% authentic-looking ID wasn't a problem. Plus, he was a well-known cowboy with various "connections"—it was only natural.
"Want to go play?"
"Huh?"
Locke said, "Once we're in international waters, there's no issue. Want to go?"
Kahn seemed intrigued. "Do I have enough?"
Locke glanced at him. "How much did you bring?"
Kahn looked over at the two girls sitting a few feet away. Seeing they weren't paying attention, he leaned in and whispered, "About 150,000."
Locke raised an eyebrow. "Plenty."
High-stakes gambling ruins lives; small-stakes gambling is just for fun. It wouldn't hurt. Besides, the mission was "Leisure Mode." What could be more fun than a casino?
Dice? Big or Small!
Blackjack?
Texas Hold'em?
With so many entertainment options, one round through the casino floors should easily bump the mission multiplier up to 20. That would mean nearly 10,000 points in rewards.
Locke smiled. "Just follow me later. We'll make some pocket money."
He wasn't joking. How much did that apartment in the Star Tower cost? How many contracts had he actually taken in Texas? Even with "side gigs," he wouldn't have been able to buy the apartment in cash without his trips to Vegas.
No bank would loan money to a sixteen-year-old, even with a family trust as a guarantee, unless they could see the cash flow—and no bank trusted a trust fund based in the Cayman Islands.
Kahn, hearing Locke talk about the casino as if it were an ATM, was stunned. "You play often?"
Locke just shrugged.
Just then—
"Locke?"
Locke raised an eyebrow. Hearing someone call his name, he turned around. Gwen and Cindy followed his gaze.
A man had stepped out of the elevator. Like Locke, he was in a suit and tie, his hair slicked back. He had blue eyes, a bit of stubble, and was fiddling with a stack of chips in his hand. He looked at Locke with genuine surprise.
"Dylan?"
Locke laughed and walked over to give the man a hug. "I thought the people at the Bellagio had rubbed you out."
Dylan, who looked exactly like a professional gambler—and actually was one—smiled. "I eat based on skill, not cheating."
Locke smirked. "The truth?"
Dylan shrugged. "Alright, I'm blacklisted by the Bellagio, the Mirage, and the MGM."
In Vegas, being blacklisted by those three basically meant being blacklisted by the entire city.
"Locke." Gwen stood up and walked to his side, looking curiously at Dylan. "This is..."
"This is Dylan. Dylan Johns," Locke introduced him. "A Texas drifter, a cowboy, and a frequent guest on the Las Vegas blacklist. Whatever you do, don't sit at a table with him, because he'll win every penny you have."
"Hey now," Dylan said, clearly unhappy with the introduction. "I never won your money, remember?"
Locke laughed. "That's because I'm cautious."
Cindy and Kahn looked at each other, fascinated. Gwen blinked. She thought she knew enough about Locke's life in Texas, but it seemed she had only scratched the tip of the iceberg.
Drinking? Casinos? If Gwen had known this about him before they became close, she might have thought he was a "bad boy."
But he wasn't. He was polite, respectful, a gentleman, and humble. Gwen could go on and on.
Locke looked at Dylan curiously. "So, are you here to make money on the cruise?"
"The 'Tyrant' has no jurisdiction here, does he?"
"True."
The "Tyrant" Dylan referred to was Terry Benedict, the owner of the three major Vegas casinos. He looked elegant and sophisticated, but was actually a brutal entrepreneur. To thrive in Vegas, very few people were "straight" businessmen.
"Besides..." Dylan smiled. "I heard a super-sized 'Fat Sheep' is coming aboard. How could I miss such a golden opportunity?"
"A super-sized fat sheep?"
"Exactly."
Locke frowned, searching his mind for someone professional gamblers would call a "super fat sheep." He looked at Dylan. "You mean Tony Stark?"
Tony Stark wasn't just a regular in Vegas; he was the ultimate guest. Most people, no matter how rich, wanted to win. Tony Stark was the exception. He didn't care about winning at all. He was the kind of madman who would bet a million dollars on a terrible hand just for the hell of it.
Combining that with what Kahn had said earlier, Locke guessed correctly.
Dylan gave a slight smile. Just then—
*Whirr, whirr, whirr!*
The sound of a helicopter approached. They looked up to see a chopper closing in on the helipad near the stern of the ship.
A moment later, the elevator doors nearby opened. Two middle-aged, both wearing wide smiles, ran toward the helipad as soon as they stepped out.
The helicopter landed. The door opened.
A woman in a business suit stepped out first. Then came a man in a custom-tailored suit and sunglasses. His hair was slightly spiked, his arm was around a gorgeous supermodel, and his face carried a look of total arrogance.
The moment his feet hit the deck, he radiated an energy that made people want to walk up and punch him in his smug face. It was an even stronger impulse than what Locke felt when facing a Red Devil.
There was only one man in the Marvel Universe who could give off that vibe without saying a single word: the current Chairman of Stark Industries, the owner of the Malibu cliffside villa, the genius weapon designer, the richest man in the world, and the world's most famous "model collector"—Tony Stark.
Sunglasses on, Tony Stark strolled toward the elevator with the December cover girl tucked under his arm.
"Excuse me, please move."
A somewhat portly man suddenly appeared beside Locke and Dylan, pushing them aside to ensure Tony Stark's group could enter the elevator undisturbed.
Locke: "..."
***
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