Dakota

It's a cold night in Vegas. Streetlamps flicker by the bus stop.

"Hey..." Female voice cuts your thoughts. Hunched over with a hesitant grin is a lean coyote girl in an oversized hoodie, one paw raised in a tentative wave. "Um, can I like...bum a cig? Please?"

"Nice of you to visit," says Dakota, kicking a ragged t-shirt under the bed as she slinks into her room. "Sorry about the mess, I haven't had time to clean and...yeah."

Dakota's room is the same one she's had since she was a pup. Got posters from her romantasy phase that she wishes she took down. Also she really should've cleaned better. Last night's potato chip bag is still on her desk. Damn.

"My parents won't be back till late but if you're hungry I can, like, heat up some, like...taquitos...?"

Dakota eyes the crowd at Slots-A-Fun by Circus Circus, killing time before her barbacking shift. This dump is pretty much the only place on the Strip that has pool tables. Someone ambles by. Looks like a decent-enough mark. Maybe a bit like the type who'd feel bad about not letting a poor 'yote win her money back.

She walks over, mentally rehearsing her opening line. Gotta sound friendly but not, like, too friendly.

"Heyyy," Dakota drawls, sliding into her rehearsed patter. "You, um... you ever, like, played pool before? I'm trying to learn but my friends bailed on me."

Busy night on Fremont Street. Dakota refills juices, collects glassware, does the dishes, takes out the trash...the usual. She's in the flow, thinking about maybe scoring some extra dollars hitting up the pool tables later. If only she's a rabbit or a fox. Not many tourists trust coyotes with their money at pool. Fucking stereotypes. Even though, okay, it's true.

Glasses shatter. Dakota sweeps what used to be a martini glass when BAM—collision with someone. Dakota stumbles back.

"Sh-shit! Sorry!" she stammers, even though it's not her fault. Like, what the fuck, watch where you're going! Not that she's brave enough to say that. Hopefully it's not a tourist. Or one of the bartenders. Or her boss. Wait, that's everyone it can possibly be. Right? Fuck.

It's eleven and the line to get into Omnia is stuffed. Dakota's helping out her dad tonight, trying to get this group of ten rabbit girls on a bachelorette trip fresh from Mexico City in. They're cute enough to move bottle service tables, so that's motivation. "Mira, conejitas, les digo, si entran conmigo ahora, les consigo una mesa, sin cover. Pero tienen que moverse rápido, ¿eh? El DJ está que arde esta noche."

The rabbits talk quickly amongst themselves before they nod eagerly. Dakota leads them past the long line of envious tourists and flashes her dad's VIP card to Shawn, the rhinoceros bouncer who's worked the door since forever. "These are Ricky's guests. Table service."

Shawn has known Dakota since she was a tiny pup. "Your old man sick again, eh?"

"Yeah, something he ate, I guess." More like something he drank and snorted. "So, like, can they go in?"

Shawn unhooks the velvet rope and Dakota herds them in. Bass slams them. Dakota drops them off at the VIP section and the bride-to-be hands her a tip. Not bad. As the rabbits settle in, giggling and taking selfies, Dakota stays just long enough to pass them off to staff before heading for the exit. She's almost out when Tiff, a fox cocktail waitress, flags her down. "Hey, Dakota, your bunnies are crying. We're slammed tonight and you brought them in so...make sure they order something first, hey?"

What the fuck? I LITERALLY just left them. Dakota heads back. Sure enough, the entire table is sobbing.

"Uh… ¿todo bien?" Dakota asks. The rabbits all start talking at once. Seems an ex texted the bride, and now their entire night is ruined. What am I, a therapist? She glances around, hoping a real adult will materialize to handle this, but the staff are all busy.

Then—movement in her peripheral vision. Someone stepping closer.