Clarine's POV

Las Vegas was the last place I ever wanted to be with Harry—especially during spring break. He suggested to leave at 5:30 in the morning for optimal time management, but I was far less ecstatic about getting up so early.

"What other names did Evans go by?" I asked, scanning all of the portfolios. Bria was someone who was very good at her job and didn't leave a trace at all. The police were lucky to have caught her decoy, otherwise the probability of catching Evans would be the same as catching smoke with bare hands.

"Lacee Stevens, Daisy Thompson and Kiana Rivers. You won't find those in her files because they're clean identities," he replied, his eyes glued to my laptop screen. "Hey, where are we going to get a car?"

"I have a car."

"Why do you have a car if you can't drive?"

"I can drive," I emphasized (although for the sake of ease I should've just said I didn't), "I just don't like to drive."

"Well it takes fifteen hours to get to Vegas and I'm not driving the whole way, so if you're going to get us killed on the highway, I'd suggest you speak up now."

Shit. It wasn't as if we could take an airplane—I didn't want Harry to use his fake IDs and passports any more than he already had to. I constantly found myself picking between the lesser of two evils when it came to him.

"I can drive."

Harry sighed and printed off the directions to Vegas before he went upstairs for a shower. I still didn't want to believe that I was letting him use my guest bathroom, let alone succumbing to giving him any trust at all. It took me by surprise how cooperative he was being, but it didn't take a cop to realize than anybody could play the 'sweet and innocent' card. I was more than certain that sooner or later he would make a run for it—exactly when, I wasn't too sure of.

Once Harry came down from his shower, he lay himself down on the couch and fell asleep without so much as a word out of his mouth. I didn't know if he was being nice to me earlier because he wanted me to cut his hair properly or because he wanted to persuade me into asking Tomislav to take on the case by myself but I knew that as far as relationships went, ours was straightforward: I was the handler, and he was the asset.

I ignored his snores and continued shuffling through heaps of paper on my dining table before I reached Harry's file—which I had taken for precautionary measures—under the pile of Bria's records. I shifted my gaze to him, who was still sound asleep. Stealthily, I opened the folder and took in all that I could:

Name: Harry Edward Styles
D.O.B: February 1, 1988
P.O.B: Worcestershire, England, United Kingdom
Hometown: Portland, Oregon
Height: 5'11 1/2"
Weight: 147 lbs
Eye Colour: Green
Hair Colour: Black/Brown
Visible Body Marks: 50+; Most notable: sparrows on chest, cross on left hand, 'Things I Can' on right forearm, book on left forearm, English ship on left arm, rose on left elbow, butterfly on stomach, heart (filled in) on left shoulder, '17Black' on left shoulder...
Education: Portland State University, Class of 2000; Masters Degree in Engineering, Major in Applied Algorithms, Minor in Biochemistry
Profession: N/A
Criminal Affiliations: Bria Abigail Evans
Arrested: Speeding on the freeway, con artistry

There were a few things to note, but I'd worry about them later. I slipped it underneath the rest of the folders and went upstairs to pack. I scanned the pieces hanging on the racks in my closet and tossed what I needed into the luggage. I assumed that we wouldn't be there for more than a week anyway, which was good because my sister and father were coming over and I had to be back before then. I made sure the toothbrushes and combs were in place, hunted down an extra pair of shoes, and made my way downstairs forty-five minutes later to see Harry drinking a cup of coffee and attempting to cover up his tattoos with the small tube of makeup I had used earlier. His head perked up when he heard me coming down and he quickly rushed over to carry the luggage filled with our things to the door.

"The other one's for you," he said, referring to the cup sitting next to his on the counter. "Decaf."

"Oh. Thanks."

"You've got everything, yeah?"

I nodded, wondering why he was so eager to leave. I pulled the car keys from my coat pocket and tossed them at him. As he headed out into the garage, I poured the coffee he made for me down the sink—my father always told me to pour my own beverages.

My mind suddenly cracked—I came to a sudden realization that I'd be spending the next day trapped in a car with America's most successful con man; he'd be working alongside me and I had no choice but to let him.

Most people would be excited about going for a road trip with a dashing individual; I, however, was anything but.

***

"Turn that shit off," Harry snapped, reaching over to the radio and shutting the music off, "God, you're butchering my ears."

"This is my car," I retorted, turning it back on.

"Yeah, but I'm the one driving," he replied as turned it off again. I didn't see how anybody could drive without having music on, but apparently he could.

We had been on the road for six hours at that point and I couldn't get a single second of sleep. I didn't know it was possible, but I think our hatred for each other escalated. Everything that came out of his mouth was specifically said to piss me off.

"You know what should be a crime? Driving this damn Prius."

"Typical. I bet you packed your whole closet."

"You didn't put our toothbrushes in the same bag, did you?"

"I really hope you went to the bathroom before this."

He was horrid. He was literally a three year old trapped in a twenty-five year old man's body. The ride was filled with nothing but crude remarks for the most part, and I wondered how anybody that knew him personally could have found him the slightest bit attractive.

"So what did you find out about Bria?"

"I cross-referenced the names you gave me with all the people staying in any hotel or motel—"

"Hotel. Bria would never stay in a motel."

"Hotel," I corrected, "in the city and sure enough, one Lacee Stevens is checked in at the Bellagio. Presidential Suite."

"She always had good taste," Harry remarked with a smirk. "So we're staying there, right?"

"What?"

"We're staying at the Bellagio, aren't we?"

"I don't have the money for that—"

"No worries, I brought my card—"

"No, no, no, no, no," I interrupted, "absolutely not. I'm not letting you use the money that you conned from people to pay for our expenses. We're staying in a motel."

"Bria took on after me—I don't do motels. And on the Vegas strip? Do you know how many people kill themselves in motel rooms because they owe too much in debt? That's absolutely disgusting. You can sleep in a motel if you want to, but I'm going to book myself a room in a hotel—perhaps at Caesar's Palace—which reminds me—"

"We are staying at a motel. I'm putting my foot down."

Harry slammed his foot on the brakes, the seat belt dug into my shoulder at the impact, and he skidded onto the side of the road. I gasped as the car jerked backwards to a complete stop.

"I'm putting my foot down too," he said smugly.

"You're such a fucking child! Do you have any idea how fast we were going?" I asked, rubbing my neck. I was certain I had whiplash.

"I'm not going anywhere until you let me book a hotel room."

"This is ridiculous—the answer is no."

He pulled the keys out of the ignition, crossed his arms, and refused to look at me. I regretted leaving my gun in the trunk because I really, really wanted to use it.

"Sperling, I've got a warrant on my name. I could stay in this car on the side of the highway for the rest of my life if I really wanted to. I'm not in a rush to get anywhere."

That little shit.

"Whatever."

"Is that a yes?" he clarified.

"Yes! God, whatever, just—just start the car," I groaned, opening the window to cool myself down. Harry smirked again and restarted the car. Something about the way he was able to twist the situation into his favour told me how the rest of this trip was going to go.

He kept driving for another hour before we stopped at a gas station in Susanville, California. Harry manned the gas pump while I bought some water and jerky for the two of us. Once the food was purchased and the car was filled up, it was my turn to take the wheel. I was living off of four cups of coffee, jerky, and the sound of Harry recounting tales of his best cons—a good mood wasn't something I had the ability to display. The drive wasn't too bad however; I had initially been rather worried about driving for eight hours, but with cruise control, a sleepy Harry Styles, and long stretches of highway, I managed to enter the city without anybody flipping me off.

We arrived in Vegas at eight o'clock. The sky was darkening and the lights on the strip were starting to shine. It amazed me how busy it was for the first day of spring break—people littered across the sidewalks, others with large cups of alcohol, drag queens and women clad in nothing more than a thin shirt and tiny shorts—and it scared me to think that Bria Evans was hiding among the crowd.

"Nice, isn't it?" Harry remarked. He had woken up from his nap just in time, gazing out the window. I rolled it down, and the smell of nicotine filled the car from the outside air. I made a valiant effort to ignore it.

"You aren't mad at me anymore?"

"It's fun pissing you off. Besides, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?"

Cocky piece of shit.

"Turn in at the Bellagio up on the left. If Bria is going to be at that hotel, it's easier to just book a room there."

It's not like I could back out now. I did as he asked and drove past the fountain (currently playing music and shooting streams of water into the air—it was quite beautiful) into the hotel's parkway. All of the outdoor decor look grand and Italian, with columns towering above us that made us feel like ants. The hedges were trimmed to shape, and everyone that stepped out of their cars looked like they were attending a red carpet gala. I felt quite under dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. 

The valet helped us out of my car and assisted Harry in taking our luggage out of the back. Both of us took a second to admire the fact that neither of us, with the amount of money we had to our names (our real names, anyway), could ever afford to stay here for more than a night or two.

"You and I are a team, all right?" Harry said, placing his hand on my waist, "From now on, I am Trevor Paxon, and you'll be Alice Paxon. We're a couple from San Francisco on our honeymoon. You've always wanted to go to Italy but your poor husband is a lowly operations manager at the local junkyard, so he decided to bring you here to save his wallet from grief. We've got two kids that are staying with my mum for the weekend—"

"Woah, woah, wait," I interrupted, trying to take everything in and shifting uncomfortably away from his hand, "so I'm Alice Paxon...why are we from San Francisco?"

"The more of our lives we cover, the safer we'll be."

"No, but I mean how? Isn't your ID from Portland?"

"Trevor Paxon lives in many different places, Alice," Harry grinned, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet and waving it in my face. 

"I should've guessed. Why do we have to have kids?"

"God, you're so annoying. Don't you know that if someone has kids, you're less likely to hurt them? We've got two, which means we're twice as unlikely—"

"Okay, okay. Just...just make sure you know what you're doing. I'm not a very good liar."

"Sweetheart, please. I've done more lying in the last five minutes than you have your entire life. Just follow my lead," he said with absolute confidence. If there was anything I trusted Harry with, it was his ability to lie. He led me up to the reception desk and put on his best smile. 

"Good evening, sir. Checking in?" asked the receptionist. She was a tall, brunette woman with a very sharp nose and—I figured—nasal congestion.

"Actually"—he began, then lowered his voice—"it's our honeymoon and we kind of just planned this trip last minute. She's deathly afraid of motels—she's from Salem so she's superstitious, bless her heart—and she's always wanted to go to Italy, but me, being the shitty husband—I'm a shit husband, aren't I, sweetheart?" he looked at me for confirmation.

"I—what?" 

"She thinks I'm a shitty husband," he continued on, then lowered his voice even further, "God, and she hasn't slept with me in weeks because I kept promising her I'd take her to Italy—anyway, we'd really appreciate it if you could give us a room for a couple nights."

"I'm sorry sir, but—"

"Please, ma'am, do it for her—honestly, I'm not a man that would cheat on his wife, but if I don't get a drink or two in her so we can have a bit of fun—you know—I may have to resort to-"

The receptionist cut Harry off with a deep sigh, then held out her hand for Harry's cards. He pulled them out straight away.

"What room would you like?"

"The most expensive one you have at the moment."

"Har—Trevor!" I snapped. She continued clacking away on her keyboard while Harry turned around to face me.

"Not now, sweetheart, this remarkable"—he raised his voice slightly so the receptionist would hear—"woman is busy setting up a room for us."

I crossed my arms and watched as Harry showed the woman his ID, then got the room key and bid the receptionist farewell with what seemed to be a million thank-yous. He picked up the luggage and held my hand, leading us away until such time that we were by the elevators where I pulled my palm from his.

"I thought we were a team," I scowled, impatiently pressing the button on the panel for the elevator to arrive faster.

"We are a team."

"What happened to 'saving your wallet from grief'?"

"I never specified how large my wallet was," he replied as the doors opened. Both of us hastily stepped in; Harry pushed the button to Floor 36.

"You're absolutely impossible. How much did that room cost?"

"About a thousand. Plus tax. Per night. And it's such a shame that the rest of the classier suites are already booked."

I didn't even make that much a week, let alone spending all of it on one night. I didn't open my mouth in fear that I would wreck our cover, so the ride up was silent until we hit the floor of our room. As soon as we stepped out, I felt like a stranger in the land of grandeur.

The hallway—and just the hallway at this point—looked like a picture out of a history textbook; Italian paintings, framed with elegant wood, hung on the walls, the door frames painted gold, and the floors were lined with marble. Our room—Penthouse Three—was in the middle of the long stretch of corridor. Despite the fact that I was extremely against everything Harry did, I couldn't help but to admit that I felt like a princess.

"If you still want to book a motel, you can," he said, leaning against the door and giving me a look that implied he thought of himself as nothing short of amazing.

"I'm not letting you off on your own," I replied. I really did want to see the inside of the suite. Harry scoffed and put the key card into the reader.

As soon as he opened the door, I could've sworn my jaw dislocated and was scuttling somewhere on the ground. 

Though I knew it was larger than what was in my field of view, the first thing I saw was the view of the strip. In that area was a massive living room, with a graciously decorated dining room to the side. Adjacent to where we stood was a powder room and a wet bar. Harry hauled our luggage in and shut the door as I stood stationary.

"I'll leave the luggage in our room," he said, kicking his shoes off and turning to the left.

"Our room?"

"Yeah. This was the only suite they had available."

I felt excited—why did I feel excited? I nodded anyway and ventured off to the living room. I felt disgustingly mediocre—the room was palatial, and I didn't even have the heart to disturb the beauty of any of it. I spent a good ten minutes inspecting everything before remembering that we were here for work. I quickly pulled my laptop out of my bag and brought out the layout of the hotel. My information told me that Lacee Stevens was checked into the Presidential Suite, which was two floors above us. We had to find a way to get in, and we had to do it quick. 

"Sperling?" Harry called. "Do you have a cell phone?"

I walked over to the bedroom with my cell only to find him lounging in the bathtub flipping through channels on the TV that was mounted on the wall. Thankfully (though I felt a bit of disappointment) the bubbles created by the whirlpool obscured what I didn't really need to see. 

"What would you possibly need a cell phone for?"

"I want to hire an escort."

I burst into laughter only to realize he wasn't joking.

"I'm serious," he said, turning the television off. "Do you know how many women were in the jail I was locked up in? Two: a corrections officer and the lunch lady—neither of which I wanted to fuc—"

"That's disgusting! You are not hiring an escort."

"I can call one for you too if you'd like," he bargained. "You know, if you're too shy. Sometimes they have two-for-one deals."

"No! I have a perfectly adequate—"

"You? An adequate sex life? God, don't play games with me, you probably haven't shagged someone in years."

"Well neither have you," I bit back, pointing a finger at him, "so I'd suggest doing what I do and get comfortable with your hands because that's the only thing either of us will use to please ourselves for the duration of this trip."

I stormed out of the bathroom and back into the living room to continue devising a plan for us to break into Bria's suite. I sent Tomislav an email saying that I was in Vegas before writing down all the information that I had about the plot I had come up with. Harry came out a little while later and stood at the dining table behind me. I looked up to see him in a robe that sat too high on his thighs. 

"Look, I know women have this weird ability to suppress their drive for men but guys can't do that."

"I'm not letting you hire an escort and that's final. You've already spent a lot on this room and I'm not letting you pay any more for sex."

"What do you have against escorts?"

"Nothing! It's a valid profession and they work hard to do what they do. If you're as great as you make yourself out to be, you wouldn't even have to pay for sex. Think about it," I snapped, which shut him up. He groaned and sat at the wet bar after fetching himself a beer. He was fiddling with the bottle cap when I stood beside him to show him the hotel's schematics. 

"I have a right to drink alcohol, I'll have you know," he said, rolling his eyes and taking a sip from the bottle. 

"I'm not here to take away your right to drink. I'm here to show you my plan. Here," I pushed the piece of paper towards him. He studied it carefully and nodded his head.

"Front door approach. I like that," he remarked. "So are we just going to knock on her door and expect her to let us in?"

"She'll let you in."

"I'm not the one with the handcuffs, sweetheart. And she won't let you in if she doesn't know you."

Fuck. There was only one more option, and I hated that I had even thought of it in the first place.

"We could break in?" I suggested.

Harry grinned and pat me on the shoulder. "You're learning! That's great, honestly it is. We're doing this tonight, I assume?"

"Yeah...you want to do it tonight?" I questioned. I was certain he would've tried to put it off as long as possible.

"Of course. I booked this room for three days—I'm not going to be worrying about some break-in the whole time we're here."

I scoffed and ignored him while he finished the rest of his beer. As soon as he was done, he slipped off the bar stool and said, "Put on something pretty; we've got a con artist to catch."

***

It pained me to admit that Harry looked quite nice in a tuxedo. I hadn't even realized that missions like ours required an expansive array of clothes. He told me he always had to look his best when performing crimes because he didn't want to look ugly if they took his picture. I, on the other hand, was dressed in a short, black dress and heels that Harry had taken from my closet; it was extremely uncomfortable to hide a gun, a badge and handcuffs under the fabric of it, but I managed to strap everything to my thighs. 

We got out of the elevator and stepped onto the floor of the Presidential Suite. Harry stepped over to the door, but I stopped him from proceeding any further.

"Wait, don't," I said, "I think you should just knock."

"She's not going to let you in—"

"I know, I know, but I'm a cop. I'm not supposed to break into other people's rooms. Just knock, trust me."

Harry shrugged and did so. He rapped on the door with his knuckles as I stood to the side out of sight and a few moments later, a thin, frizzy-haired girl, no older than twenty-two, opened the door. Harry raised his eyebrows and looked at me—it was not Bria Evans.

"Oh!" she gasped. "Wow..."

"I think we have the wrong room, I'm terribly sorry—" Harry began before she reached out and tugged on his arm. Harry grabbed a hold of my arm, and sooner or later all three of us were both standing in the foyer of her suite.

"No, you guys are exactly where you need to be. Y'all are the escorts I called for, right? That's why you're dressed up?" she asked. By her accent (and by the ridiculous tan on her skin, though it was merely a stereotype), I concluded she was from New Jersey. "Wait...is this the two-for-one thing they told me about? I thought they would've given me another guy, but I guess you could watch or something."

I guess Harry was right about escorts and their promotions.

"Are you...are you Lacee Stevens?" I asked, tugging at the hem of my dress.

"I'm whoever he wants me to be," she smiled, pulling Harry closer and touching his crotch. "I honestly didn't know they had such good looking male escorts..."

He coughed and signaled for me to cover for him, but I couldn't think of what else to say.

"What's your rate, doll? It's hourly, right?" she questioned, looking around for her purse. 

"Two-hundred an hour, flat rate," Harry replied. I shot him a glare, but she didn't notice and paid him six-hundred dollars—clearly she wanted a performance from him.

"Hun," she called to me as she pulled Harry into her room, "help yourself to a drink or something! Call room service, watch TV—there's a hot tub outside on the balcony too!"

He winked and motioned for me to leave as his lips dipped into the curve of the woman's neck. Not only was this the wrong room, Harry got to bang someone too. The man literally got everything he wanted.

But it wasn't too late yet. I pulled the gun from the holster strapped to the inside of my leg and started to search, turning corners and checking every bathroom, bedroom and closet I could find. I was quite sure that the suite was larger than my home altogether, and the Penthouse was nothing compared to the Presidential. After a solid fifteen minutes, I returned back to where I began to hear grunting and shrieks coming from the bedroom they locked themselves in. I also heard the sound of pounding against the wall, which I assumed to be the bed. I made it my mission to block it out, but before I could retreat to the furthest corner of the room I heard the door open.

"Mrs. Paxon? Would you care to join me in the bedroom, please?" Harry called in an extremely proud tone. I groaned and turned around to see him with nothing but a pair of boxers on and an obnoxious smile planted on his face. I jogged over and to my surprise, Lacee Stevens was handcuffed to the bed frame in her underwear.

"I stole the extra cuffs from your bag. Sorry," he apologized. 

"Hiring escorts isn't against the law!" she argued, writhing against the sheets and kicking her legs furiously up into the air.

"Tell her that!" Harry agreed, pointing at me. "She wouldn't let me hire one either!"

"Shut the fuck up," I scolded, looking around the room before deeming it safe. "Who are you?"

"Lacee fucking Stevens," she spat, her eyebrows furrowed and her face as red as a tomato. "What else would you like to know? I was born on April 25, I grew up in Miami, Florida, my mother's name—"

"—Is Elizabeth Stevens. Your dad's name is Redford Wilson, and he left your mother for another woman when you were nine," Harry finished her sentence coolly, leaving her speechless. "Don't lie to me—I know the whole identity by heart. Where is Bria Evans?"

"I'm calling the fucking cops," she hissed, "You could get charged for tying me up like this! I'll sue your fucking asses!"

"I am the cop!" I yelled, pulling my badge from my thigh and shoving it in her face with my free hand. She settled down and rolled her eyes at me. I steadied my gun towards her once again. "Now you're going to tell us where Evans is so I can go back to my room and drink a really big bottle of whiskey by myself, and if I don't get my whiskey by twelve, I'm going to make sure you don't get any for the next ten years. I'm going to ask you again: who are you?"

The woman pursed her lips and slowly exhaled. "Jenna Finch. New Jersey."

"Good. Now how do you know Evans?"

"She paid me. I've never met her—"

"Bullshit—"

"I swear! I got a phone call one day and she said she'd pay me to learn the identity and take it on. She flew me to Vegas a couple of weeks ago with a bunch of new IDs and passports, stuck me in here, and I haven't heard from her since."

"That sounds like her," Harry muttered in my ear.

"Where is she?" I asked Jenna. 

"All I know is that the reason why I'm in this room right now is because the manager of this hotel owes a bit of money to Bria. I swear, that's all I know."

"What do you mean by 'a bit'?" Harry asked.

"Millions. His name is Yosef Priestly."

"That's all we need," Harry whispered, tugging on my arm to leave the room after he pulled his pants on. "Miss Finch, it was a pleasure being your fake escort—"

"Hey, wait! She's going to kill me if she finds out I told you!" Jenna shouted. I turned around to see the fear on her face. I realized that she wasn't exaggerating about the killing. 

"Well we should make a deal, shouldn't we? You keep your mouth shut about us, and we'll give you witness protection. You'll talk to no one about any of this, or I will find you. Do you understand me?" I offered. She nodded. I wrote my phone number on a piece of paper and left it on her side table; Harry threw the keys to the cuffs onto the bed so she could find a way to unlock herself. Before long, we were out of the room and back in our own suite.

Harry sat up on the king-sized bed (divided by a line of pillows so neither of us could cross over onto the other person's side) in our room as I searched Yosef Priestly up on my laptop. The pillows on the bed were a little too plush to be doing work on; I had taken a shower and slipped into pajamas, and sleep was something that beckoned to me—especially at two in the morning.

"I've gotta hand it to you," he began, "you were pretty good back there. The way you pulled the whole whiskey thing made you sound like a bit of a bad ass."

"Adrenaline. Happens to everyone."

"No," he shifted so he was facing me, "I mean it. That was good, Sperling."

I shrugged and continued researching. I wouldn't let him get into my head with his charming little remarks. 

"Give yourself a little more credit. You got her to spill."

"Yeah, but you subdued her."

"Only after we took our clothes off,"—he looked as if he rather enjoyed that bit—"I don't know, I think we make a pretty good team, Mrs. Paxon," he reached over and shut my laptop before he lay down and pulled the covers over himself. "G'night."

"Good night," I replied. 

Lacee Stevens was a bust. The next target was Yosef Priestly, and he was going to be at a meeting at the MGM Grand tomorrow according to articles I read on the police database. 

I sighed and placed my laptop on my side table. It never occurred to me that a con man and a cop could ever be a team, yet here we were in the same bed.

It really was no wonder why they called it Sin City.

***

yoooooooooooooooooo. long chapter bc finals are coming up for me and i don't wanna give you guys short chapters to read bc i love you. (also im rly soz for any mistakes bc i wrote this in 4 hours and i just dbgjhajkhd)

what do you think will happen next? comment and vote! (pls i love comments pls comment tysm)

and srsly guys who made the trailer bc this is getting ridiculous.

Like the story?

TWITTER: Tweet me (@chinavasewrites) with your Wattpad username and the title of the story and let me know what you think!

INSTAGRAM: Put the title of the story and my Wattpad username in the little description, plus your Wattpad username, take a picture of your favourite part, and tag me (@melissateooo)!