Chapter 4: Lila’s Betrayal

Derek was one of the four bosses of Louisiana’s TZ Group.

I’d heard whispers about them—powerful men who ran things from the shadows. Now I was tangled up in their world, and there was no easy way out.

He managed several casinos in Shreveport and Lake Charles, and had me drive VIP gamblers wherever they wanted to go.

The cars were new, shiny, and always smelled faintly of leather and cologne. Sometimes the passengers slipped me cash, sometimes just a nod. It was a different kind of cargo, but the stakes felt higher.

The tips were mine to keep.

I started carrying a roll of bills in my pocket—ones and fives at first, then the occasional fifty. The feeling of crisp cash made it a little easier to look in the mirror each morning.

Still driving—but now it was people instead of steel beams.

Different faces, same city. I told myself it was just a job. The lies got easier with practice.

To me, it was all the same.

I kept the same playlist on repeat—old country, a little Springsteen, sometimes just the static of local talk radio. Anything to drown out the thoughts in my head.

After 24 days in county lockup, I was numb to it all. All I cared about was making money.

Money became my shield. I stopped asking questions. The world outside the tinted windows felt farther away than ever.

For the next month, I liked to roll down the window while driving, letting the Shreveport winter breeze wash over me.

There was something cleansing about it—the slap of cold air, the sting that reminded me I was still alive. I’d drive with one hand on the wheel, letting my thoughts drift back to California, to better days.

Not as cold as California, but the wind was cool and refreshing.

I missed the Pacific fog, but there was a beauty to the Louisiana winter, too—the bare branches, the way the sun dipped low and golden by late afternoon. Sometimes I’d pull over, step out, and just breathe.

Especially at night on White Sands Beach, the river breeze always reminded me of home.

The lights across the water shimmered, and the laughter from the riverboats floated over the air. I’d watch the barges drift by, wondering if anyone aboard was dreaming of escape like I was.

Until Christmas Day, December 25th.

I hadn’t celebrated Christmas in years, but that day, the city felt almost gentle. Strings of cheap lights twinkled in shop windows. A faint smell of cinnamon drifted from a bakery near the boardwalk. It almost felt like hope.

That day, I picked up a special client.

She was waiting in the hotel lobby, her coat wrapped tight around her. She glanced up at me with eyes like polished glass, unreadable and deep.

A beautiful woman, traveling alone to Lake Charles. I still remember her clearly—she was stunning.

Even the bellhop paused to stare as she passed. She moved like she owned the world, her heels clicking softly on the marble floor.

A classic beauty, about five-foot-seven, with long, slender legs. Her skin was as pale and smooth as porcelain, her speech graceful and poised, cultured, and quiet in a way that drew you in.

She had a hint of a Southern accent—gentle, not showy—and a laugh that felt private, as if she was sharing a secret only with you. I found myself checking my hair in the rearview mirror, suddenly self-conscious.

I fell for her at first sight.

My pulse raced. I tried to play it cool, but every word she spoke felt like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

On the way to Lake Charles, I kept trying to use the scenery to start a conversation. Every time she responded, I’d be elated for half the day.

I pointed out old diners, half-collapsed sugarcane fields, the river winding beside the highway. Each time she smiled or asked a question, it felt like a small victory. I told her about California, and she told me about growing up in Georgia.

At the old French Quarter, she was captivated by the historic buildings. She started asking questions, and gradually, we talked about everything under the sun.

She snapped photos of the wrought-iron balconies, marveled at the painted murals. We ducked into a jazz bar, where she asked the bartender about the local history. The hours slipped by in a haze of music and soft laughter.

That’s when I learned her name: Lila—she was twenty years old.

She offered it with a shy smile, stirring her drink with a red straw. I tried to remember every detail—the curve of her jaw, the way she bit her lip when thinking.

Twenty years old. Her beauty etched itself into my memory. She flowed into my heart like a gentle stream.

I couldn’t help it—I started to imagine a different life, one where I was worthy of someone like her. I felt hope blooming, reckless and sweet.

On the French-style street, I watched her sit tipsy at a bar—her beauty out of place in the dim, oppressive atmosphere.

The smoke curled around her like a veil. Even the bartender paused, his rag frozen mid-wipe. She was laughter in a room full of regret.

I wanted to leave.

I felt protective, uneasy. The stares from men at the bar made my skin crawl. I wished I could take her somewhere safe, somewhere better.

She said she wanted to go to the airport.

She fished her phone from her purse and showed me the flight details. Her voice was a little slurred, but determined. I flagged down a cab, but she insisted I drive.

I drove. She rolled down the window and shouted into the night—drunk and carefree.

Her hair whipped in the wind, laughter echoing down the quiet street. For a moment, I let myself forget everything else. I joined in, whooping into the night like a teenager.

I followed suit, rolling down my own window, letting the wind grow colder.

We let the cold air wash away the day’s heaviness. It felt like a tiny act of rebellion, two strangers thumbing their noses at fate.

At the airport, a small propeller plane waited. Standing at the door was a bald old man, at least twenty years older than my father—his face wrinkled like an ancient oak.

The contrast was jarring. He stood with a practiced air of authority, wearing a suit that cost more than my car. His eyes scanned the parking lot like he owned it.

She clung to him like a koala.

The sight twisted my gut. She wrapped her arms around his waist, head resting on his chest, and he stroked her hair absently. I tried to swallow my shock.

I thought he was her father.

I glanced down at their luggage—matching monogrammed bags—and tried to rationalize it. Maybe he was a relative, a family friend. Anything but what it looked like.

She called him "darling."

The word hung in the air, heavy as a stone. My stomach dropped. I looked away, suddenly ashamed of my own hope.

The chill in my chest was worse than the wind. On the way back, I felt like I’d just been served a bitter dose of reality.

My hands gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. The empty seat beside me felt colder than ever.

When I dropped them off at the hotel, the old man handed me a thousand dollars as a tip and asked me to drive them back to Shreveport the next day.

He pressed the bills into my palm without blinking, his eyes never leaving mine. The message was clear: I was just the help, nothing more.

I sent Derek a message on Facebook Messenger. Before I’d left, he’d told me: anyone who can hand out a thousand-dollar tip without blinking is a big fish—never let them slip away.

Derek’s profile picture was a cartoon burger, but his messages were all business. He told me to be on time, dress sharp, and keep my mouth shut. Big tippers meant big opportunities.

After confirming the time, I went straight to the hotel the next day to pick them up.

I ironed my shirt, checked the oil in the Escalade, and arrived fifteen minutes early. The hotel valet nodded at me with a hint of respect.

Both the man and Lila looked exhausted. They lay in the back of the Escalade and fell asleep as soon as we set off.

Lila curled up against the window, her breath fogging the glass. The old man snored softly. I kept my eyes on the road, trying not to think about them together.

The whole way, I kept calculating the time.

I watched the clock on the dash, counting the minutes until I could drop them off and drive away. I made mental notes of gas stations and shortcuts, anything to distract myself.

When we arrived in Shreveport, I woke the man at the hotel entrance.

He grunted, rubbing his eyes, and shot me a look that made it clear I was invisible to him. Lila stretched, glanced at me for half a second, and looked away.

He looked out, satisfied, and called Lila to get out with him.

She followed him without a word, the two of them gliding through the hotel’s revolving doors like ghosts. My heart thudded in my chest.

Neither of them looked back. Lila seemed to melt into the city, never glancing at me.

I watched her disappear into the crowd, wishing for one last smile, a wave—anything. But I was a shadow, forgotten the second the doors closed behind her.

The rest was Derek’s business.

I sent a quick update, then turned off my phone. I tried to convince myself it was over, that I could move on. But fate had other plans.

My job was just to drive.

I repeated it like a mantra. Don’t get involved. Don’t get attached. But it never worked for long.

I planned to take another job to clear my head, but just a few hours after we parted, something happened.

I’d barely made it back to my apartment when my phone buzzed, Derek’s name lighting up the screen. His texts were short and urgent: “Get here. Now.”

Derek called, telling me to get to the hotel entrance immediately.

My heart pounded as I threw on my jacket and sprinted for the car. I rehearsed excuses in my head, unsure what I’d done wrong this time.

I thought maybe the man had lost big and jumped off the building. But when I arrived, he was there—furious.

He paced back and forth in front of the hotel, jaw clenched, veins bulging in his neck. Lila stood behind him, eyes downcast. Casino staff clustered nearby, whispering among themselves.

Behind him stood Lila and several casino staff. Derek was in the crowd too.

Derek caught my eye, his face unreadable. I tried to read the room, but the tension was thick as molasses.

As soon as I showed up, the man jabbed a finger at me and shouted, "It’s him! He stole my money!"

His voice cracked like a whip. Heads turned, and suddenly all eyes were on me.

I was stunned, unable to react.

My mind blanked. For a moment, I couldn’t remember how to speak.

The casino staff—also employees of our company—came over and politely asked if I’d done it.

They kept their voices low, trying to defuse the situation, but I could see the suspicion in their eyes.

I shook my head.

I managed to stammer, “No. Of course not.”

The man marched up and searched my pockets, pulling out the thousand dollars.

His hands were rough, and he yanked the bills free as if they burned him.

"What’s this, then? Still claiming you didn’t do it?"

I opened my mouth, but the words stuck. I felt everyone’s gaze like a spotlight.

"That’s my tip."

I tried to sound confident, but my voice cracked. I hated myself for caring so much about what they thought.

"Nonsense! You’re just a driver—who would tip you a thousand dollars?"

He spat the words, making sure everyone heard. I wanted to disappear.

I was speechless.

The embarrassment burned hotter than the Louisiana sun. I tried to remember how I’d ended up here—just a driver, just a nobody.

The casino staff took the money and looked at me. "Did you see this guy hand him the cash, Miss?"

Their tone was clinical, almost bored. I forced myself to meet their eyes.

"Yes."

I tried to hold my ground. My voice sounded small, even to me.

"He stole it," the man insisted.

She wouldn’t meet my eyes—just stared at the floor, twisting her ring.

He wouldn’t let me speak, demanding the casino compensate him.

His voice rose, drawing more bystanders. I felt the crowd close in, the walls shrinking.

"I didn’t steal it. If you want it back, just take it."

My words came out sharper than I intended. I could feel my temper rising, but I swallowed it back down.

That set him off completely. He shouted at me, demanding to know what I meant. He questioned the staff.

He waved his arms, shouting about respect, about justice. No one interrupted him.

The staff calmed him, then turned to Lila: "Miss, did you see this gentleman give him a tip?"

Everyone turned to her, waiting. My heart hammered in my chest. I prayed for her to speak up for me.

I instinctively looked at Lila.

She met my gaze for a heartbeat—her eyes cold, unreadable. I couldn’t look away.

"I saw it."

Relief flooded me. For a second, I believed she’d save me.

"He stole it."

Her next words hit me like a punch to the gut. The room spun. I stared at her, betrayed and numb.

For a moment, I thought she was helping me—then her second sentence hit me like a punch in the gut. I stared at her in disbelief.

It was worse than a slap. I felt smaller than ever, stripped bare in front of everyone.

How could someone so beautiful say something so cruel?

My mind scrambled for answers. Maybe she was scared. Maybe she was protecting herself. Or maybe I’d just been a fool from the start.

The man instantly looked triumphant.

He puffed up, smirking at the staff. I wanted to wipe the look off his face.

The staff returned the money to him, and right there in front of everyone, compensated him with ten thousand dollars and a VIP suite card.

They handed him the stack of bills and the shiny black card. He slipped them into his jacket, swaggering like he’d just won the lottery.

The man put his arm around Lila, shot me a look of disdain, and headed into the casino.

He didn’t say a word as he walked past, but his eyes said it all—victory, contempt, dismissal. I burned with humiliation.

From start to finish, Lila acted as if none of this mattered, never even glancing at me.

She floated beside him, untouchable and silent. I wanted to scream, but the words died in my throat.

After the crowd dispersed, I was still in a daze.

I stood in the lobby, watching the doors swing shut behind them. I wanted to punch something, scream, run—anything but stand there like a loser.

The casino manager glanced at me. "If it weren’t for Derek, you’d have lost a finger tonight. And that ten thousand dollars? You’d owe it tenfold."

His voice was low, almost casual. But the threat was real. I looked at my hands and shivered.

"Why?" I couldn’t help but snap. "He says it’s theft and everyone believes him, but if I say it’s not, no one cares? Is that fair?"

My voice rose, brittle and angry. I wanted someone to listen, to care—but no one did.

I wanted to argue more, but Derek came out and pulled me away.

He gripped my shoulder hard, steering me toward the parking lot. His eyes said, “Shut up and move.”

The manager just shot me a look and went back inside.

It was the look you give a stray dog—one you might have to kick, but not worth the trouble.

"You think it’s unfair?" Derek said. "Why is it that two men stand here, but he gets to sleep with her and you don’t? Is that fair?"

He laughed—a short, ugly sound. I stared at my shoes, ashamed of my own jealousy.

He could see I liked Lila, and teased me as he led me away from the entrance.

His words cut deeper than I wanted to admit. I hated that he could read me so easily.

"Let me tell you what fairness means in Shreveport. Here, if you have money and power, everything is yours. If you don’t, you’re just another sucker—easy to blame, easy to forget. That’s how it works down here."

He said it like it was the weather report, a simple fact of life. I listened, feeling something in me break.

After that day, I asked Derek to change my job.

I couldn’t bear to drive anymore—not after being made a fool of. I wanted to be on the inside, to matter.

I wanted to work inside the casino. I didn’t want to be a driver anymore.

I asked Derek to teach me the ropes. He just grinned, like he’d been waiting for this all along.

I wanted power and money. I wanted to taste this so-called fairness for myself.

If this was how the game was played, I wanted to be a player—not a pawn.

From that day on, I changed completely.

The world was colder, but at least I knew where I stood.

But in Shreveport, even knowing your place doesn’t mean you’re safe.