Michael probably shouldn’t have been enjoying Vegas as much as he had been, but Michael Townsend had never been one to do as he was meant to.

The Naturals were currently working on a case surrounding a string of murders in Las Vegas, and they weren’t really getting anywhere. And as Lia liked to say, they were at issue capacity with fucked up people.

Cassie was quite obviously freaking out about something. Sloane was even worse with her whole family fiasco. And he was something.

The other Naturals were worried, yes, but Michael didn’t want them to be. They didn’t have to be. Thatcher Townsend was an asshole, that was for sure.

Being seventeen-almost-eighteen, he wasn’t supposed to be in the casino. But hey, what do you know? He was anyway. He was sitting at the bar with a pint of whiskey. He had the sort of self-destructive tendencies that made him want to drink his troubles away, all the time. Despite what Dean regularly told him.

Right now, he was half-drunk, watching the bartender. Somehow, he couldn’t read her expression. But even without being a profiler like Cassie and Dean, he could deduce some things about her. She looked about his age, which was weird because, well, this was a casino. But he wasn’t in a position to be judging. She was also pretty. Very pretty.

He watched her for a while longer, before finishing his drink and snapping his fingers to get her attention.

“Over here! I need a refill.” His usual cocky tone was present, and the slur in his words was minimal, but still there.