High Stakes

by Lory Wendy

  “I’m so sorry.” Hope squeezes my shoulder, but I shake her off.

  I nearly slam her out of my way in my attempt to get to Blaire. “Are you fucking serious?” I barrel into her room, smacking a random item out of her hand.

  “So what, you going to judge me too?”

  Hell the fuck yes I am. “You cannot be that dumb! You cannot be using again. After everything we went through?”

  “You didn’t go through shit.” She gets in my face. I push her off of me, and she falls backward onto the bed. She darts up and makes her way back to me, but Hope jumps in the middle of us.

  “Don’t even think about it.” She faces Blaire, spitting each word through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, fuck off.” Blaire rights her dress and shoves random items of clothing into her duffel bag. “Neither one of you would be here if it wasn’t for me, and this is how you’re treating me?”

  We’re here because it’s my birthday, one she’s done a bang-up job of ruining, but I know how her thought process works. If it wasn’t for her, I would have never met Julian. Right now, I can’t thank her for that.

  “We’re here because it’s Selena’s birthday,” Hope says.

  Blaire throws her head back and laughs. But it’s strangled and fake. Sloppy. “You’re here because of me,” she seethes, pointing in my direction. “You’re here because I didn’t let the doctors pull the plug on your fat ass.” Turning to Hope and swaying, she slurs out, “You’re here because you’ve been chasing after Quincy’s dick since that bullshit graduation party.” She turns back to me. “And you’re here because I wanted you out of my way and Rocky made sure Julian took care of that for me!”

  I look at Hope who rolls her eyes, mirroring my same reaction. While Blaire’s words are designed to sting, and they do to an extent, it’s hard to take her seriously when she’s slurring her words and getting one item of clothing into her bag for every three she attempts to throw in there.

  “You should be leaving with me, you know.” Blaire slides her legs into sweatpants but leaves her dress on. “You shouldn’t let him kick me out. You’re supposed to have my back.”

  “Oh, fuck off,” Hope mimics Blaire’s voice. “You’re so good at that guilt trip shit, but guess what? No one else wants you here either. Your own boyfriend didn’t stick up for you, and that speaks louder than Selena taking a step back.” Hopes pulls her phone out from where she’d had it tucked in her bra. “That’s Quincy, and if he asks me if you’ve left, I’m going to tell him no. And if they come back up here and drag your junky ass out, that’s going to be on you.”

  Hope leaves the room without another word, her voice trailing down the hallway as she answers the phone.

  I have no idea what to say, so I lean against the wall, watching as Blaire continues to pack, a little more coordinated this time as her high must have come down. She starts folding clothes that still have tags on them, all small and slutty, and I guess her style now.

  “Where are you going to go?” I ask sincerely.

  “I’ll find a hotel,” she answers, her tone even and missing the false bravado from a few minutes ago. Hoisting the bag over her shoulders, she adds, “I’ll ask… Rocky, I guess, if he can bring me the rest of my things.”

  I have a few retorts laying in wait. Like how those aren’t her things and how I doubt Rocky plans on following behind her because Hope is right. He didn’t even flinch when Julian was in her face. He’s a piece of shit like the rest of them.

  “I’ve done things for you, you wouldn’t even understand,” Blaire says, her tone low. “But, if I’d known you were the type of girl who could be bought, it would have made the last few months of my life a lot easier.”

  I suck in a breath, her insults finally cutting into me.

  “Take care of yourself,” she whispers. “But be careful.”

  I wait a few minutes after I hear the door click before making my way back to my own suite. Blaire’s right, in a way. I should leave too. I should have left hours ago. Right now, I hate her. But she’s still my sister. Yet, I can’t leave with all the unfinished business lingering in the air.

  Julian’s in our room when I get there, still fully dressed and staring out the window.

  “I almost thought you left,” he says, not turning around and with coldness in his voice I haven’t heard directed at me since the first time we met.

  There is so much I want to say to him right now. I want to scream and rant and demand answers for all of it. The way he acted tonight toward my sister. The shit I saw on the balcony. Even this lifestyle Chantel seems to love, and for a few minutes, I was right there along with her. I want to cuss him out and tell him I hate him for making me pissed at my sister when I should be worried about her, but all that comes out is, “You ruined my birthday.”

  Julian turns around, exaggeratedly slow. His lips are curled up in what looks like disgust, eyes hard, facial expression harder. “You’re a spoiled brat.”

  His words sting in a way I doubt even he expected, so bad they propel me forward. I start shouting, hands in his face one moment, fingers poking at his hard chest the next, and word vomit finally spewing free. “And so what? Why can’t I be—why can’t I get one night to be spoiled? I spent years in school getting a degree I never wanted, to honor dead parents who aren’t even here to see it. I’ve worked a string of bullshit jobs so me and my sister could have food on the table, while she sniffs her life away!” Everything I say stings me, but it’s the first time I’ve gotten to say it out loud, and it hurts too good, I can’t stop. “This is the first time in years I’ve had anyone trying to celebrate my birthday with me, so… so the fuck what if I’m being a little spoiled about it and worrying about myself for once! And for you to try and make me feel like shit about it? Fuck you!”

  “Sweetheart.” His entire body slumps when a tear falls down my cheek, but he can choke on his sympathy right now.

  “No, stay away from me. Fuck you and fuck all of this! I’m done. Go be with a girl like Chantel who’s cool with all of this. That’s not me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It feels like a sense of déjà vu, because I don’t need to open my eyes to know Julian isn’t in bed with me. My eyelids are heavy, like I’ve been crying, but the tears I waited for last night never came. If anything, I feel more drained than I do sad or angry. Sometimes I hate “sleeping on it.” I’m not as angry as I was last night, though a part of me wishes I were. Julian didn’t intentionally ruin my birthday; if anything, he tried making it a real birthday, but I still want to be mad at him. So I am.

  I get ready the same way I had the day before: with the curtains drawn and the backdrop of the Vegas Strip staring back at me. However, after last night, its appeal has waned.

  Quincy’s at the breakfast table fully dressed when I walk out into the open area, clearly waiting for me.

  “Morning, birthday girl!” He stands when he sees me.

  “Thanks.” We hug, and in his bear-like arms, I do everything I can not to give into any residual sadness. Today is my legit birthday and it might end up sucking ass, but that doesn’t mean I have to wear it on my sleeves. “Where is everyone?”

  “Sleeping, shopping, and hiding.”

  “All at once?”

  “Julian’s hiding from you, Rocky and Pierce are sleeping, and Hope and Chantel are shopping for dinner tonight. They told me to tell you to text them.”

  I purse my lips, not missing the fact he didn’t mention my sister. “How come you’re not sleeping, shopping, or hiding too?”

  “Because I get to take you out for your actual birthday breakfast.”

  “Draw the short stick?”

  “Stop that. I’m kicking it with you because I’m lucky.” He points at me, then to the door. “Let’s go. I’m starving.”

  This is the first time Quincy and I have gotten the chance to be alone since… I pause to think back, but can’t really pinpoint it. “Is this the first time we’ve ever hung out just the two
of us?” I ask him as we make our way outside.

  “Of course not,” he says quickly, then pauses. “You know what, maybe. Julian’s had you on lockdown since he first met you. Off limits and all that.” He makes a flippant hand gesture. I’m not surprised. Julian’s always been intense and pushy. Apparently, not just with me.

  “I guess he’s bossy with everybody.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s the boss.”

  There’s a tightening in my chest at his comment and a dry feeling in my throat so harsh, I raise my hand to my neck as if to push it away. If Quincy notices, he doesn’t say anything as he ushers me into a hotel across the street.

  “I think I want a burger,” he announces to me after we’ve sat down.

  Wrinkling my nose, I ask, “For breakfast?”

  “Hell yeah, and you should too, or at least get something greasy. You girls drank a lot last night.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not hungover. My buzz was gone before I got to bed.” I suck down my drink, still thirsty and still with that burning feeling in my throat. Before I can wave the waitress over, Quincy slides his water to me.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Now, let’s hear it.” He leans back against the booth and stretches his arms across the length of it. There’s a shit-eating grin on his face that seems so out of place for him and for the moment.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, I can see the questions burning in those eyes. I might be able to answer some of them for you.”

  Some of them. But which some is the question.

  Quincy’s eyebrows dance and the grin remains on his face. Since I’ve met him, I can only think of one legit time I’ve seen him angry, and he wasn’t even him then. He was in the ring.

  Naturally, my questions start there. I ask him how he got started fighting. He answers simply “Julian” and from there it goes on. They met one night when Julian was getting jumped in a bathroom at the gym and Quincy stepped in to help him out. They’d fought once before against each other in the ring. But after that night, they refused to compete against each other, a bond forging quickly that neither of them expected. And his name—he explains after I call “Killer Q” a horrible rap name he shouldn’t have picked—isn’t something he picked at all. It’s something he earned.

  “Before all of this, we were just a bunch of knuckleheads with no real goals.” Quincy gestures around when we come to a stop in front of our hotel. “I fight for money now, but it wasn’t always like this. For a while, I was fighting for survival, and when I fought, I fought to kill.” He says this with purpose, and even though my brain tells me I should fear Quincy, I don’t. His shoulders relax some when I nod for him to continue, and I wonder what reaction he’d expected from me. Probably the sensible one; I should be running away. “Julian” —he continues—“is the one with the brains who let us believe we could actually make something more out of what we were doing. He’s the reason I’m spending weekends in Vegas penthouses and not in prison.”

  We walk the rest of the way in silence while I mull over what he’s said. When we stop at my door, I know he’s not coming in when he drops a kiss on my cheek and tells me happy birthday again.

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh, and Selena? I know he can be a motherfucker sometimes, but there isn’t one thing he’s done that can’t be traced back to a good place. Be easy on him.”

  Inside, I find Julian sitting on the couch watching TV. He turns it off when he sees me, but doesn’t turn toward me. “Your sister went home. She made it safely.”

  I grimace, feeling gross that he’s giving me an update on her while he’s the one who threw her out in the first place. I shut the door and stand against it, unsure what move I want to make next.

  “You scared of me now, sweetheart?” he whispers, but I hear him from where I’m standing. His voice sounds scratchy, kind of like mine does after I’ve been screaming a lot.

  “Should I be?”

  “You’re the last person in the world I want to be scared of me.”

  And the truth is I’m not scared of him. I don’t know what to be scared of. “I’ve realized I don’t know enough about you to feel either way. Because if I knew you, I’d understand what the hell last night was about, and I don’t.”

  “Which part? Your sister or the shit on the balcony? Because I know you saw that too.”

  I make my way into the living room area slowly. Unsure where to sit, I settle on the coffee table right in front of him, sitting so close our knees touch. “I think I deserve an explanation on both, but start with my sister. And start by looking at me. Please,” I add.

  He lifts his head to the ceiling and scratches at the side of his neck, right next to his dice tattoo. His shoulders move up and down a few times with his deep breaths. Finally, he settles his stare on me—an impassive, almost resigned one. “How much do you want to know?” he asks. “And don’t tell me you want to know everything if you’re only going to run out of here once you do. Tell me what you want to hear to the limit that won’t make you leave.”

  Taking a deep breath, I look out the window and can’t help but admire the view. It reminds me of what Chantel said, how “we can’t be hypocrites about it” and she’s right. And I won’t be. I don’t know what the price of a place like this runs per night, or mansions in Kentucky, or penthouses in Denver, but I do know whatever the price is, it’s not worth my soul.

  “I want to know everything,” I say. “But I can’t promise things won’t change. It doesn’t work like that. There are plenty of things you can say that will change everything. But I can tell you this, whatever it is, you better just tell me the truth. Because if I find out you’re lying, it doesn’t matter what you say to me, I’m gone.”

  “So ask me,” he pleads. “Whatever’s on your mind, ask me. I promise to tell you the truth, no matter what it costs me.”

  “Really?”

  Julian nods, taking a deep breath. “I’d rather you leave me knowing the truth, then stay with me based on lies.”

  Again, there are a million things I want to ask him. A million things I should ask him. But I can’t think of just one thing. “Start at the beginning,” I urge, but shake my head. That’s not going to be a good enough question for what I want to know. I’ll have to be specific. “What do you do to get your money? Not just the investor bullshit either. All of it.”

  He sits up straighter. “How much do you already know?”

  “If you’re going to answer all of my questions with a question, this isn’t going to go very far.”

  “No, no, calm down. That’s not what I’m doing. I’m just wondering.”

  Playing along, I say, “You obviously make money from… gambling?” I guess. That’s not a hard guess for anyone who has eyes. It’s the logistics of it he needs to explain to me.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, how? Isn’t the whole thing risky? Like most people bottom out, right? They don’t make money back the way you and the guys seem to.” My words flow out confidently as if I’m speaking from experience, when really I only know what I’m saying from what I’ve seen on TV and movies. Other than the Derby, I’ve never gambled a day in my life. I’ve never even played the lottery.

  “I don’t make my money from physically gambling.” He places his hands on my knees. For comfort or to keep me in place, I’m not sure. “I make my money off of the people who do gamble though, by loaning them money.”

  “By loaning them money,” I echo his words slowly, almost in a musing way. “And what do you get in return?”

  “I get my money back. With interest. Double or nothing.”

  There’s no way that’s legal. Even rip-off check cashing stores don’t demand that much interest in return. Then it hits me. Little pieces pulling together. “You’re a loan shark!”

  “I’m a businessman, sweetheart.”

  I almost want to stop the line of questioning, suddenly not wanting to know. But I hedge forward, unsure if I’m going to get th
is kind of free reign of twenty-one questions ever again.

  “What happens when they don’t pay you?” I lean away and search for his eyes. Whatever comes out of his mouth, I know I’ll see the truth through his eyes.

  “Be more specific.”

  “When people don’t pay you, what do you do to them?” I really don’t want to ask what’s about to come out of my mouth next, but I need to know. “You don’t hurt anyone, do you? Or threaten their families and stuff like that?”

  He smashes his lips together, tightening the hold on my knees, which pretty much answers my question for me.

  “Oh, come on!” I dart up from the table and drop my head in my hands. “Please say you don’t.” My words come out muffled.

  “Don’t what, sweetheart? You have to ask me. I don’t know what you want to know.”

  “Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. Just answer the questions honestly. Trust me enough to tell me the truth. If I can’t handle it, then that’s on me.” Never ask questions you’re not ready to hear the answer to, right? “I told you from the beginning, the only thing that’ll make me leave right now is you lying to me.”

  “I won’t lie to you,” he promises. “But keep in mind there are some things I don’t think you should be hearing from me.”

  “Such as?”

  “Like what your sister’s into.”

  I shake my head to stop him. “We’re not talking about her right now. We’re talking about you.”

  “You do realize it all ties in, right?”

  I shake my head more forcefully. “This isn’t about her anymore. Not yet. The guy last night”— I let out a shaky breath— “the one on the balcony… he owed you money?”

  “Yes, but it’s more than just that.”

  “Were you going to kill him?” I ask.

  Julian sighs. “I thought about it, but it’s not my style. Fear goes a much longer way in most situations.”