Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  Two, three, and four, the names continued to be announced. As we all waited, I made eye contact with Mitchell. My bodyguard-slash-babysitter was standing along the far wall with a glass of bourbon in his hand and my winter coat draped over his arm. I wasn’t certain where he’d been, but at least he was back.

  “Nineteen: Madeline Miller.”

  I let out a breath and gazed at Mitchell who nodded.

  Antonio Hillman was announced at number thirty. He’d bought his way to the bottom of the rankings. I scoured the room wondering who had metaphorically paid the price for his entry.

  Who was cut because of his buy-in?

  The room was beginning to empty. If I wanted a visible reaction from one or more of the players, I was watching the wrong crowd. Poker players on this level knew how to hide their true feelings.

  Tucking the receipt for my chips into my handbag, I began to stand. As I did, Mitchell came my way and helped me with my chair. “I will escort you to your hotel room. Then I need to do some work for the boss. There are a few things he wants me to check out.” Once I stood, Mitchell offered me my coat and added, “You’re fucking lucky you made the cut.”

  My head shook. “Thank you, Mitchell, for your vote of confidence.” My eyebrows lifted. “And for your information, it wasn’t luck. The word is skill.” I tilted my head. “Where have you been?”

  “None of your concern.”

  Together we walked down the grand stairs.

  My steps stuttered when I saw Marion Elliott standing at the bottom of the staircase, his hand on the banister and a grin on his wrinkled face. Heat filled my cheeks. Surely he wasn’t waiting for me.

  “Ms. Miller,” he said, his Texas drawl coating the greeting in sweet molasses.

  Mitchell’s dark eyes came my way, but my attention went to the man who’d just addressed me. “Mr. Elliott.”

  He offered me his hand for the last step. “Please, call me Marion.” He bent gallantly at the waist and lightly kissed the knuckles of my hand in his grasp.

  Retrieving my hand, I nodded. “Marion, it’s very nice to finally meet you. I’m Madeline.”

  “My dear, of course I know who you are. I was elated to see your name on the lineup.”

  “You flatter me,” I said. “Honestly, I’m surprised you know of me.”

  Mitchell respectively took a few steps away, allowing Marion and I a moment to talk.

  “You are very well known,” Marion replied. “Beautiful, mysterious, and lethal.”

  My head tilted. “An interesting description.”

  Marion gestured toward the bar. “I was hoping I could entice you to have a drink with me this evening.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s late and my standing isn’t as secured as yours. I need my rest before tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow night then?”

  “I thank you for the invitation.”

  “And I hope to see you across the table on Saturday night. It will make my weekend complete.”

  I forced a grin. “Time will tell.”

  “Ms. Miller?” Mitchell called. “I believe our taxi is waiting.”

  “I could offer you my driver—”

  I lifted my hand, stopping his offer. “Thank you. Tomorrow.”

  Another gallant bow before his response, “Tomorrow it is.”

  We made our way to the front of the club, and Mitchell stepped up to a waiting taxi cab.

  Despite the grand canopy over the entrance, the cold winter wind whipped around us. As we climbed into the taxi, it tousled my hair, making dark strands flutter around my face. When the door to the taxi closed, my entire body trembled as I smoothed my hair with my now-gloved hands.

  I hated cold. It wasn’t that Detroit—where I was living—was a mecca of tropical breezes and sunshine. It was more about knowing what it was like to be cold, really cold. I did and I didn’t like any part of it.

  Marion’s offer of a drink and then his driver caused me to contemplate the taxi moving through the streets. There were times when Mitchell was more than my babysitter—he was also my driver. I was never told why in some locations we used public transportation and in others we didn’t. It wasn’t my job to question. That was something I’d been told enough to recite the phrase in my sleep.

  My job was to do what I’d just done.

  To win.

  With Mitchell and me in the back seat, we continued to ride through Chicago’s late-night traffic. Around us, bright street lights projected circles of illumination onto the sidewalk as snow and sleet glistened in the air. Looking up, tall buildings loomed over us; even higher, names were lit at the top.

  If I pretended to not know the Chicago of my past, I could possibly see the city for its beauty. Smaller than New York and larger than Detroit, Chicago had midwestern charm as well as a hint of the East Coast elite. However, seeing it that way and forgetting my past wasn’t possible, not after tonight’s encounter. Now, as I stared out of the taxi’s windows, my gaze went beyond the circles of light and down alleyways too dark to see.

  In my mind’s eye, I saw what was otherwise invisible. I saw the world that visitors and even residents with warm homes and full bellies chose not to see. It was a world of makeshift housing, warmth coming from flames in a barrel, and hungry bellies. This time of year, most would do their best to find a roof and a bed off of the cold, hard ground. When missions and shelters reached capacity, abandoned buildings and underground train stations no longer part of the “L” were plausible gathering places for the invisible.

  That was where Patrick and I first met.

  Now that advancing in the tournament was secured, my mind went to where it had been trying to settle all night. It went to Patrick.

  Madeline

  Hollywood and novels glamorized the life Patrick and I had shared in a way it didn’t deserve. It wasn’t romantic or adventurous. It was difficult and dangerous. However, no matter what memory came to mind concerning Patrick Kelly, I found it impossible to dislike the boy I knew. Together we survived. We picked pockets and scrounged for money and food.

  There were easier paths that were available to us, selling drugs or maybe ourselves, but even in our hopeless dark world, while together we’d maintained a semblance of honor.

  I opened my purse. Shaking my head, I silently berated myself for giving him the keycard. A man of honor was how I always wanted to remember him. The girl he’d loved was how I wanted to be remembered.

  Would his visit to my room change that?

  Would he visit?

  The questions continued without answers.

  Why had I agreed to return to Chicago?

  Of all the places in the city, how had he found me?

  “I don’t see my keycard,” I said aloud to Mitchell. It was the first we’d spoken since entering the taxi.

  “What?”

  “I think I lost it. It probably fell out one of the times I opened my purse.”

  “As long as you have the receipt for your chips, I don’t give a shit about the keycard,” Mitchell said. “There aren’t numbers on the card for anyone to associate it with your room. We’ll stop at the front desk and have someone make you a new one.”

  The taxi pulled up in front of the Palmer House.

  As the door was opened, a new gust of cold wind infiltrated our warm bubble, and my body again trembled. While Mitchell paid the fare, I took the bellman’s hand and with my high heels on the wet concrete, I stood. Rubbing my gloved hands together, I waited until Mitchell joined me so we could enter the lobby together.

  “I can take care of the key,” I volunteered.

  “Boss’s orders. I’m going with you.”

  My shadow. Maybe I could add that to my list of descriptors.

  Babysitter.

  Sometimes driver.

  Shadow.

  There was no sense arguing with Mitchell. It wasn’t worth it. I would save my argument for any requests he made to enter my room. My nerves grew tauter with the unknown.

  Woul
d Patrick be waiting for me?

  With even the slightest possibility of that, I couldn’t allow my shadow’s entrance.

  “Hello,” I said, speaking to the older gentleman behind the VIP desk. “I seem to have misplaced my keycard.”

  “Yes, Ms. Miller. May I see your ID?”

  When I didn’t respond, he went on, “Protocol, ma’am. We wouldn’t want to grant anyone else entrance to your room.”

  I suppressed a grin and the small hairs on my arm bristled with his comment. Although, I wasn’t one hundred percent certain, I did think that someone else in my room was exactly what I wanted.

  “Let me get it for you,” I said.

  Opening my handbag, I retrieved my identification. As I handed it his direction, I glanced at the license and for the first time in many years, I thought about my name. Madeline Miller.

  The person I’d become had the appropriate paper trail—license, passport, even a birth certificate. None of it was real. Truly, it was amazing what was possible with the right connections. Nevertheless, the truth remained: Madeline Miller wasn’t a real person. She wasn’t born in a small town to a stay-at-home mother and a factory worker father. She didn’t lose her parents in a car accident nor not know her father’s profession. She never had a house with a picket fence.

  It made for a great biography: woman makes it big in the world of poker coming from grassroots beginnings.

  I shook my head.

  Patrick was right. Legally, my identification should say Madeline Kelly. Our marriage that really wasn’t was never legally dissolved or ended. The only proof that our marriage occurred was an old piece of paper, if it still existed.

  Would the courthouse still have a copy?

  Would our marriage have seemed more real if I had changed my identification back then?

  “Here you go, Ms. Miller,” the gentleman said as he handed me the new keycard and my identification. “Have a good night.”

  Mitchell stepped forward, his usually gruff tenor sounding almost gentlemanly. “I assume room service is still available.”

  “Yes, sir. Until midnight.”

  As we stepped away, I asked, “Are you planning a dinner party in your room?”

  He reached forward and pushed the up button near the elevators. “You are. Not a party, but you’re not leaving your room until morning. Boss’s orders.”

  My lips came together while a barrage of responses came to mind.

  Yet as more people joined us within the confines of the elevator, I kept them all to myself. It wasn’t until we were walking down the quiet hallway to my room that I stole a glance at the large man beside me, knowing I needed to keep him from entering my room, even if his only goal was to be certain it was clear.

  Add bodyguard to the list.

  Outside my room, I stopped. “Listen, Mitchell, I’m tired. I have two more days of this tournament and then we’ll be gone from here. My plans for the evening include a bath and sleep. You don’t need to babysit me any longer. Rest assured there’s nowhere I want to be on this cold Chicago night. Roaming this hotel or the windy city in sub-zero temperatures isn’t on my agenda.”

  “Boss told me to be sure you eat.”

  Why was it that Andros’s concern made me feel like more of a trained pet than a person? Don’t forget to feed the cat.

  I shook my head at the demeaning comparison. “Fine, I’ll add eating to my list of things to do.”

  “He doesn’t want you to forget. I could bring you something from the restaurant and you won’t need to call room service.”

  I wasn’t confident of what had happened or caused the change from earlier, but Mitchell’s demeanor had made a sudden improvement. Maybe it had to do with why he had gone missing for part of the evening. Or perhaps, Mitchell had been stupid enough to tell Andros how he’d tried to bully me. Maybe his change in attitude was due to the way I responded, not Andros. I couldn’t be sure. It was another thing I was uncertain about.

  One thing I did know was that Mitchell’s least irritating quality was his lack of intelligence. Yes, he was a brute and at times, I wanted him six feet under, but he was also gullible. If I reported his behavior to Andros, there was no guarantee his replacement wouldn’t be worse.

  In this life, one took the bad with the good.

  “Thank you. I’m good with room service,” I replied. “Go to bed or do whatever you still need to do for Andros. I know you both have my phone monitored. I won’t leave the room.”

  “The boss is...” He didn’t finish. “He’s concerned about this city. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  I forced a feigned chuckle. “We both know it’s too late for that, Mitchell.”

  Pushing away the weight of stupid decisions over my lifetime, I inserted the keycard. Anticipation was a strange feeling, hope and excitement balled up into one. Rarely had I felt it, and yet now I did.

  Before entering the room, I turned back to Mitchell—in whatever role he was playing. “I’m in for the night. Your job is over until morning.”

  He nodded and began to walk away.

  Holding my breath, I stepped inside and scanned the hotel room.

  The drapes were drawn, lights on, and bed was turned down with the customary green mint on the pillow. I peered into the bathroom—empty. Slowly, I opened the closet doors. Except for my clothes, it too was empty.

  Tears prickled my eyes as I collapsed on the edge of the bed, laid my purse on the nightstand, and fumbled with the large buttons on my coat. Disappointment was an emotion I recognized.

  What had I expected, that Patrick would be waiting with wine and roses?

  Standing, I shook droplets of melting snow from my coat and placing it on a hanger, returned it to the closet. Kicking off my high heels, I wiggled my toes into the carpeting. A tug to the side zipper on my dress, and the silver material pooled around my feet.

  Stepping out of the dress, I reached for the robe.

  While the unexpected disappointment at Patrick’s absence nibbled at my consciousness, I slid my arms into the soft terry cloth and walked to the tall windows. Reaching for the draperies, I pulled one aside, as I stared out at the Chicago skyline sparkling through the frost.

  Despite the thick thermal panes, a cold chill ran through me, cooling my circulation and dotting my skin with goose bumps. Warding off the melancholy drop in temperature, I instinctively wrapped the robe tightly around me and secured the tie.

  Lost in my own thoughts, the beep of the door’s lock and sounds of mechanisms disengaging caught me off guard.

  Spinning toward the door, my breath caught.

  Without hesitation, the door opened inward.

  Madeline

  “Oh my God,” I mumbled, unsure if it was meant as a plea or a surrender.

  Patrick.

  I reached for the lapels of the robe I’d just secured and tugged them closed, suddenly aware that beneath the soft terry cloth I wore only panties. The dress hadn’t allowed for a bra.

  At the sight of him, thoughts and feelings brewed within me. Each one brought life back to my mind and body. It was as if the energy he produced sparked through the air an electrical current capable of resuscitating the person I’d once been.

  Despite how I’d responded at Club Regal, from the moment I opened the bathroom door, I knew exactly who he was. “Pat—” I began.

  With a twist of his neck, Patrick’s intense blue stare came over his wide shoulder. Without uttering a word, he silenced whatever I’d been about to say. The door behind him was now closed.

  I tried to swallow as my mouth dried, watching as Patrick turned the deadbolt and fastened the chain. My pulse thumped through my veins seasoned with uncertain emotions swirling within that same circulation. We were locked in this room together, alone like we hadn’t been in forever.

  Never once had I been afraid of Patrick. Yet there was something different about him now versus the boy I recalled. This man, the one in my room, emanated power. It wasn’t from anything he said o
r did. It radiated from his presence, a confidence that wasn’t manufactured but instead, innate. In a way, as I stood there, I half expected to see the world around him blur from the aura.

  Should I be afraid?

  My thoughts were having difficulty concentrating on anything other than the fact that he was here. I was here. We were together.

  The last time I’d heard about him, he’d left for the service—army, I thought.

  It wasn’t that he’d merely enlisted; I’d been told he’d gone to war, not the battles we’d fought as children, but the real war from which people never returned. After that news, I never attempted to confirm his whereabouts.

  Perhaps I was afraid he hadn’t returned.

  None of that mattered any longer.

  There was no longer a need for confirmation.

  Patrick Kelly was here—in my hotel room—in all his manly glory.

  My skin twitched as I fought the childish impulse to tug on my lip. It was a habit that I’d stopped long ago, the simple gesture revealed more than I wanted to show.

  Insecurity.

  Uncertainty.

  Shame at decisions made.

  Concern.

  My thoughts were too many to articulate.

  I concentrated not on what I thought or felt but on what I saw.

  Oh, how he’d changed.

  The man Patrick had become filled the hotel room’s foyer.

  His broad shoulders, trim waist, and long legs created an impassable mountain in my path. With the light shining from above, I could make him out even better than in the club’s dimmer hallway. My gaze scanned from his blond hair—shorter than when we were young, his light blue eyes, and high cheekbones, to his defined, chiseled jaw and thick neck.

  The painful twinge twisting within my chest conveyed what my eyes and mind couldn’t comprehend. I sucked in a deep breath and with my pulse beating in double time, I forced my steps forward.

  One and then another.

  Patrick didn’t move, speak, or even blink.

  A statue in a designer suit, he could have been a Brooks Brothers mannequin in the way his jacket hung perfectly from his frame. The white shirt beneath was starched and crisp, disappearing beneath the trousers and black belt.