by Ashley Jade
“Goddammit, I made a mistake. Is that what you need to hear?” he shouts before his voice drops. “It was so long ago. I was angry and drunk. I didn't know what I was doing. I—”
“I'm not interested in your bullshit excuses,” I say sharply. “I don't think anyone else will be either.”
“Preston, please. I'm not some kind of monster, son. I know deep down you know that. It was a one-time transgression, one that I hardly remember because I was so impaired. One that I've done everything to make up for since it happened. I thought assisting you financially over the years and aiding your gambling pastime was helping you cope and you had forgiven me, but evidently not. I see how much I hurt you now, and I'm willing to sincerely apologize so you can move on from this for good. I'll even pay for therapy if that's what you want. But I can't—”
We're far past the point of therapy and apologies. “You can, and you will. You have forty-eight hours, or I go public.”
“How about we work out a new arrangement? A payment plan that will be very lucrative for you.”
He doesn't get it. It's not about the money; it's about me having the upper hand. Me calling the shots.
Me flipping the script and taking back my life...by taking everything from him.
“I'm not interested in anything other than what I asked for.”
I look up at the night sky and the bilious feeling in the pit of my gut intensifies when he remains silent. “Okay then, have fun in jail. I'm sure they're really going to love you in there.”
He makes a strangled sound and I know he's about to crumble like a house of cards. “I can't transfer millions to you in a mere two days. I'm going to need more time.”
He has a point. “You have seven days.”
Now seven can be your unlucky number too, motherfucker.
“Fine.”
I stop him right before he hangs up. “One more thing.”
“What?”
Whatever composure I was clinging to snaps. “If you ever go near my son, you sick son of a bitch. I will fucking kill you.”
A moment later the line goes dead and I empty the contents of my stomach over the balcony, wishing I could expel every despicable memory of him along with it.
V
"A gambler is nothing but a man who makes his living out of hope. " ―William Bolitho
It's a fact—most gamblers do it because they like the high.
A true gambler knows there's nothing like the rush that comes from pressing the maximum bet button on a slot machine when you're down to your last five dollars. The exhilaration you feel when you beat the dealer during a game of blackjack. Or the pride that follows from bluffing your way through the last round of poker to end up the victor when you only had a pair of tens.
The euphoria that comes from winning is guaranteed to make us come back for more.
But it's not what brought us there in the first place.
We're there because we crave the escape.
We're there because nothing else matters once you roll the figurative dice.
Your job, your partner, your family, and your past—it all ceases to exist the second you set your stakes and place your bet.
And the time that spans between your wager and the result...is the ultimate illusion of control.
That's the high we're really after.
The notion that our destiny can change in the blink of an eye and we had a hand in it.
Which is why I'm currently here at the promised land—even though I told Becca I was staying home—breaking one of my cardinal rules of gambling.
The very first one to be exact. Never gamble when you're drunk.
And right now? The amount of alcohol I've consumed makes my nines look like jacks and I'm about to break my second rule.
Know when to fold.
Or at the very least, don't be an idiot and raise the bet to all in when you only have a pair of nines.
I'm so hammered I can't even effectively bluff my way out of this, something the two other players at the table and the dealer know, but what's done is done.
I take another sip of my whiskey, between earlier and now I've lost count how many I've had tonight. But it's enough that when—shocker—the man across the table reveals a pair of kings and all my chips go to him, it doesn't sting so much.
And why would it? I've got a fuck-ton of money coming in. But even if I didn't, I'll make it up in the next round anyway.
I always do.
At least that was the plan...but when the two men here at the casino for a business conference get up from the table and call it a night, a surge of irritation hits me.
“Oh, come on. Play a few more rounds,” I slur, slapping the table. “Tell you what? I'll be nice and buy you both a drink before I take my money back.”
They look at me like I'm crazy—which is a fairly accurate assessment, given the thirty grand I just lost—before they shake their heads and walk off.
“Pussies,” I call out in their direction, causing the dealer to sigh.
“I think it's time for you to go home, buddy. I'll have someone at the service desk call you a cab.”
“I don't need a cab,” I bark. “I just need—”
To escape my fucked-up life. To not be a failure.
To stop feeling like a casualty.
I wave the dealer off mid-sentence and fish out my phone. This shitty casino isn't cutting it tonight and I'm too drunk to drive to the next one that's over an hour away.
I order another whiskey at the bar, press the call button, and wait for Buster to pick up.
Buster—a bookie for the notorious mobster, Rocco Rossi—has been my go-to guy for the last two months.
At first, I was hesitant, not only because betting on sports isn't my favorite way to gamble, but the Rossi crime family make the Dragonis look like preschoolers.
Buster's phone cuts off after the fourth ring and I realize I'm left with one of two choices.
I can gamble some more until this feeling caused by the events of tonight dulls. Or, I can go home to my pregnant and soon-to-be wife.
I slam the rest of my drink down and stumble out the door, the feeling in my chest growing heavier with every unsteady step I take to my car.
Before I can stop myself, I stick my key in the ignition and press a button on my dashboard, connecting the Bluetooth on my phone to the speakers.
I have no idea what I'm doing—actually, that's bullshit—I'm aware of my actions, I'm just inebriated enough not to care about the consequences of them.
All I know is that I want to talk to her again.
She picks up on the third ring, her raspy voice filling the small space around me. “Who is this?”
“I think of you every time I see the color pink.”
There's a sharp intake of breath. “How did you get my number? And why in the world are you calling me at three in the morning?”
I ignore her questions. “You wouldn't believe how common the color is. So many things in the world are pink.”
“Jesus, are you drunk?”
I lean back in my seat, the density in my chest easing a little. “Drunk is a fairly relative term, don't you think?”
“Answer the question, Preston.”
“Hey, that rhymes.”
She groans. “Where are you?”
“That's four questions now. Although you figured the first one out, so technically it's three.”
“Preston,” she repeats and the irritation in her tone has me smiling.
“There's my angry girl,” I muse. “I bet you're scowling right now, aren't you?”
“You're seriously testing my patience, Holden.”
I decide to throw her a bone. “I stole your number out of Becca's phone a few months ago.”
“Figured as much. But why?”
I evade that question and answer a different one. “I might have had some whiskey tonight.” I turn a knob and blast the heat. “Currently, I'm sitting in my car, parked outside a casino that I just l
ost thirty grand at.”
And it's taking everything in me to do the right thing and not go back in.
“I—shit. I don't even know what to say. That's—”
“Relax,” I tell her. “I didn't call you for a pep talk or financial advice. I actually have a shit load of money coming in soon. But even if I didn't, I always make up the difference with my next bet.”
“That doesn't seem like a very reliable system.”
“It's fine,” I bite out. “I've just been on a bit of a losing streak lately, but I've got it all under control.”
“Do you? Because it doesn't sound like it.”
On some level, I know she has a point. The fact that I'm sitting in a car outside a casino, drunk dialing a girl I need to stay away from, should be enough of a red flag for me to evaluate my life choices.
Then again, I've never been one to be concerned about red flags. If anything, I prefer to charge right through them going full speed ahead.
Except with her. I have absolutely no desire to bring her into my mess. This phone call was a mistake.
“I think I'm gonna go.”
“Hold on,” she says. “I don't want you driving drunk. Now that I'm up, I can come get you.”
My response is automatic. “No. You can't.”
“Why not?”
I grip the steering wheel, ignoring the tiny voice inside me that's protesting because I know what I have to do. “I'm getting married this week.”
Her breathing becomes patchy and I continue. “We're having a boy. I figure after Becca graduates we'll move out to the suburbs and—”
“Why are you telling me this?” Her voice cracks on the last word and it's like a punch to the gut.
Because I destroy everything good in my life.
Because I still can't look at my reflection in the mirror or close my eyes without seeing him.
I drag in a low, slow breath. If I don't say this now, if I don't give her this bit of truth before I cut the cord, I know I'll regret it forever. “I wish things were different. I wish we met one another before Becca happened and we had the chance to be friends.”
“Pre—”
“I'm gonna go back home to my fiancée and baby and forget you ever existed. I won't bother you again, Kit Bishop.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”
I'm about to end the call when she says, “Wait. Please don't drive home. Call an Uber, okay?”
As if on cue, everything around me starts to tilt. “I will.”
“Goodbye, Preston.”
“Goodbye, Kit.”
The moment we disconnect, the mass in my chest expands and divides, spreading throughout me like a cancer that I'll never be able to get rid of. An illness there's no cure for.
I swipe the screen on my phone, intending to pull up the Uber app, but a number flashes across the screen.
Buster.
And just like that, the device I'm holding now has the potential to become one of two things. A bomb that will make the damage worse, or a balm that will soothe the pain.
I'm frozen as I stare down at the world's most fucked up homophone in the palm of my hand, unable to press the button that will either end the torture or give me another hit of it.
Perspiration dots my forehead and my body thrums with need. I want nothing more than to respond to the impulse snaking through my bloodstream.
To roll the dice and escape.
But then I think about my future kid...and I realize that maybe the universe is offering me an option to get out of this black hole that spirals on repeat.
Maybe this is my chance at a new life. A reincarnation of sorts.
A way to fix my mistakes, or at the very least, not fuck up and make more.
Maybe I should pay attention to those red flags because they'll impact more than just me now.
For the very first time, I make the right decision.
I ignore Buster and arrange for a cab to pick me up so I can head home to my son, because he's the most important thing in my life from this day on.
Ever wake up with the feeling that the day ahead of you was going to be a great one? A morning so good you'd swear the stars must have aligned just for you at some point while you were sleeping?
Me either.
However, this morning? I don't have a massive hangover. I'm not calling any bookies or getting ready to jet to the nearest casino. And for once, Becca's need to hover over me until I get out of bed doesn't have me contemplating pissing in her organic oatmeal or thousand-dollar face cream.
So all in all, the day is off to a better start than most.
I watch as Becca gets dressed, my gaze falling to her belly. It's both fascinating and scary as hell that a tiny human who is half of me is growing in there.
Warmth fills the space around my heart as I walk over and place my hand on her stomach. I might be a royal fuck up, but one thing I know without a doubt is that I've loved this baby ever since he was a little peanut on a sonogram screen.
I'm pretty sure he's the only thing I've ever loved.
Becca clears her throat. “Do you mind? I need to put pants on.”
I back up. “Right. Sorry.”
I run a hand down my jaw, mulling over my next words. I'm not exactly thrilled with the thought of spending an entire day with her, but I know I need to make an effort. Bonding over the baby seems like a good place to start.
“Do you have any plans today?”
She shrugs. “Not really. Given classes start again at Woodside tomorrow, I was going to take it easy. Maybe catch up on sleep.”
“Oh. Yeah, that's probably a good idea.”
She must detect the hint of disappointment in my tone because she quirks an eyebrow at me. “What's up?”
I shuffle my feet, feeling uncomfortable. “I don't remember you mentioning having one of those parties for pregnant women.”
“You mean a baby shower?”
I snap my fingers. “Yeah, one of those.”
She looks down. “I don't think that's happening. My mom is living across the country with her sixth husband currently, and my uncles aren't going to put their mob life on hold to throw me one.”
I dig my hands in my pockets. “I think we should go shopping and get some things for him. The nursery only has a crib in it right now, and granted I don't know much about babies, but I'm guessing he's going to need more than that.”
She laughs. “He's going to need a lot more than a crib.” Her forehead wrinkles. “It's a little overwhelming, to be honest.”
I give her hand a small squeeze. I don't want her to feel like she's alone in this, because she's not. “We'll get through it together, okay?”
She looks around the room. “Do you want to go now?”
“Sure—” I start to say until I remember. “I left my car at a casino last night.”
She grabs her jacket. “I can take you to get it after we're done.”
I shake my head because the thought of my kid going anywhere near a casino disgusts me. “No. This is my mess.”
“It's really not a big deal.”
To her, it's not, but it's the biggest deal to me. I made a promise last night to be better and put my kid first and I intend to keep it.
“I'm going to call a cab, you stay here and make a list of things we need.” I glance at my watch. “I'll be home in an hour.”
I start walking to the door but stop abruptly. “Are you hungry? Want me to pick you up anything on my way back?”
She pats her tummy. “A little. I suppose I could go for something from the new organic place that just opened up, if you don't mind.”
“You got it.”
I start walking again, but her next statement stops me in my tracks. “By the way, I called the county earlier. It turns out there's no waiting period for a marriage license. So, I was thinking we could go tomorrow after classes get out.”
The air in my lungs suspends, making it impossible to breathe, but she continues withou
t missing a beat. “Or, we could do something crazy and fly to Vegas. I know how much you love to gamble and all. I think it could be fun.”
My palms start to itch with that insatiable need, and I have to mentally count to five. When that's not enough, I dig my nails into my flesh until I feel the skin tear, concentrating on the sting it provides.
Me going to Vegas right now would be like sending a drug addict to a rehab surrounded by poppy fields.
The temptation is far too strong.
“The courthouse will be fine.” I rub the back of my neck. “Like you said, classes start tomorrow. I don't think either of us should miss any unless it's an emergency.”
I go to leave again, but to my absolute horror, she throws her arms around me. “You used to like me, Preston.”
My body goes rigid. I hate physical affection as it is, but I hate it even more when it comes with a side of emotional crap.
That said, she's not exactly wrong in her assessment. There was a time when I did like her. Or rather, tolerated her a lot more.
When she sniffles, a surge of guilt hits me. Becca may not be the girl I can't get out of my head, but she is the mother of my child.
“I'll do better,” I tell her.
“I hope so,” she whispers. “I wasn't lying when I told you I loved you, and I think if we tried, really tried. We'd be so good together.”
My throat bobs on a swallow and a breath saws out of me, rendering me speechless.
We both take my silence as my agreement, though—and a moment later she seals it with a kiss.
And I try not to pretend it's someone else's mouth on mine.
“Your order will be ready in fifteen minutes,” the brunette at the counter informs me.
I pay for Becca's food and walk around the takeout section of the restaurant, fighting off thoughts of going back to the casino.
After perusing various pictures of healthy dishes on the wall, and hearing yet another Enya song start to play, I've had about all I can take.
