Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
“Don’t they talk about saving people from the consequences of their actions? Enabling or something?” I say.
“I don’t have time for Instagram psychology,” she snaps, and the little rise I get out of her feels like wine going to my head. I lean back in my chair a little, hands behind my head.
“Ten months,” I say, “and that’s if every penny from this job goes to your old man’s debt. Not counting interest.”
“Interest?” she says, indignantly, “what kind of deal is this?”
“It’s standard practice. His signature’s on the marker in my files. He agreed to the terms. Interest goes to thirty-five percent after the first thirty days of nonpayment. It’s legally binding, you can check.”
“You’re telling me that a piece of paper my dad signed agreeing to the terms of an illegal gambling operation is actionable? You’d be an idiot to take that to court and deliver yourself to the cops for racketeering in the process,” she spits, stone cold but with a glint of mischief in those eyes.
“All right, you got me on that one. Legal recourse isn’t our motivator of choice.”
“How much do I need to put down to keep him from being hurt again?”
“Your father’s activities ran afoul of the agreement he made with one of my associates. He didn’t honor his marker and owes a lot of money, more than you or he can hope to pay back in a timely fashion.”
“Why lend it to him?”
“Why not?” I ask. “He’s of legal age and then some. He knows the stakes if he loses. I’m not running a nursery school here. There’s no way he accidentally got into this mess. It was arrogance plain and simple.”
“He doesn’t deserve the beatings,” she says, the grimness around her mouth daring me to disagree with her. I’m not a man who takes the bait, but something about her has shaken off my boredom, so I follow through.
“You don’t deserve it. Everything I know about him points to the fact that he’s dodged this bullet—metaphorically of course—longer than anyone would’ve thought possible. I take it this isn’t the first time he’s found himself in trouble,” I lift my eyebrows.
“If I want to look out for my dad, what’s it got to do with you?”
“What it’s got to do with me,” I counter, leaning in closer till I can smell what has to be strawberry lip gloss, “is he got mixed up with my business, and you insist on getting involved.”
“Yes, I do,” she says.
I want to get closer, to see if the lip gloss tastes like berries. She’s taken all the air from my lungs, and the only thing that will keep me alive would be brushing my lips against the soft curve of her cheek.
“That leaves me with a problem,” I tell her. Maybe it’s because our voices are so low in a crowded place, like we’re apart from everyone else. Maybe her eyes on me are like truth serum, some snake-charmer magic she possesses.
“What’s the problem? That you’re obligated to break his kneecaps because I can’t earn tips fast enough to stop you? Or is this the part of the Lifetime movie where the bad guy tells me that now I have to dance in his strip club to make money starting tonight?” she says, all sass even at close range.
Being five inches from my mouth doesn’t slow her down even though I feel like I’m swimming in molasses right now, everything going sweet and slow and my brain can’t quite take it all in properly.
“Problem is it makes the most sense, business-wise, to eliminate your dad. He’s a liability. The fact he’s walking around breathing and hasn’t made good on his marker makes my organization look like a bunch of pussies and undermines the whole operation. If I give that order, since the guy who manages this crap is out this week it’s my call—then you never forgive me.”
The mischief drains from her eyes. Her brows come together, fine and light brown, making a wrinkle of concern on her forehead. She curls her lips under and bites them, her face looking bloodless at the shock of what I said. Her eyes never leave mine, and I wish she’d look away.
Otherwise, it’s like I’m on trial for every crime, every cheat, every fucking impure thought since I was twelve years old, just sitting under the scorching grief of her gaze and trying with all my might not to squirm. She’s going to beg now, I think. That makes a bitter taste in my mouth.
She shouldn’t have to do any of this, and it makes me angry. There’s no good reason I should care about her problems. Here I am, killing time at a table in the most depressing shithole I own, listening to her try to save her father.
“Bit of a gambler yourself I see,” I observe.