Still watching her, I whip out my phone to send a text to the new one I gave her. She kept the burner, which is fine. It’s like a security blanket for her, knowing she can escape. The mere thought has hurt and anger swelling in my veins.
Sometimes, when I get back to the penthouse at night, I find her in bed with Remy, both sound asleep and snuggled up together. And it hits me, this twisted pang of jealousy. Not for what they have. But I look at them and know they’re mine, and I don’t know if they’ll ever see me the same way.
It makes me wish I’d been the one to kill Dalton, that I’d given in to the urge and done it the day she told me she was pregnant and moving in with him. Instead, I did everything the way she wanted, and she looks at me like I failed her.
Choking that down, I swipe a text. It’s far easier to keep my explosive emotions under wraps behind a screen.
Me: Remy is with Axel, watching Cars. Again. I’m headed out to do my evening walk-through soon. There’s dinner for you in the fridge.
She picks her phone up, and a soft smile blossoms on her beautiful face. I want a million more.
Before she responds, I send the picture I took of Remy sprawled out on Axel’s lap, his huge stuffed bulldog tucked under one arm and a fistful of popcorn in the other hand. Axel is relaxed. He’s always thrived in the guardian role.
But I can’t let him have all the praise, so I send a selfie I snapped of Remy with me in our rooftop pool that I forgot to send this afternoon and one of us cooking dinner. We made chicken enchiladas. There was more salsa and cheese on him than in the casserole dish. He alsosnuckat least ten chips.
Me: He’s an excellent sous chef. Creative, not afraid to get his hands dirty, and willing to sample. He earned the movie.
She laughs at that one—her head falling back slightly, eyes crinkling—before she responds.
Mercy: You’re just diving right in. Ambitious. What happened to ramen noodles being five-star cuisine?
Me: He’d still wholeheartedly support that.
Mercy: He filled up on chips and salsa?
Me: Of course. But he ate some rice and a few bites of enchilada, so it was a negotiation.
Mercy: Sounds weak to me. He also swindled popcorn out of the two of you. Who’s running the show up there?
Me: Who do you think? The little boss.
Mercy: How long have they been watching? Do I have time to meet Amy at the Blind Tiger for a quick drink? I got tied up here, so I’m running behind.
Most of our employees aren’t permitted to drink, eat, or play in the exclusive areas, but Amy is married to Vander Floros—one of our long-standing members—so she straddles that line. We trust them both, and it’s worked out fine.
Me: They started the movie about a half hour ago. You’ve got time. Have a drink and enjoy yourself.
She shuts down her laptop and packs up her purse, all while sending a talk-to-text reply.
Mercy: Thanks. I won’t be long. She’s been asking me all week, and I kept putting it off. I’ll text Axel so he knows. Have a good night.
And that’s how it’s been. Easy. Polite. Cordial. I’m adept at wearing a lot of hats, but cordial is my least favorite.
Certainly with Mercy. We’ve never been polite. That’s one of her best traits—she’s real.
Ashes. Oak. Champagne and delusions.
I shut down my own computer, shrug on my suit jacket, and slink through the family room for one more peek at Axel andRemy. Axel lifts his phone to notify me that he’s been in touch with Mercy. And I head out for my walk-through with Gentry.
Every evening, he waits near the elevator on the main floor at seven thirty, after compiling updates from all the department heads, who are required to check in by seven with a daily report. He’s ready whenever I show up. It’s a good system.
When the doors slide open, Gentry greets me with a nitro cold brew coffee. I take it, sip my evening jolt of caffeine, and proceed directly to the high-rollers hallway, careening through the crowd gathered in our dimly lit members’ lobby.
The aesthetics are reminiscent of an upscale bootlegger’s lounge—tufted leather furniture, geometric gold-plated crystal chandeliers, bookcases, and bar service—with the aroma of debauchery and vanilla, vintage paper and celebratory spirits. The joy of new beginnings abounds, whether that be a brokered deal, an evening out, or reconnecting with a familiar friend.
The area tends to serve as a rendezvous point, which makes it ideal for me to gauge the temperament of the guests. Axel and I both use this as our starting point.
As I cruise through the main aisle of the casino floor, between the tables, I’m looking for anything out of the ordinary. Gentry won’t begin his rundown until we exit the floor because I like to lend my full concentration to observing.
