I grab her wrist, not hard, but enough to make her come closer.
“I don’t trust them,” I say, my voice low and tight. “Joel and Taylor. They’re going to kill us. They’re going to Damian and his brothers. I need…” I choke on the words, then force them out. “I need your help.”
Neve’s smile fades. She sets the tray down slowly, the bottom of it clinking against the bar. Her eyes narrow, scanning my face, searching for truth. She must see it, because she nods. “Okay,” she says. “What do you need me to do?”
“Help me steal back that bag,” I say, pointing to where it lays next to my father’s feet. “Now, before Joel comes back.”
Vick is exactly where they left him, drunk, loud, bragging, hands waving in big gestures on the couch as he tries to impress no one. His cigar ashes are falling onto his shirt. His drinksloshes every time he laughs. Theleather bag is slumped at his feet, forgotten in his haze of ego and scotch.
“I’ll go behind him and grab it. Can you distract him?” I ask.
“I can do anything that helps Bridger and his brothers,” she says, grabbing my hand. “Let’s go.”
I rush up just behind the couch, heart pounding. Neve slips in front and mouths, “Now or never.”
I crouch low, slowly reaching for the strap. My fingers wrap around the cracked leather handle. It’s heavier than I expected. Islide it away from his feet under the couch, careful, steady.
Neve slams her body into him, splashing his drink across his chest.
“Jesus Christ,” he slurs, swiping at his shirt. “Watch it!”
Neve climbs off his lap and offers him a wide-eyed apology. “Sorry, sir, slippery floor.”
He mutters something foul and pushes his empty glass toward her. “How about another drink then?”
I already have the bag in my hands.
I back away from the couch, fast, but every movement feels slow and magnified. My skin buzzes, nerves firing too quick. I look at the hallway, expecting to see Joel flying at me. But he isn’t. He isn’t there.
I run.
The noise of the room—cards shuffling, glasses clinking, low murmurs of conversation—blurs into a haze around me as I weave through the tables. A man steps into my path and I swerve, my knuckles white on the strap, my heartbeat thrashing in my throat. Don't look back. Don’t look back. I head straight for my game table, Neve a silent shadow at my back.
My chips are still stacked where I left them. I open the front flap of the bag and sweep the bulk of them into it fast, my hands shaking. Some spill. Pearl Necklace opens her mouth to say something.
“Please,” I say, my voice cracking. “Don’t. I’m being forced to play. I don’t want to. He’s going to kill me. I need to get out of here.” The words pour out, followed by tears. Panic bubbles up, and I don’t have time to hide it.
Pearl Necklace—calm, graceful, still in her chair—cocks her head without blinking. Her gaze drops to the chips in the bag.
I pull out a handful of chips and toss them into her pile.
She leans in, her lips curling into a wicked smile. “Cash out,” she says softly, her voice cool and sharp. “I’ll stay quiet. And I’ll show you a back way out.”
I nod once.
Neve tugs on my arm. We don’t stop. We leave the table behind. The weight of the bag pulls on my shoulder, heavy, awkward, so obvious, and yet no one is chasing us. Not yet.
Neve pulls me left through a narrow hallway, past a row of low-lit rooms. Suddenly, we’re in an enormous kitchen. “This way,” she mutters, pointing left.
We stop in front of a plain black door. She opens it fast and pushes me inside.
Thebankersits behind a glass divider, a stack of cash already being counted for another player on his way out. He glances up at me blankly—until he sees the bag full of chips in my hands.
“Cash out,” I say breathlessly. “Now. Please.”
He squints. “You got a name?”
I glance over my shoulder. Panic claws up my spine. “I’m playing under Lucky,” I whisper. “It’s all under Lucky.”
