Losing Rein was the single worst thing that's ever happened to me. Worse than the accident itself. Worse than the months of physiotherapy and rehab that followed. Worse than the doctor telling me I’d never play again.
Rein is an oasis in an otherwise supremely fucked-up and dysfunctional family. In all of our years of friendship, we steered clear of generations-old deals and financial fuckovers. His family's money—and as a result, my family's lack thereof—never came between us. We didn't let it.
Until after the accident. When it did. In a big way. And he proved to me he was no oasis. He wasexactlylike the rest of his family.
His left eye twitches. As a kid, that meant he was on the verge of tears. Does it still hold true today, though? I have no idea. The man before me is a complete stranger.
A handsome stranger, blessed with the double good fortune of good genes and the moolah to show off his impressive physique in a navy crewneck and designer jeans that accentuate his thick legs to perfection. His hair is still as black as ever, his eyes still that striking emerald green, a color that softens the sharp lines of his cheekbones and square jaw, and his skin looks impossibly smooth, like the fucker's barely aged at all.
Not that I'm checking him out. Rein was so supportive of me being gay when I came out to him in high school I swore to myself I'd never muddy the waters and act on my feelings for him. I knew they wouldn't be reciprocated, and I didn't want to ruin what we had. We were super close, and I knew Rein loved me. As a friend. I made my peace that that's all we would ever be.
"A drink?" I repeat to buy more time since my thoughts have splintered in a dozen directions at once, none of them actually considering his offer.
"Yeah."
His gaze drifts to the Gilberton Resort and Casino on the other side of the road. The very resort and casino his family built, developed, and runs on land my family disputes and believes belongs to us. It's become one of the region's biggest tourist drawcards and sprouted a nationwide casino empire that places the Winkelmanns firmly within the top hundred wealthiest families in America.
"There?" I ask.
He swallows. "Or somewhere else, if you prefer?"
"No. It's fine."
"Great."
We get into our cars, and I follow him into the parking lot. The VIP parking lot, naturally, where he says something to the gate attendant because the guy waves me in with a big, friendly smile.
The walk from the lot takes us along manicured paths lined with boxwoods and softly lit ground lanterns. The sound of water from a small fountain mingles with distant music drifting from the lobby. The tall glass doors hiss open, and warm air spills out, scented with woodsmoke and roasted coffee, and the soft, steady ding of slot machines comes from deeper inside.
It's no Vegas—which is a good thing in my opinion—and the place has a unique, relaxed yet still high rollery vibe all of its own.
We walk in silence as he guides me through a labyrinth of carpeted aisles, past gaming tables and intimate lounges tucked behind heavy curtains, finally pulling up at a quiet corner table in a small alcove just far enough from the gaming floor that the noise fades to a soft background hum.
"What'll you have?" he asks, raising his hand. A server materializes at our table a nanosecond later.
"A Coke is fine."
He orders two Cokes and gets some loaded fries to share. When he tells the server "With pickled jalapeños on the side" my stupid heart clenches.He remembered.
"You still a freak and eat 'em?" he asks, grinning.
"You still a pussy who won't?" Then, "Sorry," I say sheepishly to the server who smiles politely and leaves.
Rein is looking at me, still grinning, and I'd forgotten how much that transforms his face. The black hair/green eye combo leaves him looking more serious than he really is, and so whenever he grins or smiles, it's like the real him comes out. The goofball. The idiot. The guy who could always make me laugh harder than anyone else.
"So, how have you been?" I say, and I instantly cringe on the inside. I've never had game, but that was truly pathetic. Even by my own low standards.
"That's a big question. How many years have passed?"
"Almost fifteen," I murmur under my breath.
"Where does it go?" he says, letting out a low whistle. "That's a long time."
"Sure is."
The server returns with our drinks and fries, placing the pickled jalapeños on my side of the table.
"Thank you," I say, forking a little bit of everything—fries, cheese, bacon—then adding a jalapeño on top for some bite.
