9
Emma Lia Grant
I’m dressedand ready for dinner with no Tristan in sight. He was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago. We know what happens to me when I’m tardy but what abouthim?
I pick up the flogger and swat it across my hand. Maybe I should use this on him. Punish him for leaving me waiting. I wonder what he’d have to say aboutthat.
My phone buzzes and lights up. It’sSir. That’s what he entered as his contact name when he put his number in my phone. I didn’t find it amusing in the least when he did it, but now I do. I maybe even likeit.
“Hello,Sir.”
“Hey, I’m sorry to keep youwaiting.”
Tristan Broussard is apologizing. I bet that doesn’t happen often. “It’s allright.”
“My last meeting is running longer than expected. They want to grab something to eat and finish up. I’m afraid that you’ll be on your own fordinner.”
I hate eating alone. “Do you know what time you’ll beback?”
“I don’t. We still have to do a walk-through of the casino floor and make some importantdecisions.”
I remind myself that this is a business trip for him. Not leisure. “Okay. Well, do what you gotta do, and don’t worry aboutme.”
“You should come downstairs and eat at the Japaneserestaurant.”
I hit Tristan up as soon as I saw it. I love sushi, and I was sadly disappointed to find out that he hates it. He won’t even eat hibachi because he doesn’t like the smell of fish that typically floats around in most Japaneserestaurants.
“Omigod, yes. I would love some sushi.” I haven’t had any in weeks, and it’s something that I usually eat at least twice aweek.
I end my call with Tristan, and I’m disappointed that he didn’t have something dirty to say to me. His dialogue was unusually tame for him, his words cold and stiff. He must have been within earshot of his business associates, otherwise I know that he would have said somethingfilthy.
The sushi is delicious. Some of the best that I’ve ever had but I find my mind wandering, thinking about Tristan and how I wish he were here enjoying it with me. I’m lonesome withouthim.
No way. I did not just have thatthought.
I walk out of the restaurant and scan the casino floor. The crowd. The flashing lights. The cha-ching sounds. All of it draws me in like an addict to adrug.
I want togamble.
I need togamble.
I have togamble.
I choose a blackjack table occupied by men and a male dealer, one who isn’t wearing a wedding band. Not that it really matters. The married ones ogle me and get distracted by my jacked-up breasts just as easily as the single ones. Maybe even moreso.
I stand back and observe the game for a while before taking a seat between two older men, getting a feel for what’shappening.
“Hello,” the gambler on my rightsays.
“Hello.”
“This table has a twenty-five-dollar minimum,sweetheart.”
What the fuck is that supposed tomean?
I watched his game before I sat beside him, and I’m one hundred and twelve percent certain that I knew more about blackjack when I was ten years old than this old bastard doesnow.
I point to the brass and black sign. “Is that what the sign means? That I must bet at least twenty-five dollars on eachhand?”
