I stomp off into my new fucking room, with my new fucking roommate.
Slamming the door behind me, I fall backwards onto the bed and huff wretchedly.
My head hurts, my heart hurts, and so do my fucking balls. All because of one fucking woman.
One amazing woman who wants absolutely nothing to do with me.
Life, I tell ya. It can sure deal one hell of a motherfucking hand.
10
Liv
For two days,I have watched Damon win money and lose money. Slept in a freakin’ roach motel and chewed off every fingernail I have. Twice.
He’s no closer to one-hundred-thousand dollars today than he was yesterday. It’s nerve-racking as fuck.
I’m pacing the casino floor like a caged cat, peeking over Damon’s shoulder every two minutes. I try to be inconspicuous. Look like his doting girlfriend, even though I’m anything but.
Knuckles lurks in the corner, standing at a pub table, watching our every move. The lights flicker and flash all around me as slot machines jingle and jangle to an offbeat melody. The casino’s bright and flashy array turns your sense of time upside down. Is it morning, or is it evening?
I only know it’s close to midnight because I check my watch every five seconds.
On the inside, I’m a wreck. I’m worried about Damon, my studio, and myself.
Pony was clear. Damon fails, your precious studio goes up in flames. With possibly me in it. He didn’t threaten my life directly. He didn’t specify he’d actually kill me, but the undertone was there. I think that drives me the craziest. Not knowing what he has planned for me. Will I live? Will I die? His psychological warfare is on point.
I can’t stand here another minute longer. I need to do something. Keep my hands busy and my mind occupied.
I head over to Knuckles. “Keep an eye on our friend. I need to go walk around.”
“He’s your friend,” he corrects.
I roll my eyes. As effective as Knuckles is, his personality leaves something to be desired.
And not that I think Damon is going to bolt, but I covered my bases and forced him to carry an inconspicuous tracker in his pocket. He was none too happy about that, but he agreed after I flirted with him a little. Totally underhanded, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
I withdraw five-hundred dollars from the ATM machine and find an uncongested blackjack table. I can play poker, but blackjack has always been my game. It drove my father nuts that I beat him most of the time, and I loved watching him get flustered and frustrated when we played. He was always a sore loser.
I cash in at the table. There are only two other players seated. An older woman with black, straggly hair and creases around her mouth, and a guy about my age, with brown, styled hair and black-rimmed glasses. He smiles and she scowls as I sit.
I’m just surrounded by sparkling personalities tonight.
I place my bet, and the dealer begins to flip cards. Right off the bat I hit twenty-one and double my money. But I know that’s just beginner’s luck, and I also know how to read cards. The dealer, who is a short, bald man with thick glasses, is utilizing two decks. Which means I have to watch closely to what comes out of the shoot. A lot of low cards at once, and I pull back my betting, knowing the high cards will come.
I use this strategy through the night, keeping my winnings more in the positive than the negative.
The dealer, whose name is Ned, flips over my first card. It’s an ace, which can be used as either eleven or one. An ace is never a bad card to get.
He flips the other players’ cards, as well, and both land on face cards. A jack and a queen.
Interesting.
Odds are my next card will be low, so I stay.
I’m served a three of hearts. Ick. Not terrible. But not great. Fourteen or four. I hit again, and a miraculous seven appears. Twenty-one.
The dealer shows his second card, and it’s also twenty-one. Not a winner.
