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“The Holes?” I asked, so pissed at myself, I could’ve kicked my own ass.
“Of course,” she answered, her gaze staring out toward the busy street.
“The Holes” were where fifty or so of our most elite group would gather together at the home of one our parents’ because it was inevitable that someone’s folks would be out of town. We would “hole” up for the weekend, binge on drugs, sex and booze.
I slammed the palm of my hand into the steering wheel. I leaned forward and started the car. I fell back into my seat and ran a hand down my face.
“Jesus. I just-Bridge, we need a plan.”
She turned my way. She looked so lost. “Thanks for helping me, Spence.”
“Please, Bridge. Your problems are my problems,” I said, hitting the gas.
We sat in the car at the end of our street, staring at our parents’ monstrous house. I listened quietly to Bridge’s crying. I tried comforting her, but it did no good.
“We’ll get it over with,” I said.
“I want to wait until after Christmas. It’ll kill Mama.”
“No, we tell them tonight. The sooner, the better. I’ll be able to defuse it better the more time I have.”
“So you’re going back to Brown after all this?”
I looked at her like she’d gone crazy. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Well, I just thought you’d want to stick around for a little while.”
“Bridge, Dad’s not gonna let you keep it.”
“I don’t give a shit. I’m going to.”
“Let’s see what happens.” He would never let her keep it.
“No, I need us to be united on this front, Spence. I need to know that when I stand up to Dad you’ll be there to back me up. I need support.” He still wouldn’t let her keep it.
“Fine, Bridge.”
I parked in my spot and got out, Bridge following right behind me. When I opened the front door, Mom and Dad were in the main living room. Mom was on the floor sweeping up shards of a liquor decanter, and Dad was on the sofa with a paper in his hands. Something had transpired, and Dad had won as always.
lowed her to the concierge and he stood when he saw me.
“Mister Blackwell, will we be joining a table tonight?”
“Yes, please,” I mumbled.
“Your account is up to date. Here is your card,” he said, offering me the digital readout of my winnings for the past year.
I’d won close to two million, hoping to add it to my total in Switzerland. My seed money. The money I would use to get away, to feel free...finally.
“This way to the baccarat tables,” he said, pointing me toward the left on the floor.
He knew me well. Baccarat was my game because the game favored neither the house nor the player. The odds were almost fifty-fifty. That’s why I liked it. It was a safe, simple game, and I won more than I’d lost. I gambled with my father’s money, but the two million was pure profit and all mine.
“No, this time we’d like to play Black Jack,” Piper chimed in.
“Of course,” the concierge complied, leading us in the direction of the tables.
“Black Jack?” I asked her.
