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“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
GRAY
My dad wasn’t too hard to find since I knew where to look. Atlantic City meant gambling, and to my dad, gambling meant horses. When he needed a break from work, he didn’t go for the shabbier hotels on the boardwalk, but the newest and nicest. So I hit the latest build first. Once inside, even with the powerful ventilation systems, smoke hung thick in the air and the sound of the slot machines—the digital music, the pinging of the game and the clinking of coins falling into little plastic cups—was quickly going to give me a headache.
He sat in a plush chair with about thirty flat screens on the wall in front of him, broadcasting races from all over the country, stats and race information a ticker tape across the bottom of it all.
I dropped down in the chair beside him and stared blindly at one of the screens.
“I figured you’d show up.”
The man was in his late sixties, his hair long ago gone to white. His skin was overly tan and had the weathered appearance of a three-pack-a-day smoker. Even now, a cigarette rested in an ashtray on a side table by his right elbow, a glass of what I knew to be whiskey and water beside it. It was early to drink, but this was Atlantic City and this was dear old Dad.
“What do you want this time?”
I’d never given him money. He’d never needed a dime from me, he had enough of it, even with his gambling habit. Instead, he always wanted me to fix a fight or take a fall in one of my own so he could win. I never did anything he requested. Never. In retribution, he fucked with me, calling me—I’d ditched one phone number for another more times than I could count—and even sent people to my gym to make trouble. It had all worked; I’d wasted time and energy thinking about the guy, dealing with his shit.
“Nothing.”
I shook my head slightly, wishing I had a drink of my own so that I could dull the feelings this meeting brought out. My jaw clenched. “Nothing? Since when have you wanted nothing?”
My cell vibrated in my pocket. Worried it was Emory, I glanced at the screen, then, when it wasn’t her number, or Paul or Christy’s, I tucked it away.
“Don’t worry, your guy’s going to lose on his own poor skills, your own fuck-all training, and then I’ll win.”
I slapped the armrests of the chair and stood. “Great.” I looked down at him. His eyes held no warmth, no love, nothing. He wasn’t a father. He was just some fucking loser who’d somehow spawned me. “Then leave me alone.”
“And your girlfriend, too?”
My phone vibrated again, but I ignored it. The fact that he mentioned Emory had my fists clenching. I knew how to fight with fists and was used to a verbal sparring match with my dad, but that was over inconsequential shit, not Emory. I wanted to beat the shit out of him, kill him with my bare hands—that’s how much I hate
d him, but this was a casino. There were cameras everywhere, and he knew it. This was his sanctuary and he was safe here.
If I made Emory out to be something important, he’d pick at the very idea of her like a scab. So I shrugged it off. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Oh? She wasn’t any good between the sheets?”
My eyes narrowed, but I kept my cool. Barely. “If you want to fuck with me, fine, but let’s leave everyone else out of it.”
His cell rang. Neither of us would have noticed it in the loud casino noise if it hadn’t vibrated across the small table beside his drink.
He picked it up and glanced at the screen. I swear his skin paled beneath the fake tan.
My cell vibrated once more but I just watched my dad. He actually looked…afraid.
“Answer your phone,” he said, without looking up from the screen of his.
I sighed, pulling mine from my pocket. “Green.”
“Hello, Gray, this is Angelo Casale. I believe you’ve met my son and grandson. I apologize for reaching out to your father while you’re visiting, but you wouldn’t answer your phone.”
What the fuck? Angelo Casale had Dad’s number and had texted him. What the hell did the message say because it looked as if my dad just pissed himself. Besides that, how the hell did Casale know I was with my dad right now? How did he know my number? I looked around. There were people all around, but too self-involved to be interested in either my father or me. It was a casino with cameras everywhere. How far was this man’s reach? Did I really want to know?
“What can I do for you?”
“I’ve spoken with Emory and invited both of you to dinner tonight at Casale’s. She’s accepted and will bring two friends. I believe they are spending the day together. Very smart of you to keep her protected.”
I was trying to keep up. I'd heard about Casale, knew of his dealings, for it was more than just lasagna. From the way my dad was reacting, he knew about them, too.
