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Except that wouldn’t solve anything. I’m not here because I want to be here. I’m here because I’m the only one that can take care of this, or at least the only one who’s going to do what needs to be done. I just need to hold my nerve a little longer.
I draw a deep, settling breath, then make my voice as clear as I possibly can.
“My father’s name is Gregory Smoke. He owns this casino. They played cards together last night.”
“Still going with that, huh?”
“Just tell him, asshole.”
“Hey, I get that you’re high-class and all, but my money is just as green as Mr.—”
He falls silent as I glare at him, and I wonder if he can read my thoughts.
My four inch Louboutins, your ass, let’s see which one wins.
Well, OK, not real Louboutins. But they’re good enough fakes to fool my friends at college and that’s all that matters. The heel is still long and pointy.
Lucky for him, he raises the radio again. “Mike, she says to tell Mr. Brickhouse her name is Atlanta Smoke. Apparently he knows her father, Gregory Smoke.”
“What the...crrrk...told you he’s not interested.”
“Just fucking tell him.”
The guard and I don’t say another word to each other as I wait for the inevitable response to come through. Any second now there will be static from the radio and “Mike” will again say to get rid of me. After all, Leo Brickhouse is a busy man. Laws don’t just break themselves and there must be at least half a dozen he hasn’t gotten around to yet.
When my father told me who he’d been playing poker with, I could have killed him myself. I mean, there are some people you just don’t spend quality time with. Satan, for instance. Or Vlad the Impaler. And definitely not the head of the Brickhouse crime family.
When he told me thatIwas his collateral for the last hand? Well.
Let’s just say I told him to fix his own debts. Just not in those exact words.
So why am I here? BecauseImight have lost all respect for my father but my little brother Cody still thinks he hung the moon. How am I supposed to look him in the eye if Leo Brickhousedoeskill our dad, knowing I could have done something to prevent it?
I couldn’t.
Especially when he came to my room after and asked what all the shouting was about. He’s eight years old, shy, a little socially awkward, and his mom would probably choose a day at the spa over his welfare. If I let him down, who would he have?
And so I hugged him, told him that everything would be OK, and this stupid plan was born.
“Atlanta. You didn’t need to come here.” The voice is muffled as the door handle turns and the door starts to pull open. “You had nothing to do with this. Your dad asked for a loan, I granted it. End of story. You were offered to—”
He falls silent.
And my heart stops.
Or has time stopped?
How would I know which one?
The way he’s staring at me isn’t the same as the way the guard was looking at me before. That was uncomfortable, entitled, like I was a buffet tray being wafted under his nose.
This man is studying me like I’m the Mona Lisa.
Leo Brickhouse, I assume.
He has to be, right? There weren’t any photos on any of the news reports I read, but this has to be him. Heisthe way my father described him...I guess...but that was only a superficial match. Like if I described a Monet masterpiece as a bunch of waterlilies on a pond.
It is but it isn’t.
