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By sundown, Delia’s so drunk I have to pull her along and help her balance as we move, heading into the next casino.
The place is all black and gold and smells like a newly minted bank.
There’s a new VIP section in this place with high-stakes blackjack. Since I’m here to have some fun of my own, I beeline for the table, dragging her along.
“Oh my God, Chris, you have to let me play! I’ve always wanted to try cards.”
“Not till you’ve burned off some poison in your system, princess. Trust me, you’ll be throwing away your money if you’re piss-drunk. Let me show you the ropes for a bit. Hang back and look cute. Pretend you’re my date for moral support.”
She rolls those eyes like molasses so sweetly.
At least she hasn’t gotten pissy about my not-so-subtle flattery since we left the hotel. I’m sure it’s the booze and my intuition that puts me on edge.
She’s so warm, almost clammy when I hold her hand.
Fuck.
Drunk or not, she’s pure smokeshow in her cocoa-black cocktail dress, this dark-chocolate shade that compliments her eyes.
I take a seat at the nearest high-stakes table, grateful I’ve been pacing myself with drinks. Delia Burr is distraction enough—and staring at her too long makes my dick feel like hot lead.
I fish some cash from my wallet and trade it for chips.
Four thousand bucks.
Let’s fucking go.
There’s one other guy at the table, a tired-looking older Asian man in a suit. Delia watches excitedly next to me, clasping her little hands together.
The first few hands are dog shit.
I’m down fifteen hundred before I start to get so pissed it heightens my focus.
Thank God for SEAL instincts. They take control when you need them the most.
I study every card, remembering the counting tricks my old buddy Joe loved to show us on lazy nights at base camps after wolfing down MRE chili that tasted like grease and sawdust.
Another hand.
Another sly look from the dealer.
Another bored, glassy glance from our friend in the suit.
The guy loses big when the dealer lays down more cards and he goes bust.
I’m up, down, and even, but the trend starts flipping my way.
Now, it’s time to go all in.
“Show me what you’re made of, big brother. You can do better,” Delia purrs in my ear, rubbing my arm. “Go big. All or nothing. We’ll get drinks to drown out the loss or celebrate at the fanciest place in town tonight.”
Ridiculous.
I side-eye her and snort.
I’m not made of money like her father, even if I agree with the sentiment. And I’ve never felt right about pulling too much from my trust fund either, and have Ma hold it over my head until hell freezes over.
With money, I had to get smart and fast, growing up and witnessing her slow-motion self-destruction.
