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“Do you have a tux?”
“I can borrow one from Rush.”
“So, I’ll see you in an hour?”
“Perfect.”
This “thing”his gran is hosting turns out to be a games night. And not the type of games night we have in Big-Boned Bertha; there are no Monopoly boards here.
Émile drives us to what looks like a seedy basement bar in downtown, but when we walk downstairs and through the heavily guarded front entrance, we walk into something out of a Bond film.
Dark wood walls enclose a room dimly lit by a few enormous chandeliers. Hundreds of people in tuxes and fuckinggownsgather at tables hosting poker and roulette and black jack. Screens toward the back have yet more games running on them, and the whole area is filled with loud conversations and the smell of cigar smoke.
My eyebrows are at my hairline as I turn to Émile. “Is this legal?”
His eyes pinch in the corners as he surveys the room. “When you’re rich, everything is legal.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s best you don’t think about it too deeply.” His hand finds mine. “So what shall we dump buckets of money on first?”
“Well, do we have to play?”
“We don’t, but it helps to avoid conversation.”
“In that case … black jack looks easy enough.”
He pulls me in the direction of those tables, before I tug him to a stop. “I don’t … have, uh—”
Émile holds up his free hand. “You’re doing this for me so of course I’m not going to allow you to spend your own money. And don’t try to argue with me on that point, because you’ll lose. You’re here now.” He boops me on the nose. “Try to enjoy all this, because once I give my money away, I’ll be cutting ties. I’ll have my trust, but I’d prefer not to use it.”
It’s lucky the room is so loud and no one is paying us attention. “Then I guess that makes two of us.”
“And that’s still okay with you?”
The fact he’s even asking me that question hurts. Not for me, but for him. He’s worth so much more than that. “Will we be happy?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“Then I think we’ll be okay.”
This time, I let him drag me to the table and we do exactly what Émile said—lose a lot of fucking money. I’m terrible at it, he barely knows what he’s doing, and the whole time we’re playing, I do what he said and try not to think too hard about it. The amount of money in this room could pay off mine and all my friends’ debts tenfold, but none of these people care about us. That money would never have made its way into our pockets. And while it’s a stupid, corrupt system that allows people like this to treat money so carelessly, while the rest of us suffer, I remind myself of why I’m here.
I’ve got myself a good one, and he’s actuallywantingto make real change.
Even though we try our hardest to avoid conversations, people catch up with Émile anyway. They ask about wedding dates and my play, when Émile’s planning to head back overseas and will I go with him.
“Having fun playing off Emmy’s money, eh?” Clifford asks, concerningly red in the cheeks as he gulps down his wine.
The question turns my stomach, but Émile jumps in before I can.
“The opposite, actually. I’m milking Christian of all he’s worth. Soon he’ll be a pauper and we’ll have to move into state-funded housing. Could you imagine?”
Clifford lets out a choking sound.
“You’ll still visit us there, won’t you?”
“Certainly not.”
