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I have to keep my mouth shut. I hate it, but it’s my situation. Erick might be into me, and we might have something real, but that doesn’t mean he could pass up the chance to catch my father.
Would that be so bad?
Dad did feed me to the wolves. He robbed those casino barons and ran off, knowing full well they’d come after his family—which means me, since there’s nobody else.
Dear old Dad deserves to be shot in the head for that.
After everything, I still love him. I can’t help it. He’s all I’ve ever had, aside from Grandmom. Despite everything, I don’t want my father to get murdered, even if he kind of deserves it.
I get out of bed, shower, get dressed. I have other options. I could skip the meeting entirely, chalk it up to bad luck and bad timing, but there’s something about the message that’s bothering me.
The email is a huge, huge risk.
The fact that he sent it at all means this meeting is important.
Dad needs to tell me something—and he’s risking his life to do it.
Even coming to an off-Strip casino is a massive gamble. Dad’s good at getting around unnoticed, but still. He could’ve disappeared overseas somewhere, ran off to Indonesia, Singapore, freaking Siberia. Instead, he’s coming to Vegas, or he’s still in Vegas, and he wants to talk.
I need to go if it’s even remotely possible.
Which leaves me with one final option.
Escape.
The problem is, I don’twantto escape. All the reasons I’m enjoying myself here still remain. The comfort, the time, the focus on my art. Hell, even Erick.
If I tried to get away, he’d be heartbroken.
I still don’t see another option.
I head downstairs for breakfast. Marina’s there as always. She brings me coffee and a newspaper, one of my only connections to the outside world. I try to read it, but mostly I’m thinking about my shitty situation. A plate of eggs and toast appears, but Marina doesn’t walk off. Instead, she looks down at me, one hand on her hip.
“Erick asked me to ask you if there’s anything you want from the store tomorrow.”
I blink at her, surprised. “Uh, I don’t know. I didn’t realize I got a say in that.”
“Normally, you don’t.” She scowls. “I like to do shopping myself, but he insists. Says you seem down, and maybe some comfort food will make you happy again. I told him, I cook you comfort food. You want comfort, I can comfort. He insisted. Here we are.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying not to smile. “Anything I want?”
“Anything but canned soup. You want soup? I’ll make soup. You want chicken noodle? I’ll make chicken noodle soup so good you’ll take a bath in the stuff. Canned soup is banned from this house. It should be banned from the world.”
“Oreos. Please.”
“Fine. Little sugar cookies. I can do that.” Her scowl deepens. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s okay.” I hesitate a second. “What time are you leaving?”
“Morning,” she says. “I’ll have quince in the refrigerator for you. Coffee made and ready. But I go early, get back early.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Fine. Tell me if you think of something.” She softens as she returns to her stove. “Canned soup. It should be illegal.”
“I agree,” I say, grinning to myself.
A plan takes shape. It’s a stupid idea. I’ll get myself killed if I actually try to do it. But I’m desperate and out of options, which means a stupid way forward is better than sitting around doing nothing.
