Page 4 of Grift

Patrick

The wide, grand marble staircase sweeps up into event space where the gala’s being held. It’s the most expensive event space in the casino per square foot, Callan likes to say. The lux ballroom is blanketed with rich red velvet carpet and poised beneath the gaudiest crystal chandelier New England has ever seen.

I fucking hate this staircase.

It’s just another detail architected by James Carney, making a quiet entrance or even a god damned normal meet and greet impossible.

The collar of this my tuxedo feels like it’s choking me, and the braised skin on my knuckles burns. Not all the adrenaline is out of my system, but I’m already feeling bad.

Not bad for beating up that cheating piece of shit.

Bad for not doing my homework. For being sloppy. For creating hassles for my father and for my brother Callan to clean up. And maybe, if I’m honest, for always falling back on violence like there’s no other way. What else could I have done? I honestly don’t know.

But the Carneys have enough fuck ups, and my name’s not on that list. Not usually, anyways. There might have been a solution that didn’t involve sending the guy to the emergency room, or blowing up our relationship with our biggest investor. My bad temper and fast fists are quickly moving from asset to liability.

A silver-haired man and a woman young enough to be his daughter stop me on my way up, raving over the casino. He can’t say enough about the beautiful chandelier, making me hate him instantly.

It takes a minute before I recognize him. His son and I played football together at Boston College.

That feels like far more than a decade ago. I’d hardly been innocent by that point – there’s no way to grow up in this family and really keep your innocence – but I hadn’t witnessed the full scope of Carney ruthlessness yet either. A lifetime of darkness had filled the years between then and now, changing who I was from an impulsive but happy kid into the man I am today.

Violent. Dark. Not able to keep control or feel a fucking normal thing.

As the man talks, I can’t force images of my time at BC away. I’d majored in business and gotten a partial football scholarship. Woman, sports, and classes I found easy. They were good years.

“How the hell are you, Patrick? Nice place you guys have built,” the man’s saying, fake smile never faltering. “Do you keep in touch with my son at all?”

The son’s a doctor on the west coast now, he says, and the father created some kind of teeth whitening treatment that he franchised and made a mint. The wife flashes me a smile that’s two shades brighter than blinding, just to underscore the point. It’s too close to the smile I just smashed in, driving a nail in the coffin lid of my shitty mood.

The gala is being held in the ballroom, an opulent space that’s the worst of new money and the best of casino glitz mashed into one. In Vegas, it would be table stakes. It Boston, it’s so over the top and hideous I can’t help but grin.

A grin that quickly fades.

I fucked up tonight, and that’s going to have consequences. I’d hurt a man, a fact I can face head on. But one that leaves me numb. I should feel something. The images of that violence – or the thought of their repercussions – should be setting my teeth on edge. Instead, I just feel dark and weighted down by it all.

That’s when I see her.

There’s a spotlight pointed directly at one of the paintings on the wall, and a young woman is staring at it intently. A backless ivory silk gown hugs devastating curves, falling to the floor in a sweeping line. Her long chestnut hair is loose in waves down her back. She is stunning, almost aristocratic with strong carved features and flawless skin highlighted in profile. There’s a halo of light spilling out in a circle on the floor around her.

It’s an arresting sight.

She’s so striking that I nearly miss a beat climbing the stairs and keeping the volley of empty conversation moving.

The light, the dress, and the innocent expression of pure immersion as she studies the art, open curiosity molding her kissable lips into an unconscious smile. She’s almost angelic.

The thought catches me off guard. Nothing angelic survives for long in the orbit of the Carneys. Even the purest things quickly corrupt and fester.

It’s the strangest thing: an urge to protect this woman slams into me, even though I can’t see anything putting her in danger other than the admiring glances of men old enough to be her grandfather. They’re circling like fucking sharks.

Part of me wants to walk straight over to her, slide my hand along the silky white skin of her naked back and escort her out of the casino. Put her in a car – any car – and send her away from here before she’s marked by any of the filth around her.

Marked and darkened by me.

One glance shows me at least three rich assholes moving closer, like wolves collectively hunting a sheep. I don’t fucking think so. Not her. Not here. Not tonight.

When I sharply change directions and head toward the woman in white, I’d be lying if I say I have better intensions than the other men soaking her in. I hunt. She’s the hunted.

The protective, possessive instinct that I feel – the slight easing on my chest when I glare at the old men and they fall back. I don’t think about that, except to hope that it will keep me honest. Maybe some of that angelic innocence is just what I need.

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