Page 5 of Isaac

"Mr. Blumberg, sir. How can I help you?" he rattles off, then looks at me. "Mr. Thoreau."

Georgie ignores him, going straight for the monitors. "I need you to pull up the footage from the high roller tables, yesterday between ten and midnight."

The guard nods and gets to work, fingers flying over the keyboard. The screens flicker as he searches through hours of archived footage.

I stand behind him, arms crossed, watching the blur of images intently. Georgie hovers nearby, practically vibrating with nervous energy.

Finally, after several minutes of waiting, The Fat Fuck gestures to move closer.

The security guard offers his chair to me and steps aside. I don't know if it'll save the guy from Georgie giving him an earful later on.

But the truth is—Georgie isn't great with people. He doesn't care about creating the conditions that are workable for his team. And that's one of the most important things in this business. But who am I to tell the older family members what they should do? I've been out just over two years. Haven't earned my stripes. Not yet.

"Watch closely," Georgie murmurs, hitting play.

I focus my attention on the screen, watching the high rollers losing a shit ton of money at one of the tables.

"You know this guy?" Georgie jabs his fat, ringed finger into the screen when some shady-looking dude in his mid-thirties starts chatting up one of the high rollers. He's skinny with a thin goatee. Light shirt. Dark jeans. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I study the image carefully. "Never seen him before."

"Look it here now." Then Georgie instructs the guard to pull up whatever footage he has available from the elevator and the penthouse just past midnight.

I watch.

The same high roller stumbles into the room. Ten minutes later, the elevator doors slide open and I see a girl who looks no older than twelve or thirteen. Her body isn't even fully developed.

My stomach twists.

I blame it on the fact that I forgot to eat breakfast today but deep down I know it's not it. It's the girl.

She is led inside the penthouse by the same dude with a goatee, dress short and flashy to ensure everything that's needed is on display. The makeup is too bright—probably to conceal her real age. But I'm not dumb. I know the difference between a grown person and a child and this is a child. Some old drunk motherfucker is buying a child for the night.

"Who do they work for?" I hiss out, my voice barely more than a whisper.

"No idea," Georgie replies, his face all contorted. "But they don't belong in my casino, cuz. I never allowed this fool to bring his merch around."

His casino.

Huh.

"Find out who he is and who told him he could conduct business on the Thoreau property," I order, clenching my fist at my side, struggling to keep the anger bubbling just beneath the surface in check.

But it's too late. I can feel cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. The air is suddenly too suffocating here and I think I need to throw up.

Meanwhile, Georgie goes off on his security guard, pissed about the usage of a personal device while on the clock.

"Let me know when you have the info," I choke out and dash through the door.

I don't have to be listening to his drivel.

In the hallway, when Georgie can't see me, I press my palms against my eyes as if I can block out the images the security footage has just unearthed. But I can't really be seen out of control. Not even by the Eclipse employees. Because one day Iwant to run the casino too. If rumors of Isaac Thoreau being a fucking emotional pussy spread, I can kiss my dream goodbye.

Hell no.

As I make my way through the second floor and toward the staff restrooms where I'm hoping to get a moment of quiet, the cacophony of slot machines and laughter coming from below only serves to heighten my mounting anxiety.

My breathing is shallow and rapid as I push the door to the restroom open. It slams against the tiled wall and the sound cracks through my head. I'm desperate for some semblance of solitude. But even in this quiet space, my mind refuses to let go of the images.

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