Page 23 of Betting Blind
We drove for hours in the old beater Ben had acquired when he was sixteen. When we made it to Mackville, it was clear we weren’t going to have enough money to survive off of for long and since I was sixteen at the time, I was limited to where I could work, and Ben became the main provider. We were so excited when Ben signed the lease to our first apartment. It was three hundred dollars a month for rent, in the worst part of town, but it was ours.
Ben worked full-time as a bartender and waiter. Sometimes he would work up to sixty-plus hours a week, and it got lonely in that little apartment all by myself. I squint my eyes and bang my head lightly against the tile of my shower in an attempt to forget what had happened.
It wasn’t long before he came rushing through the door one night, telling me to hurry and get dressed. I did as he asked, dressing quickly and staring at his back as we walked down the hall to the stairs of our musty old apartment building. I followed him—as I always did—to a place I would eventually come to despise but never truly be able to leave behind.
Thinking about my brother leaves a hollow void within me. He’s always been the caretaker and someone I’ve depended on my entire life. Now, he’s drowning in various vices and ignoring demons that can no longer be disregarded. The warning signs I’ve overlooked for so long scream at me to do something, only I’m not sure I can save him this time.
I shut the water off more forcefully than I intend and step out to dry myself. A few weeks ago, Derrick had brought to my attention that some cash has been disappearing from the register counts starting as far back as three months ago. We combed through the books all the way back to January of this year and found fifty dollars mysteriously disappearing almost weekly until it turned into one hundred and then two hundred dollars. Fast forward to June, and it’s still happening, but the discrepancies are getting larger.
Thankfully, Derrick is loyal and hasn’t said anything to anyone. The problem is, I’ve known about Ben stealing from me. I’ve been making excuses for my brother’s actions for months, trying to tell myself that maybe a few hundred dollars won’t hurt our bottom line too badly.
But I’ve completely drained my bank account in some instances to keep him from getting into debt with the wrong kind of people, and that’s not the only issue. Dangerous men live here in Mackville, hiding in the shadows and thriving on the debts of others. They won’t hesitate to take someone out in a back alley and off them.
I’ve seen it firsthand.
Enough is enough. I can’t let Ben steal from our business any longer. It would be an easier pill to swallow if I knew he was stealing to eat or survive, but he’s stealing our hard-earned cash to feed his addictions, and I won’t enable him any longer. I grab my phone off the counter as I dry myself and dial his number.
When it goes straight to voicemail, I leave him a message. “Dammit, Ben, I’m done. You’re going to have to figure out how to save yourself this time. Find someone else to steal from.”
A heavy sigh forces my shoulders to droop. For once in my life, I just want peace. Maybe even a little bit of happiness for fuck’s sake.
I find my thumb hovering over Cassidy’s name in my phone. The urge to call her is nearly unbearable—just to hear her voice and no doubt a snarky comment for calling so late. The charming blonde has done nothing but run laps through my mind lately, and call me old-fashioned, but the fact that she’s attractive is simply a bonus. She tests me and challenges me. It’s refreshing as hell and fun to boot, and maybe I was wrong about her. Maybe I’ve been wrong my entire life about the kind of woman I need. The more I get to know her, the closer she’s becoming my type.
Chapter 12
Cassidy
Crack.
The loud smack of pool balls echoes across the room, and I turn from my spot at the bar to nod at Teresa, the woman with a habit of body slamming men onto pool tables. We’ve become buddies in my time working here, and she’s gotten more comfortable talking to me lately.
I was horrified to find out that she had been sexually assaulted, which led her to take up intense training sessions and hours of self-defense classes. She ultimately joined the Wolves to have more security, but I don’t doubt she can handle her own.
In a past conversation, she’d told me,“You can’t always be the biggest person in the room, but you do have to be the toughest,”further forging my compassion for the woman.
“You’re getting along well with our regulars,” Jack says while he cleans an empty wine glass behind the bar. He’s changed shirts from his show earlier this evening, but his hair is still a bit wild. I sip on my light beer, staring at my blurred reflection in the mahogany wood of the bartop. It’s slow for a Friday night since most of our customers left after watching Jack perform and there’s hardly anyone around, giving us a little bit of privacy.
“Yeah, I suppose I am.” I scan over the bar space before passing across the rest of the room, and a dull ache settles in my chest.I’m going to miss it here.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?”
What was once a grungy, old bar I couldn’t wait to escape has now become my safe place. I mull his question over for a moment. “You know, for as long as I’ve been alive, I can’t think of a single time I’ve done something worth telling a story about.”
“Surely you and Juliana have some crazy stories together.” He leans over to place his elbows on the bar, and his woodsy scent surrounds me.
“Well, sure we do.”
“Tell me,” he says as I peek down the front of his shirt. The ink is too mottled for me to make out any distinct patterns, but the curiosity is killing me.
“One time, in seventh grade, we had a big sleepover at Juliana’s house. We invited at least ten other girls, and we concocted a plan to stay up all night and pull a prank on them. We thought we were so hilarious when we stole all their bras while they slept and then froze them in cups of water in the freezer.” I laugh so hard I snort, and he stares back with widening eyes. I tap my finger on the hard counter and lean forward, dropping my voice. “If you know any Mexican mommas, then you know they don’t play around. Carmen whooped our asses with herchanclathe next morning when she heard all the girls crying.”
His shoulders shake lightly as he chuckles, and the sound is deep and rewarding. “Chancla?”
“Yeah, it’s Spanish for sandal. Trust me, it hurts! She chased us all over the house, yelling in Spanish about what little shits we were.”
He smiles. “See, you have stories to tell.” I make a mental note to always keep this man smiling. It’s a breathtaking contrast to the permanent scowl he carries around.
“I guess, but it’s been me and Juliana for almost my entire life.” I swivel my chair so I’m facing the almost-barren space. “I want stories of my own.”
