by Vivian Wood
The same booth where Jonathan Scott once ordered pie. A coincidence?
Swallowing down my disgust I sit on the hard booth, trying not to think about who once sat here. I know a million people have been here since then. A million people before him. It doesn’t stop the shiver that runs down my spine.
“Why didn’t we go to Gabriel’s house?” I ask, my voice low.
“This is closer,” Damon says, which is true.
But not the whole truth. “I won’t be going back there, will I?”
“Why would you? There’s no threat to you anymore.”
Jessica leaves the kitchen and sees us, her eyes wide. She grabs two mugs and a coffee pot from the counter, bringing them straight over. “What can I get you?” she asks, keeping her tone neutral. As if she doesn’t know how huge it is that I’m here with him.
“We’ll have a slice of pie,” Damon says, his voice clipped.
My breathing speeds up. This doesn’t feel coincidental. The same booth. The same order. Damon isn’t making me prepare his coffee, but this still feels like history repeating.
“Are you sure that’s all?” Jessica asks, her gaze meeting mine.
She’s asking if I need help. The offer sends a needle through my heart. We both know there’s not much she could do if I did need help, but it’s sweet to have friends.
“That’s all,” I tell her, forcing a small smile.
When she leaves there’s only silence. The muted shout of Ruth Mae as she gives Jackson grief. How many times have I heard those things? It feels so strange to be here, like I’m a puzzle piece that’s gotten wet, the cardboard expanded. I don’t quite fit anymore.
“How long were you in that place?”
“We staked it out for a week before he came back. There was a short struggle, but we had the upper hand.”
“So you’ve been torturing him for two weeks?”
He looks at me sharply, as if surprised I would mention something so indelicate, despite the fact that he still smells faintly of something burnt. “And would have gone on longer, if you hadn’t shown up.”
“Am I supposed to apologize?” I ask, feeling defensive.
“No,” he says, dismissing the idea. “That’s not necessary.”
I hate the tone he’s using with me, like I’m beneath his notice or care. It’s so far away from the low, seductive voice he gave me all those nights. But as much as his tone bothers me, his silence hurts worse. All the things he isn’t telling me. Leaving me in the dark.
Stripping away my dignity, exactly like his father did in this very booth.
“What happens now?” I ask, digging my nails into my palms.
Neither of us have touched the coffee mugs.
Jessica returns, giving me a worried glance as she sets down a slice of pie. Blueberry this time. Neither of us acknowledge it. After a quick nervous look at Damon, she returns to the kitchen.
“You can go back to your life,” Damon says, as casually as talking about the weather.
Once upon a time those words would have been met with relief. Now I can’t imagine anything more horrible. Not even green tiles and black water are worse than this. “What?”
“I’ve taken care of your father’s other debts,” he adds, like that’s my only objection.
“No.”
There’s a weighted pause, as if Damon’s giving me time to reflect on my disobedience. This is what he’s become all those days torturing his father, becoming him. Losing that final battle.
“I don’t believe you have a choice,” he says lightly.
“You said I would be yours. Yours to keep.”
“For as long as I want,” he says agreeably. “Time’s up.”
It shouldn’t be so hard to breathe outside the water. At least my gasp is silent, my pain private. “You said I would be yours to protect.”
“And you’re safe now. You can run back to your little boyfriend. What was his name? Brandon?”
“Brennan,” I say, tears stinging my eyes.
“Right. I’m sure he would love to fix your intimacy issues and give you a couple babies. You can live happily ever after.”
“That’s not what I want,” I say, my voice low.
“Oh, my sweet Penny. Where did you get the idea that matters?”
Chapter Twenty-One
“You have to eat something,” Daddy says, pushing a dry hot dog in front of me.
I swear to God everyone wants me to eat, as if food can fix this gaping hole inside me. As if it has anything to do with the way my body has shifted and grown and changed.
The edge of the hot dog has turned white from being in the microwave too long. The ketchup has slid down the crack of the bun, forming a pool on the plate. Nothing about this is appetizing, even if I were hungry. Except that Daddy made this for me.
A hundred nights he was gone playing card games, leaving me to scrounge for food, to learn to work the stove before I really should have. All I’d wanted was this, a dry hot dog that he would make for me.
I force myself to take a bite. Somehow it tastes worse than it looks.
Chew. Swallow. Act like a person.
Daddy’s eyes are wide with hope and worry. “If you don’t like it I can bring something else.”
“No,” I say, a little loud. “No, this is perfect. Thank you.”
The truth is he’s been nothing but supportive ever since Damon dropped me off at the door, like an errant lost puppy he was returning to its owner. Daddy fell over himself apologizing to me, swearing things would be different. At the time I had been too numb and too cold to even run through the ordinary thoughts—don’t believe him, Penny. It will only be worse when he gambles again.
Except he didn’t gamble again. Not in the three weeks I’ve been home.
That might not sound like much, but once upon a time it would have been a miracle.
Now it’s a curiosity. A concern, even. Who is this man?
When I’ve eaten half the hot dog, I push the plate away. My stomach threatens to revolt if I don’t stop. “When is the big game?” I finally bring myself to ask.
He freezes in the act of putting ketchup in the fridge. “What game?”
Guilt burns like acid inside me, because he looks so pained. So ashamed. I don’t want to make him feel bad. That’s how dark and twisted family makes you. You’re desperate to console them even when they’ve hurt you.
“The game you used me to buy in.”
He flinches. “I’m so sorry, Penny. I never should have done that. Your mother—”
There’s a whirlpool inside me, a constant and wild swirl that’s been there ever since Damon walked away from me. And for a moment, everything goes still. “What about her?”
“She would have killed me,” he says, sitting down heavily at the kitchen table. His knee still bothers him, but he doesn’t use the cane. It sits by the door instead, a wishful-thinking weapon in case Jonathan Scott comes back.
For so many years I tried not to think of Mama in that bathtub. And when I saw Jonathan Scott hanging from the ceiling of that mental hospital, I couldn’t stop thinking of her. They didn’t look alike, not in those moments, not before. There was only a kind of helpless self-destruction to both of them. They had not sunk to the bottom of the lake; they had both dived in head first.
“She wouldn’t have cared,” I say softly.
“Oh, Penny. What she did… she was sick. And I wasn’t strong enough to help her.”
Not while he was busy battling his own addiction. Not while he was making his own dive. Maybe Damon Scott and I are destined to repeat history, each of us too wrapped up in our own pain to help the other swim. I already know I can’t rely on him. Or Daddy.
Brennan came to see me three times now. He looked ashen the first two visits, unable to fully meet my eyes. I thought maybe he considered me damaged goods. He wouldn’t have been wrong.
“You don’t have to come again,” I told him the third time, gently because I wasn’t angry.
He glanced at me, his eyes wide with grief. “I’m not sure I can be your friend anymore.”
The words startle me. “What?”
“I know you wanted that from me, so I didn’t push. I didn’t—but I did want more, Penny. I want that now. To marry you and make it so you never see Damon Scott again. Do you want that?”
I could have relied on him, but I couldn’t hurt him that way. I couldn’t lie.
No, the only person I can rely on is myself. “The poker game,” I remind Daddy.
He shakes his head, fierce and quick. “Damon took over the game, after Jonathan Scott—” A cough that I’m not sure is a queasy stomach or genuine sickness. He hasn’t been well. “After Jonathan Scott disappeared. He said all the previous buy-ins were now considered contributions to his father’s funeral.”
My eyes widen. “He can do that?”
A helpless shrug. “Someone could challenge him, but I doubt they’d survive long that way.”
“Then it’s over.”
“It’s over,” he says firmly. “He’s setting up another game, another buy-in, but I’m not interested. Okay, that’s not entirely true. I’m interested, but I’m going to stay strong. Like I should have done a long time ago. There’s no chance I’ll enter.”
Another game. Another chance. “We’re going.”
His face goes pale. “Penny, why? To watch? I shouldn’t. I can’t. Even though I’m trying to be strong… I have a ways to go. I’m afraid I’ll slip back into that life. And if you’re interested in Damon Scott, you should know—”
“I’m not,” I say quickly, not wanting to hear one of the million reasons that would be dumb. Which reason would he pick to tell me? That the man is ten years older than me, gorgeous, wealthy, and could have any woman he wants? Or that he’s a dangerous criminal?
Or maybe he would say what he means every time he pushes more food at me, his tone careful, his eyes filled with regret. That I’m damaged goods, after all. Ruined.
I put my hand on his. “I want to enter this. I want to play. Well, you’ll play. I’ll help.”
He looks bewildered. “Why?”
“Because we’ll split the pot.”
“Money isn’t a good reason,” he says. “I should know.”
“It’s the only way I can control what happens to me. It’s the only way I can be free.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
I knew the Den would be packed, but it’s still shocking to see it lit up and sparkling, so different from how dark and bloody I saw it last. Yellow light spills from the door, which stands open. Two bouncers stand on either side, as large as professional football players. Maybe they actually are professional football players. They’re wearing suits which had to have been custom made. No way does anything that broad in the chest and arms come off a rack.
They’re checking names off a list.
Some of the people clutch a cream vellum invitation with calligraphy, as if to prove that they’re allowed. Apparently their elegant gowns and tuxes wouldn’t be proof enough. I’m sure no one gets in if their identity isn’t confirmed.
“We won’t get in,” I say, my heart squeezing.
I knew it would be a bumpy road convincing Damon to let us play, hiding the counting and the signals, but it aches to be stopped so early. That game means college-level math classes and professional addiction therapy for Daddy. It means freedom from ever being bartered again.
“Let’s try,” Daddy says, but I know he’s secretly relieved we’ll be stopped.
He thinks Damon Scott is just as bad as his father. I tell him it’s not true, but that sounds like a lie. He looked so much like Jonathan Scott at the end, his eyes more pale and shimmery than ever. Like a cold, unfeeling monster. And then he’d left me, his eyes as impassive and stone-black as the water in that pool.
Exactly the opposite of what Damon Scott had been to me.
“Penny,” calls a feminine voice.
I turn to see Avery in a glittering gown that hugs her slender body. She looks like a celebrity stepping out of the limo. Gabriel emerges in a tux, growling about safety and letting him go first. The rough sidewalk could be a red carpet when they stroll over.
She grins at me. “You look lovely.”
I glance down at my black dress. There are sequins on it, which is the only nod to fanciness I had. Manufactured sparkle. Fake gems. And the saddest part is that the dress isn’t even mine. I borrowed it from Jessica. Give me something that will help me blend in with rich people.
“Thanks,” I say weakly. “I’m not sure we’ll get in.”
“I didn’t know you’d be here.”
My confidence wavers. “I…I have to talk to Damon.”
“Oh,” she says, hooking her elbow in mine. “You can come in with us.”
“There’s security. And they look… strong.”
“Gabriel will get us in,” she says, sure of him with a serenity that makes me blush.
Gabriel leans forward and whispers a few words in one of the bouncer’s ear. Then I’m ushered inside, Daddy following on our heels. One hurdle down. At least a hundred to go.
The crowd glitters in the large foyer, large gemstones sparkling from their necks, champagne glasses in their hands. Many of them turn to look at Gabriel Miller when we enter. Most of the women check him out. Some of the men, too. He cuts a handsome figure in his tux, his wild mane of hair and rare golden eyes compelling.
But only one man captures my attention, all the way in the back of the crowd, lurking in the shadows. Black eyes meet mine, glinting from the chandeliers.
Gabriel Miller is as bold as thunder, rumbling, unmistakable.
Damon Scott is lightning, so bright he’ll blind you. They’re both forces of nature but only one will kill you just to touch him. Only one will burn you in a flash.
Damon pushes through the crowd, more furious than I’ve ever seen him. “What are you doing here?”
The chatter stops almost completely, everyone watching us. Embarrassment turns my cheeks red. I don’t belong here, but this is my only chance. “I’m with my father. He’s playing tonight.”
“Like hell he is,” Damon says, glaring at Gabriel. “Did you bring them?”
“I took them in off the streets, if that’s what you mean,” Gabriel says in a slow drawl, clearly entertained by his friend’s fury.
“We took a cab,” I say, my fingers clenching together.
“Get out,” Damon says, eyes on me.
Acid rises in my throat. This is it. More than the game is at stake here. We’re at stake. Him. Me. Whatever twisted future we might have, when I’m a woman and he’s a man. “I’ll go,” I whisper.
“Not you,” he says sharply. “Everyone else.”
There are gasps and whispers. A few drunken protests.
He glances at Gabriel. “Kick them out. Or let them play, for all I care. I’m done here.”
With that he grasps my wrist, his grip firm but not bruising.
Despite his words I expect him to throw me out into the street. Or maybe take me to the private room with the small card table. What I don’t expect is for him to pull me up the stairs. I already know what’s here. I’ve been here before, carried in his arms. His bedroom.
There must be other rooms up here. We’re going to one of them.
But I know, even before we stop outside his bedroom. Before he crosses the threshold, taking me with him. Before he locks the door with an old-fashioned skeleton key.
There’s only one place he would take me tonight.
“All right,” he says, his tone casual. “Let’s play.”
“I want to play in the big game,” I say, my voice shaking.
“You don’t think I’m big enough?” he asks, his voice mocking.
“The grand prize. That’s what I need to win.”
“I thought you weren’t playing. It was dear old Dad who’s going to play, right? With you as his wager. Surely you weren’t going to help him in any illegal manner.
”
My hands are shaking. My whole body shakes. I’m an earthquake in the form of a young woman. “Fine, then I’ll play myself. I’ll be my own wager.”
“So that you can count cards?” he asks softly. “That isn’t allowed.”
“How will you know?” I say, my throat dry.
“We don’t have to know,” he says. “That’s what you don’t seem to understand. We only have to think you’re counting cards, and that’s enough to break your knees.”
I flinch. “Then I won’t count them.”
“You won’t be able to stop yourself. You and I both know that.”
He’s right about that. I won’t be able to stop any more than I can stop breathing or existing or wanting this man I shouldn’t. “Then I really can’t play.”
“Oh, I didn’t say that. We’ll definitely play. Not in the big game, though. We’ll have a private one, you and I.” Walking over to a small circular table with two chairs, he pulls something from his pocket. A deck of cards, the box unopened. It lands on the gleaming wood surface. “Strip poker.”
Shock renders me speechless. “What?”
“Strip,” he says, pausing enough to make me flush. “Poker. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”
Of course I’ve heard of it.
The boys are always asking the girls to play at parties. It’s not really a game. Not a real wager. The only goal is to get undressed. To find an empty room upstairs and have sex.
“No,” I say.
He nods. “That’s perfectly fine. If you don’t want to play, you don’t have to.”
My heart stops. “Wait.”
“Yes?” he asks, all distant politeness.
“I want to play. But not strip poker. Something else.” I’m desperate, knowing I’m already beaten. “Blackjack. Rummy. Anything.”
He smiles, but it’s not sweet. It’s a cold smile, beautiful in its sparseness. “Take it or leave it, baby.”
All of this is wrong. We should be downstairs. I should be on the sidelines, helping Daddy move to the next round. Damon should be running the show like a ringmaster, casually debonair. Controlling the whole room with a calculated smile.