Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Greg’s the only one that reacts, with a nod and a snort.
“What do you think?” Brigid turns her pleading eyes my way. “With forty-grand we could get our own place, a car… some more dogs…”
Right on cue my blind and deaf seventeen-year-old Pomeranian, Oscar, wakes from his place under the chair, stretches, then bumps into my dad’s leg. He pulls back his lips, baring his four remaining teeth on a growl. He hates men. Especially my dad.
“Wait!” Dad hops on one foot with his attention now more on Oscar than pity-guilting Brigid into the acting job. “No more dogs and—” Oscar nips at the back of his sandal as he hops away, lowering his voice, flicking his eyes back at the dog who is now wagging his tail at the wall. “Baby, I need that money.”
“I was joking,” Brigid says, rolling her wide, Bo Derek eyes.
“He could be here inside of an hour for a little audition,” Greg chimes in, heading the ship into shore, flashing a cripplingly white smile that shows off his new veneers.
Even if Brigid says no, the rest of the day will be filled with Dad brow-beating her until she gives in. Because with me, he knows that won’t work, but with her?
She’s got soft spots where mine have calloused over when it comes to our father.
A yes right now will just save time.
“Okay.” She sighs, throwing up her hands as I do the same on a huff.
“Thank you, thank you,” Dad says, then fist bumps Greg. “This is going to be great, just trust me, girls. Have I ever let you down?”
chapter two
Dietrich
One last deal, then I’m out.
If I live that long.
The concrete landing pad below wavers in the soul crushing Vegas heat. The rhythmic thump thump thump of the helicopter blades matches the pounding in my temples.
The chopper reeks of stale cigarette smoke and vomit. Sort of like most casino floors at four AM.
This month’s home base for me is the Presidential Suite at The Venetian with a high rollers pass to use the private elevators and back hallways that keep me from the incessant press of tourists that pack the massive hotel and casino every day of the year.
Hotel life suits me. My possessions fit into three large trunks along with a few suitcases and I’m comfortable in the orderly environment of a high-end hotel. Room service and a private concierge can bring you anything.
For a price.
A gambler’s life has treated me well, thanks in most part to my superhuman ability to read people.
Or, otherwise called, The Art and Science of Body Language.
It’s a horrible title for the book about my life I’ve been writing on and off for the last four years. One I’ll finish as soon as I secure this last deal and who knows? Maybe there’s a Hemingway inside me waiting to be set free.
Less the suicide. And the drinking. And the divorces.
Okay, never mind Hemingway.
I open and close my left hand as the helicopter shakes around me. The aching in my knuckles is from a little lesson I delivered in the basement of an abandoned warehouse a few days ago. The blood washes off but as the years pile on, the pain takes longer to subside. My morals may be painted in shades of gray, but there are things I do not tolerate.
One of them is hurting animals.
The other is selling humans. Especially children.
I took it upon myself to cut a lock open on the back of a U-haul a couple weeks ago that was sitting in a vacant lot waiting for some flesh peddler to pick up his cargo.
Fucking mafioso fuckers I’d worked with successfully in the past decided to get deep into a new revenue stream and I caught some intel on an incoming ‘shipment’.
I should have stayed at the blackjack table talking to this rich lady who couldn’t stop staring at my cock. Margaret Malcom. Her husband died couple years ago without a pre-nup and she took control of nine figures of cash and other assets as well as some high up contacts.
I could have swindled her out of a few hundred grand there and then, but dumb fuck that I am, I pocketed her info for use at a later date and made my way into the stink of the Vegas night to set twenty-eight people free.
Wasn’t my smartest move. My years of doing profitable business with the Zeneli fuckers bought me an out but it’s one chance and if I don’t bring it in, I may get away now, but those guys are like bedbugs. They’ll wait you out for years but eventually, eventually they get their pound of flesh. Or in my case, as Zeneli said, he’ll feed my heart to his beloved white tiger.
Named Cruella.
Fucking dipshit.
Fuck this hot as fuck town with its shitty tasting water and everyone trying to out-rich everyone else.