Chapter 10
TEN
Agent Dad
LILA
If you need me, I’ll be here, super-duper excited for another glorious day of barely hanging on by a thread.
Only on the casino floor for ten minutes, and my blood pressure has already shot through the roof. One glimpse of him was all it took. It’s too much to ask for Reed to be a hallucination, isn’t it?
On the bright side, he isn’t hanging around my table. In fact, nobody’s playing blackjack yet. I hate working the early shift. The tips are terrible because of how slow it is.
However, I was worried about Kenzie being alone at night, so I swapped my schedule to be home with her before it gets dark. Just for a while until she’s less skittish.
Only now I’m bored at work, which gives me more time to obsess about the nightmare that won’t ever end.
What would Silas do if I quit my job? Would he finally leave Kenzie and me alone?
After all, I wouldn’t have anything to offer him and his band of merry men if I weren’t in close proximity to thousands upon thousands of dollars.
Then he could flip right off.
His words run through my head as I mindlessly shuffle the decks and reload the shoe.
We’ve got more work to do, Lila. You aren’t done until I say you are.
He wants me to ask for more shifts at the craps tables. No clue how he plans to cheat at that game. Witchcraft? Nano technology? Weighted dice, probably. But that’s all monitored so closely. I’m sure there’s a way, but I don’t want any part of it.
Something’s gotta give. I cannot keep doing this.
I’m not built to be a criminal. I’m a simple gal who loves birds and taking naps. I was made for the sheets, not the streets.
My body is exhausted from living in a constant state of panic. I barely sleep. Can’t eat more than a few bites here and there. I’ve dropped two pant sizes, which would normally be fantastic news. But I don’t want to lose weight this way.
I’d rather be fat and happy than thin and miserable.
Related, I’d like to flick the biggest of middle fingers at my genetics.
Honestly, I’ve tried to lose weight the right way for my entire life.
Eating like a rabbit, exercising until I collapse, drinking so much water I might float away, getting adequate sleep, doing yoga, manifesting, and meditating.
I’ve tried acupuncture, weight loss hypnosis, injections, and spent thousands on supplements.
Sure, I lost weight with some of those approaches.
A few pounds over long, laborious periods of time. But it always comes back.
Always.
But now? I’m losing weight every day without even trying. Far more than I ever have before. And that really grinds my gears.
Gah. Dark thoughts like these are gonna have me in the fetal position under my table if I keep this up.
Come on, Lila. Think happy thoughts.
I wonder if I could change my name, move to the Bahamas, and live out my days braiding hair by the cruise terminal.
I’ll wear a bathing suit made of coconut shells and palm fronds when I’m lazing on the beach.
And then I’ll find a man with a delicious accent who loves my bubble butt, lives to serve me pina coladas, and has the biggest hammock on the island.
Maybe he’ll feed me grapes, then rub gobs and gobs of sunscreen all over my body.
He’ll ravish me every night under the stars while a steel drum band plays in the distance.
I peruse the room casually, looking for Reed. Although I can’t see him, I know he’s here, which likely means he’s finally ready to face me again. More injustice I’ll soon suffer through. None of this would happen in the Bahamas.
Why am I searching the room this way? I don’t want to see Reed.
Except I do want to see him, and that grinds my gears too.
Sadly, when I picture myself on that beach in the coconut shell bra, I’m not dancing into the arms of a dark-skinned islander. It’s Reed flipping Hayes, holding the sunscreen and thrusting his hips.
He’s infiltrated my fantasies now.
Always has, I suppose.
I can’t stop thinking about how soft his lips were. How he tasted when he worked his tongue over mine. And how good his thick cock felt in my grip, as fleeting as the moment was.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him raking his hungry eyes over me in the kitchen the other night. Skimming his hands along my shoulder and setting off butterflies in my stomach.
And those dimples.
I abhor how much I want him.
While I’m flipping off my body chemistry for the weight loss thing, I’ll shoot a big ol’ bird at my hormones for their craptacular taste in men and the unfortunate weakness for dimples.
Stupid hormones.
A distinguished man wearing glasses, a dress shirt, and a necktie approaches my table. “Mind if I sit?”
My lips curve instantly, a giant smile overtaking my face. “Absolutely. Please do.”
Yes, please sit and save me from my internal lamenting.
He makes no move for his wallet or pockets, and I don’t see any chips. Maybe he’s new to this. Not everyone knows casino protocol. Newbies tend to come during off-hours like this, when their lack of knowledge is less likely to annoy the high rollers.
Finishing my boredom shuffle, I tap the cards against the side of the shoe to straighten them, then grab the yellow card used for cutting the deck. “Are you a big blackjack player?”
“Nope. Never gambled a day in my life. Unless you count my pal’s monthly poker game.”
“It’s slow now, so it would be my pleasure to teach you.” He doesn’t object or comment, so I continue. “First lesson is to cut the deck before I put the cards back in the dealing shoe.”
His pleasant expression warms me to him instantly. By the time I show him how to cut the deck by placing the yellow card where he wants it, my smile is no longer forced.
Sheesh. My daddy issues are out of control lately. Probably since my life is crumbling. Even a smile is enough to make me feel gooey inside. In no time flat, I’ll be hanging on his every word and asking him to take me out for ice cream.
For clarity, I don’t mean daddy issues in a sexual context.
Far as I know, I don’t have those. Instead, I have the type where I greedily slurp the briefest hints of kindness from every older man I meet.
I need them all to like me, and if they do, I instantly fall in love with them.
Again, not in a sexual way. It’s the I-never-had-a-father-who-was-kind-to-me way. Whatever you call that type.
Pathetic, maybe?
He squints at my name tag. “Lila. That’s a beautiful name.”
My shoulders roll back, and my heart goes pitter-patter. “Thank you. And you are?” I begin lowering the cards into the shoe.
“I’m Special Agent Warren Andrews. FBI.”
My hands turn into weapons of deck destruction. Cards go flying over my head, raining down on both of us before scattering across the table and floor.
“Wow. Is that part of the game?” he asks, chuckling adorably and grinning like the dickens.
Gah. Get a grip, Lila. This isn’t the time for a dumb dad crush. It’s a trap!
He’s the flippity flapping FBI.
I bet he works with Reed. And the dirty, dimple-having rat must have sent him over to mess with me.
“Sorry! I don’t know what happened,” I fib. “Brand new cards. Slippery little suckers.”
That’s total BS. All the cards are new here. We get new ones daily and sometimes twice a day.
My floorman notices the chaos that is my life and runs over to assist in cleanup efforts. “You okay, Lila?”
I scramble to pick up the cards as frantically as possible. “Yep. Fine. Um.” The burn in my cheeks quickly spreads down my throat and upper chest. I can’t even finish the sentence, so I don’t bother.
Mortification is my daddy now.
“I’ll get you two new decks,” he tells me once he sees I’ve got it under control.
Although the cards I dropped are about to be sent to the landfill, I keep straightening them and start shuffling again. Anything to avoid making eye contact with the federal freaking agent at my table.
My floorman returns with new cards, and I begin inspecting them, spreading them across the table and dutifully following my procedures.
The agent softly taps his open palm on the table to get my attention. “Sorry if I startled you, Lila.”
I can’t remember his name, so we’re going with Agent Dad.
Pausing my efforts, I force my eyes to meet his. “You didn’t. I was just clumsy.”
He narrows his eyes to slits and grins at me. “We can pretend that’s true if you want. I didn’t come here to upset you.”
My response shoots out of my mouth at the same speed that the cards spring from my hands earlier. “Why did you come here?”
“I want to talk to you about Silas Everson and Elliot Riddick.”
Not this again.
“Why?” I chirp.
Don’t judge me for making bird sounds, okay? I’m planning to fly away as soon as I sprout wings.
When he doesn’t answer immediately, I ramble, “Another agent already questioned me. He was here a week or two ago. Hauled me into my manager’s office out of the blue.
” My forced smile fades as my ire at Reed bristles against my innards.
“Like I said then, I don’t know anyone named Elliot.
And Silas is my ex-boyfriend. I don’t want anything to do with him. ”
There. Good job. And best of all, it’s the truth.
Regrettably, he doesn’t respond to my perfectly reasonable statement by thanking me for my time and leaving. Nor does he promise that I’ll never have to speak to an FBI agent again for as long as I live. Instead, he flashes his phone screen at me. “Do you recognize this man?”
Gulp.
With the reluctance of a husky avoiding bath time, I drift my attention toward the phone. Looks like a grainy picture from a doorbell camera. The edges are curved, as if it were taken with a concave lens, making it harder to decipher.
Fortunately, I don’t recognize him. “No. It’s not that great of a picture, huh?”
Hooray for not perjuring myself.
“Have you talked to Silas recently?”
Come on, Agent Dad. Cut me a break, eh?
“Um. Yes. The other night, I communicated via text with him.”
True and vague.
“What about?”