8. Eight
EIGHT
E ven though I’d been furious the night Max and Zach had sat me down to talk things out, in hindsight, I was glad it had happened.
I no longer had to keep my head down. Sure, I wasn’t about to start wreaking havoc on the casino floor.
I didn’t have a pile of worry in the pit of my stomach on a daily basis, however.
In some ways, I was free. In other ways, I had something different to worry about.
Would word spread that I was working at Stone Casino? Zach ran in the same circles as my father. Not by choice, but when Zach accepted a leadership position in Stone Group, he was forced to comply with a certain lifestyle. The lifestyle I was running from.
I didn’t think that Zach would purposely out me. What if he accidentally said something in front of the wrong person, though? That possibility had me tossing and turning. Maybe I should’ve stressed that I wanted to keep this under wraps.
You did stress that, I reminded myself. That was exactly what you told him and Rex.
Would they honor my wishes? I didn’t have an answer for that question, and since I was too worried to go up and ask them —that might make things worse—I stewed and fretted. All the while, I worked my job. I was nothing if not a diligent employee.
“Ronan.”
The voice coming in from over my shoulder jolted me, and I turned swiftly. Marjory Jackson, this afternoon’s pit boss—we had five of them—cast a small but tight smile in my direction.
“Marjory.” I nodded to her in greeting. “You surprised me.”
“Sorry.” Her smile was friendly enough, but something was in her eyes that I couldn’t quite identify. “Can you stop by my office after your shift?”
Dread filled my stomach. “I, um…”
“It’s not a big deal,” she assured me, perhaps picking up on my anxiety. “There’s just something we need to discuss.”
I pressed my lips together, panic threatening to get a foothold. Then I forced my brain to clear. “Of course. Whatever you want.”
Her smile never faltered. “Great. I’ll see you in an hour.”
By the time I made it to her office, my anxiety had spiked three times.
Each incident had me running through calming techniques that my childhood therapist had taught me.
My father thought therapy was a sign of weakness.
My mother, who had bulldozed her way through at least twenty therapists in my teen years alone, felt otherwise. She was a big proponent of therapy.
My father said I was high-strung and just needed to modulate my attitude.
My mother said I had a lot of feelings that needed to be expressed so I wouldn’t explode.
In turn, my father said boys shouldn’t be feeling feelings.
My mother, ever the hippie, said he was full of it and to get over himself.
She didn’t want me suffering from toxic masculinity.
Back and forth, they went. For years. I assumed—wrongly—that they would divorce when I graduated from high school.
Then it seemed natural that they would wait until I was finished with college.
Even though I had no desire to take over the casino, I’d been forced onto the business track, although I was allowed to take some art classes here and there.
My father thought they were good for stress relief. They just couldn’t lead to a career.
My parents never divorced. They were married to this day.
Weirdly, as I grew older, I began to understand their dynamic.
They were polar opposites and yet fiery when it came to certain things.
I didn’t want to think on those things for too long—no child does—but they were apparently compatible in one very important aspect.
That allowed them to ignore the fights about everything else.
I hated to admit it—I could always hear my father kibitzing in my ear about how therapy was for the weak—but the coping technique I’d been provided with in my youth helped me well into adulthood.
It wasn’t anything fancy. I simply needed to catalog things before intrusive thoughts took over and I started to sweat, literally, through my shirt.
The carpet was purple.
Fifteen cameras were in this section of the hallway.
Three blondes and two brunettes were having coffee in the cafeteria.
Five security guards were talking about the conference hitting tomorrow.
I cataloged it all, and I was calm by the time I reached Marjory’s office. I knocked on her door, which was open, and waited to be invited inside.
She looked up from whatever she was doing on her computer and smiled. “Ronan, please sit.” She gestured toward one of the chairs across from her desk.
I did as I was instructed. “So, I wanted to talk to you about your section,” she started.
“My section?” I had no idea where this was going.
“Yes, your section,” Marjory said. “It seems you’re being upgraded.”
I had no idea what that meant. “Um, how?”
“You’re being put in the high rollers section.”
That was not what I was expecting. I hadn’t been at the casino long enough to earn that distinction.
Dealers in the high rollers section got bigger tips.
The games were much more cutthroat, usually with no limit on the table.
The scrutiny was also more intense. “Why?” I blurted the question before I could think better of it.
“Why?” Marjory arched an amused eyebrow. “You don’t want to throw a party? You immediately jump to why?”
I calmed myself through sheer force of will. “Sorry.” I held my hands out in contrition. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s just… I thought it took years to work your way up to that section.”
“It normally does,” Marjory said. “A special request came for you, though.”
“From who?”
“Kyla Conners.”
I had to search my memory for a face to go with that name. “Isn’t she the manager of the servers in that area?” My mind immediately flashed to Tallulah. She was Tallulah’s manager, if I wasn’t mistaken. Why would she want me to join the team?
“She’s the manager of the entire area,” Marjory clarified. “She handles the servers and the dealers.”
“Will I still be doing blackjack?”
“You’ll be doing whatever the high rollers want for the night. It might be blackjack. It might be craps. It might be Texas Hold’em.”
Ugh. That sounded like a lot of pressure. The money would be nice—it might help me reach my goal a lot faster—but the increased pressure would be an obnoxious trade-off. “Do you know why I was requested?”
Marjory’s eyes lit with amusement. “Does it matter?”
“I’m just curious. This wasn’t even on my radar.”
“It’s a curious turn of events,” Marjory agreed. “Kyla put the request in herself.”
I had spoken to Kyla a grand total of three times in my life. Those conversations had included comments about the weather, a question about where a fellow dealer might be, and an admonishment about loitering in the hallway with Tallulah.
Tallulah. It came back to her. Or maybe Zach and Rex.
She’d put me on their radar, after all. They could all be in on it together.
Perhaps Zach was playing a game. Maybe he was trying to get me to quit so he wouldn’t have to fire me.
Was that possible? It was more than possible.
It was probable. They were definitely all in on it together.
So how did this new gig play into that? The only thing I could come up with was that they wanted the pressure to get to me.
Because I’d explained I was more into art than business, they assumed I would crumble under the pressure.
Well, I would show them.
“I’m excited.” I flashed a fake smile for Marjory’s benefit. “I guess it doesn’t matter how I got the upgrade, just that I do a good job at it.”
“That is the most important thing,” Marjory agreed. “You report there tomorrow. Your shift starts at five o’clock.”
Did she think I would balk at a night shift? I’d been trying to get a night shift for months. That would allow me to visit various galleries and work in my at-home studio during the day.
“Great.” I allowed my smile to broaden. “I’m looking forward to it.” I stood, then hesitated. “Is the uniform different?” I tried to remember what I knew about the high rollers section of my father’s casino.
“It is not,” she replied. “The uniform is the same. Report to Kyla when you arrive.”
“I’ve got it.” I hoped I came across as sincere. “I’m looking forward to it.”
I CHANGED MY CLOTHES IN THE EMPLOYEE bathroom and then went looking for Tallulah. I was willing to play the game—I didn’t have a choice—but I needed to know exactly why she was messing with me. She had to have a reason.
She wasn’t in the high rollers lounge when I checked there. I didn’t know any of the other staff well enough to ask about her. On a hunch, I headed toward the bars. I knew she liked to throw a few back in the sports bars before heading home. I didn’t find her. I did find Rex and Zach.
“Hey.” Zach offered up a friendly smile. “Just getting off shift?”
I hesitated. The smart thing would be to make small talk. I wouldn’t ask about Tallulah at all. I would be friendly and then make my escape.
Then something else occurred to me.
“I thought I would get a drink,” I replied. “I’m tired but not quite ready to go home.”
“Sit.” Zach inclined his head. He had a reserved spot in every sports bar, as far as I could tell. This one was his favorite. He flitted around and visited a bar with Rex at least once a week, from what I’d been able to ascertain.
“Thanks.” I had to work overtime to keep my demeanor calm. “What are you guys up to?” We were just three guys, three former high school acquaintances, having a beer. There was nothing weird about this arrangement.
“Killing time,” Rex replied. “My fiancée is out with her sisters. I get bored when it’s just me.”
“What about Chloe?” I was genuinely curious.
“Oh, she’s with my future mother-in-law.” Rex made a face. “She likes to take her to the spa and spoil her.”
I opened my mouth, prepared to breeze right past that comment, and then I frowned. “Wait. She takes a baby to the spa?”