Chapter Thirteen Eleanor #3
“What the hell kind of shoes are those?” Maryellen mutters to Helen.
I slide off the stool I was occupying and tap my pocket to make sure the chips are all there. “Thank you again for your help,” I say. “You ladies are amazing, and I hope you win millions.”
“You take care of yourself,” Maryellen says, and the women all wave me off, a couple of them glaring at Adam for a beat before turning around and resuming their video poker.
As I approach Adam, he drags a hand through his hair, gaze dropping to the floor until I’m right in front of him. It’s not the face of someone who won big.
“That went about as well as I expected,” he says with a grimace.
“No worries,” I tell him. “Those women traded chips with me.”
“Seriously?” Adam looks over my shoulder, and I turn and follow his gaze to find all four women eyeing him as they sip their drinks.
“Uh… yeah. They were really nice.… A tiny bit scary. But anyway, between this and the money from the rings, we should have enough. Let’s get these cashed.”
We head over to the wall of cashiers and turn in our chips. I watch, hawklike, as the teller counts out the cash and Adam carefully tucks the stack of bills away in his wallet. I’m still basking in the sense of relief at finally having this problem solved when someone yells behind us.
“Hey you!” Adam and I both instinctively turn toward the voice, and I barely have enough time to process the fact that the silver-haired man who spoke is rushing directly at us before he winds his arm back and decks Adam.
I jump out of the way, hands covering my mouth as I watch Adam stumble to the floor. A whooping laugh, followed by a smoker’s cough that could only belong to Helen, can be heard over the commotion.
“Oh god, they did it. They hired a hit man.”
“What?” Adam says from the ground, one hand cupping his cheek where he took the hit.
I don’t have time to answer, because the next moment, security is on us.
A guard grabs the stocky man who punched Adam, who is yelling again, calling Adam a son of a bitch and demanding to be let go. And then a blonde woman—maybe a couple of years younger than me—is scrambling forward, eyes darting back and forth between Adam and the man.
“Daddy, oh my god,” she shrieks.
“That’s the guy who crashed your wedding!”
“So you hit him?” another woman screeches. She’s blonde as well—though in her case it definitely comes from a bottle. Judging from her protective hold on the younger woman and their similar traits, I’d say she’s the mother of the bride.
It’s becoming clear this man was not hired to kill Adam. And also, that the cake we were eating in Mae’s photo can be added to the list of things we did not pay for last night.
On the floor, Adam seems stunned. He sits with both hands in his lap, looking up at everyone hovered around him with this baffled expression on his face until another security guard kneels next to him.
He helps Adam to his feet, and Adam touches his face once more, checking for blood.
His cheekbone is red and his eye already seems a bit swollen, but the punch didn’t break the skin at least.
“I’m so sorry,” the older woman is saying, frantic as she grabs her purse from the chair she was occupying a moment ago at the blackjack table.
“Mr. Caruso, you need to come with us,” one of the guards says.
For the first time, I notice another guy in their group.
He’s hanging back a few feet, looking resigned to the proceedings.
He’s well over six foot, but stands with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders rounded, like he’s trying to avoid drawing any attention to himself.
The tearful bride barrels into him for a hug as Mr. Caruso is led off the floor.
“You two. Come with me,” the remaining security officer says.
My gaze falls to the security tag clipped to his lapel. Muscles bulge beneath the suit sleeves. He looks like a bodybuilder dressed for a job interview. Like he probably moonlights as a professional wrestler called The Boulder.
He is not the sort of person you argue with.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I say, even as I fall into step beside him and Adam.
“We’ll discuss this off the floor.” The guard keeps walking, brooking no room for argument.
My heart races—I knew things could still get worse.
They’re going to take our winnings back.
Or make us give them to that Mr. Caruso guy.
Or—god—call the actual police to sort this thing out, and then we’ll miss the show, and Josie will see the police report—
I am fully spiraling by the time we reach a nondescript door along the back wall of the casino.
The security guard tugs on his ID, which is connected by one of those pulley strings, and touches it to a black electronic keypad.
The light turns green as the automatic lock opens.
He holds the door open for us, and I hesitate a moment before stepping through.
I’m trying to recall Tyler’s number from memory as the heavy door clicks shut behind us.