chapter twenty
RILEY
“What the fuck have you done to my hair?” I call out from the bathroom. “I could be Bart Simpson’s long-lost brother.”
“Bart never had a brother.” Riles peeks her head around the door and stifles a laugh with her hand. “Oooh… I warned you.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t believe you.”
“That’s your fault, not mine.” She slips in front of me, runs her delicate fingers over my face, and giggles. “But your skin is incredibly smooth and divine.”
I growl, clench her ass, and lift her onto the sink. “Want to know what else is incredibly smooth and divine?”
What the fuck, Wilson? Why would you say that?
I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m like a horny teenager, saying stupid sexual shit every time Riles speaks. It’s embarrassing, and I need to stop.
She flicks the waistband of my sweats.
Hello! Maybe not.
“You need to shower and take care of that.”
I cup my junk and adjust myself. “I do.”
Fuck me, I can’t help myself.
“Not that!” She slaps my chest and slides off the vanity to her feet. “Your hair.”
What I really need to do is take care of both.
“I’m just going to head out for a minute.” She scruffs the matted, wiry mess on my head then kisses my cheek. “I’ll be back by the time you’re done.”
Smiling like a kid in a candy store, I lean back and watch her leave, uncharacteristically agreeing with Ben.
I am a lucky son of a bitch, and I can’t remember the last time I was this happy.
After my life went to shit, I was convinced I might never be this happy again and that second chances at love didn’t exist. Not that I love Riles, but I mean, I could…
one day. And just knowing that’s possible is fucking awesome.
I grip my hair, and it crunches between my fingertips, so I carefully let it go then sniff my arm, the stench of sulfur wrinkling my nose.
Visiting the Blue Lagoon with Riles was one of the best experiences of my life, and had it not been for her, I would never have even tried it.
She makes me want to try new things, to explore possibilities, and to let go of what’s held me back and made me bitter and angry.
It’s refreshing and liberating, and for the first time in a long time, I feel whole again. Optimistic and absolved.
Sniffing again, I’m done smelling like ass, so I shower, get dressed, and check the cruise app for tonight’s events when she enters the room, a tear teetering in her eye.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, striding toward her.
“I did it. I booked Mom’s ceremony.”
I hug her to my chest and press my lips to her head. “I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks.” Her shoulders slump.
“And your mom is too. I hope you know that.”
“I do,” she mumbles before leaning back and blinking up at me. “You used my shampoo again, didn’t you?”
My balls withdraw into my stomach.
“Just admit it. I know you did. I can smell it.”
“I didn’t bring any of my own. And the complimentary stuff smells like dish soap.”
“It’s fine. Use what you like. I don’t mind.” She unlocks her hands from behind my back and collapses onto her bed, and my heart breaks a little, no stranger to the battle she’s fighting within.
I take a seat beside her and squeeze her knee, wanting to distract her from her anguished thoughts. “What do you want to do tonight?”
“I don’t know,” she drones. “Get drunk?”
“I thought you weren’t a drinker.”
“I’m not. But if there’s ever a time to give it a shot, I’m guessing now’s that time.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”
“No, not really, but….”
“There’s a good chance you might regret it tomorrow. Just sayin’.”
“Regret will be high on my list tomorrow anyway, so screw it. I’m getting wasted.”
My churning gut tells me this is a bad idea, but I’m no hypocrite. I’ve turned to the bottle a few times as well, especially after Dad died.
Riles sits up like a vampire rising out of its coffin, a bloodthirsty grin on her face. “Let’s go to the casino!”
I wince.
“Don’t give me that look!”
“I’m not.”
“You are!” She scoots off the bed, spins toward me, and holds her hands out.
“Please, Riley. I never do anything I’m not supposed to.
Never gamble, never drink until I can drink no more.
I’m never late, and I never steal. Hell, I don’t even jaywalk or jump the line at Starbucks.
I’m Miss Goody Two-Shoes, and I… I don’t want to be her tonight.
Just this once, I want to be someone else.
Someone who isn’t about to lay her mother to rest. I want to forget.
Pretend. I want it all just to go away for a night. ”
Understanding exactly what she’s saying, even though I know what she wants to do won’t magically erase who she is or what she must face when the alcohol wears off, I take her hands in mine. “Then let’s go. Let’s gamble and get shitfaced.”
Riles nods, more to herself than to me. “Give me one second though. I’m just going to tell Mom my plan… and apologize in advance.”
I bite back my amusement—she couldn’t be a rebel if she tried—and pick up my cell, pretending to busy myself as she collects her mother’s urn from the safe, heads outside onto the balcony, and begins her confession.
And regardless of what I just said, I have absolutely no intention of getting shitfaced.
She’s going to need me to look after her, and I can’t do that with a belly full of liquor and a head clouded in the fumes.
“This one,” Riles says, placing her cocktail down and clapping while taking a seat at the Roulette table. “I’m excited!”
Amused, I sit beside her.
“So, how do we play?”
“Place your chips on what you want,” I say, gesturing toward the betting layout.
“Is that it?”
“Not exactly. But let’s start simple, yeah?”
She nods, eyes wide. “Okay.”
“This is a one-dollar table, so you have to bet at least one dollar each time.”
“And my chips are worth a dollar each?”
“They are.”
“Oh, good. That’s easy.”
She sucks her drink through her straw, so I take her chips from her hand and stack them on the table.
“What are you doing?” she exclaims, protectively shielding her stacks. “Someone might steal them.”
“Riles, there’s no one else here.”
Her eyes narrow suspiciously at the dealer.
“He’s not going to steal them,” I tell her.
“How do you know that?”
“I just do. Trust me.”
Relaxing, she sits back. “Why are your chips green and mine pink?”
“We have different colors so the dealer can tell whose chips are whose.”
She frowns. “Oh. Still… it’s sexist that I ended up with pink.”
“I don’t think it was intentional.”
She scoffs. “That’s what a man would say.”
“Do you want to swap colors?” I ask, knowing her favorite color is green, all while trying not to laugh.
“I do!”
After trading her chips for mine, I drape my arm around her shoulders and explain the different bets.
“You can choose a single number, a range of numbers, or one of these three groups of dozens.” I point to various spots.
“You can also choose these outside bets, either red or black, or odd or even.” I set a chip on Odd and place a few more on individual numbers.
“There’s so much to choose from.” She taps her finger to her lips, then places one measly chip on Black. “Always bet on black, right?”
I chuckle. “Yeah, something like that.”
The dealer spins the wheel, and Riles claps again, her head circulating as she follows the ball.
Leaning forward, I toss another chip down before the dealer calls, “No more bets.”
She frowns at the guy and whispers, “Did you just get in trouble?”
I chuckle again. “No. I can bet until he says that.”
“Oh.” She happily stirs her drink with her straw. “This is fun!”
The ball bounces a couple of times, then slots into number seventeen.
“It’s black.” She throws her hand into the air, turns toward me, and bounces in her seat. “I win!”
I smile at her cuteness. “You did!”
“How much?”
Not wanting to burst her happy little bubble, I don’t have a choice, because she’ll no doubt accuse the dealer of cheating. “One dollar.”
“Is that all?”
“Yeah. The outside bets pay even.”
“That’s ridiculous. I should win more.” Riles sucks another large mouthful of her drink through her straw and then scratches her head. “So which numbers pay more than even?”
“If you choose a column or one of the groups of dozen, it’ll pay two to one.” Pushing one of my chips onto the table, I stop it at number twenty-five—Imogen’s birthday. “The individual numbers pay thirty-five to one.”
“Oooh, that’s good.” She slams a chip on eleven. “That’s my lucky number.”
I place a chip on fifteen: my birthday; one on three: Roni’s birthday; and one on twenty-six: Poppy’s birthday. “What day were you born?” I ask.
“The seventh.”
I place one on seven too.
“Hey! I was going to choose that.”
“Ease up, Riles. You still can.”
“Good.” She slides a chip next to mine. “What day were you born?”
I point to fifteen.
She slides a chip on that number too.
Once again smiling at her cuteness, I ask, “Are you finished betting?”
“Yep.”
The dealer spins the wheel, and she quickly slams a chip onto twenty-one while mischievously eyeing him over the rim of her drink.
He sweeps his hands across the table. “No more bets.”
“Mom’s birthday,” she explains.
I kiss her temple and hug her to me as the ball once again rolls around the wheel, bouncing a couple of times before landing on seven.
“We won!” she shouts, shooting out of her seat and almost choking on her cocktail.
I laugh. “We did!”
“How much?”
“Thirty-five dollars each, plus the dollar we bet.” I scan the table and do the math in my head. “But I lost four dollars on the other bets, and you lost three.”
She sits back down. “That doesn’t matter. We still won.”
Technically, it does matter; a loss is a loss. But I don’t argue.
“What’s up, kids?” Ben says as he plonks himself on the seat beside me, his eyes instantly magnetized to my arm draped over Riles’s shoulder. “You two finally fucking?”
I glare at him.
“Jesus, Ben. Not everything is about fucking,” Riles snaps, before saying, “Sorry,” to the dealer.