Page 1 of Winning the Dad

1

JACK

Las Vegas was not my idea of a good time.

It was too much. Too many people dressed in outfits ranging from expensive suits to Hawaiian shirts and beach shorts. Too many slot machines clinking and clanking, gamblers muttering as they lost or the occasional celebratory shout as they won. Too many lights, glittering and glimmering, shining and shimmering. Too many scents, with the overwhelming stench of cigarette smoke mingling with the all-too-familiar aroma of alcohol and flowery notes of cheap perfume.

If I wanted to be around loud, drunk people, I could’ve stayed home, as I had plenty of those in my bar. My bar, the Double F—officially called the Four Foxes Bar and Grille—had been mine for fifteen years. It might not be as luxurious and opulent as this place, but it sure as fuck was a hell of a lot cozier. And the clientele was a lot better. I knew all my regulars by name and welcomed the visitors and tourists with a friendly smile, an open mind, and a ready glass.

But I’d suck it up because I wasn’t here for me. I was here for Romero. Jesus, time had flown by so quickly. One moment, he’dbeen this vibrant, energetic kid, always outside getting dirty, much like his mom. And now, my son was a man with a degree in wildlife biology he hoped to put into practice as a forest ranger…and he was getting married. Tomorrow, he’d be a husband, and if I’d correctly interpreted the hints he’d dropped, he also hoped to be a dad soon. I couldn’t be prouder of him.

Damn, I was getting old.

How did people handle that? Was it okay to feel sad and melancholy, even though I loved seeing my son so happy with Lucas? They were a perfect match. If only his mom could’ve seen our son get married. She would’ve loved Lucas. But she’d been gone for sixteen years, taken too soon.

With a sigh, I pushed my chair back from the slot machine that had promised me cash falling but, so far, had only taken my money. Maybe I’d have more luck at the tables, though I knew damn well that in the end, the house always won.

Loud cheers drew me to the craps table, but I’d have to elbow my way to get there, so that was a hard no. People would make room for me—one advantage of being built like the Hulk, but without the green—but that didn’t mean I liked being surrounded by them. People were like alcohol: to be enjoyed in limited amounts and only the high-quality stuff.

Blackjack, then? Two blackjack tables were packed, but a third only had two players. I gave them a friendly nod, took my seat, and handed my player card to the dealer, a young guy named Tim.

“Table’s been good so far,” the guy to my right said. He looked to be in his late twenties and was dressed like a frat boy in an expensive dark blue polo shirt and sand-colored khakis. “Let’s hope you didn’t change my luck.”

Wow, that was quite the welcome, wasn’t it? “I hope so too.” I kept my voice level. Years of dealing with drunk people had given me plenty of opportunity to develop a slow-burning anger.

Tim started dealing, and my first card was a queen of hearts. Not a bad start. Frat Boy got a three and groaned, which only got louder when his next card was a ten. Mine was a ten as well, and I smiled, happy with my first hand.

“That’s not very promising.” Frat Boy glowered at me.

“For you, you mean.”

The other guy at the table had spoken up. He looked to be my age. Unlike me in my standard jeans, black T-shirt, and boots, he was dressed sharply in a crisp dark blue suit with a pink shirt and a pink-and-white striped tie. The Rolex on his wrist shouted money. Good for him.

“Well, yeah,” Frat Boy said. “I don’t give two fucks about your cards, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Suit Guy winked at me, and I grinned.

I won my first hand, making twenty bucks, and my second and third were equally successful. Frat Boy’s mood darkened. “Seems like you took my luck,” he said, his tone barely civil.

Most gamblers were a superstitious bunch, and he was apparently one of them. Their reasonings had little to do with rationality, and I rarely engaged. But I did want to keep playing. “Do you want to switch places?”

He blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good.”

I didn’t believe in luck, so I didn’t care one way or the other. We swapped chairs, and he nodded his thanks. Small win. Alas, his next hand was shitty, and so was the one after that. “It’s not the chair.” He glared again. “It’s you. You fucked up my luck.”

“Kid, you’ve only won, what, maybe five hands?” Suit Guy said. “You were losing before he sat down.”

“My luck was turning, and then he came and fucked it all up with his bad juju.”

Bad juju? I was too old and tired for this shit. “I’ll finish this round and then find a different table.”

Stupid as it might sound, I hated conflict. Always had. The older I got, the easier it became to walk away. Once upon a time, I would’ve considered that as weak or as a defeat, but now I refused to waste time and energy on unimportant stuff. Life was too short to squabble with strangers over stupid shit.

“You don’t need to leave,” Suit Guy said. “He can find a different table.”

I waved my hand. “It’s fine. I don’t want trouble.”

He chuckled. “No? You look like you’d be good at making trouble.”

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