Page 119 of Brazen Mistakes

He emphasizes that he’s in charge of any big calls, repeating that anything important has to go through him. Walker will man the bar solo. Jansen’s lifting wallets to see if the guests’ credit cards are still of the limitless variety, then he’ll have me check their socials. But that’ll only be for the players that are losing and likely to buy back in on Trips’ dime. So, for much of the night, I’ll be people watching.

And because Trips isn’t a fan of just enjoying himself, he’s tasked me with studying players for their tells.

It’s going to be a long night. But for once, I’m in it from the start, with a role to play—planned and everything.

Chapter 42

RJ

Trish was the one who told me that Dad was missing. When I called my mom, she said it was probably nothing, but that was obviously her delusional hope speaking.

Nothing pinged at the casinos I’ve been monitoring. I have no idea where the fuck he went.

It wasn’t until I was home and quizzing my mom that I found out he’d mentioned a work friend, Donna. Mama kept repeating that they were just friends, and that she was going to bed at ten anyway, like that was what I was upset about.

No, Mom, that is not the problem.

Donna Blake is a problem for Dad. Although Pops is the real problem all on his own.

Jansen’s car rumbles on the highway, the snow gritty and black in the culverts, dismal as my mood. Going from dozing with Clara on the couch to the bitter cold and a missing Pops isn’t what I’d hoped for tonight. All that followed by a wildgoose chase has me losing control over my temper, finally ready to demand that Pops get help.

The streetlights flash overhead, yellow then black, each burst marking minutes where I could do so much more than drive in a circle, chasing down my gambling addict of a father.

I take the interchange, one turn closer to home, and the car shudders, the wheel almost uncontrollable. I make it onto the next interstate, pulling to the side as quickly as I can. A sedan zooms past me as I step out. After taking a lap around the car, I don’t find the flat tire that shimmy telegraphed.

It could be Jay’s suspension snapping, but probably not. He takes surprisingly good care of his rust bucket. He likes to say that his car is wearing a disguise. Trips says he’s just wasting money on a dud, and I usually agree.

Frustration boiling over at this shit night, I kick the front passenger tire, and the damn thing wiggles. Using my phone as a flashlight, it’s obvious a lug nut is missing. A good yank tells me the rest are loose. What the fuck?

Red and blue lights flash behind the car, my heart speeding up. I stand up slowly, my hands in the air, my flashlight still on.No sudden movements, make sure to smile,I tell myself, the urge to run stupid and ever present.

I put on the calm smile like it was drilled into me, not taking a single step toward or away from the cops, waiting for them to come to me.

The officer opens his door, wedging his gun in the crack, pointed at me. Shit. Fuck. This isn’t good. “Drop your weapon!” he yells.

The fucking flashlight is on. This couldn’t look more like a phone if I tried.

I drop it in the icy snow, an ominous crack sounding.

Better a broken phone, I tell myself.

That’s fixable.

The cop stays where he is; the gun pointed at me. Do I ask what I did wrong? Or would that look like I’m antagonizing him?

Uncertain, I stay there, hands in the air, a stupid-ass calm grin on my face, counting seconds so I don’t panic. It’s not working, but I keep counting.

I make it to 433 when another cop car drives past us, lights flashing, and parks behind me. At 449, his door creaks open. “Step slowly to the front of the hood and then slowly lower your hands on it,” the second cop yells.

The smile slips from my face as I inch with excruciating slowness to the hood, lying flat over the cooling engine, my slowly numbing hands as far forward as I can put them. The jangle of the two men approaching me has my breath stalled, and by the time they yank my arms behind my back and cuff me, I’m dizzy from holding it.

Patting me down, they remove my wallet from my pocket. Then they roughly shove me into the back of the second cop car, a cage between them and me. Do they feel safe enough? Can I figure out what is going on now?

Before I can say anything, they lock me in, going back outside to the front of the car, likely making an action plan. One of them disappears behind me, but I don’t turn. Even now, I don’t want to make any sudden movements. That cop comes back, my phone in hand, the flashlight still on. Then the first cop disappears, reappearing a moment later, drivinghis car in front of the one I’m in. They both climb into that one, leaving me in this vehicle alone.

The wait feels like forever, but I lost count when they cuffed me, and I don’t want to start over. Instead, I count each set of lights that flash by. A surprising number of silver sedans are on the road tonight, the third one passing just as the cops get out of the other vehicle and return to the one I’m in.

They get into the front together. The cop that cuffed me must be the boss, because he’s the one who speaks. “Royal Moore?”

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