Page 106 of Gambler's Conceit

“I didn’t say I was ready to be wrecked that hard,” he tells me, but he’s grinning at me. He buries his face against my shoulder. “That was…” He sighs. “Do you feel better?” he asks more softly, more seriously.

I smile at him. “I do.”

I wonder if he did all this just for me, if his reactions were tailored to please me. I could ask him, or reassure him.

But I don’t want to break this illusion we’re sharing.

I don’t want to hear him say that he doesn’t actually want me at all.

TWENTY-FOUR

HAVOC

“You don’t have to go,”my mother says as I stuff my clothes into my army duffel bag. Yeah, I got discharged, but they hadn’t taken my ratty old bag away from me.

Standing next to her in the doorway is my asshole of a stepfather, sipping from a can of beer.

He’s a head taller than my mother, with hands large enough that he can easily wrap them around her throat and choke her to near death.

Didn’t stop her from going back to him, of course.

I swallow my anger—at him, at her, at myself—and keep packing.

“Let the boy leave,” Step Asshole says. “He’s been enough of a burden.” He sneers at me. “But don’t come crawling back when you’re out of rent money.”

“Don’t fucking plan on it,” I snap at him. The drawer I’m trying to open gets stuck, and I jiggle it in annoyance. “Don’t think I’ll give you a single penny either.”

My mother’s lip wibbles. “Javier, mijo… There’s no need to be so hostile with your father.”

“He’s not my—” I shout, pulling so hard that the entire drawer comes out. The contents spill out all over the floor. “Mamá, if you ever want to visit, you can. Without him.”

I glare at my stepfather, and I mentally dare him to say something,anything, that’ll give me an excuse to punch him.

I’ve been in a weird mood lately. Every time I’m at the casino, when I’m with Seven, I feel mostly calm… then I have to come home to this shit. He hasn’t tried beating me since I got back from the military, and he learned not to hurt my mother where I can witness it, but I know he still does it.

I’ve tried to get her to leave, over and over, but she always has some excuse for him. He doesn’t mean it, he had a bad day, she set him off.

If I leave, he’s going to kill her.

The thought stops me cold. I look her in the eye, ignoring my stepfather looming. In Spanish, I tell her, “Mamá, I mean it. You come to my place if you need to get away. You have my number. If you call, I’ll come running.”

My stepfather immediately growls, “Speak English, idiot. We’re in America.”

My mother flinches, and in English, she responds, “That’s not necessary, mijo. You’ll come running back for my tamales soon.”

If her voice weren’t so subdued, that would have been a light-hearted joke.

I clench my fists and look at the step asshole. He’s a white guy with graying hair, his hairline receding. Unfortunately, despite being an alcoholic, he hits the gym and keeps in shape. I could probably still take him, but…

My mother would try to stop me. Shehastried to stop me.

“If anything happens to her,” I say with a snarl, “I will fucking find you and tie you to a stake in the middle of the desert. I’ll watch you bake in the sun. A slow, agonizing death?—”

“Javier!” my mother interjects, sounding horrified. “Don’t joke about those things!”

My stepfather bursts out laughing. “You and what fucking army? The one they kicked you out of?”

I make a frustrated sound and grab my duffel bag. Forget the rest of my shit. I’ll buy new clothes, new stuff. Nothing here is sentimental.

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