Page 105 of Double Down
I am…nothing. I’m just the joker they tolerate, the house smile. I’m the big mouth, big energy. If there’s a party or a bad idea, I’m sprinting toward it.
The Titan that fucks up and ruins everything he touches. I’m the one who throws parties that get people killed.
The elevator dings as if in agreement, and I leave before the walls close in around me.
Growing up at Titan-Wynn has taught me that midday and midweek casinos are like their own kind of church—they’rehymns in the chime of slot machines, pews in table felt and leather seats.
It’s mostly full of retirees right now, sun-soft, wrinkled, and unhurried. These are the diehards who call every dealer by their first name and order coffee like all they need to make their ‘system’ work is a little more caffeine and focus. Harold with his oxygen line and his lucky rabbit’s foot, and Evelyn who tips in quarters and advice…they’ve been here since I was a kid.
The action is steady in a slow heartbeat kind of way. No one’s really thinking they’re going to hit it big, although that would be nice. They’re just here, playing because it’s something to do, something that might just give them that one last thrill, which may or may not lead to the heart attack that will end it all.
I nod at the pit boss. Holden squints like he wants to ask if I’m okay, then closes his mouth, choosing life instead.
Smart man.
I slide into a blackjack seat. The dealer is new enough to still smile at me. “Good afternoon, Mr. Locke.”
I don’t bother returning her smile.
“Deal me something that’s not going to make me hate you,” I say. “Or myself.” The retirees laugh because they think it’s a joke, and I slide right into the persona they know. The one who indulges the regulars in small talk, charms the patrons and makes them so comfortable they decide to stay longer.
I play basic strategy because I’m not completely stupid. I’m useless, but I’m not stupid. I hit when I should, stand when the book says stand.
The chips inch my way. Twenty here, forty there. A soft seventeen that turns into a twenty-one, and an old woman with a visor squeezes my arm like I’m one of her grandchildren and she is showing affection.
I wonder for a moment what that would feel like. To be worthy of someone’s pride.
I order whiskey because my hands want something to do. The first one goes down like I’m checking a box.
The second warms my ribs and makes the edges blur enough for the image to be complimentary.
And the third reminds me that there are a dozen ways to go numb, and I can’t think of a reason not to try every one in a row until something works.
I hit again, and I win. There is no excitement, no joy. No feelings at all.
My fake grin makes my cheeks ache.
I keep winning. The pile in front of me says I’m good at this. The hole in my chest says I’m terrible at everything else, and being good at blackjack is useless when you are the one who owns the casino.
It’s not really winning—I’m just taking from my own business, like a dealer smoking his own stash.
I abandon the game and drift from table to table, greeting people and performing the charismatic host routine I learned when I was too young to be this tired. Like the rest of us, I can turn it on at will. All of it. The affable grin, the casual conversation.
The lie I project tells the world I am young, rich, hung and in my charmed life, everything is always under control.
After a while, the illusion usually works on me as well as everyone around me. Today it doesn’t.
I walk past a bank of slots that sound like children’s toys and catch my reflection in the polished chrome. I look like a man on top of the world—maybe missing a little sleep, but only for the best reasons, of course.
I look like the lie I give to the world, and it makes the hollow pit inside me grow. Is the lie that Phoenix is attracted to? I thought maybe she wanted me because of our past, and maybe she saw me as more than just a Titan…but maybe I am deluding myself.
She tolerates you because she wants the others. They are worthy of her; you are just extra baggage.
I don’t care. I still want Phoenix’s mouth on mine, like a prayer I whisper to the only god I know.
I want her weight in my lap to anchor me to her reality.
More than anything else, I want to tell her the thing I never say out loud: I don’t have this. I’m scared I’m going to break us.
