Page 139 of The Vacation Mix-Up
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.
A shit-eating grin spreads across Ben’s face as he nods at me. “Time biding. I get ya.”
“What’s he talking about?” Riles grouches.
I grit my teeth. “Never mind.”
Ben studies the table, then scrunches his face like a puckered asshole. “High rollers, I see.”
“Riles is just learning.”
“Fuck that! Come with me and play like the big knobs do. My treat.”
She raises her hand at him. “No, Ben. Thank you, but no. I want to gamble my own money.”
“That’s not money, love. That’s change.”
“I don’t care. It’s my change.”
“Suit yourself, kids.” He slaps my back and stands. “Happybiding, fucker.”
Clenching my fist, I want to deck the dickhead. But again, I think better of it. I’m happy. Riles is happy. And knocking some sense into the mouthy idiot would only destroy that.
“What did he mean by ‘biding’?” Riles asks as he walks away.
I lie. “Who knows what Ben is talking about half the time?”
“True.” She cocks her head and continues sipping her drink, the straw echoing the empty contents of her glass. “Peanut butter. I’m out.”
Peanut butter? What is she talking about?
Frowning, she flags a waiter down and orders us both another drink, and when she no longer has the ability to notice—which, at the rate she’s going will be sooner rather than later—I plan to slow my consumption down.
“Let’s try the slots,” she says after playing another round of Roulette.
I don’t argue—this is her night, after all—so we cash in our chips, and I follow her to machine after machine, hilariously entertained by how she selects them for their colors and themes until she eventually gets bored.
“I don’t like gambling. I keep losing.”
“Yeah, that happens a lot.”
Spinning like a record to face me, she almost blankets me with her drink. “I know what we can do.”
I step back to a safer distance. “What’s that?”
“Karaoke!”
My ears shrivel.
She grabs my arm in a death grip. “Yes! It’ll be fun.”
“You can’t sing, Riles.”
