Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“This conversation should be a relief then.”
“Doubt it. But we’ll see.”
We stop outside a door stuck in the corner of an old brick building. There’s a faded red Coke sign hanging out front but no visible name anywhere. I’d never know it was a bar if not for the advertisements for half price beer in the papered-over windows, though who knows what the actual full price is supposed to be.
Brenden goes in first. The room is dim and packed with stools, tables, and an old jukebox in the back corner. TVs blare overhead playing Orioles games. The clientele is older than the faded, ripped vinyl flooring and the bartender’s a woman who looks like she helped build the place, her white hair a tangle, her leathery skin tanned and deeply marked by wrinkles. Nobody bothers glancing our way like they’re used to a couple young people strolling through. Like it’s not out of place.
“Can you imagine a couple dozen rich kids coming in here?” I whisper as we angle toward the back.
“They must be scared shitless. Worse than you are.”
“I’m not scared!”
“You’re trembling.”
“Stop it.”
“Don’t worry, baby. I’ve got you.” He takes the lead and I resist the urge to kick him in the back of the knee. Ahead is a short hall leading to the bathrooms, and past those is another door, this one propped open with a brick, bright light and sound spilling out. The loud baseball game commentary drowned it out, now the noise of dull conversation and the clacking of clay chips is hard to miss.
The back room is large, almost bigger than the front. This one’s packed by poker tables with green felt and bored-looking dealers in black shirts. The young men sitting around are all in some variation of rich kid chic: polo shirts, suit shirts and slacks without jackets, obscenely expensive ripped vintage tee shirts over designer jeans. Nobody looks up as we stand in the entrance.
Sam did all this. I couldn’t believe it before, not really, but now looking at how well organized it is, this has my brother’s stamp all over it. There’s even a tiny bar in the corner and a pretty young girl with a low-cut top is busy shaking a drink. Despite the grimy front portion, this area’s scrubbed clean, well lit, orderly, and reeking of high-end perfection.
A large man comes walking over, moving fast despite his size, weaving through the narrow lanes left by chairs. Half-lidded eyes follow him, the players mostly curious. He’s in all black with a scraggly chin-strap and pinched eyes. “Excuse me, you two, but I think you’re lost.” His voice is higher than I expected, and I realize he’s young, around Sam’s age. “I don’t think you—“
“Jason Bellingham? Is that you?” I clasp my hands over my chest and make an exaggerated gasp of recognition. “Jason! It’s definitely you!”
The big man stops in his tracks. He frowns, scratches his neck, and his face lights up. “Holy crap, Tallie! I haven’t seen you in ages.”
Jason Bellingham is one of Sam’s many lost children. They met in kindergarten and had a few play dates, but Sam quickly moved on to bigger and better things, while Jason’s family was never rich enough to keep him in the fancy private schools without financial assistance, which Jason was far from smart enough to earn. But Sam’s always been the type to keep a contact, and so here is Jason Bellingham, burly and grinning like a child, the same boy I knew a decade ago, but now about five times larger.
“Where’s my brother?” I ask, not bothering to introduce Brenden. I’m sure Jason’s heard enough rumors to figure out who he is anyway.
“Sam’s in the back. Wow, it’s been forever. I haven’t seen you around here before.”
“I try to keep my distance, you know, in case I run into someone I don’t want to see.” I laugh and Jason grins along as if that makes any sense. “Mind if we go talk to him?”
“I don’t know. I’m not supposed to let any non-players through here.” He hesitates, glancing over his shoulder. There’s one final door in the far wall. “Maybe if you wait here—“
“Don’t worry about it, honestly, he knows we’re coming.” I walk past Jason like this is normal. Brenden stays on my hip as we move into the forest of players.
“Hold on. Why don’t I talk to him first? Tallie, just a second—“
I don’t slow down. “Sorry, sorry, I don’t want to interrupt. Oh, hey, that guy should definitely raise.” I beam at Jason and tug on Brenden’s arm. “My husband was thinking about playing next week. Wouldn’t that be hilarious?”
“Tallie, I’m not supposed to let you through here.” Jason’s friendly tone is fading fast. Now there are more than a few people staring. I wonder how many know me? Probably most of them, but I’m trying my best not to look too closely. “You have to wait. Tallie, hold on. Tallie, stop!”