Fold

"A gambler is nothing but a man who makes his living out of hope. " ―William Bolitho

It's a fact—most gamblers do it because they like the high.

A true gambler knows there's nothing like the rush that comes from pressing the maximum bet button on a slot machine when you're down to your last five dollars. The exhilaration you feel when you beat the dealer during a game of blackjack. Or the pride that follows from bluffing your way through the last round of poker to end up the victor when you only had a pair of tens.

The euphoria that comes from wi

But it's not what brought us there in the first place.

We're there because we crave the escape.

We're there because nothing else matters once you roll the figurative dice.

Your job, your partner, your family, and your past—it all ceases to exist the second you set your stakes and place your bet.

And the time that spans between your wager and the result...is the ultimate illusion of control.

That's the high we're really after.

The notion that our destiny can change in the blink of an eye and we had a hand in it.

Which is why I'm currently here at the promised land—even though I told Becca I was staying home—breaking one of my cardinal rules of gambling.

The very first one to be exact. Never gamble when you're drunk.

And right now? The amount of alcohol I've consumed makes my nines look like jacks and I'm about to break my second rule.

Know when to fold.

Or at the very least, don't be an idiot and raise the bet to all in when you only have a pair of nines.

I'm so hammered I can't even effectively bluff my way out of this, something the two other players at the table and the dealer know, but what's done is done.

I take another sip of my whiskey, between earlier and now I've lost count how many I've had tonight. But it's enough that when—shocker—the man across the table reveals a pair of kings and all my chips go to him, it doesn't sting so much.

And why would it? I've got a fuck-ton of money coming in. But even if I didn't, I'll make it up in the next round anyway.

I always do.

At least that was the plan...but when the two men here at the casino for a business conference get up from the table and call it a night, a surge of irritation hits me.

“Oh, come on. Play a few more rounds,” I slur, slapping the table. “Tell you what? I'll be nice and buy you both a drink before I take my money back.”

They look at me like I'm crazy—which is a fairly accurate assessment, given the thirty grand I just lost—before they shake their heads and walk off.

“Pussies,” I call out in their direction, causing the dealer to sigh.

“I think it's time for you to go home, buddy. I'll have someone at the service desk call you a cab.”

“I don't need a cab,” I bark. “I just need—”

To escape my fucked-up life. To not be a failure.

To stop feeling like a casualty.

I wave the dealer off mid-sentence and fish out my phone. This shitty casino isn't cutting it tonight and I'm too drunk to drive to the next one that's over an hour away.

I order another whiskey at the bar, press the call button, and wait for Buster to pick up.

Buster—a bookie for the notorious mobster, Rocco Rossi—has been my go-to guy for the last two months.

At first, I was hesitant, not only because betting on sports isn't my favorite way to gamble, but the Rossi crime family make the Dragonis look like preschoolers.

Buster's phone cuts off after the fourth ring and I realize I'm left with one of two choices.

I can gamble some more until this feeling caused by the events of tonight dulls. Or, I can go home to my pregnant and soon-to-be wife.

I slam the rest of my drink down and stumble out the door, the feeling in my chest growing heavier with every unsteady step I take to my car.

Before I can stop myself, I stick my key in the ignition and press a button on my dashboard, co

I have no idea what I'm doing—actually, that's bullshit—I'm aware of my actions, I'm just inebriated enough not to care about the consequences of them.

All I know is that I want to talk to her again.

She picks up on the third ring, her raspy voice filling the small space around me. “Who is this?”

“I think of you every time I see the color pink.”

There's a sharp intake of breath. “How did you get my number? And why in the world are you calling me at three in the morning?”

I ignore her questions. “You wouldn't believe how common the color is. So many things in the world are pink.”

“Jesus, are you drunk?”

I lean back in my seat, the density in my chest easing a little. “Drunk is a fairly relative term, don't you think?”

“Answer the question, Preston.”

“Hey, that rhymes.”

She groans. “Where are you?”

“That's four questions now. Although you figured the first one out, so technically it's three.”

“Preston,” she repeats and the irritation in her tone has me smiling.

“There's my angry girl,” I muse. “I bet you're scowling right now, aren't you?”

“You're seriously testing my patience, Holden.”

I decide to throw her a bone. “I stole your number out of Becca's phone a few months ago.”

“Figured as much. But why?”

I evade that question and answer a different one. “I might have had some whiskey tonight.” I turn a knob and blast the heat. “Currently, I'm sitting in my car, parked outside a casino that I just lost thirty grand at.”

And it's taking everything in me to do the right thing and not go back in.

“I—shit. I don't even know what to say. That's—”

“Relax,” I tell her. “I didn't call you for a pep talk or financial advice. I actually have a shit load of money coming in soon. But even if I didn't, I always make up the difference with my next bet.”

“That doesn't seem like a very reliable system.”

“It's fine,” I bite out. “I've just been on a bit of a losing streak lately, but I've got it all under control.”

“Do you? Because it doesn't sound like it.”

On some level, I know she has a point. The fact that I'm sitting in a car outside a casino, drunk dialing a girl I need to stay away from, should be enough of a red flag for me to evaluate my life choices.

Then again, I've never been one to be concerned about red flags. If anything, I prefer to charge right through them going full speed ahead.

Except with her. I have absolutely no desire to bring her into my mess. This phone call was a mistake.

“I think I'm go

“Hold on,” she says. “I don't want you driving drunk. Now that I'm up, I can come get you.”

My response is automatic. “No. You can't.”

“Why not?”

I grip the steering wheel, ignoring the tiny voice inside me that's protesting because I know what I have to do. “I'm getting married this week.”

Her breathing becomes patchy and I continue. “We're having a boy. I figure after Becca graduates we'll move out to the suburbs and—”

“Why are you telling me this?” Her voice cracks on the last word and it's like a punch to the gut.

Because I destroy everything good in my life.

Because I still can't look at my reflection in the mirror or close my eyes without seeing him.

I drag in a low, slow breath. If I don't say this now, if I don't give her this bit of truth before I cut the cord, I know I'll regret it forever. “I wish things were different. I wish we met one another before Becca happened and we had the chance to be friends.”