Fold

The worst thing to do when this happens is to keep playing. And you most definitely never want to raise or go all in.

Because you'll lose everything.

“Fu

“Listen, I know you're on edge, but I'm just the messenger here,” he says. “And I hate to be the one to say this, especially now, but sometimes what our loved ones tell us doesn't match what's expressed in their will.”

“You don't have to explain things to me like I'm a toddler, Bob. Tell me who his primary beneficiary is.”

“Your brother Asher.”

He says it so matter-of-factly it makes me want to put my fist through the phone.

“How much is he getting?”

“According to your father's wishes, all of it.”

But it's not Asher's money. It's mine.

In one fell swoop, I send every bottle of whiskey crashing to the floor.

“You're still a teenager, Preston,” Bob says frantically. “Your father most likely wanted you to graduate college first before putting this responsibility on you. Asher's older. He's more mature. He's—”

The golden child. The Prodigy.

The son he didn't choose to make his victim.

I disco

She tries to look at my hand that's bleeding, but I direct her to the door. “Get the fuck out.”

When she doesn't listen, I grab her arm and show her the way out.

And then I lose my shit entirely.

Things go flying off shelves, wood splinters and cracks, glass is shattered. Everything in my path is destroyed until I can no longer stand from the exertion.

But it's not good enough...it will never be good enough.

Even in death...he still won.

Because the house always wins.

The air around me becomes stifling and the room starts to sway. I need to find a way to get rid of this feeling slithering under my skin.

On instinct, I dial Buster's number.

When he doesn't pick up after the sixth ring, I curse his existence. Blizzard or not, being a bookie is a twenty-four-hour operation. Which means it's time for me to find a new one.

Unfortunately, it won't be happening tonight, seeing as I'm stuck until the snow lets up and they plow the roads.

I need to escape.

Claustrophobia has the ugly feeling rising again, only this time, it threatens to engulf me entirely.

Grunting, I slump against the wall and bury my face in my hands. My head is pounding so hard it feels like an anvil, and I absently trace the scar that's throbbing.

Kit.

Just the thought of seeing her tomorrow releases some of the pressure, makes it easier to breathe again.

Especially since there's no longer a dark cloud named Becca looming over us, preventing us from being friends.

And God knows I could really use one of those right now.

Even though it's my fault I don't have any in the first place. Not only do I push people away when they get too close, but I'm not exactly what you would call approachable.

In fact, most would say I'm unfathomable.

But when I talk to Kit it's...I don't know.

Maybe that's just it. I don't know what I want from her, because with her there's no agenda.

All I know is that I want to tell her things. Important things. Non-important things. Things I've never admitted to anyone else.

I want to hear her important things, too, because they matter to her. And for some reason I can't pinpoint, that matters to me.

She matters to me.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull up her number and press the call button.

I told her I wouldn't call her again last night, but I made that promise under different circumstances.

Circumstances that no longer exist.

Disappointment fills my chest when it goes straight to voicemail.

I make the split-second decision to leave one, mostly because I know I don't have a snowball's chance in hell of her calling me back unless I give her a good reason to.

“I'm going to cut to the chase. I think you're interesting, genuine, and a little strange like me if I'm being honest.” I continue without stopping for air. “Whenever I talk to you, I walk away feeling like a better person. Not because you're particularly inspirational or anything. No offense. But because I feel a little more human. A little less alone.”

I wince. “Fuck, that was cheesy. So cheesy I should take my balls back, delete it, and start again.” I inhale a breath. “But I won't...because it was real.” A ghost of a smile touches my lips as I think back to our conversation on the bridge. “And you, Kit Bishop, deserve the real fucking deal.”

I hang up and exhale heavily as the reality of the situation settles over me.

Somewhere between all of Becca's lies and my monumental fuck-ups...I ended up catching some peculiar feelings for a girl who made it clear she wants nothing to do with me.

The sound of the door opening snags my attention and when I see Ms. Panfile standing there with a first aid kit and a worried look on her face, I can't help but feel a twinge of remorse.

She must sense it's safe now because she kneels beside me and starts tending to my hand.

“My life went to complete shit over the last twenty-four hours,” I grind out, because explanations and apologies are one and the same for me.

I hold up my phone. “To top it off, my bookie isn't picking up.”

Her brows knit together in confusion...and then she smiles and pulls a joint out of her apron.

She's clearly mistaken bookies with drug dealers, but I know there's no point in explaining the difference to her because she won't understand.

Instead, I accept the joint and light it. Unfortunately, all it does is make me wish I was partaking in my own favorite pastime.

And just like that, the urge is crawling under my skin again, even stronger than before.

She makes to stand, but I reach for her hand and shoot her a grin that has her blushing. “Ever play poker, Ms. Panfile?”