Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 86238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“The race was rigged. The horse—”
“Figuratively, Dad. I know how you lost. It is written all over your face.”
When I lift his downcast chin, my stomach drops to my feet. His face is battered and bruised, compliments to his latest bookie not doing his homework before loaning an exorbitant amount of money to a man known to lose.
Everyone in this city knows how bad of a gambler my father is, and until last month, they stopped lending him money, aware they’d never get it back.
“How long do we have?”
When he shrugs, the strap of his wifebeater falls off his shoulder. He’s lost so much weight in the past four years that I walked straight past him when his begs for me to come home finally saw me succumbing to his monthly pleas. “A week. Maybe two.”
“A week?” I can’t breathe with how heavy his burden feels on my chest. “I can’t come up with sixty thousand in a week.”
“Th-then they’ll… they’ll…”
When a snivel completes his statement, I snatch up the blanket covering the rip in the couch and curl it around his shuddering shoulders. “I’ll get the money. Somehow.” I bob down in front of him, hating that even after all this time, I still see the man who stood by my side as I shook my way through the worst event that has ever happened in my life. “But I can’t do anymore, Dad. I need you to stop.”
“I will,” he promises like he always does. “But if the horse’s injury had been recorded accurately, we would have been millionaires. I swear, bub. I know a winner when I see it.”
He fails to mention he was at the track before he placed his bet. That would be admitting that he has no clue about anything.
“Why don’t you go wash up, and I’ll get you something to eat before I go to work?”
“O-okay.” He stands then shuffles to the bathroom, his waddles dislodging the blanket on the way.
As I pick it up from the floor, I inwardly cuss. I’m already working three jobs to pay off the one hundred thousand he owes Maksim. I have no clue where I’ll find the time to pluck another sixty thousand from the limited pool of resources available. Half this town knows me as Alek’s girl, so they won’t touch me with a six-foot pole. The other half can’t rub two pennies together.
“Don’t,” I murmur to myself when my eyes stray to the casino chip Alek had encased in glass six years ago. “Gambling got you into this mess, so it isn’t the solution to get you out of it.”
I love poker, and I’m good at it too, but every competition I won increased my father’s wish to gamble. He forever says I got my skills from him and that if I’d just let him play, we could live on easy street.
He lost more than I won at our first and only mutual poker tournament.
I haven’t played since.
“Do you want a sandwich?” I’ll most likely have to scrape the mold off the bread, but when it is either pickle juice or moldy bread, you go with whatever will fill your stomach. “How about toast?” The heat will burn off the germs.
“Toast will be good. Thanks, bub.”
“Okay.” I’m hit with unfairness for the second time this morning when I pull open the refrigerator and am confronted with darkness. The bulb can’t be blown because I only replaced it last week. “Did you pay the electric bill?”
I wait on pins and needles for his reply, and although it is expected, it still hurts when he grumbles out, “Shit.”
The empty condiment containers jangle in the breeze of my slam when I close the refrigerator door. After sucking in some big breaths like air could solve world hunger, I mutter, “I’ll be back in a minute. I need to go to the store.”
Maksim’s men take all my salary to recoup my father’s debt, but Ilya leaves me the tips, aware I can’t eat air to stay alive.
When he hears my gallop down the rickety stairs, Pete’s door pops open.
“I know, all right. I’ll get you next month’s rent as soon as possible.” Even with Alek’s generosity seemingly excessive, my father still owes a ton of back rent. He isn’t months overdue like Pete announced last night. He is a year in the hole. “I’ve got some now. I can give you…” I rummage through the notes in my pocket, grimacing when I notice how low the denominations are. I only graced the stage for a couple of minutes before I was requested to attend the private suites. I thought I had finally hit the jackpot. How wrong was I? “I can give you thirty.” I lock my begging eyes with Pete’s. “Forty if you’ll turn the electric back on.” I add words to my pleading expression when I don’t seem to be getting through to him. “Please, Pete. It is freezing up there.”