Gamble

Chapter 3

FALLON

The hairs on my neck rise, and I know it’s my boss. He’s been watching me all night. I could feel his gaze, but now I know the source behind it; I want to hide. Moreover, I am one of the casino’s longest-standing dealers. He has never paid this much attention to me, so it has me on edge.

I scan my surroundings subtly as I smile at the newcomer across from me, another person whose attention gives me the creeps. Where is my father? By this time, he is usually on his second round of the floor. He’s a cleaner here. He got me this job five years ago, but I haven’t seen him all night.

Milo is my boss’s right-hand man. “Hit me,” Milo, the burly man in the seat across from me, grunts, his gold rings glinting in the dim light as they drum on the table. He sends me a wink, and my breath lodges in my throat. f**k! I’m not imagining it. I’m on their radar, but what for? However, I am good at reading people. I am equally skilled at wearing a mask.

“Are you sure?” I ask one eyebrow arching, my voice a honey blend between challenge and daring. My fingers itch to reveal the card, my mind rapidly calculating the odds.

“Positive,” Milo smirks.

I lay down an ace, and his triumphant roar matches the smug lift of my lips. “Blackjack,” I announce, my hands moving to pay out his winnings, the motions fluid and practiced.

“Damn, Fallon, you’re good luck, but you knew the card before it went down, didn’t you?” he softly chuckles, tossing me a chip as a tip before leaning back and steepling his fingers under his chin as he watches me.

“Lucky guess,” I correct him.

He arches his brow. “Or maybe it’s all skill. One hell of a skill, don’t you think?” he asks, and I flick my eyes to him briefly, then away. There appears to be some hidden meaning to his words, one I don’t wish to find out about. His gaze makes me nervous, makes my skin itch as fear wraps around me like a snake threatening to constrict me before it devours me whole. He’s daring me to deny I count cards, but why? How long have they been watching me to notice? I say nothing, knowing silence is sometimes better than talking myself out of a situation. Words can be reversed or played against you, and I am not willing to risk a fumble with my nervousness right now. Instead, I giggle, playing along like what he said means nothing.

Laughter fills the table as patrons momentarily forget their losses and find joy in Milo’s words.

But then I notice my father, Nathan McAllister, in the reflection of a slot machine, maneuvering through the chaos with his janitor’s cart. His graying hair looks white under the lights and the glow of the slot machines.

As he bends to clean up a spilled drink, his kind blue eyes meet mine, a silent conversation at a glance. Desperation lurks there, well hidden beneath layers of his love and concern for my sister, knowing who stands close watching me has him also on edge. Stay away, Dad is all I can think. It’s bad enough I’ve drawn their attention. We won’t leave unscathed if he gets too close to question why.

“Is everything okay, Fallon?” Seat two—a middle-aged woman named Sondra, who loves blackjack—eyes me curiously.

“Perfect,” I assure her, flashing a grin. I can’t afford distractions, not when every second here means another dollar toward Emma’s treatment. Yet, the way my father stares at me has my stomach twisting, the feeling only intensifies when I notice Milo studying my father.

“Let’s keep this party rolling, shall we?” I beckon to the cocktail waitress, ordering my players a round on the house. It is a calculated move, but a happy, drunk player is a spending player. The heat of Leone behind me gets hotter; I can almost feel him breathing down my neck.

“Your old man’s working hard tonight,” Milo observes, nodding toward where my father has moved on to wiping down machines. I swallow the lump forming in my throat. One part of me wonders how he knows my name. The only names I’ve heard Mr. Pressutti or Milo speak are those being scolded, and I have never been one of them. But he says my name as if we are familiar.

“Always does,” I reply, keeping my tone light. Dad’s presence here is a double-edged sword—comfort in proximity laced with the constant fear of him being hurt by the rowdier patrons or losing ones, his health deteriorating right alongside my sister’s.

“Guess hard work runs in the family,” Milo says, giving me a look that suggests something else. And for once, I am at a loss; this man, just like my boss, is hard to read.

“Dealing cards is hardly rocket science,” I deflect, busying myself with the deck.

“Maybe not, but you’ve got a head for numbers like no one else and card suits.” He taps his temple, a knowing smile on his lips.

“It comes with the territory.” I deal another round. It is essential to maintain the façade of the cool, composed dealer. But I don’t like how he’s reading me like an open book. It’s as if he is taunting me with something he knows that I don’t. Fingertips graze the back of my neck as someone swipes my hair over one shoulder.

Then hands meet the table on either side of my hips, and heat presses against my back.