I followed her to the concierge and he stood when he saw me.

“Mister Blackwell, will we be joining a table tonight?”

“Yes, please,” I mumbled.

“Your account is up to date. Here is your card,” he said, offering me the digital readout of my winnings for the past year.

I’d won close to two million, hoping to add it to my total in Switzerland. My seed money. The money I would use to get away, to feel free...finally.

“This way to the baccarat tables,” he said, pointing me toward the left on the floor.

He knew me well. Baccarat was my game because the game favored neither the house nor the player. The odds were almost fifty-fifty. That’s why I liked it. It was a safe, simple game, and I won more than I’d lost. I gambled with my father’s money, but the two million was pure profit and all mine.

“No, this time we’d like to play Black Jack,” Piper chimed in.

“Of course,” the concierge complied, leading us in the direction of the tables.

“Black Jack?” I asked her.

“Yes, Black Jack is much more fun.”

I didn’t respond. My head was pounding so furiously, I just went along with it. Just play a few hands and get gone, I told myself.

Nothing. There was nothing below. She hadn’t jumped.

I staggered back into the villa and shut the balcony door, locking it behind me before dragging my feet to the sofa and falling on top. My face hung near the edge, forcing me to acknowledge the mess, the chaos, around me.

I watched a still bottle of Jack underneath a shattered glass coffee table. It had maybe an ounce of liquor left inside and it sat, the perfect gold liquid inside its clear glass coffin, waiting for its fate, waiting to be consumed or discarded...much like myself.

I was so tired of nights like those. So tired of fearing the unknown, of discovering near-death experiences, exposing myself to dangerous things I wouldn’t remember until it was usually too late. That night may seem out of the ordinary, but not for me. Not for Spencer Blackwell. That was fairly typical for me. That was my life or, very likely I knew, soon to be the end of it.

“Just get your cash, send it to Switzerland and call it what it is.” I turned and laid on my back. “Get out now, while you still can. Run.”

I ran up the stairs, dressed and grabbed my bag before heading to the lobby to check out, but first I needed to cash out. I visited the new concierge, a woman this time, someone I’d seen before but couldn’t remember her name.

“Good morning, Mister Blackwell,” she greeted cheerfully, her hair clean and kept, her teeth bright and white.

“Good morning,” I told her, my voice rough. I looked down at myself, fully aware that despite my designer digs, I looked as to be expected.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to cash out, please.”

“Not keeping your balance here?” she asked.

“No, I’ve decided to take a-a breather for a bit.”

“Just a moment,” she said, secreting to some area in the back.

I leaned against the counter, ready to beg loudly for her to return quickly that I was in so much pain.

She returned a minute or two later but it felt like an eternity.

“Mister Blackwell, it appears you don’t have a profit balance.”

My mouth went dry. “Excuse me?”

She peered at a computer screen in front of her. “Yes, it seems you lost your balance. There’s actually a settlement owed of five million seven hundred thousand.”

My heart leapt into my throat. “That cannot be,” I insisted, bracing my head in my hands. I didn’t think it could take much more pressure. “Okay, uh,” I breathed. “Charge it to my father’s account,” I told her.

“Of course,” she said.

When he found out, he would remove my signing privileges.

“Thank you,” I muttered before heading toward the lobby and sitting down in the nearest chair to catch my breath.

I lost it all. I was relying on that two million to fund part my freedom. Now, I knew I was going to have to live another year under my dad’s thumb to make it up.

The very thought made me want to wretch. So I did. All over the expensive marble floor.

Chapter Six

I held out her chair for her and she tucked herself within it as I pushed her in place. I glanced around me. Every eye in the place was peeled and staring a hole through the miniscule dress I begged her to change out of but she didn’t. Bridge never listened to me when it came to that stuff. Ever.

“Assholes,” I spoke between gritted teeth toward all the leering eyes.

When I sat myself, I immediately shot a blazing look at the fifty-year-old idiot at the next table. He was sporting a wedding ring and was undressing Bridge with his eyes. When he caught me staring, his eyes popped wide for a moment. Embarrassed, his bright red round face found the ceiling. Apparently, it was fascinating. I had something just as fascinating—my fist. In his stupid face. My hand closed, the skin at my knuckles pulling tight, the blood fighting to reach my fingers. After Vegas, I was in the mood for a fight.

“I’m pregnant,” I heard at my left, shocking me. My gaze whipped back to her face. My heart pounded in my chest. My hands fell open.

For a brief moment we sat there, quiet, unmoving, the asshole forgotten. My breath rushed in and out of me, hurried and burdensome.

My hand shot out and my water glass shook, the water sloshing violently as I brought it to my lips.

Suddenly, I’d never been thirstier.

The entire contents poured down my throat in one fluid spill. I set the glass down slowly, using both hands to steady the shivering glass, and I sat up a little. I’d unwittingly slumped in my chair. I wiped at my mouth with the linen napkin laying to my right. The pressed, starched, perfect napkin that I absently noted my father would have complained about simply because he could.

“How?” I asked, swallowing hard.

She raised a single brow. “Well, you see, when a man and a woman get together—”

“Bridge,” I nearly shouted, slamming my hand on the table. The utensils clinked and rang, sliding into the china setting. “This isn’t a time for jokes.” I gritted my teeth, reminding me of my father. Her eyes clenched tightly and her bottom lip began to quake. Right away, I pulled my lips apart. I relaxed my fist and let my hand slip off the table. I asked as kindly as I could, “How, Bridge?”

She took a deep, wobbly breath and turned her stare away from mine. “I don’t know, to be honest.” Little bits of moisture began to gather at the corners of her eyes. She examined her water glass, running her finger along the base of the goblet.

“Who?” I asked, ignoring the tears.

I didn’t have time for tears. I didn’t have time for sympathy. We were in deep shit. She knew it. I knew it.

“I don’t want to say,” she said.

Her eyes moved to her lap as she absently meddled with the napkin laying across her knees.

“I’m your brother, Bridge.” I leaned toward her over the table and narrowed my eyes. “I need to know who I plan to kill.”

Her eyes trained themselves on mine. “Don’t be an overdramatic idiot. And I won’t say a single word anyway. I told the father and he wants nothing to do with it.” My blood boiled to a dangerous temperature. Asshole. “I asked you to dinner for one reason and one reason only.”

I closed my eyes and took a good, solid breath. “What do you need?”

“Help telling dad.”

I nodded, still absorbing it all and attempting to bring my heart rate down. Then it dawned on me.

“The nausea,” I said, recalling the day I’d arrived.

She nodded once, tears threatening to spill again.

Bridge didn’t eat much. Nor did I, for that matter. I’m not exactly sure if it was the fact that she complained of feeling sick again, which set my heart beating an abnormal pattern, or the fact that we were about to drop the biggest bomb on my parents’ shoulders. We left it unsaid. Memories of Vegas kept invading my thoughts, and I felt nauseous myself.

“Wait, I forgot my purse,” she said when we reached my car.

“I’ll get it,” I told her and opened her door for her.

I watched her seventeen-year-old body hop in. She strapped herself to her seat then tucked her leg beneath her, the way so many young teenage girls do, and twisted a strand of her long blonde hair around her finger while texting someone with the other hand.

All I could think as I looked on her was that she was so young. She was way too young to be pregnant. She was my baby sister. My little Bridge. Granted, she was only four years younger, but that never mattered to me. When she was ten, I was fourteen, and I recalled scaring off the bullies who pulled her pigtails. When she was fifteen, I was nineteen and I would yell at her to stop wearing those freaking shorts around my friends. And then she got pregnant, and I still felt very much like the older brother I was. I just wished I could have protected her better, but instead I led by the worst example ever. Piper’s Cheshire grin popped in my head, and I flinched.

I grabbed Bridge’s ridiculously oversized leather bag from her forgotten chair and headed for the door. I jumped into my car.

“The Holes?” I asked, so pissed at myself, I could’ve kicked my own ass.

“Of course,” she answered, her gaze staring out toward the busy street.

“The Holes” were where fifty or so of our most elite group would gather together at the home of one our parents’ because it was inevitable that someone’s folks would be out of town. We would “hole” up for the weekend, binge on drugs, sex and booze.

I slammed the palm of my hand into the steering wheel. I leaned forward and started the car. I fell back into my seat and ran a hand down my face.

“Jesus. I just-Bridge, we need a plan.”

She turned my way. She looked so lost. “Thanks for helping me, Spence.”

“Please, Bridge. Your problems are my problems,” I said, hitting the gas.

We sat in the car at the end of our street, staring at our parents’ monstrous house. I listened quietly to Bridge’s crying. I tried comforting her, but it did no good.

“We’ll get it over with,” I said.

“I want to wait until after Christmas. It’ll kill Mama.”

“No, we tell them tonight. The sooner, the better. I’ll be able to defuse it better the more time I have.”

“So you’re going back to Brown after all this?”

I looked at her like she’d gone crazy. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, I just thought you’d want to stick around for a little while.”

“Bridge, Dad’s not gonna let you keep it.”

“I don’t give a shit. I’m going to.”

“Let’s see what happens.” He would never let her keep it.

“No, I need us to be united on this front, Spence. I need to know that when I stand up to Dad you’ll be there to back me up. I need support.” He still wouldn’t let her keep it.

“Fine, Bridge.”

I parked in my spot and got out, Bridge following right behind me. When I opened the front door, Mom and Dad were in the main living room. Mom was on the floor sweeping up shards of a liquor decanter, and Dad was on the sofa with a paper in his hands. Something had transpired, and Dad had won as always.