Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 85443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Hope.
Was there any bigger a beggar in the world?
Always wanting things she couldn't have.
"Prue, breathe," Byron commanded, his hand pressing into my belly slightly and I finally remembered to inhale.
I looked down again, still not wanting to believe what I was seeing. "Wait... why isn't he playing?" I asked myself, but aloud. I'd never, literally never, walked into a casino to see him standing back, watching. He was always in the thick of it, always winning or losing, always lost in the thrill of it all. And then there it was again- hope. Maybe he wasn't playing. Maybe he got drawn in, but he was trying to fight the urge, like a junkie buying a dime bag but staring at it, trying to convince themselves to flush it, not snort it up their noses or cook it and shoot it in a vein.
Then from behind me, Byron was speaking. "Now," he said into his cell then hung up, leaving me to wonder what was happening. Then one of the floor managers crossed to the dealer at the table and spoke into his ear. The dealer nodded, saying something to the table, then trashing the deck of cards he was holding and reaching for a fresh one, peeling the seal away. Almost the exact same second, I saw my father's shoulders sag as he turned away and went to another table, just standing back and watching again.
And then it hit me.
And it was worse than the kick-to-the-gut sensation I felt at just seeing him in the casino. It felt like the catwalk gave away beneath my feet. I grabbed the railing hard enough to turn my fingers white as I leaned back, shaking my head.
Because... no.
No way was it that sick and sordid.
No way had he fucked up that bad. And got caught.
But I knew, oh, I knew.
That was why Byron was so pissed, why he threatened my father's life. Not just because he owed him money. But because...
"He's counting cards," I whispered, a part of me willing him to deny it.
"Yeah, babe," he said, his voice doing that soft thing again. And, well, somehow that was worse. I wanted him to snap at me, to be cold, to do anything that could trigger some other emotion inside me except the swirling, consuming feeling of hopelessness.
Because if he couldn't stop when his daughter got, essentially, sold off to one of his debtors, what the hell hope was there that he could ever stop?
"You need to talk to him," Byron surprised me by saying as I stood there, head ducked, trying to blink the sudden onslaught of tears away.
I felt my head shaking, feeling another feeling replace the hopelessness. It was a feeling I could only describe as: done. I was so done. I never thought I would see a day when I would say that, when I would give up. He was all I had in the world and I was all he had. All the therapists, all the books I had read, everything told me it took more strength to stay, to not give up on addicts, to keep trying to pull them out of it. It was strength, not weakness to stick through it. But that being said, at what point was it okay to say you need to put yourself first? That if you don't stop giving, there was going to be nothing left of you? I felt my breath hitch on a mortifying sob.
Then suddenly, I was turning with no help from my own body. Byron's arm went around my back, the other raised, his hand snagging my chin and forcing it up. "Hey," he said. And just like that, the second my gaze found his and saw something there, something I hadn't thought he possessed: compassion, that was when the dam inside broke. The tears broke free and slid down my cheeks as I tried to pull my face from his grip, duck my head, and try to save a little bit of my dignity.
Surprisingly, he let me go. But only because suddenly I was crushed against his chest, his arms going tight around me, holding me there.
And the only feeling that broke through all the swirling despair inside was: safe.
It felt safe there, like that, with him, even when I felt like my life was crumbling around me.
"You need to talk to him," he said, and I could feel his mouth moving against the side of my head like he ducked his head down toward me.
"I have talked to him," I sniffled. "I've talked and talked and talked..."
"Yeah, babe, but did you ever fucking say anything?"
"What are you talking about?" I snapped, glad for the small spark of anger, almost grateful to him for it. Even if it was, in a way, at my own expense. "I have said plenty. About how he needs help. He needs to..."