DEBT (12 page)

No freaking way.

No way was my father at the tables.

I should have known better than to expect him not to be. I really should have. It was a sickness. He couldn't help it. But maybe a part of me had been hoping he would take the whole situation with me being indebted to Byron as some sort of wake-up call.

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..."

"No, babe," he said, pulling back and looking down at me. "Did you ever
say
anything? Does he know how your life is utterly fucked because of him? Does he know that you're fucking terrified every time he goes out that you might be the one footing the bill again? Does he know you gave up a dream because of his fucking up? Does he know that shit? Have you ever actually
said anything
?"

And, well, when he put it that way, no I hadn't.

I always focused it on him, what he needed to do to get better, to make his life better. I always tried to keep my selfishness out of it.

"It's not about me," I said, shaking my head.

"Like fuck it's not about you. You're the one walking around my house in clothes you hate, doing shit you don't want to do, not him. You're the one with empty bank accounts. You're the one with a car that is older than fucking dirt. You're the one with a pit in your stomach all the time. It's fucking about you. So stop being such a fucking pussy and tell him that." It was harsh, but his words weren't hard. If anything, they were soft, borderline sweet. "You're not doing him any favors by acting like what he does doesn't affect you. What the fuck kind of relationship is built on a lie that big?" he asked, reaching up and swiping the wetness off my cheeks.

"It's not that eas..."

"I didn't say it would be easy. I said to man the fuck up and handle it. Nothing that matters is easy. You want him to keep living? You want him to stop throwing his life away at the tables and the tracks... nothing about making that happen will be easy. So stop making excuses, stop bleeding your heart all over the issue, and handle it."

With that, his arm fell from around me and he took a step back, then turned and strode back across the catwalk toward the door to the security room. I took a minute, wiping my cheeks, sniffling, blinking some of the redness out of my eyes, before turning and making my way back as well, grabbing my heels, but not slipping into them until I was safely back inside the room.

"Come on," Byron said, nodding his chin at me.

"What now? Going to take me to see my mother living all happily with her new family?" I grumbled childishly which only managed to make his lips twitch.

"No, now you're gonna put your big girl panties on and handle this shit while it's fresh."

"What are you..." I started to ask as I followed him out toward the elevator.

"Taking you down to my office where Aaron is bringing your father. Talk it out. Get him into a treatment facility. I have a list of in-treatment places. You two hash it out, but, babe, let me tell you," he said, turning to face me fully in the elevator and it took everything in me to not shrink away, "you two aren't coming out until you do."

"Jesus, what is with this God complex of yours?" I snapped, more to cover the swirling feeling in my belly at the idea of confronting my father, of spilling my heart, my disappointments, my resentments, my fears, than actual anger toward him for pushing me to do so.

"Let's put it this way," he said as the elevator slid open. He didn't finish until he led us down a hall and stopped in front of a door where Aaron was keeping guard from a few discreet feet away. "Get your father into in-treatment. Because you don't get your freedom until his ass gets back out again, all repentant and steering the fuck clear of my tables."

With that, he turned and stormed away, leaving me to watch after him for a minute.

I turned to Aaron who was watching me, his eyes kind, his lips tipped up in a humorless smile.

I knew his job was to make sure I handled what I was told to.

There was no getting away with it.

So with my belly clenching painfully, I turned, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Because, fact of the matter was, Byron was right. Damn him.

It was time.

No matter how much it hurt, how hard it was to peel back the bandage and show my bleeding, open wounds, I knew they would never do anything but fester if I didn't air them out and let them heal.

And somehow, I was indebted to Byron freaking St. James for that.

NINE

Byron

I had barely made it into the break room before Aaron was hot on my heels.

"Was that really fucking necessary?" he asked, his tone a little dead.

"Yes," I said, going to the coffee pot and pouring two cups.

"She was crying."

"Yep," I agreed, putting cream into his, then turning and handing him one of the cups.

"Couldn't have eased her into it?" He asked. Aaron, always the bleeding fucking heart. It was a strange quality to find in a security manager, but somehow he made it work.

"No," I said, leaning back against the counter and rolling some of the tension out of my shoulders. First, because of all that shit that went on out on that catwalk. But also because I'd fucking had her in my bed, hot and willing, when the God damn call came in.

"Going to explain?" Aaron asked, raising a brow, leaning back against the door jamb.

"She's so fucking repressed. Everything she does or says, save for fucking snapping at me, is calculated, thought out. She doesn't do shit in the heat of the moment. She needed to get upset and then she needed to immediately take that and direct it where it belongs."

"At her father."

"His daughter is living under my roof like she's in some kind of fucking debtors' prison from the nineteenth century and he still can't keep his ass from my tables? Fuck yeah, at her father."

"Alright, By," Aaron said, carefully choosing his words. "What the fuck is it with you and this girl?"

"There's nothing with me and this girl. She's living in my house. Her father owes me a fuckton of money..."

"Yeah, exactly. Her
father
owes you a fuckton of money and yet
she
is living in your house. And you're staging a fucking impromptu intervention? What is that all..."

"She told me you said I was a nice guy."

"Yeah, maybe that was a bit of a stretch," he admitted with a small, evil little grin. "You can be a ruthless, heartless bastard, but usually only when it matters. And you don't just fucking... take women in exchange for debts owed to you. So, I'll repeat: what is it with you and this girl?" He paused and when I didn't answer, shrugged a shoulder. "She's pretty. I'll give you that. But not drop-dead gorgeous. Very girl next door which has never been your thing. She's got a nice body, but again... you've had better. And, well, she hates your fucking guts, man. Nothing about getting her seems like it would be easy."

"Maybe I'm getting a little old for easy," I said with a shrug.

To that, Aaron's confused face broke out into a shit-eating grin. "You're not serious. You can't be thinking about trying to... date her?"

"Don't be ridiculous," I said, shaking my head. "She's in my house, parading around in barely more than underwear, spitting fire at me all day and night..."

"So you just want to fuck her and brush her aside. Classy, By."

"How the fuck is this news? Ever know me to parade around with the same woman on my arm week after week?"

"So you're gonna get her in bed then keep forcing her to wash your sheets?"

"Something like that."

Probably.

I just needed to get her out of my system. That was the problem.

I hoped.

TEN

Prue

I won't lie.

It hurt.

Every word out of my mouth was forced, was like ripping a layer of skin off. It burned. It made me choke on my words. It made me cry so hard that I couldn't even get coherent words out at one point. And every single one I did get out seemed to pierce my father's heart. His usually jovial, kind, loving face simply... crumpled. It was like I reached out, grabbed him, and wrung every last drop of happiness from his body.

But, I realized, as I finally got it all out and cradled my face in my hands, trying to pull it together, it made me feel lighter, like a weight was lifted off my chest and shoulders, like I could breathe again and walk without feeling like I was going to collapse under the burden of everything I had never said.