Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 55616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
“Mommy, I’m hungry,” one of the girls says, eyeing Corey, like she’s testing to see how sincere she is.
“Let’s go find you a snack.” Corey holds out her hand.
The little girl shyly takes it.
“Except I’ll need Uncle Stefano’s wallet because I don’t have my purse.” She slides me an almost teasing look.
I step to her side and touch her back. It’s not that I don’t trust she’ll come back. I can’t see her kidnapping or abandoning a kid. It’s that I’m too fascinated by her to want to let her out of my sight. “I’ll come along. Where are you headed; the Starbucks down the hall?”
“Yes.” She leans down to the look at the little girl. “Think we can find you something there?”
The girl nods gravely. It’s a bizarre feeling walking with Corey and a small child through the halls of a hospital. Both new and unique and yet strangely familiar all at once. It would be true of any experience under the sun—with Corey.
She’s that different. That right. I never in a million years would’ve guessed she’d be good with kids. She’s not the warm and fuzzy first grade teacher type, yet here she is with a small child wrapped around her finger.
We stand in line at the hospital Starbucks and Corey orders a latte for herself and Trisha and Ninja talks the little girl out of a donut and into a yogurt with fruit. I order a double espresso and drink it before we leave the counter.
“Anything you’re not good at, Corey Simonson?” I toss the drained cup in the wastebasket.
Surprise lights up her face. “What are you talking about?”
I lift my chin at the little girl, who is chattering away as she walks beside us, carrying the yogurt and two spoons so she can share with her sister.
Pink stains her cheeks. “I’m not good with kids.” She shrugs. “I just figure someone needs to step up right now.”
“I read your file. Bachelor in psychology, graduated summa cum laude. Why are you working as a croupier in Vegas?”
She slows her steps, a frown appearing between her brows. “First of all, what file did you read?”
“The one my brother put together when he started dating Sondra. I guess he already knew your dad’s a fed.”
Her expression clouds even more. “‘Kay. I’m a little freaked out now. But maybe no more than I was falling asleep last night with my wrists zip-tied to the bed.”
Damn. My concern she’ll never forgive me for that seems valid.
She shakes her lovely hair. “Don’t respond to that.” We arrive back in the waiting area and she hands Trisha the coffee as the girls hunker down together to fight over who gets to hold the yogurt while they share.
Corey takes a seat and I sit beside her, still waiting for an answer. After a moment, she says, “I know it seems like I gave up on my career—my life. My parents definitely think so. I came here for grad school and ended up getting a job at the Bellissimo for shits and giggles. I dropped out three months later.”
I knew this much from her file, but I love hearing it from her. I stay quiet, hoping she’ll go on.
“The Bellissimo satisfies an itch in me. I always hated the mundane. I get bored quickly, you know?”
I nod, because it makes sense. She’s a smart woman—ordinary wouldn’t cut it.
“I mean, I grew up in Marshall, Michigan, for God’s sake. It’s the join the soccer team and mow your grass on Saturdays kind of place. Only I always knew I didn’t fit in. I had a dad who worked for the FBI for one thing. And for another, he was a functioning alcoholic and an asshole. Tragically, I probably get my impatience with the rest of the population from him. He was always tearing everyone down. He saw through every lie, destroyed every dream.”
She laughs, but it’s bitter and I already want to kill her dad. It wouldn’t be hard to do.
“Sondra and her family lived across the street—the model of what a family should look like. Cheesy, supportive parents, report cards pinned on the fridge.” She stares down at her fingernails, the low-key French manicure making her fingers look even longer. “Sondra’s parents used to come to her soccer games with their faces painted in the team colors. They carried banners and signs cheering her on.
“I always prayed my dad wouldn’t come because he would stand on the sidelines and chew me out for every wrong move. He chewed the coach out, the other team’s coach. The other kids. It was a freaking nightmare.”
“Father of the year,” I mutter.
“Yeah.” She jerks her head up suddenly to look at my eyes. “Why am I even telling you all this?”
“You were explaining how you came to be a croupier.”