GREED(12)

My heart quickened. “What money?”

“So...not all of it.”

She seemed to get some sort of sick thrill out of knowing this part of the night I couldn’t recall.

“What happened?” I asked her.

She began to laugh, cackle really, and escaped the shower. I jumped up and tossed a towel around my waist. I followed the wet trails of her dress all the way into the bedroom but couldn’t find her.

“Piper,” I called out, searching the room. “Piper!” I called again, scouring the closet, but she wasn’t there.

I ran from the room, sprinting down the hall to the top of the stairs and peered over the edge. “Piper!” I shouted down, but she didn’t answer.

I descended the stairs and inspected the living area as well as the kitchen. She was gone. I threw open the villa doors and scanned the balcony, but no Piper. I ran back through the living and practically tossed the front door off its hinge.

“Piper!” I yelled into the empty hall.

I stumbled back into the room and closed the door, resting my back against its flat surface. “Where in the…”

My hands began to tremble as a thought came to the forefront of my mind. Slowly, ever so slowly, I walked back through the living room, hesitating to step over the threshold of the balcony. My breaths deepened.

“Oh, please, God. Please, God,” I prayed under my breath as I reached the balustrade.

I placed both my hands on the edge and leaned over.

“Come on,” she whispered. “It’ll be fun.”

She dragged me by my tie to the gambling floor, the private floor just for whales.

“I’m too drunk to gamble, Piper. Besides, my head hurts like a mother,” I slurred.

“Shh,” she quieted into my left ear, “you’ll do fine.”

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.”