I’m carrying Sulli upside-down. Her hair cascades over her face and smile, and I’m caught mid-laugh. The caption we agree on: When the boyfriend carries you to bed.
We both sorta hate that line.
So we type it out.
If Akara thinks we’re taking this announcement with grace, he’s fucking wrong. We’re not happy-go-lucky, honeymooning over here. Hopefully he realizes he hasn’t left joy in his wake.
Eclipse Hotel & Casino in Atlantic City juts out in a row of casinos that glitter and glow. Been here once upon a time for a cousin’s bachelor party. Got shit-faced with Thatcher and we ended up passing out on the floor of the hotel room where eight other guys crashed.
Never thought I’d be back here with a girlfriend, but after the Ferris wheel, Sulli and I are on a new mission.
One that involves gambling my paycheck and a chunk of her monthly trust fund allowance. All in the name of my ex-metamour and her ex-boyfriend. For one, if we make some extra funds, we’re gonna slip the cash into Akara’s PO Box. Help out Studio 9.
For another, if we lose big, then we’ll be texting Akara about our misadventures in gambling—and maybe he’ll get his ass out to Atlantic City to stop us from making dumb choices.
He thinks I’m a cowboy. Well, giddyup, motherfucker. I bite down on a toothpick. “Three-hundred on red,” I tell Sulli as I shift my stack of chips.
People crowd around the roulette table to watch, our extra security shielding Sulli’s other side while my arm slips around her waist. I’m eyeing the hell out of anyone who edges near her.
“How much should I put on 4, 9, and 18?” Sulli asks, sifting through her chips.
“However much you feel.”
She places a sizable stack on each number. A middle-aged man clicks his camera phone in front of us, a flash going off in both our eyes as the dealer calls for final bets.
Sulli sinks back on her chair next to me, then scrolls through her phone.
I glance over her shoulder, seeing our Instagram post popped up. “You still checking it?”
“Yeah,” she winces. “The comments are fucking awful.”
I spot the first few comments.
I knew Banks was the one!
Kitsulli was never real. OMG.
Let’s go Sulletti. Sail that ship into the fucking horizon!!!!
My stomach churns.
This is what Thatcher and Akara wanted. For me to be loved and number one in the eyes of the public. I’m not happy about it.
I swipe a hand down my face as my eyes graze over the photo.
Sulli lets out a groan and pockets her phone. The dealer spins the white ball on the roulette wheel. I want to tell her it’ll work itself out, but it’s been ten days since Akara broke up with us. Each day has felt like another door closing in our faces, even when I keep trying to shove them back open.
“Sulletti wins!” someone yells across the room.
Casino’s security descends on them in a blink.
My muscles tightening, I keep Sulli pinned closer to me. “Red. Red. Red,” she chants under her breath. The ball spins and spins. “Four, nine, eighteen. Four, nine, eighteen. Come on.”
I make the sign of the cross. I have three-hundred bucks on the table. After my two months’ pay-cut from the Winter Festival fight, this is like tossing down gold for me. My fifteen-year-old self would be dragging me by the underwear out of this casino.
Dumb.
Stupid.
Foolish.
And I’m doing this dumb thing for Akara. He might not even care. I shake my head to myself and grind on the toothpick. He’ll care.
He just might not show us.
That hurts too. Knowing he’s probably somewhere alone, beating himself up. Christ.
“No whammies,” I mumble on my toothpick. Trying not to shit myself.
One thing’s for sure, I don’t have the stomach for gambling like my dad. How he could continuously blow his earnings at places like this—I’ll never understand.
As the ball slows down, I think about how I bailed on the Flyers game. I drove to the hockey arena, and I saw my dad outside with Thatcher, waiting for me.
Anger bubbled up. My whole body went taut. I could barely move. I sat there for what felt like eternity. I couldn’t get my ass out of the car.
So I texted them I couldn’t make it. And I left.
Cowardly.
Or maybe I just didn’t want to make a scene in public. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.
The white ball ping ping pings along the roulette wheel, and then comes to a dead stop.
“Black 13,” the dealer calls out and scoops up Sulli’s chips. My chips.
All gone.
I glare. “Fuck-a-duck.”
Sulli smiles at that phrase, then snaps a photo of our losses and texts Akara. “You think he’ll take pity on us?”
“I hope so.”
She angles the phone to me. “Make a sad fucking face like it hurts you’re down a grand.”
I immediately cringe in pain. A grand down the shitter—what I could’ve done with a grand…