Run To You

being as tortured by three days of POW camp as he’d been by spending one day confined with Stella Leon.
    The dealer dealt the house a twenty-one and Beau lost a stack of orange and black chips. Around him, the bells and whistles and bloops of slot machines filled the floor. Beau slid another three hundred and fifty into the betting square. As far as he was concerned, slots were for amateurs and old ladies. It took no skill, no strategy to play slots. Just a willingness to sit in the same chair and hit a button.
    The dealer slid Beau an ace of clubs and the queen of hearts. She paid out and he let the chips ride. He lost the next round and rolled his neck from side to side as the dealer scooped off his seven hundred in chips and moved to the next player. It didn’t seem to be his night. He slid several black and orange chips into the square. Hell, it didn’t seem to be his week. He was stuck with a woman who’d found the sweet spot of torture and managed to look innocent and hot as she hit it over and over again. That was the real secret weapon in her torture toolbox. The curve of her neck and waist and ass. One moment he was wondering how he could get her into a sleeper hold while driving down the interstate, and in the next, she flexed and squirmed in her seat and he envisioned her squirming against him. One second he’d been wondering how to bring the boom down on her, and in the next, she brought it down on his crotch.
    He’d planned to drive straight through to New Orleans and meet with Kasper tomorrow afternoon. He could still make the meeting, but he’d had to stop. He’d had to get away from Stella. If just for a while. He’d left her in the two-bedroom suite, fussing about cost. He’d tried to explain that certain hotels comped rooms for Junger Security or at least gave corporate discounts, but he didn’t think she’d heard him over her fretting.
    Beau drained the Gentleman Jack from his glass. The eighty-proof whiskey warmed his throat and stomach and reminded him he hadn’t eaten since around noon. The bells and whistles and bleeps and bloops from the slot machines filled his ears as a cocktail waitress in a tiny black outfit replaced his drink. He slipped her a twenty-dollar chip and slid his bet into the square on the table. He wouldn’t call himself a big drinker. Not like Blake or his father, but he did like to tie one on every now and then. Tonight felt like a now-and-then night.
    He took a drink and felt the burn. He thought of Stella and money, or rather her lack of money. She had a trust fund she obviously didn’t consider hers, and he wondered if her father had known that the money hadn’t gone to her. He wondered if her father had cared. She’d said he never gave a shit about her, and it appeared she was right. Although he couldn’t imagine having a little girl and not being involved in her life. Not caring what happened to her. A tiny ember of anger burned right next to the whiskey in his stomach. Beau had seen a lot of horrible things in his life. He’d seen a lot of it up close and personal or through the crosshairs of a fixed scope. There were a lot of adults who deserved the horrible things that happen to them. People who asked for it because they were brutal thugs, but kids were different. Kids didn’t ask to be born into a war zone or to have shitty parents. They didn’t deserve to be disposable or forgotten.
    Beau pointed to the ten of diamond and three of hearts in front of him. He was dealt a five and held at eighteen. He took a drink of his Gentleman Jack as the dealer moved to the guy in the flamingo shirt. Stella had said that her father hadn’t given a shit about her, and given that Sadie had never been told about Stella, he had to agree. Sure, Stella could be annoying and a pain in the ass, but that did not excuse Clive Hollowell for loving one child while ignoring the other.
    The dealer drew twenty and scooped away Beau’s chips. Well, shit. The whiskey was doing a nice job of giving everything a warm cheery glow. Which was not a good sign. It was a sign that his judgment was impaired. A sign that he should take his remaining chips and bug out. But of course he didn’t. Not until he lost his last two thousand in chips.
    He downed the last of his whiskey and tipped the dealer his last chip, He stood as sirens and flashing lights split the air. At first, Beau thought the cops were raiding the place and he turned around expecting to see some sort of takedown.