The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(2)

This is exactly why Ty shouldn’t have been in charge of planning this weekend.

Hindsight is a real bitch, isn’t it?

You’d think, since all four of us Winslow brothers are over the age of thirty-fucking-five, a trip to Vegas wouldn’t be a shitshow, but yeah, it’s been the very definition of that.

After two days of subjecting myself to my brothers’ shenanigans, I honestly can’t believe I showed up to the third. If I’d been smart, I would have taken off on my motorcycle and left them to their own messes without looking back.

Hell, I might be based in New York like the rest of my brothers and baby sister, Winnie, but I have a house that’s about twenty minutes outside of the Strip. I could’ve easily sequestered myself away from their antics for a few hours to get some sanity.

But no, here I am, subjecting myself to the circus. Sometimes my love for these jokers comes at the price of my own mental detriment.

Drunken, sloppy, cackling brothers in tow, I head to the casino table that looks the most promising, the buzz of excitement and flashing lights ringing out all around us. I slide more than I probably should in cash across the felt to the dealer and sit down. It takes Ty a couple tries to land his ass on the chair, and the motion of its teeter throws Jude off-balance on his feet. Overwhelmed by dizziness, he finally removes his blindfold and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans.

I snort and shake my head as they sit next to me and start digging in their pockets for money to make bets of their own. Unfortunately for them, I emptied their pockets right after I watched them take tequila shot number three at eleven in the damn morning, knowing just how far down the gutter their ability to make sound decisions would go as this day progressed.

“Damn,” Ty huffs, turning his pockets inside out and picking at the thin white material. “I could’a sworn I had some more chops—haaa—chiiips in here.”

I flash the dealer a look that conveys “Please ignore them,” and his eyebrows rise only slightly as he takes my money and stacks up chips on my behalf. Jude immediately reaches over for some of my stack, and I slap his hand like a mom who’s just taken the turkey from the oven on Thanksgiving.

Remy laughs. “Ohhh! De-nied!”

I clear my throat, and the three of them straighten in their seats mockingly. “I think Flynn wants us to behave, fellas,” Jude says in his normal, jovial voice. Despite their teasing, I can’t help but kick up one corner of my mouth as I watch them all comply.

Carefully, I flick a five-hundred-dollar chip at each of them. Jude and Remy practically fall on the table to claim theirs, tapping the felt to get the dealer to count them in, but Ty takes his and carefully, almost methodically, tucks it back into his pocket.

“Not playing, Ty?” I ask slowly, almost like a parent would to a toddler. It’s really the only way to handle people when they’re this drunk.

“Nope. I’m saving it for somethin’ special.”

I nod. Fine by me. With the group finally settled, the dealer starts flinging cards.

I’m not much for gambling, not much for taking unnecessary risks that aren’t in my favor, but given a weekend of choosing between hanging out in clubs or playing cards, I’ll pick blackjack every time. I know the game, know the strategy, and I have a ninety-nine-percent lower chance of being grazed by an unknown, dirty cooch. It also means my brothers are at least trying to be on their best behavior to keep from getting kicked out of the casino.

If I’m being honest, I’d admit that I’m also capable of counting cards to the point of having a pretty good idea what’s left in the dealer’s decks and making a goddamn killing, but I’m in Vegas, and as most people know, counting cards is highly illegal.

Acknowledge that you can count cards out loud? You might as well prepare yourself to be dragged into a windowless room and play Fight Club with a couple of muscle-headed, steroid-taking casino security.

The dealer shows an eight of hearts, and I show two tens, one of spades and one of diamonds.

Blackjack odds place me in a position to hold at a strong twenty.

Now, some people might think it’s a good idea to split the tens, but I’m here to tell you that splitting tens will bring you nothing but bad blackjack juju and will almost always fuck you out of money. A lot of money if you double down.

The rest of my table—including my two participating brothers—play their hands. Remy and Jude hold at eighteen and nineteen, some guy wearing a gold ring busts by getting a seven on a soft sixteen, and the last one, an older gentleman with a Yankees baseball cap who looks like he’s been playing for three days straight, manages to pull a blackjack out of his back pocket by getting a seven of spades added to his jack of hearts and four of clubs.

The dealer flips over his cards and showcases a ten, which means I’m in the money on my hard twenty and Remy and Jude break even. All in all, good for the table, not good for the house.

And the game pretty much rolls in a similar fashion. The same guy who busted on the first hand continues to bust three out of the next five hands. The guy in the baseball cap makes risky choices against the typical odds that end up paying off. And I base all my decisions on actual statistics to keep my chips steadily multiplying.

When another guest joins our game, the dealer pauses to cash in the new player’s chips, and I relax back into my seat while the people at my table make chitchat about random things, like where they’re from, what their plans are for the night, and which casino has the best buffet. Basically, a whole bunch of useless chatter that I have no desire to partake in.