Lift You Up (Rivers Brothers 1)

Blackjack.

Craps.

Poker.

It was pathetic, really, how predictable he was in the end, how predictable all people were most of the time.

Because all it took was one sweep of the tables to find him sitting there next to a white-haired man in a nice suit, looking like a businessman just skipping out of the office for a quick hand or two and some lunch before heading back. Harry's shoulders slumped, making his skinny frame look positively gaunt, his black shirt wrinkled, turned half gray with one-too-many washings. His scruff was rough, heavy, eyes swollen, sunken, his stack of chips pointing to a losing streak.

I couldn't cause a scene.

No matter my reason - and kidnapping of an innocent woman was certainly a good one, all things said - casino security was notoriously strict, no-nonsense. They didn't want to hear your excuses or your sob story. If you started shit, you were out on your ass. Case closed.

And I couldn't be getting kicked out.

I needed Harry to come with me. As close to willingly as possible. At least until we were outside the front doors. And then, well, all bets were off.

I moved over to the slots, pretending to be playing, keeping an eye, occasionally shooting off a text to Nixon, getting one from Rush who said he had taken care of the shop, that he would be heading back after he picked up some lettuce, carrots, and apples, head back later to give all the animals who could have some a snack, wait for the parrot people to show up to claim their pet.

A little relieved by that - knowing Savea would worry herself sick about it, yes, even in a life-or-death situation, I tucked my phone away as I caught movement from the corner of my eye, seeing Harry stand, slipping what was left of his chips - something that seemed like two-hundred bucks tops - into his pocket, shoulders slumped forward, defeated.

Not enough, of course.

He would want to show up later, try again, maybe gain some false confidence by winning a hand or two.

Want.

He would want to do that.

But I didn't give a shit what he wanted.

Shaking my head at the machine like I had sunk as much into it as I was willing to, playing it up for the hundreds of cameras I knew were catching my image right about then, I got up, following Harry outside at an inconspicuous distance, not surprised to find he wasn't staying at the hotel above the casino, knowing the rooms went for over a hundred even on weeknights, and that Harry didn't have that kind of money. He was likely staying in some roach-infested place off the highway where only truckers and men cheating on their wives with pros would ever use.

He wouldn't make it back there, of course.

This was something he learned once he had turned off down a quiet side street, completely unaware of my presence despite gaining on him steadily as we moved.

My hand reached out, snagging the back of his shirt.

The anger, it seemed, had not cooled simply thanks to the passing of time.

It was as hot now, as raging as it had been the moment I knew Savea had been taken.

And this shithead was the reason for that.

So I didn't just grab him, drag him with me.

No.

I did something that - had you asked me hours before if I was capable of, I would have never said yes.

I dragged him backward, pulling away his balance, hearing the intake of his breath before I shoved him forward, slamming his head against the side of an unyielding brick building.

The crack was a sickening sound that only managed to fill me with a perverse satisfaction.

"Augh," Harry grunted

To his credit, of which he had shamefully little, he didn't scream, beg, cry. Many men would, men who ordinarily didn't think they were capable of such things. Violence, true, unexpected, street violence could show you just how cowardly you truly were.

As it turned out, Harry was made of stronger stuff than I had given him credit for.

His voice was somewhat even as he declared," I don't have any cash. There are some chips in my front left pocket."

"I don't want your money, you stupid fuck," I seethed, pulling him back to slam him forward again, this time, hearing a curse erupt from him as the metallic smell of blood filled the air around me.

"Fuck," he hissed, reaching up to swipe his forearm across his nose, coming back dripping crimson. "What do you want then?"

"I want Savea back," I told him, voice down by his ear, close enough to his body to feel it tense. His first show of the severity of this moment, what I could do to him if I was so inclined.

"Who are you?" he asked, not playing dumb, not asking who Savea was.