Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife (Page 76)

“Even the games have a condescending hierarchy?” I say with a snort. James and Dec stay silent.

“Seven hundred dollars! I’m up seven hundred,” Dad says, looking up at me. “Oh, my honey. My little Shannon found me. C’mon, Shannon. Pull up a chair. Have a beer. This is the real Las Vegas. No one’s fake here!”

“Except for my teeth,” some old dude says with a rheumy laugh.

I see why Dad is here. It’s more his speed.

Dad does a double take when he sees James. Curiously enough, Mom hides. I can tell she’s doing it on purpose, watching Dad from behind a row of slot machines.

“James!” Dad booms. “It’s James McCormick, the self-made billionaire from Southie. Hey, guys—this is your owner!”

“I ain’t no pet. No one owns me,” Rheumy says.

Dad cackles.

How many beers has he had?

“James! I’m up seven hundred bucks. A thousand more winning streaks like this and I can pay my debt to you.”

Genuine bewilderment fills James’ face. “Debt?”

“Pay for my daughter’s wedding.”

The two give each other the most uncomfortable looks I’ve ever seen on grown men’s faces. Some part of my heart starts shrieking, and if pain were a scent, it would smell like burning ego. Like missed opportunities.

Like regret.

“No.” James’ single word is like a thick, brittle stick being cracked over someone’s knee. “That’s not how this works, Jason.”

“Oh,” Dad says, dragging out the word with bluster, his arms stretching over the backs of the chairs of the men on either side of him, men who give Dad arched eyebrows with expressions that say, You gonna let him talk to you like that?

“Well, Mr. James McCormick, why don’t you tell me how this all works.” His words are slurred, and I wonder not only how much he’s been drinking, but for how long.

James’ mouth goes tight. Declan just watches my dad with a neutral expression.

“Really. How does Vegas work? How does wealth work? Because I sure as hell don’t know anything about that,” Dad continues, giving the men around him a collegial smile, all of them with bitter, twisted lips in various states of scorn, remembrance, or wrapped around a beer-bottle neck.

“Daddy,” I say softly. All of the men jerk slightly, looking at me with hardened expressions.

Be quiet, little girl.

I can hear them, even if all I do is imagine them.

“You’re changing, Shannon.” Dad’s voice goes loud, then soft, like he’s talking around a curve. “You’re entering a world that is as familiar to me as Mars. About as safe to breathe in, too. For the past few days I’ve marinated in all this money—fake money—and I’m crawling out of my skin.”

James and Declan share a look.

And then Declan’s attention turns exclusively to me.

“I can’t spend five grand on tartan ribbon,” Dad chokes out, his voice low and sad. “I just sat in your casino, James, and watched some guy lose fifty grand, his entire life savings. Saw another guy win fifteen grand and blow it all in one of those mall stores. He shot his wad on a dress, some purses, and shoes for his wife. Said it was his one and only chance.”

A tiny, pained sigh comes out of Mom. I’m the only one close enough to her to hear it.

“I gave my girls the best I could, but I’ll be damned if it was even one iota of this.” He spreads his arms around the room, his face crumpling slightly. “Not, uh—not this. Not Louie’s. But you know.”

I try to think of something to say and glance back at Mom. She’s dumbfounded, staring at Dad, her lips slightly parted.

“I look around this town, this destination city where people from all over the world come to vacation and play, to gamble and be entertained, to get shit-faced and revel and unwind and become part of something bigger than themselves while they’re here, and all I see is my own failure,” Dad says, that last word spat out like a growl.

Tears choke me, Declan’s hand on my hip as I let a small sob escape. Declan was right, earlier, about blending our inner lives, and how our outer lives have to be woven together, too. It never—not once—occurred to me that marrying Declan meant asking my mom and dad to adjust to a new reality that would force them to confront deep questions about themselves, too.

I don’t want to adult anymore. Adulting is too hard.

A small, high gasp behind me makes me turn. Daddy can’t see her, but Mom is behind a small curtain that covers the booth parallel to us. She’s moved closer.

“Failure?” I finally ask, putting my hand on Dad’s forearm, completely confused. “Why would you ever feel like a failure, Dad?”

He looks down at the neck of his beer, avoiding my eyes. Something tells me to keep touching him, to maintain the connection, though. His bravado is fading, and as it drains out of him I see his authenticity coming back in.

“I’ve worked hard my whole life, kiddo. Was born in New York. Moved to Boston as a little kid. Lived with him in Southie.” He juts his chin toward James, who nods slightly in acknowledgment. “We didn’t know each other back then, but he gets it. He knows. When you’re born into poverty there’s a kind of grinding feeling that’s always a part of you. It never goes away.”

James closes his eyes and swallows, once. Declan’s eyes are riveted on his father.

“I finished high school. That’s better than either of my parents. Did a few years of community college and met Marie that way, at the veterinary clinic where I worked. That’s it. My greatest financial success came the day we scraped together a down payment and managed to buy our house. Five more years of payments and it’s really ours,” he says, chest puffed with pride.