his grasp. “I have to find my friend.”
“Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s been taken care of.”
I freeze. “Like cement boots sending him to the bottom of Lake Erie taken care of?”
“Heavens, no.” He chuckles nervously. “He’s been sent home. Unless . . . did you want him taken care of in that way?”
“No!”
“Oh, well, good, good. That keeps things simple.” He clears his throat and then does this little weird half-bow thing. “As for you, young lady, I have a driver who can take you and the rest of your friends home. I’m pretty sure it’s past your bedtime. No need to pay or tip. The driver will be taken care of. . . . Oh, dear, maybe I shouldn’t use that phrase anymore.”
“Yeah, it’s a little confusing.” The man remains by my side as I slide around the cars with the goal of returning to my far corner of the parking lot. He refuses to be shaken loose, so with the hope of getting rid of him, I stick out my hand. “So, um, thanks, I guess.”
“Rabbit. The name’s Rabbit,” he says. “If you do run into your father one day, I’d prefer if you didn’t mention that we met. Also, you should probably avoid running into your father.”
“Sure,” I easily agree, knowing the chance of seeing my father is pretty much zero. “I’ll do my best to avoid him.”
“Wonderful. Wonderful.” Rabbit grabs my hand and shakes it enthusiastically. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Cash. A real pleasure. If you ever need anything taken care of, er, that is, if I can ever be of assistance, you can ask for me at the bar anytime.”
Right on cue, a minivan with a taxi logo on its side door pulls up in front of me.
The driver collects the other ex-partiers still lined up on the curb. A few of them mumble thank you to me when they climb inside. As we pull out of the parking lot, I look for W2’s truck, but don’t see any sign of it. A last ember of anger flares and for a moment I regret not asking Rabbit to have that sleazeball taken care of.
It is four a.m. by the time I get home, and I nearly cry with relief when the door opens easily under my hand. With heavy feet I climb the stairs to my room and collapse onto my bed. I expect sleep to come quickly, but even as the approaching dawn begins to eat away at the night’s darkness, my brain won’t stop replaying the evening’s events.
I keep coming back to the moment when it was all going right, when I got to have just that little taste of what it felt like to be winning. I’d had this crazy hope that maybe the tide was finally turning. That maybe for the first time in my life, things were gonna go my way.
It was a short-lived fantasy, but I can’t stop myself from trying to hold on to it as I fall into sleep. Hoping that maybe, in my dreams, I can believe in it once more.
WORST
I wake to the sound of someone doing their best Big Bad Wolf impersonation on our front door.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
Some people say bad things happen in threes.
Those people must be luckier than me. In my life, bad things don’t feel the need to limit themselves this way. Which is how I know trouble has a distinctive knock. And this is trouble times three.
My suspicions are confirmed a moment later, when the banging becomes interspersed with someone yelling my name.
“Cash! Cash! CAAASSSHHHH. My dad’s gonna sue you for every sorry thing you own!” It’s impossible not to recognize W2’s distinctive holler. He’s one of those people who doesn’t have an inside voice.
Bleary-eyed, I find my alarm clock. It is seven a.m. We are a night-owl family and nobody is ever up before ten at the earliest.
The uncs will not be pleased.
Hoping the pills still have them sleeping peacefully, I hop out of bed, throw on some clothes, and shove my cell into my back pocket. I have to take several deep breaths while my head swims and I resist the urge to hurl.
“LENNIE!”
That is Uncle Jet’s bellow. The “you’re in deep shit” one.
Oh, good, the sleeping pills have worn off. Perfect timing. Once again my luck is the worst ever.
Stomach churning, I gingerly slink downstairs while trying to think of a cover story for damage control, but when I spot the tableau