You tore up my insides, Andie. When I saw you with that other guy, something in me broke. I couldn’t let you walk away. I had too much to fucking lose. You wanted that regular dating experience—I’d find a way to give it to you. So I made plans just for you.

I even went to your grandparents, came up with some fuckin’ story about a business seminar over the weekend. Told them I wanted you there, not just for me, but for your experience. “Real world business,” I think I called it.

You stood in the middle of your sitting room in your school uniform, that short little skirt you’d outgrown a year ago that I loved keepin’ you in when I was taking you from behind.

“We’ll have separate rooms,” I assured your grandfather. Like fuck we would. He agreed, and you smiled over at me. My sweet girl, always so needy for me.

Come Friday, you showed up to my house in all your quiet, graceful beauty. You’d changed over the past year, matured in ways I’d hoped. Tits were bigger, firmer, and your ass was incredible. But you knew that, right? I fuckin’ told you enough. “So what are we really doing?” you asked, making yourself a drink like you often did when you came over. Too much bourbon, not enough Coke, but that’s okay. You liked to relax around me. Let loose.

I told you I was taking you on a date, and your eyes widened. I loved that look you used to give me. Full of appreciation, like the world began and ended with me. I waited until you were done with your drink, then took your hand and led you upstairs. You didn’t even hesitate to follow. Putty in my hands, girl. On my bed, I’d laid out your outfit: a tight, tiny little number that would have guys droolin’ over you. I didn’t care if they did, as long as you were with me, tucked under my arm, so the world knew you were mine. I also bought you shoes, knowing you wouldn’t have anything that went with the dress. See? I was a good fuckin’ boyfriend, Andie, and you wanted to leave me.

You picked up the wig next to the dress and flipped it in your hand. “What’s this for?” you asked, fingers threading the long, black silk.

“Think of it as a costume,” I told you. “Tonight, we pretend.”

“Pretend?”

“That it’s just you and me, baby. No one has to know our business, right? Besides, where we’re goin’, you’re gonna need it.”

I took you to an “underground” casino at an old, unused warehouse. I’d been to them before, but it was different walking in with you. I told you it was for charity. No real money was used to gamble, the chips were just for show. I lied to you, but it was for your own good.

“So why the costume then?”

“Gamblin’ is gamblin’, babe. You still need to be twenty-one.”

You bought my bullshit.

You always did.

You nearly toppled over your six-inch heels when you saw me hand over five grand to some fake charity I’d made up in exchange for some chips. You thought I was donating it, and at that moment, swear you made me feel like I was more than just a worthless hustler. I sat at a blackjack table while you stood beside me, supporting me like the good girl you used to be. You remember this, right? I was probably ten hands into it when you shifted next to me, whispered, “Don’t” in my ear, just loud enough for me to hear. I remember it so clearly. I was on seventeen, about to risk it with the next card, but you stopped me. The dealer moved to the next player, threw down a jack. I would’ve busted, and you fucking knew.

“How?” I mouthed.

Your body pressed against mine, hand on my chest, breasts on my shoulder. You lowered your mouth to my ear again, said the words that would forever change us. “I can count cards.”

I practically jumped out of my seat and dragged your ass back to the car, where I told you to explain. You told me you learned “for fun,” just to see if you could. Your brain, Andie, I don’t even fuckin’ know.

You were the Bonnie to my Clyde that night. Partners in crime. And you had no clue you were making me thousands of dollars. You sipped cocktails while you laughed, celebrated every win, and frowned when we lost just so it wouldn’t be obvious. “The hard part isn’t the counting,” you’d said in the car. “It’s the odds of averages for wins versus losses. You don’t want to make it obvious.”

“And you know the odds?” I asked.

You looked away, nodded all shy-like. But you were grinning. That sweet, embarrassed smile of yours.

I cut you off from drinking when your eyelids started to droop, but it didn’t matter; you were drunk on adrenaline, loving every moment of it. You even kept your wig on in the car on the way to the hotel and again while we checked in at the lobby. We got the penthouse suite, because why the fuck not? And we bathed together, drunk and horny as hell, in a tub filled with champagne. You were high on life and stoned on sexual desire. You couldn’t keep your hands off me, Andie. You were so thankful for the night I’d shown you, but I was more thankful of you. You had no fucking idea how much.

But I loved you.

Really, I did.

You sweet, clueless, pathetic little girl.