Chapter One – Marcella

"Damn and double damn."

Even though my mom wouldn't want me swearing, I can't help but let the words slip through my lips. As I cross myself, I think of Manuel and his behavior.

Even God can't help us now.

Nothing short of slapping my brother will ever get his attention. Probably not even that. Emotional pain doesn't faze him so why would physical discomfort cause a change in his wayward behavior? I'll always love my brother, but most days, I don't like him. Of course, his actions prove that he doesn't like me either. The only thing he loves is a pile of chips from his favorite casino.

I glance around the ramshackle trailer, cringing at the sight and smell. From the worn floral chintz curtains to the puce couch we snagged from the side of the road, the last thing my hardworking parents gave to Manny and me is this house. When they died, everything inside me seemed to die with them. And now, I work my fingers to the bone just to pay the lot rent and buy the basic necessities that keep us both alive. There are days when the only emotion I can feel inside my usually numb body is resentment. Today is one of those days.

I graduated from high school at the top of my class, but even with grants and scholarship money, I still can't head off to college like a normal twenty-year-old because my pesky guilt won't allow me to leave my asshole brother. Besides, I don't even have money for books and other college supplies. I feel like such a failure, and my future looks bleak. Back in high school, hope of fleeing this shit storm lingered at the edge of my mind and fingertips. I should have known that any possibility of bettering my situation is a pipe dream. All I want to do is escape. Escape this place, my life, and most of all, my feelings of regret and shame.

I reach up and push my glasses farther up on my nose, using them as a mask. Sometimes I'm not even sure why I continue to wear them except that pulling my hair back into a severe bun, going without makeup, and wearing my glasses seems to ward off unwelcome attention from men.

Before I turned twelve, I started developing curves. My large breasts and butt scare me almost as much as the leering stares they garner. Because of that distrust, I've never even had a serious boyfriend, which has been just fine by me. The last thing I need right now is a man's wants and needs dragging me down even further into the cesspool that's become my life.

"I can't believe I've got to go to the Armónico again," I murmur to myself, rechecking the empty envelope in my hand as if the money Manuel stole had magically appeared inside it. If he'd used it for food or something else as important, it might not be so bad. I might not have white-hot rage creeping up my spine to settle a flushed, mottled red all over my neck and chest. But no. He used it to feed his nasty gambling habit. His addiction reeks of hopelessness and pain.

Especially mine.

On the short drive to the casino from our trailer park, my mind races with the pending conversation. I don't have any idea how to reach my only sibling, to get through to him when the claws of addiction have him by the short hairs. The walls of the tiny and dilapidated car feel like they're closing in on me. I've never liked driving because I fear small spaces. I always have. It's almost like being trapped. Held down. And I don't like being held down at all. Not since…

I shake my head before I slide down the rabbit hole into an emotional abyss. Looking backward leads me nowhere when the very real possibility of eviction looms in the not so distant future. I park the car in the self-parking ramp and hoof it the long distance to the Armónico's front doors. As I always do, I look up in awe. I remember hearing somewhere that the owner, Nixon Caldwell, is fond of gold. Judging from the spectacular front entrance of the boutique casino, it's true.

"Howdy, Miss Marcella," a deep voice rumbles from behind me.

"Hey, Ramone." I spin around to face one of my old friends. Ramone Sanchez, the Armónico's porter, stands on the sidewalk in front of a gold guitar statue featuring a strumming visage of Eric Clapton. The Armónico 's known for their live music featuring local up and coming acts as well as famous headliners. Various statues of musical instruments litter the fancy entrance and are also scattered around the casino floor, giving polyester-clad tourists plenty of photo ops for selfies. I smile back, admiring Ramone's charming dimples as he tips his hat to me.

"Is he inside?" I ask.

"I saw him at lunch. As far as I know, he's still working." Ramone's handsome face furrows into a grimace. I guess my wrinkles aren't the only ones at the hands of Manny. "Um, Marcella, about Saturday—"

"I'm working at the hotel," I say in a rush before he can get going. I know that Ramone wants something more from me than just friendship. We all went to high school together, and I don't want to get involved with a local guy. I might only get one chance to spread my wings and fly, and no matter how kind-hearted, I don't want any male encumbrance when that time finally comes. When I buy my ticket out, it will be stamped one-way.

"You're always working, Marcella. Do you ever have any fun? You used to be so much happier back in the day. Lighter." He takes a step closer. "But then I suppose Manny's activities have more to do with that than anything else. You let me know the next time you have a day off. We'll go out. I promise I can put a smile back on your gorgeous face."

Ramone likes to stare a little too long at me, his lust-filled eyes sweeping over my generous curves. I shiver. A lot of my brother's friends do it, too. It makes my skin itch, and I fist my hands to stop myself from scratching my nails along my upper arms. I hate the way men make me feel unsafe. As if I'm all alone in the world with only my street smarts to keep me from being raped or worse. Even from a distance, their watchful eyes make me feel dirty because I know they want something from me.

A taxi pulls up to pick up a stylishly dressed couple, and Ramone waves goodbye as he blows his whistle and opens the door for them. I shuffle forward, choosing the revolving door to make my way inside.

The smoky air of the casino floor hits me the moment I step inside the lush lobby. Slot machines ding and clang from every possible crevice. A bunch of drunks scream and fist pump while they play craps. Cocktail servers wearing tiny gold corsets that shove their silicone tits toward the domed ceiling and skirts that don't even cover their ass cheeks rush by with drinks on trays. The pit boss scowls, and security stands at attention, waiting for the subtle cues that they might be needed.

I crane my neck, looking for Manny, who's supposed to be dealing blackjack. But then again, he's been playing hooky so much lately I'm surprised he hasn't been canned. After a few moments of heart pounding panic, I spot him at a table about fifty yards to my right.

I find a slot machine where I won't be conspicuous and take a seat on the red velvet stool. It's a quarter machine, and this bank of one-armed bandits is pretty desolate. Like some sibling connection causes him to sense my presence, Manny's soulful brown eyes meet mine. I swear I can see him wince from my vantage point. Probably wishful thinking. He isn't remorseful because he stole the money, he's only worried because he got caught. I sigh. It seems like my life is on an endless loop of hopelessness when all I want is to catch a break.

The twenty or so minutes until Manny gets his break tick by like hours. Words form in my head. Angry, bitter words. But I probably won't say them. What would be the use? Words don't work in situations where an addict hasn't hit rock bottom. Only Manny knows where that point is for him. Even answering texts from my best friend, Lita, don't take my mind off the confrontation about to occur. I jump on the casino’s free wifi and scroll through Facebook, tagging and liking random posts about baby goats and chickens wearing pajamas.

"Hey, sis," Manny says, his gruff voice snapping my head up. His eyes are cast downward. He doesn't even have the common decency and respect to look me in the face.

"Hey, yourself," I say, keeping my voice neutral.

I'm not sure how to broach the subject of how he's stolen my hard-earned money working in a used condom infested shit hole. He should know better. It's not how we were raised. My dad's probably rolling over in his grave, wishing he could resurrect just so he could grab his only son by the scruff of his neck and shake some sense into him. I'm the younger one, and I'm more of an adult than Manny will ever be.

"Have you heard back from any of the colleges you applied to yet?"

I cross my arms over my chest. "Would it matter?" Anger howls through my body. I don't have to remind him that I can't go to college because of him.

And I hate it. I graduated top of my class in spite of the piss poor Las Vegas school system and my immigrant parents. Despite multiple scholarships, I can't even afford incidentals and had to drop out of the community college just four months before getting my Associates Degree.

Besides, if I left, Manny would end up in prison or dead.

Even inside this casino, we stand out. Manny in his uniform and me in my worn jeans, Goodwill blouse, and torn Converse. The patrons in this boutique casino are rich, which is apparently the way Nixon Caldwell likes it. I've only seen glimpses of him, trailed by his security detail. That, and a spread in "Las Vegas Magazine" touting him as the next coming of Vegas movers and shakers. Home boy makes good. A casino owning Phoenix rising from the ashes to fly out of the shadow of his dead father. It's a sad story that closely resembles mine. Except for the money.

Manny steps in front of me, stopping me from paying attention to my phone. Reaching out, he takes it and puts it in his pocket, effectively holding my deliberate distraction hostage. I sit there, unsure of what to do. I want to scream at him. To yell at the top of my lungs until all of the Midwestern couples playing penny slots look up from their Hawaiian shirts and their fanny packs to stare agape at the crazy woman.

I narrow my eyes at my brother, spearing him with my annoyed look, but he's become immune to it. Girls love my brother, and that's part of the problem. Blessed with dark Hispanic good looks and unbridled charm, he never lacks for female attention. A thick shock of black hair falls over one of his soulful brown eyes. Very James Dean. Built like a runner, he's wiry, like he spends hours doing cardio, but he's only a few inches taller than me.

"Why the fuck not?"

My plans have always been to get the heck out of the city as fast as possible. I've saved every penny I've earned in order to escape. But now, because of Manny's addiction, all that money I saved cleaning up after bachelor parties and hookers has fallen down the drain into the pit of hopelessness.

Screw his feelings.

"Because I can't. There isn't any money for school right now." I poke him in the chest. "You know that. You made sure of it."

He shifts from one foot to the other, drawing my attention to his worn tennis shoes. I can't believe they let him work in those.

"I'm working on it, Cella. You know that I'm doing the best I can. Going to meetings and all that."

He's blowing a huge puff of smoke up my ass because I talked to his sponsor and he hasn't been to a Gamblers Anonymous meeting in months. He takes off from the trailer, says that's where he's headed, but then either goes to play poker in a seedy back room far off the strip or runs around with his hoodlum friends doing nothing productive.

"Bullshit."

Even though I really don't want to argue with him right now, the word flies out of my mouth. It's the same damn thing over and over again. Maybe once I get the hell out of Vegas and break the chains between the two of us, I'll be able to enroll in college again, this time giving it my full attention. Then I'll finally be able to take a breath without it hurting my lungs.

Manny takes a step closer to me, and I freeze. I don't want him touching me. He's lost that right by making my life a living hell.

"I think you need someone to take care of you, Cella. I'm more than willing to—"

"I need someone to take care of me?" I snap and poke him in the chest again. "Are you fucking kidding me?" When he rears back, I'm secretly happy that I've got him back on his heels.

"That's not what I meant."

I surge forward, my heart pounding with anger and aching with pain. "It better not be. You're stealing from me, Manuel. Stealing. Mama would not be proud to call you her son. You need to get it together. Because if you don't, you'll soon have no one. And what will you do then, huh?"

A huge man in a nondescript but well-fitting suit approaches us. He only slows down long enough to sweep his obsidian gaze from side to side, noticing the casino gamblers in the vicinity staring at the commotion. "Manuel, get your ass back to work, and if this kind of thing happens again, you're fired. Got it?"

Manny has the grace to look chastised. And if I admit it, I don't feel that great about the exchange either.

"Sure thing, Troy." With a quick wave, he's gone, leaving me alone with my pulsating body.