13. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Gio

I find the flyers before I find Jack. If I didn't know any better, I'd assume he walked six steps away from the front door of the restaurant and tossed them into the air.

The sidewalk is littered with them.

Christ.

We can't get one single thing right with this business venture.

I walk on, trying not to wonder how much money those scattered flyers represent. They're the least of our worries. We bought a fucking building. So, now if the restaurant fails, we're stuck living in the apartment above it while we figure out our next move.

That was my mistake. I found this place. I picked it out of all the listings we looked at, sure that it was the perfect spot. I was the one who worked out the costs and decided it was smarter to put in an offer to buy than to rent.

If the restaurant continues to fail, it's on me.

My pack are relying on me to take care of them, and it feels like I'm letting them down.

It doesn't help that Enzo's determined to make me quit my extracurricular money-making activities.

So what if gambling can be a little addictive?

The money's good, and I rarely lose.

It's the one damn thing I'm good at.

The only thing, really.

I blow out a breath as I weave my way through the Saturday crowds.

Everyone moves much slower on the weekends, and it drives me nuts.

My fingers itch to grab my phone and call Jack to find out where he is, but Enzo confiscated it so I'll just have to take the route he said he would walk to hand the flyers out.

Whenever I'm not sure which turn to take, I can just follow the trail of flyers.

It's like a yellow brick road, except it's made of broken dreams.

Namely, Enzo's broken dreams.

I should have found a better spot for him. I should have looked for something closer to the city's centre, maybe something that hadn't been closed down for so long that no one even seems to see the building anymore.

I'm about to walk by the copy place, when I spot a flash of crimson in the window, and I realize Jack's inside.

Fucking hell.

He's already handed out so many flyers that he's getting more printed.

Clearly, that approach isn't working, or the restaurant would actually be busy, and the streets wouldn't be covered in trash with our logo printed all over it.

This is insane. It has to end here.

I open the shop's door, and Jack turns around, giving me a smile from where he's standing at the counter.

"You caught me," he admits. "I'm getting another batch done and I'm heading out a little further this time."

"How much?" I ask, as I close the door behind me.

He sighs. "I've got it covered."

"No, I've got it covered," I insist.

He's still at college, and I'm not letting him use the money he makes from the gigs his band plays for this.

"It's not that much," he argues.

I take out my wallet and pass him two hundred bucks.

"G …" he starts, sighing when he looks at my face.

"You're helping enough handing those out. You made a promise that you wouldn't let your course work suffer for the restaurant and you're already giving up more of your day than you were supposed to. I'm not letting you spend your own money on this. It's a business expense."

He takes the cash, but only after I say those two magic words.

Business expense. As if that means the business is paying for it.

We haven't made enough to cover one weekly salary never mind all the rest.

"I can't head back yet," he tells me, not looking at me as he puts the cash in his wallet.

"You can, and you will. I'm taking over this … marketing effort."

He raises his visible eyebrow at me. "Um, what?"

"Give me the bag. I'm assuming the flyers are still being printed if you already paid for them?"

"Uh, yeah. They guy said they'd take ten minutes so …"

"So, give me the bag and I'll wait. You can go practice chords, or whatever it is that music students do when they're not in class."

"Um …" he holds onto the strap of the record bag.

"I can make it an order if that helps?" I ask, wondering what's making him so hesitant.

He shakes his head, and slowly moves the strap over his head.

"It's just … I don't even know how to say it."

"The flyers aren't working."

"No, well, yeah, but … Forget it. I'm just having a weird day." He passes me the bag and pushes his hair back.

I give him a few seconds to see if he's going to tell me what happened to make his day so weird, but he just lets out a weary sigh as he lets his hair fall back into place.

It's a long day when you're doing something that feels pointless.

That's why I'm not going to be handing out the next batch of flyers.

Enzo can take away my phone, but he can't stop me from making money.

Jack gazes at me silently as I put the record bag over my shoulder.

I'm not sure what's on his mind, but clearly there's something.

"Go home," I tell him. "We can talk later."

He nods and leaves, passing me his receipt for the copies.

I wait around for them impatiently.

When the copy guy comes to the counter with the boxed stack, he blinks at me.

"Oh, hey, uh … um …"

"Gio," I tell him, as I pass him the receipt. "Jack had to go home. I'll take these."

He checks the receipt and nods. "No problem. You need a bag, or …"

"Jack gave me his," I tell him, taking the box out of his hands and putting it into the bag.

There's some weight in there now, and I'm tempted to go straight to the nearest trash can.

The flyers aren't working, but I know what will.

I check my watch before I plan out my trip to the nearest casino.

It's time to make some real money to advertise the restaurant properly.