“We could play cards,” he suggests, opening the closet door. He bends down to pick a shirt up from off the floor and the towel slides lower and lower on his hips. I’m not sure if I’m so much as fascinated with his body as how my body is reacting to the sight of him. Invigorated. Excited. I’ve never been excited over a guy before. I’ve either been disinterested or afraid. With people in general.
Regardless, I want to feel it more, let it shower over me. “Cards?”
He has a tattoo on his shoulder blade, a dragon. I touch the back of my neck where my own dragon tattoo is as he stands back up and turns around with a deck of cards in his hand. “But the deal is that we can’t play for money.”
“Good, because I don’t have enough to play with,” I say, still assessing his body, but more discreetly.
“Neither do I.” He sits down on the bed with his legs over the edge, so he’s not flashing me, and puts the cards on his lap. “However, I never just play Texas Hold ’Em for nothing.”
“Why not?”
He clears his throat. “Because it was how I was taught to play.”
“By who?” I was taught to play by someone, too, and for money. A couple I lived with for about six months used to throw these Texas Hold ’Em parties and I would sit beside the table while Mr. Stronton explained the rules to me. I got pretty good at it too, but it’s been a while since I played.
He cuts the deck in half and shuffles them. “By my dad.” The way he says it, his voice stressed, makes me speculate if something happened to his dad.
“Where’s your dad now?” I rise to my feet, adjusting my skirt.
He aligns the cards on the bed, looking up at me. “He lives in California.”
I cross the room to the bed he’s sitting on, the navy blue sheet balling up beneath me as I sit down and get comfortable. “Then why don’t you just go live with him?”
He grips the shuffled deck of cards in his hand. “It’s complicated.”
“What about your mom?” I ask.
“Even more complicated.” His knuckles whiten as he tightens his hold on the cards. “What about your parents? What happened to them?”
“They left me on the doorstep of the neighbors when I was six months old,” I lie breezily. I’ve been doing it for years, making up elaborate stories to avoid the painful truth of what happened when strangers ask me. “I guess they didn’t want me or something.”
He cuts the deck evenly in half. “Is that the truth? Or are you making up a story?”
“Why would I make up a story about that?” I ask innocently, tucking my leg underneath me. Again his eyes go to my legs, gradually drifting up to my thighs.
He studies me unnervingly as heat caresses my skin and coils in my stomach. “To avoid the real truth.”
“So are we going to play Texas Hold ’Em or what?” I aim to change the subject.
“Yeah… but there’s a stipulation,” he says. “For every hand you lose you have to tell me one thing that’s true about you.”
“I don’t like that rule,” I tell him. “And I don’t like telling the truth.”
“Why? Are you afraid you’ll lose?” he challenges me with haughtiness.
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“That can’t be true. Everyone’s afraid of something.”
“Fine,” I give in. “But if you lose, then you have to tell me something true about you—and something good.”
He fans the edge of the cards with his finger, like he’s counting the cards. “What if I don’t have anything good to share?”
“I’ll be the judge.” I stick out my hand toward him. “Now give me the cards so I can deal. I’m dealer.”
He turns his hand over with the deck in them. “I usually like to deal.” He puts the cards in my hand, sighing, like he’s surrendering something very valuable.
I wrap my fingers around the deck. “Do you play a lot?”
“Occasionally when I need money.”
I shuffle the deck, even though he already has. I was taught never to trust anyone else when it comes to playing cards. I toss the top one to the side and deal.
I lift my cards up and peek under them. “If we were playing strip poker, you’d lose after one hand since you’re only wearing a towel.”
He picks up his cards, pressing back a smile. “Yeah, but I won’t lose.”
“That’s awfully arrogant of you.” I flip over three cards on the bed, lining them up between us.
His mouth gradually expands to this know-it-all smile. “I know.”
I turn over my cards and he gives me this strange look. “There’s no point in hiding what we have since we’re not actually raising the stakes.”
He smiles. “I’m keeping mine hidden, so go ahead and deal another.”
I do what he says and the next card I deal is an ace. I have one, but I don’t get excited just yet. Even though the odds are in my favor, doesn’t mean they’ll end up that way. First rule of cards. And of life.
Luke’s expression is a mixture of inquisitiveness and boredom, which makes no sense since the two don’t really go together. “Deal the last card,” he says.
I turn it over and lay it down. None of the cards are suits and there’s nothing close to a flush or run. I have a good chance of winning or at least tying if he’s lucky enough to have an ace.
“What are you smiling about?” Luke wonders, rearranging his cards. “Maybe I have an ace, too.”
“I didn’t know I was smiling,” I say, biting my lip to stop. “What do you got?”
He places his cards down and my elation instantly sinks. “What can I say?” He rubs his jawline thoughtfully. “I must be lucky.”
I scrunch my nose at his cards. “How is it even possible for you to get pocket aces?”
“Any hand’s possible.” He relaxes back on the mattress on his elbows and the towel slips open just enough that I can see his thighs. “Now I get to ask a question.”
“Go head.” It doesn’t mean I’ll tell the truth. “Ask away.”
His legs spread apart a little and I swear I can see his balls. “Tell me why you jumped out the window that night.”
I don’t miss a beat. “I was tripping on acid and I wanted to see if I could fly.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ve seen people tripping on acid before and you definitely weren’t.” He tosses his cards aside and overlaps his hands on his lap. “Come on, Violet. Tell me the truth.”