My eyes widen slightly. Combined with the dealer cards, he had a full house. That would’ve won the game. It beats a flush, which was that boy Brian’s hand.
So why did he let the other boys think he’d lost?
I reevaluate my impression of him with this new information. Tommy is a better actor than I gave him credit for, with strategic motivations that are known only to him. He remained calm under pressure, not giving anything away.
He walked into a game and let himself lose money, on purpose…but why?
I focus on the events that just occurred, trying to recall every detail. I mentally re-watch Tommy’s casual touches with Kira–the intense way he stared at her, the delicate way he held her hand and placed kisses on her cheek and her fingers. Perhaps genuine, but perhaps not. He’s clearly no stranger to disguising his feelings.
I stare down at the cards again, and I realize…I don’t know how I feel about any of this.
I don’t know how I feel abouthim.
So I decide I feel nothing.
Logically, I know suspicion is the most reasonable response in the face of this new evidence.
So that’s what I’ll go with. Suspicious.
Chapter 4
Tommy
I didn’t think about how I would sleep while I was here.
Obviously, there are plenty of things I didn’t think through. But that’s me: the guy who doesn’t think things through before jumping for it.
It’s not like I’m scared of Kira, like she’ll attack me in my sleep or anything. And it’s not like I’m uncomfortable or sleeping on the floor, because this room has a couch that’s actually softer and comfier than my mattress back at my apartment. I’m just…
I just don’t always sleep well. Especially in unfamiliar places.
After I spend a good twenty minutes berating a blushing Kira for not warning me how hot her uncle is–all while Lexie cackles like a witch while listening to me complain–the girls take about three business days to “prepare” for bed.
What do they mean by that, you might ask?
More than just a rinse off in the shower, that’s for fucking sure. These girls each take almost a full hour in their respective showers, and if this is what’s happening in all the occupied rich people rooms tonight, I can’t even imagine the water bill. Then they spend a while slathering themselves with creams and goo and doing things to their hair and their nails, and it honestly looks really relaxing and I internally pout while outwardly casually chatting with them while they lounge in spa clothes and pamper themselves. I’ve never had creams and goos for my skin.
I wish they’d offer me some.
But they don’t. It’s fine, I don’t need it, it just would’ve been nice. But, again, not needed.
I don’t need anything.
When it’s my turn in the bathroom I’m sharing with Kira–I know, poor Kira is forced to share her bathroom with me due to our “couple” status–I gleefully pull out the razor they packed me and shave my whole face and dick and balls. Not even because I need to, I just want to. And I was right: it is much easier and more comfortable in a big-ass fancy bathroom. I try to take my time, to really take advantage of my drastic change in living situation, but before the twenty-minute mark, I’m already in Tommy Claremont’s version of pajamas–ultra-soft sweats with a name-brand label on the side, and a T-shirt so smooth that it slides against my skin in a way I’m really not used to.
I exit the bathroom to find Kira passed out on the bed, the room darkened but not totally blacked out, lit with a light coming from the closet and now the bathroom. I tiptoe to the couch and bury myself in the pile of fuzzy blankets and pillows stacked there. I immediately sink into the softness, almost getting stuck in it. It’s smothering me, wrapping around me, and now I’m sweating and having trouble breathing and–
I toss the extra stuff onto the floor, throwing off the bedding like it’s trying to murder me, and try to get comfortable with just the couch. Better. But still a little weird. It’s as if, since my spine is used to my stiff, lumpy mattress at home, these nice cushions actually make it hurt. Like my bones are mad at me for daring to try and rest with them well-aligned and supported.
I force myself to lie still and breathe.
The house is quiet. Really quiet.
My apartment is shitty and dangerous and loud, so I don’t fully relax there, but it’s what I’m used to. This? This silence? The softness? The expanse of empty room-space all around me, so far away. I reach my hand above my head and the ceiling is so high above me it’s almost tripping me out. Why do rich people need such tall ceilings?
Despite my best efforts, I toss and turn and tune in to the increasing beat of my heart and the zoom of my thoughts pinging around in my skull. One thought in particular is bugging me, shaking me up.I don’t belong here. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong here.
It’s true. This kind of safety, with Kira gently snoring like she’s never had to worry about anything sneaking up on her at night, it’s just not for me. I wasn’t made for this kind of shit.
