Page 56 of Rhodes

Ford's throat moves. He stares at his cards, then stares at her. She looks bored, which is the tell she wants him to read, and he reads it exactly the way she planned.

"You're bluffing."

"Then call me."

He doesn't. He folds his ace-high face down, and Tallulah rakes the pot in without turning her cards over, without a word, without one ounce of sorry on her face. Deuce howls.

"She had garbage. Ford, she had garbage."

"You don't know that."

"Look at her. She's not gonna show you. That means garbage."

She stacks Ford's chips into a neat tower in front of her and pats it.

"Weep about it," she tells Deuce, and slides half of his over to join it.

"I counted those cards," Deuce says, wounded.

"With your lips moving. I told you."

Nash reaches into the case without looking, cracks a beer, and slides it down the table toward the open spot beside her elbow because that's where an empty hand is. My hand twitches. It's already halfway up before I catch it, before I make it lie flat on my knee under the table. I don't say anything.

She flicks it away with two fingers, easy, eyes still on Sully.

"Get that away from me, I'm working." She reaches past it for her club soda and takes a swallow. "Sully, quit smiling at your cards. You look like you found money."

"I'm not smiling."

"You're beaming."

Ford laughs too hard at that, longer than it earns, leaning toward her, and something in me sits up and wants to plant a flag.

"Deal," Deuce says, and shoves the deck at her.

She passes it across to me. Her fingers cross the back of my hand on the handoff, and it goes straight through me. I don’t react, keeping my face neutral while I take the cards despite the racing of my heart. She's already telling Ford that his tell is his ears going red.

I shuffle. I want to reach across and put my hand on the back of her neck, but of course I don't. That's the whole game now, wanting the simple thing and not taking it.

Deuce checks his phone. Sully counts what's left of his stack and groans.

"I counted cards and still lost," Deuce says.

Nash stretches. “I still owe you forty, don’t I?”

“Yep. Pay up,” I say.

Nash pats his pockets as if the money might've grown there since the last time he checked. "I'll get you. Venmo."

"You said Venmo last month, and I’ve still yet to see a Venmo from you.”

“I’ll get on it.” He claps my shoulder on his way up, and that's Nash paying his debt, a promise and a hand on the shoulder.

Ford's already at the counter, lifting the lid off the third box to find the last slice sitting there alone.

"Nobody wants this?"

"You touch that, you're dead," Deuce says, but Ford's already folding it in half and eating it standing up. Deuce is all talk, shaking his head like the whole night has been one long personal insult.