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I turned to Malcolm. “So...I’ll just go check the closet. And your room.”
The guy with the goatee and tattoos leered. “His room? What were you up to Friday?”
And just like that, the little taunting monster reared its head again, and I smiled slowly. “You know, people keep trying to convince me you jocks aren’t dumb, but really. What do you think I was doing?”
They all hooted as I walked away, and I smiled to myself, even as my heart pounded. These guys didn’t know I was quiet and almost tediously good, and it was kind of fun that they might think I was gutsy and ribald.
Well. As long as I didn’t slip up and actually say things like “ribald”. It might out the English major in me.
I found my scarf puddled in a corner of the bedroom. I slung it around my neck before stepping back into the living room. “Well, thanks.” No one heard me, busy as they were on their game. Unable to suppress my curiosity, I stepped up and eyed Malcolm’s hand. Standard five-card-draw, and his cards weren’t good. After a few minutes he discarded a six, making it clear he was aiming for a straight I doubted he’d gain.
I must have made a noise, because the buzz-cut guy spoke up. “What? You think you could do better?”
I shrugged. I’d grown up playing poker on family nights, but my real skill lay in my memory. When I was ten, I spent hours sitting in my room, flipping cards in random orders and practicing my memorization skills. I didn’t have any problems holding 52 cards in my mind, and Malcolm’s crucial card was buried. “Maybe.”
“We’re almost finished. You want us to deal you in the next game?” The redhead grinned at me. He had a scattering of freckles across his nose, and when he smiled like that he looked like a mischievous imp. Puck on steroids.
“All right,” I said, surprising all of them. They shifted over so I could squeeze
in. Goatee dealt me a hand and a patronizing smile.
Three rounds later, I had half the table’s money.
“That’s it.” Dylan, the diamond-studded guy folded yet again. “That is no beginner’s luck.”
I suppressed a smile. “Never said it was.” Keith of the goatee and ginger Mike O’Connor had also folded, while Malcolm and opened-face Abe were still in, the latter doing a pretty good job at holding his own.
“Where’d you learn to play?” Abe discarded the eight of spades. I glanced over at it, as though I wasn’t desperate for it to complete my straight flush. Malcolm, who seemed to be collecting twos, ignored it in favor of a card from the deck. Well, at least he wouldn’t be hoarding it.
“Oh, just playing with my family.”
“Did they teach you to count cards, too? ’Cause if they did, you’re totally invited next time I go to Vegas.”
I laughed. This one acted a little goofier than others, more like a college kid than a football star.
“Abe’s a California boy,” Mike said. “Being so far from Vegas makes him twitchy.”
“And New York?” I lightly discarded the three I’d just drawn. “Does it live up to your expectations?”
We all anted up.
“Yeah, it’s all right.” Now that I knew, I could detect the Californian slouch, the slightly more languid movement. “Didn’t have huge expectations, you know. But sure, it’s nice. Crap weather.”
Whatever. California didn’t have weather. “But we have real pizza,” I pointed out. “And bagels.” I looked at the others for agreement.
Dylan of the shaved head and glittering earrings shook his head. “Don’t bother. They’re all outsiders. Irish is Boston. Malcolm’s from Kentucky, and Keith...Somewhere else. They won’t understand.”
Keith scowled. “South Dakota.”
Dylan gave me a speaking look about the elseness of South Dakota.
“I miss California pizza,” Abe said a little sadly. “I guess the bagels here are all right. But it takes like five minutes to chew them.”
Hmph. “They’re authentic.”
Malcolm folded. I shuffled. Malcolm picked a card. Discarded it. Eight of spades.
Win.
