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His parents are just as damn weird. His mom’s on something, I’m sure of it, and his dad just seems obsessed with pretending everything around here is normal—which only serves to highlight how not normal it all is.
I barely ever see the two of them talk, and when I do, their conversation seems forced and stilted, like two strangers who are only pretending to have been married for years.
After I take care of what needs to get done around the house, I change into shorts and a tank and have dinner with Mom. Then I chill in my room until eleven. I know Mom probably passed out around ten, and the fact that she’s in a separate apartment makes sneaking out easy.
But as I open the door to my bedroom and creep out into the hall, low voices catch my ear.
Huh. I really thought everyone would be asleep by now. I tiptoe a few steps down the hallway, sticking close to the wall.
A deep, baritone voice I recognize as Mr. Black’s meets my ears. But it’s not coming from the master bedroom—that’s a lot further down the hall, in the east wing of the house. No, it’s coming from the guest room on the other side of the laundry room from mine.
What the hell is he doing in there?
I shuffle a little closer, holding my breath as if that will make me quieter, craning my neck to angle my ear toward the door.
“…need you so much. It’s always been you, you know that.”
He’s speaking low, and his voice is thick. A softer, quieter voice answers, but I can’t tell who it belongs to or what it’s saying.
Holy shit. Does Mr. Black have a woman in there? And is that woman Audrey?
When he speaks again, it’s too quiet for me to make out his words, and then more soft noises filter into my ears, and I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle my gasp.
Oh my God, that’s fucking. The two people in that room are definitely having sex.
I’m burning with questions, not to mention embarrassment, but I back away as quickly and silently as I can. There are few things I want less in the world than to be busted listening in on my older boss having sex with… who?
Retracing my steps, I head for the service entrance instead. I’d been planning to avoid this route, since the door to the stairs is right next to Mom’s apartment, but I’d rather risk getting caught by her than anyone else.
The door opens without a sound, and I take the narrow steps slowly at first and then faster as I get farther away from the second level. Mom’s car is parked in a second garage to the west of the house, and I drive slowly, leaving the lights off until I punch in the gate code and drive through.
The address Max gave me is a thirty minute drive away, but it turns into forty with the ATM stop I make. A prickle of nerves skates up the back of my neck as I roll slowly down the winding street in a warehouse district, trying to read the numbers on the sides of the buildings. Lincoln and his friends have made damn sure everyone at school feels just fine bullying me, and rumors I’m a hooker have been flying fast and loose. What if Max lied about the location—or about there being a poker game at all?
When I reach the exact address he gave me, I sit in the car with the engine running for a minute.
Fuck. I shouldn’t be here.
But I don’t want to go.
I haven’t played in a long-ass time, and I feel antsy and jittery. Ever since I learned how to play, this has been the one thing that made me feel in control, even when everything in my life seemed to be spiraling into chaos. When I was going through chemo and radiation, the only thing I looked forward to were my lessons from Gus and Marsden, the two old men who were going through treatments at the same time I was and took pity on a scared ten-year-old girl.
This week has been shit. I haven’t felt in control of much at all since I got to Connecticut.
And I need this.
Decision made, I turn the key sharply and pull it from the ignition. The area is dimly lit, but I make my way to the door of the warehouse just fine. When I tug it open, a relieved breath falls from my lips.
Thank fuck.
It’s just like Max described. A section of the large space has been set up with a few tables, and people are gathered around them,
talking in low voices.
A guy looks up as I enter. “Hey, you can’t—”
“Max told me about the game,” I interrupt, cutting him off before he can preemptively boot me. “I want to play. I have money.”
With that, I tug the thousand dollars I withdrew from the ATM using Mom’s card out of my back pocket, slapping the folded up bills lightly against my palm.
