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Chapter Twenty-One
Archer
Guys’ night at Benji’s is underway. Four of us round a poker table in the basement. A really nice basement—fully finished with its own gym. He also has a massive shower and bathroom (complete with towel warmers), a wine-tasting room, and a cellar. If anyone is hosting indoors, Benji’s house is a good choice.
“Fold,” says the guy sitting next to Nate. His name’s Heaton Taylor, and I haven’t seen him since he was a scrawny mathlete sitting next to Benji on that televised math competition, Divide and Conquer.
“I never should have invited you,” Benji jokes with a laugh. “We’re not getting any of your money tonight.”
“Hell no, you’re not.” Heaton laughs, his straight, white smile miles from the crooked teeth I remember him having. His hair is a sandy, reddish color, kind of like Nate’s. That’s where the similarity ends. Heaton is younger, like Benji, and leaner with muscle, like me, though I have him outweighed.
“What’s the use of having it in the bank?” Benji asks. “Spend it.”
“I’m new to the wealth game, man. I’ve spent plenty.”
“Worried it’ll run out?” Nate, a cigar between his teeth, asks.
“Kind of.”
“Noobs,” I mutter, but Heaton takes the insult in stride.
“What say you, Nate?” Benji prompts.
Nate hums, his big arms folded over the table. One eyebrow is craned so high his forehead crinkles.
“Cut the shit. You have no poker face.” Benji grins.
“You’re one to talk,” I tell our youngest brother. “That smile is the only face you got.”
Heaton laughs. “Isn’t that the truth. When I ran into you the other day, it’d been, what…fifteen years since I saw you? You look identical to how I remember you back in the day. Except back then you had no game.”
“He still didn’t, until very recently,” Nate mutters, wearing his tough-guy face.
“All part of my charm. You and Archer could learn something from me,” Benji tells Heaton. “Woo yourself a woman or two.”
“Pass,” Heaton says, hinting there’s a story behind his resistance.
“Just what I need,” I chime in.
“Someone telling you what to do,” Nate and Benji finish for me in unison. It’s my go-to line whenever the topic of my singleness is broached. It rings less and less true the longer Talia is in town. After the couch quickie that never should have made her mean even more to me, it sounds like pure bullshit.
“Call.” Nate takes the unlit cigar out of his mouth and sets it aside before throwing in a handful of chips representing a whole lot of money. To me, he says, “Talia isn’t the type to tell you what to do, is she?”
“You have nothing, and you just doubled the pot,” I say with a head shake.
“We’ll see.” Nate holds his cards close to his chest—literally, in this case.
“Talia does her own thing. She’s not interested in doing anything else.”
“Except move to Clear Ridge to dedicate herself to your night spa,” Benji says.
“Sounds like she likes you,” Heaton observes.
The turncoat.
To Nate, I say, “Let’s see ’em.”
They reveal their cards.
