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Niall pretends to faint onto the top of his desk, and the audience breaks out in hysterics.
Welcome to the circus, everyone! My intact hymen shall be tonight’s main freak-show event!
Good God, who would’ve thought being a virgin would stir so much fucking controversy. Pretty sure politicians caught having affairs or buying hookers have received less scrutiny than this.
“How…and I say this respectfully,” the asshole host says ironically without any inkling of respect, “is that possible?”
Fed up with this bullshit. Tired of playing it so damn nice. I decide to pull my sharply honed skills of passive-aggressive sarcasm out of my back pocket and put them to work.
“Well,” I remark cheekily. “It starts by avoiding penises altogether.” The audience laughs, Niall’s eyes go wide, and I lean in closer to his desk. “It takes a real sixth sense, if I’m honest. A genuine, virtual radar system for the male member and their locations at all times. Are they soft? Are they hard? Will they threaten me in some way if I stay in my current location? Once I have the answers to those questions, I’m ready to plan an attack. Weaponry. Troops. Optics. It’s all very scientific.”
Niall’s smile transforms from surprised canary back to the cat. “You’re toying with me, Raquel.”
I smile sweetly and shrug.
He chuckles. “There are millions of men who’d love to be toyed with by you, my dear. Tell me this… How will you choose? I mean, one day you’re going to have to get laid, right?”
Annoyance niggles deep in my veins and bleeds all the way into my heart. My chest is tight and my skin feels stretched, but I don’t let a freaking blink sneak in on the off chance that it gives me away.
Instead, I settle smugly into the supple leather of the couch and smile. “I don’t know, Niall. But given the need for a penis to complete the act—and your obvious lack of one—I know for a fact it won’t be you.”
Ha. How ’bout them apples, Mr. Fucking Beans?
Once the words leave my lips and the audience bursts into laughter, you’d think I’d feel victorious. You’d think I’d feel on top of the world for putting the bastard in his place while still maintaining the perfectly poised persona I’ve been living over the past decade.
But I don’t.
If anything, I just feel like running.
From this prick.
From my agent, manager, entire damn team.
From the spotlight.
From everyone and everything.
Harrison
These days, I’m really starting to understand Ebenezer Scrooge. No doubt, Mr. Bah Humbug was just misunderstood.
Two days before Santa is supposed to make his big fat holly jolly arrival, Christmas-themed poker night is in full swing. The beer and snacks are plentiful, garland-wrapped twinkle lights are located on every available surface of Thatcher Kelly’s smoke room, and all of my closest friends are sitting around the table, playing Texas Hold’em and shooting the shit.
“Your stock tips are shit, Harry.”
I look up to find Cap staring back at me, irritation bright and shiny in his eyes.
“What are you talking about?”
“What am I talking about?” Cap booms, and the rest of the table looks up at him. “You told me to invest in fucking Pampers, and my portfolio has been seeing red all week.”
“Pampers?” Thatch asks, a smirk on his lips. “As in diapers?”
“Yeah,” Cap mutters and takes a swig of his whiskey. “It’s almost like he was trying to sabotage me or something. I should’ve known it was bullshit. Should’ve never invested as much as I did on that bogus fucking tip.”
Thatch laughs around the cigar in his mouth, and I just shrug. Truthfully, I have no idea what he’s talking about. The last time I chatted with Cap was nearly a week ago while a fucking surprise pregnancy bomb exploded in my living room. I can’t be held liable for anything I said during that conversation.
Thankfully, Milo takes it upon himself to deal the next hand to everyone at the table, and Cap’s attention is otherwise diverted.
On the television behind the large poker table, Celine Dion sings her heart out as Jack tells Rose never to let go, and I begin to shuffle the new cards in my hand mindlessly again.
The cheery, holiday-driven atmosphere is a stark contrast to my current mood.
Truthfully, my life and mind are in fucking shambles. And I guess it’s only right that a movie like Titanic is our poker night background noise—I’ve hit a personal iceberg, and my ship is going down by the helm.
As for the real reasoning of tonight’s movie selection, I couldn’t even begin to know why. All I know is that my friends—Kline Brooks, Thatcher Kelly, Wes Lancaster, Trent Turner, Quincy Black, Milo Ives, Caplin Hawkins, and Theo Cruz—know how to keep this shit as weird as possible.
Up until about a year ago, we were having book club instead of poker night. Then one day, it just went back. None of us has said anything, and honestly, I think it’s because we’re afraid to jinx it. It’s a time in our lives when most of us felt held against our will. I’m not saying we were, like, Elizabeth Smart, but it was close.
