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“Very well. Let’s order these ladies some drinks, first.”
I beckon a server and he takes orders from the other end of the table. While Penelope is distracted by the menu, I take the opportunity to drink her in.
Who the fuck are you, girl? I wish she’d just use the Sinners Anonymous hotline for its intended purpose, instead of a sounding board for every vapid thought that crosses her brain, because now, I know shit about her I wish I didn’t. Like what she prefers in her bagel, and the color she’s going to paint her toes next Friday. Her ramblings haven’t given me answers, just more questions.
I want to know why she can sleep in my car, but not in her bed. Why she’s stillwearing my watch, instead of selling it. What she puts in my whiskey to make me want to protect her, when I should be putting a bullet in her head.
My watch slides up her elbow as she hands the menu back to the server. Although I’m sure she’s wearing it in the hope it’ll piss me off, I can’t ignore the sick thrill that sweeps through me. I suppose it’s similar to how men get a kick out of seeing women wearing their shirts. Not me, though. They always get lipstick on the collar and embed the stench of their perfume in the fabric.
“I’ll have a lemonade, please.”
Wren has been so unusually quiet that I’ve forgotten she was here until the server asks for her order.
“Just a lemonade?”
She stares at the table, hands clutching the purse in her lap. “Yes, please.”
“I can’t tempt you with something stronger?”
She shakes her head, offering him a polite smile. “I don’t drink.”
“Aw, come on, it’s almost nearly Christmas—”
The combination of Gabe’s chair scraping back and the crack of his fist connecting with the table sweeps a deafening silence through the cave. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Angelo rise to his feet.
“She said, she’ll have a lemonade,” Gabe growls.
The server fumbles with the menu and scurries off. Wren turns red and mumbles something about using the restroom, and with a dark mutter under her breath, Tayce follows her through the crowd.
Bemused, my gaze heats the side of my brother’s face. He doesn’t look up from shuffling the deck in his inked paws.
“Fire him,” he says, just loud enough for me to hear. “Or I’ll carve his eyeballs out with my rustiest pen knife.”
I groan into my whiskey. With all the problems clamping down on my shoulders, this is the last thing I need.
“Right, let’s begin.”
Rory is visibly relieved at my suggestion, clearly wanting to break the tension as much as I do. Gabe slams down both our cards with more force than necessary, and Rory stares at hers for a stupid amount of time.
Boredom biting at my edges, I nod to the two of hearts she’s been dealt. “I’ll give you a clue—two is pretty far away from twenty-one.”
“Shh,” she hisses, putting her fingers to her temples. “I’m thinking.” A moment passes. “All right, hit.”
I hit too, adding a seven of spades to my four of diamonds.
As the dealt cards grow and the deck in Gabe’s hand thins, an uneasy awareness climbs up my spine and squeezes the nape of my neck.
Maybe I wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t so hyper-aware of every movement Penelope makes. If I wasn’t already staring at her plump lips when she whispered, low value, or if I wasn’t admiring my watch around her wrist when she squeezed Rory’s arm.
I shift my attention to Rory and start honing in on other things I chalked up to her quirkiness. And then I realize: the strumming of her fingers against the table isn’t a nervous habit; she’s fucking counting.
“Blackjack!” she squeals again.
This time, I don’t congratulate her. Instead, I drag my eyes up to meet Penelope’s and raise my brows.
Something in my expression wipes the grin off her face.
“Penelope.”
Her shoulders stiffen.
“I’ll give you a ten-second head start.”
But by the time the warning slides from my mouth, the little brat is already on her feet.
