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“Wren’s a goody-two-shoes. It’s not even the legal limit.”
“Hey, I heard that!” comes a yell from the back room. A few moments later, Wren emerges with a mock scowl, holding three beers between her fingers. “Nothing wrong with being good, Rory. You should try it some time.”
Rory’s chuckle is dark, and I like the way it feels against my skin.
“All right, gotta pee.”
As she slides off the stool, a dark mass shifts in the shadows beyond the glow from the Christmas lights. My heart leaps an inch up my throat, and my hand shoots out to grip the edge of the bar.
“For flamingo’s sake, Gio. I can use the bathroom without getting my throat slit, you know?”
A beefcake of a man steps out into the low lighting, suit-clad and stony-faced. “Boss’s orders, I’m afraid.”
Rory sighs. “Don’t marry a made man if you enjoy peeing in peace, ladies.” She shoves through the swinging door, and I’m pretty sure I see her push it from the other side so it swings back out and hits her guard on the ass as he comes to a stop and turns in front of it.
Heat brushes over my fingers, and when I look up, I realize Tayce is staring down at them. I follow her gaze.
My hand is still clutching the edge of the bar, knuckles white.
I slip it off and tuck it into my lap, but it’s already too late. Tayce sits up straighter, runs her tongue over her teeth and cocks a microbladed brow. Instinctively, my eyes sweep the bar for Wren, in desperate need of her sunny disposition to crack the tension, but she’s on the other side, serving an old-timer.
“You’re running from something.”
I knew it was coming. Could taste its thickness in the air before it floated out of Tayce’s mouth. But the premonition doesn’t stop my heart from skipping like a rock over a lake.
I take a cold swig of beer. Set it down. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Clink. I look down to see the neck of her beer bottle connect with mine. “Cheers to that.”
Confusion and heat swirl my veins, and although I can’t bring myself to look at her, I feel tethered to her by an odd sense of comradery. We’ve said about three words to each other, but in the thick silence, I can hear the unspoken. Sins, regrets, dirty pasts, and plastic names. The story in her brown eyes reflects my own.
The distant flush of a toilet. The running of a tap. A door crashes against the wall behind me and then Rory slides in between Tayce and I.
“You don’t happen to be a master of Blackjack, by any chance?”
Her question catches me off guard. I clear my throat and cast a suspicious gaze over the deck of cards in Tayce’s hands, as if the King of Spades will suddenly grow a mouth and tell them all my secrets. “No, why?”
“Darn it. I need to win against Rafe.”
Something nasty flares up in my chest, and I force my expression not to reflect it. “How come?”
“He’s the only one who doesn’t let me beat him.”
I bite out a laugh. “Why would anybody let you beat them?”
She frowns, like I’ve asked the stupidest question possible. “Because I’m married to Angelo Visconti.”
My gaze cuts to the wall of muscle still looming a few feet behind her. Fair.
“But, obviously, Rafe isn’t scared of his brother and he plays to win. Now, I owe him almost three-hundred-thousand dollars.”
“Angelo owes him three-hundred thousand dollars,” Tayce corrects.
Rory winces. “Yeah, but he doesn’t know that yet. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell him, either. My plan is to get super good at Blackjack and win it back before Rafe tries to settle the debt.” Her amber stare darkens, and I see a flash of something more sinister than her angelic silhouette portrays. “And besides, what I’d give to wipe that smirk off his face. Just once.”
Same.
Mischief creeps up my back. Impulse thrums in my temples, and my mouth works before my brain can tell it not to.
I slide the deck from Tayce’s hands. Cut it in half, and shuffle. The thawp feels like a hit of heroin.
“Are you any good at math, Rory?”
Her eyes narrow on my hands. “Yes, I’m in aviation school.”
“And what about keeping secrets?”
Her lips tilt. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Well, then. I’ll teach you how to win every time.”
