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If she were here, which was utterly ridiculous, she’d likely be explaining how the dealers were able to consistently win. Did they just know the cards? Did they cheat? Or were they just more sober than everyone else here?
He wished he could ask. He’d far rather engage in one of her wagers than any activity that was happening here.
Somersworth swayed next to him. “See?” he called out, holding up his drink as his other arm spread wide. “Isn’t this glorious?”
Ken frowned but didn’t answer. His friends were both rakes through and through, always had been.
And Ken had glorified that life in his mind but as he looked about, to him, it lacked…substance.
He’d been so focused on becoming free that he forgot to ask if he actually wished to be so. Caring for his sister had provided structure and meaning to his life. It had also been a great responsibility, but that really wasn’t so bad, was it? There was merit to responsibility. Purpose.
How had he not seen that before?
But the trip he’d been so excited for now seemed silly and boring. He’d much rather go north. Be with Emily and with…
He looked at Somersworth, his skin waxy and his eyes bleary as he continued to sway. And then at Upton, his normal grimace deeper as he squinted at the table.
This was the fun he’d been missing out on? Losing piles of money to the sober dealer on the other side of the table?
Didn’t they know? They were the owners of this club. They were supposed to be better than the patrons. Smarter, craftier.
He waved to a man carrying a tray of drinks and snatched a glass of deep red wine as he tossed some coins on the tray.
Across the room, he spotted Gris standing as a silent sentry.
He might have thought it was Tris, but the black eye gave Gris away.
Abandoning Somersworth and Upton, he pushed his way through the crowd, toward Gris. It was likely the liquor that had him seeking the man out.
How much had he had to drink tonight? He stopped, trying to count, but lost track at five…
“You look like shite,” Gris said and it wasn’t until Ken turned to him that he realized Gris had closed the distance between them.
“You don’t loooooookk sooooo good either.” Was that his voice? Why did it sound so garbled.
But he laughed. “Sorry about your face.”
“You tooooooo.” Ken gave several slow blinks.
Gris slapped him on the back and he hurtled forward, his wine hitting the red carpet. “Fuck.”
The other man only laughed. “That is why the floor is red to begin with. Come on.”
And he found himself being hauled by the arm toward the back rooms. “What are you going to do with me?” He tried to understand. Was Gris intent on revenge? They had unfinished business.
Gris opened a door, revealing a small, simple room that had a desk on one side and a settee on the other. “Lie down. You’ll feel better.”
The settee did look wonderful and his head was spinning. But somehow, he wasn’t ready to leave the other man’s company. “You’re not going to hit me again?”
“Of course not.” Gris shook his head. “You have to understand, Boxby. With four brothers, punching people is part our communication style. No hard feelings.”
Ken gave several slow blinks. Was Gris trying to say that he hit Ken because he liked him? “I like you too even though you drank all my wine.”
Gris gave a chortle of laugher then. “Fair enough. Though”—the other man’s finger came up, wagging in Ken’s face—“I stay sober all these nights I’m working the club while you get to drink until you’re floating away.”
Ken frowned, his hand swatting back and forth at nothing in particular. “I’d rather be you. Nothing wrong with some responsibility.” And then he spotted the decanter of amber liquid on Gris’s desk. Stumbling over, he poured himself a healthy glass to replace the spilled wine. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Do.” Gris crossed too and poured himself a much smaller glass.
