Page 184 of Chaos Kills

He hesitates before finally moving in my direction from my peripheral, slowly lowering himself across from me.

“I’m sure you don’t gamble,” I say. “But how about, if the other person wins, they get to ask the other a question.”

I feel the bulk of his gaze on me, but I don’t bother to acknowledge it. He needs to get used to me if we’re stuck together for the time being until…I decide what to do.

“Nothing serious,” I add in. “Like what’s your favorite color, and do you think tacos are a food group or just a food.” I flick my eyes to his because that’s important. “That’s a make-or-break for me if you answer wrong.”

His placid expression doesn’t falter—not that I’m surprised—as I deal two cards a piece to each of us, checking mine and holding a total of seventeen in my hand.

“I’m staying,” I convey, deciding on Black Jack to play. It’s the most mindless one I can think of that doesn’t require a lot of concentration. “Hit your cards if you want another.”

He doesn’t, which I’m hoping means he knows how to play.

Flipping mine over, I expose a ten of clubs and seven of hearts. “Seventeen.” He does the same and shows off eighteen. He knows how to play. “Damn.”

Scooping up his cards, I throw them in the deck and begin shuffling them again.

“Alright,” I straighten my spine and lift my chin, ready for whatever question he may have. “Give it to me.”

He studies my face for a second, tattoos along his neck relaxed as I patiently wait for him to ask me anything.

He’s a sad sort of beautiful. No facial hair, just jagged edges, and lines that make up his features. I’ve grown used to his black hair falling aimlessly in his face. Several times, I’ve wanted to see both of his stunning blue eyes stare back at me, but that’d be stupid.

“Are you happy?”

I didn’t expect such a loaded question.

And, to any othernormalperson, it wouldn’t be. It’d be mindless.

However, he’s asked me something similar before, always observing me and probably trying to figure it out.

And to answer that question would mean wanting things I can’t openly have or wishing for events that would be delivered to me like miracles.

“Sure.”

I don’t offer more, hoping it’ll get him to speak more if I keep my answers vague.

Tossing out our cards, I end up with nineteen and hold. Ozzy does the same, and when we flip them over, he shows up with an ace and ten.

“Are you serious?” I huff under my breath, gathering up the cards and shuffling them more thoroughly this time.

“Do you hate them?”

How quick we were to come out with that question.

It must be something currently on his mind, and it’s gray, not black and white to me. It’s also something that may be bothering him, too.

“Depends on your definition of hate,” I offer noncommittally. “I don’t want them to die.”

Wanting to end that round of question-asking, I do the same thing and win the next round—thank fuck.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.”

Easy enough.

After another round and I win for the second time, I decide for something a little more personal yet not too prying.

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