Page 29 of You Owe Me

“I’m telling you,” he goes on, “it’s like you’ve got a sixth sense or something. Poker ESP.”

“It’s not ESP,” I say. My voice is flat. Final. “It’s observation.”

He grins like I’ve just handed him a secret.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I meant. You just read people, huh? That’s badass.” He holds out a fist for a bump.

I ignore it.

Across the table, Sebastian catches my eye and gives me that half grimace he saves for when he knows he’s messed up but doesn’t want to admit it out loud. He knows better than to bring someone into my space without clearing it with me first. But here we are.

“Anyway”—tweener leans back like he belongs here—“everyone’s always talking about you. Like how you run shit. You know what I mean?”

The shuffle stops.

Rowan takes a slow sip of his beer. Sebastian stops mid-chip tap.

“You’re, like, the guy on campus,” Tweener continues. “IOUs, favors, trades. Someone said you helped the swim team dodge a hazing investigation. That true?”

I keep my hands still.

It’s a skill I’ve had to master: staying calm when everything in me is vibrating with the urge to react. When every instinct is whispering to shut it down. End it now. But that’s the thing. You don’t build something like mine by reacting. You build it by listening. Watching. Waiting.

And I want to see what this idiot says next.

“Just curious.” He holds up his hands like I’ve pulled a weapon on him. “No offense, bro.”

“I’m not your bro.” I damn near growl.

He laughs like I’m being charming. “Right. Totally. I just mean, it’s impressive. Everything you’ve built. I respect the hustle.”

Respect. He has no idea what that word means.

He thinks this is a game. He thinks I hand out favors like candy and collect IOUs like friendship bracelets. He doesn’t get it. That every deal I make, every card I write, comes with weight. The people who come to me desperate, quiet, careful, they’re the ones who know the rules. They don’t ask how it works. They just say yes and wait for the call.

Because they know when I call it in, they’ll do what I ask. No matter what it is. No questions. No warning. And absolutely no telling anyone.

And if they don’t?

They don’t get to play anymore.

“Big blind’s yours, Rowan,” I say.

The deck moves again, passing from hand to hand. I don’t look up.

I need this night to settle. To fall back into the rhythm I built.

But Tweener’s not done.

“So, how long have you been dating that marine bio girl?” He asks the question casually, like he didn’t just swerve into a death wish. “What’s her name? Abby?”

My head lifts.

Slow.

Controlled.

“Ainsley,” I say.

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