Page 136 of Frozen Hearts
“And if I win, I get to see you dance.”
“Deal.”
“Deal,” he confirms with a smirk before dealing the cards.
Lifting mine from the table, I lean back in my chair while I look over my hand. It’s admittedly been a while since I played, but Gin Rummy was a form of currency at Breakthrough Academy, a school for troubled teens that my mom sent me to after I had Rora. It was a strict, military-style institution that worked to ‘correct’ our behavior via stringent routines, manual labor, and harsh punishments. However, no matter how rigid they were, we were still teenagers. We always found a way to work around the rules. Gin Rummy was used to barter for sugary snacks, which were strictly prohibited, or for cell phone usage.
After two years of playing the game in order to get whatever I needed that made Breakthrough Academy bearable, I’d call myself a little bit of a pro.
Not that Royce needs to know that… yet.
We take turns lifting cards from the stock deck or discard pile and discarding whichever card from our hand that we don’t want. The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The only sound is the shifting of cards and when one of us either knocks the tabletop or calls Gin.
I study Royce closely, noting the tells that give away his growing frustration as the gap between our scores widens and I pull ahead.
When he sets a five of diamonds in the discard pile, I know I’ve won. Lifting his discarded card, I slot it in amongst the two other fives and smother my smirk. “Gin.”
His brows, which have been scrunched in concentration as he frowns at his hand, jump to his hairline. “What? There’s no way.”
Smirking, I place my hand on the table so he can see the three cards of fives, alongside the three cards of sevens, plus the ten, Jack, Queen, and King of Spades that I was holding.
“Fuck,” Royce growls, setting his hand down. It doesn’t even matter how many unmatched cards he has. I was only twenty points off winning, and my Gin just pushed me over the finish line.
His eyes narrow on me, before he barks, “Go again.”
“Fine.” I shrug. “But new stakes. I won fair and square. I’m not about to let you weasel your way out of showing me your sketches.”
His face contorts, teeth clenching until it looks like his head might explode. I can’t help but chuckle at his pain as I grab the cards and reshuffle before dealing another hand.
“I win,” I sing-song twenty minutes later.
“What the… how did you get so good at this game?”
I distract myself by gathering the cards and putting them back in their packet as I say, “Not a whole lot else to do at a school for problematic teenagers.” I can feel his probing gaze on my face and hold my breath for the inquisition that is undoubtedly to follow.
However, I’m pleasantly surprised when he says, “Okay, what do you want?”
I tap my finger against my lip, thinking it over before deciding. “An IOU. A favor to be cashed in at a time of my choosing. Whether it be a foot massage, a lap dance, or for you to buy me one of those big foam fingers the next time we go to one of Logan’s games.”
He snorts. “Hell will freeze over before I give you a lap dance, but the rest of it… fine.”
I grin triumphantly. “So, those drawings?”
His blue eyes instantly shadow over, his features growing taut before he nods. “Yeah, fine. A deal’s a deal.” He gestures for me to move, and I follow him out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his room.
He pushes open the door, and I linger on the threshold, taking in the dark navy walls and bedspread that give the room a warm, cozy feel. I’ve never been in Royce’s room. Unlike Logan, who always leaves his door open and doesn’t appear to care who comes and goes, Royce’s door is constantly shut, and knowing him as I do, I imagine he values his privacy. His room is his safe space. His sanctuary. I don’t want to invade that.
Once he’s across the room, standing in front of his desk, he turns to look at me over his shoulder, finding me still hovering in the doorway. My eyes catch his, noticing the raw vulnerability there. I suddenly realize that this is a huge deal for him, and it makes me feel bad for pushing if he doesn’t want to show me his art.
“You know what, it’s fine. We can just go watch a movie or something instead.”
His gaze continues to bore into mine, the air between us fraught with tension. “No. We made a deal. It’s not a problem.” Searching his face for any signs he’s putting on a brave front, I nod when I don’t see any. When I remain frozen in the doorway, he lets out a soft laugh. “You can come in.”
Taking a step over the threshold feels akin to walking on holy ground. This is Royce’s sacred space, and it feels like a massive deal that he’s granting me entry. I pad across the carpet to stand beside him, noticing balled-up pieces of paper piling up in his wastepaper basket and lying on the floor around it.
A drawing pad lies open on his desk, a pencil placed on top of it, and the sketch illuminated in the harsh light of his desk lamp.
My eyes skim over the page with the reverence of a sweet caress, memorizing every stroke of the pencil as I picture the moody, muscular, hostile man beside me bent over this desk, pencil in hand as he memorialized this moment in time. It’s a mundane moment—students dining at the food court on campus—but the way Royce paints each of them makes me feel as though I’m standing in the food court with them. I can practically hear the clattering of plates, the raucous laughter, and loud voices.
