Page 17 of Burned By Sin
Clayton studies his hand, his expression a perfectly stoic mask. Rhys downs his shot and flips his first card with a snap of his wrist, a smirk already forming. I look between them, shivering beneath the weight of tension colliding against my sides and I flip the house cards. Clay sticks straight away, whilst Rhys cockily smacks his hand on the table asking for another card, then another. I raise my brow, sliding it over, anticipating the moment he growls and throws his cards across the green felt.
“Twenty-one my ass.”
Beneath his breath, Clay chuckles, sipping on his victory beer. I lean on my elbow, facing Rhys’ direction, resting my chin on my hand.
“Truth time.”
He glares at me for a long moment, jaw ticking, before tossing back another shot of his whiskey anyway. “Fine. I—” He breaks off, glances at Clayton, then back at me. “I binged Pretty Little Liars one summer, and now I have a crush on Lucy Hale. I watch everything she’s in.”
Blinking slowly, I try to withhold the grin that tries to break through. It’s not exactly the kind of truth I had in mind but it’s a start. Rolling my eyes, I pass the deck over, declaring it as Rhys’ turn to deal. Using incredibly skilled fingers, he splits the deck multiple times and reshuffles multiple times, showing he’s done this before.
Steady breathing vibrates softly through the microphone on Rhys’ shirt, reminding me that I can only hear one side of the conversation. Not that Clayton has much to say, but I switch over to my phone’s Bluetooth and place it in the center of the table instead. I keep throwing him side glances, wanting to say so many things but settling for the fact he’s here and staying. I can’t believe Rhys’ plan to get him here worked, and that’s the only reason I haven’t scratched his eyes out.
Two cards are dealt in front of us, and a sneak peek reveals that I’m happy to stick. However, Clay’s jaw tics fiercely.
“Hit,” he grinds out. Rhys leans back in his chair, swirling his whiskey around the glass.
“Change of rules. You’ve got to pay with a truth if you want another card.”
“I hate your fucking guts. How’s that for the truth?” Clay bites back instantly. Laughing loudly, like a crack slicing through the air, Rhys slides a card across the table before revealing the cards laid out before him. His face splits into a wide grin, his posture far too comfortable for someone who will be back in the game next round.
“House wins. What else you got to tell me, Scum?” Rhys chuckles, collecting the cards back in. I sink into my seat, taking my glass of rosé with me. The fruity taste is a good anchor whilst my mind is screaming,mission abort.
“Just before I left campus, I received a certain gif on my phone,” Clay says with a hidden smile. My stomach drops. “I replay it every night before bed to help me sleep.” Rhys shoots to his feet and I react, grabbing whatever I can reach to get him to stand down. Evidently, it’s his waistband, as he allows me to tug him back into his seat.
Clay’s lip curls, but he doesn’t rise to the challenge in Rhys’ glare. That’s the thing with him. His anger doesn’t explode, it simmers beneath the surface. Sometimes, his silence is louder than Rhys’ shouting, and it sets my nerves on edge.
“Clay, it’s your turn to deal,” I announce, pushing the deck of cards his way. Twirling the stem of my glass between my fingers, I try to remain an impartial barrier between them, until Rhys drags my chair closer and places his hands on me. Over my bare thigh, across my back, around my nape. He possesses everywhere he touches, hitting Clayton in a place that fists can’t reach. I bat Rhys off and scoot my chair back, reaching for the bottle. It’s going to be a long night.
Two cards land in front of me. A decent hand, but not brilliant. I sip my rosé like a continuous stream, weighing whether to risk another hit, while Rhys leans back in his chair, his arms spread like a king daring someone to unseat him. I narrow my eyes.
“Hit me,” I say quietly. Clay pauses, the faintest flicker of disapproval in his eyes before he slides a card toward me.Bust. I groan, letting my head drop into my palm.
“Truth,” Rhys drawls, smug as sin. I peek at him through my fingers. His grin is lazy yet curious, waiting to see what I’ll give. My pulse skitters but I force myself upright, refusing to let him see nerves.
“When I was sixteen, I thought about running away with someone I barely knew. The mechanic’s son. Packed a bag, had a bus ticket and everything. Aunt Marg stopped me at the door and smacked me with a hand towel all the way back to my room.” Rhys’ grin falters for half a second, then he shoots a look at Clay and snorts.
“So you’ve always had shit judgment.” I huff, and slap his bicep.
“Evidently. I’m sitting here next to you.” Clay’s eyes flick between us, unsure about the dynamic Rhys and I have fallen into. His jaw flexes, but he says nothing as he passes the deck over to me.
This round goes quicker. Rhys busts almost immediately, tossing his cards across the felt with a curse. “I hate the frat house being empty,” he states without needing to be forced. He takes a long pull of whiskey and sets the empty glass down with a soft thunk, whilst a small smile grows on my face. Now we’re getting somewhere.
Alcohol warms my limbs, my body easing into a relaxed state which is unaffected by the tension in the room. Perhaps the tension has washed away entirely, along with the sensations in my fingers. The cards slip and tumble across the table, an unladylike snort escaping me. It’s even worse to hear it reflected back through my phone’s mic, like something that belongs in a farmyard. Rhys comes to my rescue, collecting and taking ownership of them. I’m not even playing anymore, simply watching cards being passed back and forth, truths coming out much easier now.
“I hate that you joined the basketball team,” Clay glares at Rhys over my head, trapping me between them. I hiccup and slide further down until my head leans against the chair. “You couldn’t let me have one thing, one outlet without you stepping in to ruin it. And for thatalone, I’m going to beat you beyond repair one day. I’m going to break all of your bones and bruise your flesh so bad, not even your tattoos will be recognizable.”
Woah, some of us are angry drunks. My eyes widen, not sure of where to look. But when my eyes do stray to Rhys’s face, I find him biting his lip ring and rubbing his dick through his jeans.
“Keep going, Big Boy. All this fighting-talk is making me super hard.” That snort comes from me again and I cover my mouth with my hand. I really need to stop doing that. The game is forgotten at this point, both Rhys and I too far gone to care while Clay remains sitting ramrod straight. I sigh, wondering what it would take to remove the burdens he carries. To help cut him loose, even if just for a little while. Reaching out a hand, I place it on Clay’s forearm to offer up a truth for free.
“I’ve missed you,” I admit in barely more than a whisper. He doesn’t respond, but something flickers in his pitch black eyes. A flash of light so brief, I might be able to convince myself I made it up. It’s a pretty little dream though, to think my Clay is still in there somewhere. If he was ever mine to start with.
Rhys takes a coin from his pocket, gaining both of our attention to watch him flip it high in the air. He reckons he can flip a heads every time, some party trick apparently. I smile lazily, wrapped in the warm, clumsy blanket of inebriation. The coin spirals through the air, taking my gaze on a journey I can’t quite keep up with. Each time Rhys flicks it high, his catch becomes less effective until I’m sure he’s seeing double. I know I am.
“You’re both so…stupid,” I murmur to myself. The conversation I intended to have out loud continues in my head. A string of moans about all of the energy they waste on hating each other when they could aim it literally anywhere else. Like starting a magic act with Rhys’ impressive coin trick. Several scenarios pass over my glazed eyes, most with Rhys in a smart jacket and wand, Clay dressed as a white rabbit complete with tall, fluffy ears. Laughter is bubbling from me in a constant stream as the door opens at our backs.
“Master Waversea. You have a phone call,” the security guard raises a cell phone in our direction. “It’s your father. Your tab has been cut off for the night.” Rhys’ eyes blow wide, the pin being pulled from his grenade. I stand too quickly, a rush of dizziness threatening to take my heels out from beneath me, but I manage to place a hand on Rhys’ heaving chest before he lifts the phone to his ear.
