Page 12 of Just Playin'
My chest rises and falls in rhythm with the vein in Elvis’s neck when he negotiates, “If you win, I’ll agree with your deal. If you lose. . .”
I peer over my shoulder when his words trail off. There’s no one behind me, so there’s no reason for his sentence to fall short as it did. It seems like he doesn’t know what he wants if he wins.
My theory is proven accurate when he says, “We’ll discuss the fine print later.” With a smirk that reveals there’s a lot more to him than the brooding, muscle-loaded shell he’s been displaying all evening, he asks, “Peanuts or plain?”
I’m confused. . . until I peer down at the poker table. They’re not betting with money. The tabletop is covered with M&Ms.
I pace closer to them. “Are peanut M&Ms worth more than their skinny counterparts?”
When Dalton shakes his head, I say, “Then I’ll have plain. Everyone knows you get more candy per packet since they’re smaller.”
“But they don’t taste as good,” Elvis interjects.
Smiling, I nod. “True. But I’m not here for the candy.” I take the empty seat next to him before leaning into his side. “I’m here to keep your mitts out of my hair.”
It could be the alcohol heating my veins, but I swear displeasure in the first thing to cross Elvis’s face during my confession. My breath can’t be blamed for his ghastly response, either. I steered clear of any dishes that included ginger or garlic. Don’t ask me why. I’ve already lied once today, so I’d hate to break your trust for the second time.
CHAPTER FOUR
Presley
“You’re lying! That can’t be right. I have a straight. How can a bunch of random cards beat a straight?”
Willow stares at me with wide, glassy eyes. She’s confident I’m lying but aware I have no reason to. The final eight M&Ms she went all in with won’t be missed in the massive stockpile in front of me, but she’s not giving in.
Becca and Dalton bowed out nearly an hour ago, but Willow played a good, logical game. . . until she thought she had a winning hand.
“I have a flush—”
“Your cards aren’t in any order.” She waves her hand over my cards. “They just have hearts on them. I have a straight. Three, four, five, six, seven.” She counts out her usually impressive hand onto the felt with force. “I win.”
She stops dragging a massive pile of rainbow candy to her side of the table when Becca grimaces. “Elvis is right, Willow. A flush ranks higher than a straight.”
Willow slumps into her chair, the candy only halfway across the table. “Really?”
I scoff, peeved she believes Becca in an instant. I shouldn’t be shocked. I could tell her I’m allergic to peanuts, and she’d stuff peanut M&Ms into my mouth to test the theory. I guess I somewhat deserve her distrust. I did make out I was planning to arrest her when we met. I also did a stellar job of acting annoyed at her description of ballers.
I’m a little annoyed, but not enough to display it to a stranger. To be honest, it’s nice hearing someone’s open rawness for a change. Dalton and I are surrounded by people paid to kiss our asses. Dalton escapes the madness by returning home to his wife who keeps him grounded. I don’t have access to the same crutch.
Even when I was engaged, Lillian didn’t bring me back to earth. She stroked my ego so much, I thought I was invincible. When the doctors told me I had broken my back, I didn’t believe them. I was Presley Carlton: number one draft pick, star quarterback, and captain of the world-renowned 69ers. I was not a cripple.
I lived in that bubble for the eight weeks following my accident. It only burst when I attended my first physical therapy session after surgery. Even with a brace designed to hold my back in exact alignment, I could barely take a step. I was out of shape, pissed at the world, and blaming everyone but the man responsible: me.
I drank a fifth of bourbon before getting behind the wheel of my flashy sportscar.
I raced through the streets of New York at an excessive speed.
I plowed into a multi-passenger van without my foot touching the brake.
And it was me who nearly ended an entire family’s existence faster than I could snap my fingers.
But do you know what? They weren’t mentioned in any of the reports that circulated after my accident. They weren’t brought up when Lillian sought advice on my case from spinal specialists from around the world. No one spoke a word about them until I woke up screaming because the weight on my chest finally grew too much for me to bear.
It wasn’t the brace pinning me to my sweat-drenched sheets.
It was guilt.
I was told over and over again that I didn’t do anything wrong. That the accident wasn’t my fault even with my vehicle being cleared of any malfunctions. They said what they thought I wanted to hear instead of the truth.
