I had to help you get three restraining orders.
Ryan
Yeah, but at least I spaced out the crazies. Pippa had two in a row. She’s out on another date tonight, probably with Ted Bundy Jr.
Beau
I mean…what did you expect when she moved in?
Luke
She’s a fucking smokeshow. Of course she’s got dates lined up every night.
Beau
I mean, we’ve all seen her legs, right?
James
Yes.
…I mean, no comment.
My molars grind together. Nope, I don’t need my best friends talking about Pippa like she’s some piece of meat.
Ryan
Dude, that’s my kid sister. Don’t be gross.
Luke
STEPsister. Just saying.
I’m going to punch that motherfucker in the stomach when I get home.
A small hand lands on my shoulder. I spin to see Ria, one of my poker friends. She’s already in the black sunglasses she wears when she plays, her long hair pulled back into a tightFrench braid. Obviously, I tried to bang her when we first met. She responded by putting me in a choke-hold, and we’ve been pals ever since.
“You good?” she asks. “You’re usually working the room by now.”
“Just texting my friends.” I slip my phone in my back pocket.
“Uh-huh.” Obviously, I haven’t convinced her. When I’m not at the poker table, I’m a shitty bluffer. I quickly change the subject. “Do they have us at the same table?”
Ria nods and points to a table in the corner. A few of the other players are already seated, all of whom I’ve played before. There’s Joe, a thick-set older guy famed for his insanely tacky shirts. Next to him, there’s Miguel, a prodigy in his late teens who’s usually backed by his real estate tycoon mother. Arthur, a guy in his 40s who often battles me for the top spot in tournaments, is walking over. He’s wearing designer athleisure that costs thousands of dollars, even though I could find identical shit down at Costco.
“Chomp, chomp,” Ria says. Her way of saying that we’re all sharks.
I grin. “Let’s put a little blood in the water, then.”
We take a seat, shooting the shit until our dealer comes to the table. As soon as he starts laying out cards, we go silent. Game faces on.
Normally, I love this part of a tournament—the hushed moment of possibility, where I can savor the thrill of competition. It’s where I get laser-focused, watching the other players’ faces, feeling like I can practically hear each card snap together as the dealer shuffles.
Tonight, all I want to do is check my phone.
Pippa’s going on another date, and I want to check her location again. She’s still at the apartment for now, but she should be leaving soon. Frankly, it pisses me off. Couldn’t shehave waited until I was home? What if it’s another creep, like McMurder-Eyes from last night?
I check my hand, finding two spades, an eight, and a ten. Worth playing. I buy into the hand, trying to keep my focus.
