Ruth, silent until now, swallowed hard. “Are we getting arrested?” Her voice was small.
“Not today.” Walker shot them all a warning look. “But you need to remove that plate. Now.”
“Yes, sir,” Clayton said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Right away.”
Jamie and Clayton were going to get back at them—it was just a matter of time. At this rate someone would end up arrested before the week was out. The musicians had grown wary, double-checking their instruments before every show. But Jamie and Clayton weren’t amateurs. They weren’t going to pull the same prank twice.
Touring up the East Coast from North Carolina to Maine, Clayton had a field day telling dad jokes about Bangor. The audience wasn’t nearly as amused as he was. Jamie, on the other hand, was killing it. Word had spread about her performances and sold-out crowds showed up early to see her. Some even wore her merch.
The drive from Bangor to Cleveland was long and uneventful, but Jamie didn’t mind. It gave her time to study. She hadn’t missed a single question since somewhere in Florida.
“Knock, knock.” Clayton tapped on the bedroom door.
“Enter.” Jamie set down her highlighter.
He pushed the door open with a grin, cocky, unshaven, and clearly up to something. Two weeks on the road had left him with a scruffy beard that only made him look smugger.
“It’s time, darlin’.”
She arched an eyebrow. “For what?”
“A prank.” His grin widened. “We’re going to hustle them at poker.”
Jamie straightened. Now he had her attention. “What?”
“That’s all they do—play poker on the bus.”
“I don’t play for money.”
“Neither do they.” He leaned against the doorframe. “They play for smokes.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t smoke.”
“Neither do I, but I think we can clean them out.” He rubbed his hands together like a villain plotting world domination. “We need signals.”
“Like in Rounders?” She smirked. “Never mind. I doubt you’ve seen it.”
He ignored that. “Why leave it to chance?”
Jamie tilted her head, studying him. “I’ll only agree on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
Her smile turned sly. “I win the showdown. No exceptions.”
At the next designated stop the buses pulled into a diner. Over sandwiches and sodas Clayton casually suggested a game, and no one needed convincing.
Jamie tried to steer them toward playing on Mr. Black, but the musicians wanted to smoke, so Mr. Blue it was. No one argued. Everyone agreed Buddy should deal—he was the only person both sides trusted.
Six people played since the small table couldn’t accommodate the whole band, but the loser of each game would swap out for an alternate.
Three hours later, as Clayton had predicted, he and Jamie had pretty much cleaned them out. The pot was so full that cigarettes kept rolling off the table, but no one was ready to quit. In what was undoubtedly the last game, the tension was thick enough to spread on toast.
Jamie shifted in her chair, the heavy smoke making it difficult to breathe. She knew it would wreak havoc on her voice but she needed to focus—winning was more important.
“Mind if I crack a window?” she asked, already reaching for the latch.
Johnny and Chico, the drummer, were the only musicians left in the round, and she could smell victory. As long as Clayton didn’t screw it up.
