Whitty gave him a jovial slap on the back. “Jolly grand to see you, old chap. So, are we to have a night?”
“We are,” said Rhys.
Though not in the way Whitty would be expecting.
Better that was left to discover later, rather than reveal now.
“You know, Ossie,” began Whitty, as if he were concentrated in thought, “there’s something in the air. I have a feeling your Hazard luck is due for a turnaround.”
Rhys found a set of dice in his hand and a dozen pairs of expectant eyes on him.
“I’ll stake you.” Whitty slid his stack of markers in front of Rhys. “You just roll, old man.”
The slick of sweat that had coated his palms now pinpricked across Rhys’s entire body. He had a choice—place the dice down and walk away or…toss them.
If he walked away, though, he would be leaving Whitty and abandoning his plan for the night—and his second noble deed.
And, really, what was one throw of the dice, anyway?
It was true, what he’d said to Whitty. He had no luck with dice.
So, wouldn’t it be better to roll and throw out?
One and done.
Then he could move into the next stage of this night—and its true purpose.
His hand began moving, the dice rattling in his palm, their weight so familiar, his heart a hammer in his chest, the blood thundering through his veins…roaring in his ears, so he could hear nothing but the voice urging him to give over. He’d suspected it was there all this time, lying in wait—and now he had it confirmed.
This voice…this urge…would never disappear.
It was part of him, as sure as the cells that composed his physical being.
As the dice flew from his hand and he called out, “Seven,” how good…how right…it felt to give over. The dice rolled and tumbled to a stop and what should they show but a two and a five…
Seven.
“See?” proclaimed Whitty. “You’ve been shoring up luck all these months. Now, do it again.”
Again, Rhys was holding dice, feeling their weight in his hand before letting them fly.
And again, he nicked the main and he was off on the best run of his life.
Everyone crowding around the table knew it…the blood screaming hot through his veins knew it, too.
Oh, it felt good.
And right.
Like he was back where he belonged.
He could stay here all night—even forever.
Forever.
The idea of that forever—forever at the tables…forever in the welcoming bosom of vice—snapped something awake inside him.
That forever suddenly felt like a prison sentence.
