“So judging by that reaction, I’m guessing it had to do with sex. Number of partners in what? A tour? A day?”
He groaned again and buried his face in his hands. “You’re embarrassingly close. Is that answer enough?”
I raised my eyebrows at him as my answer.
“Number of threesomes in a year. And I’ll remind you that I lost…by a lot.”
I wrinkled my nose. Yeah, I didn’t like hearing that. Or picturing it. Sighing, I took a few more bites. “And the Handsome Squidward tattoo? Was that a rematch?”
“Nah, that was a March Madness loss on his part. He shouldn’t have bet against Duke.”
I swallowed hard. The food landed like a rock in my stomach. “Do you gamble a lot?”
The buzzing in my ears made it hard to focus on anything.
My skin crawled, and I shivered.
“Saylor? You okay, baby?”
My throat was suddenly really dry. I grabbed my water and took a drink, nodding at Mal’s question. Oh yeah. I was fine.
Totally fine. Nothing to see here.
It was my turn to cough. “Fine. It’s…yeah. Fine.”
I could tell from his expression that he didn’t really believe it, but he let it drop.
“Anyways, I was trying to teach Gio a lesson. He was starting to get into it pretty deep. And making such stupid bets. Like, who bets against Duke’s spread when they’re seeded as number one for like the third year in a row?” Mal shook his head. “This was back before I joined NA and learned about addicts. So now I’d probably go about it differently, but I think I made my point.”
“Yeah, gambling is stupid.”
“And so is the tattoo.” Mal laughed.
I smiled weakly and let Mal carry the rest of the conversation as I picked at my lunch.
Suddenly I wasn’t very hungry.
Chapter 9
Mal
I’d never been accused of being the swiftest kid in school, but even I clocked Saylor’s demeanor change when gambling had been brought up over lunch. That, plus her comment last night about a ‘degenerate gambler ex’ confirmed my suspicions about him.
Did he slap her around when he lost? How long had it been going on for?
I was proud of her for ending it. But I really didn’t like the mental picture it’d given me. Or how she locked up as she got lost in her memories. Would she be okay when she went home? Would he be waiting for her?
Of course he would. I mean, look at her.
As we walked down the beach hand in hand, our hips bumping into each other, I took her in. Her blonde hair tousled in the breeze, her long legs showed off in her skimpy shorts that she’d apparently made herself, and her t-shirt molded against her firm tits that I wanted to taste again. She was the complete package.
“You wanna walk for a bit?” I asked, swinging our hands sillily.
She didn’t even crack a smile. Or say a word. She just nodded and walked along with me, lost in her thoughts. Probably worrying about what was waiting for her at home.
I didn’t have jack shit waiting for me at home. I didn’t even have a dog since I was on the road so much. And that might be changing now.
Usually we took a month or two off after the tour ended to recharge then would get back into the studio. Or at least booked a few boutique shows—award shows, ritzy birthday parties, a music festival—something. Leif had always been pushing for more visibility.
