Finn forced a smile, the kind he used when he didn’t want anyone to know he was rattled. “Uh… hi?”
“You look bored,” the heavy one said. “We’re heading to the Game Car. You wanna play with us?”
Finn’s stomach tightened. Play could mean anything.
“What kind of game?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light, even though every instinct screamed leave.
“Cards.” The tattooed one grinned, teeth flashing. “You in?”
Finn hesitated. He should’ve said no. Should’ve excused himself. Should’ve listened to the warning buzzing under his skin.
But he’d come on this trip hoping—quietly, stupidly—for connection. For friends. For someone to choose him. And five guys choosing him, even for the wrong reasons, was dangerously close to something he’d been craving.
So he didn’t move. Didn’t stand. Didn’t run. He stayed.
Finn didn’t want to say yes. He also didn’t want to say no. His brain short-circuited under pressure. “Sure,” Finn said, giving each one an outgoing smile. Maybe if he made friends with them, they’d accept him. That was the thought he kept circling back to.
They led him to another car—one of the lounge cars that was empty between events. The lighting was dim, the tables glossy, the windows reflecting the passing tracks like streaks of silver.
They all sat around a circular table. None of them wore lanyards with their names. That troubled him. Finn smiled,acted like he was fine, totally fine, with nothing weird happening at all.
The tall one handed him a bottle of whiskey and told him to drink some. They passed the bottle around the table a few times.
They looked like they’d taken a wrong turn somewhere between Newark and a street rumble.
Finn’s first loss cost him his favorite worn rainbow shirt. A little piece of his usual confidence went with it as he tossed the shirt onto an empty chair. A sympathetic “aww, man” echoed from the strangers around the table, which somehow made the sting worse.
The next hand took his jewelry. He dumped it on top of the shirt, the clatter sounding way too loud in his ears. Okay, not great, but still dressed, he told himself, though a low buzz of panic hummed under his skin.
The third bad hand had him toeing off his left boot, then his right. The cool, sticky floor of the car met his socks, a weirdly intimate sensation. The fourth loss forced the socks off next. The air hit the bare skin of his feet, a creeping reminder of how exposed he was becoming.
He quickly discovered that strip poker wasn’t his game, losing half his clothes in a short period.
The fifth loss was the real kicker. He looked down at the floor, not trusting his expression. With a sigh, he hoped to sound more casual than he felt; he unclipped his belt. The guys hooted as he slid it free.
“What the hell’s your deal?” the tattoo one asked.
“He doesn’t know how to play.”
Their laughter sharp in his ears, a blush crept up Finn’s neck and across his face.
The sixth loss meant the jeans themselves. No way back now.
A fresh wave of internal panic tightened his chest. He stood up, shucked them off, and sat back down feeling drastically less cool in just his rainbow briefs.
A chorus of laughter erupted.
“Nice skivvies, man!” the pretty one said. The comment landed like a punch as a hot prickle crawled up his neck.
The cards kept coming. The whiskey bottle kept getting passed to him. He never drank whiskey, and the burn in his throat matched the one on his face. “Yeah, well, I didn’t know we were doing… whatever this is,” he muttered, the excuse sounding pathetic even to him.
“Kid, you sure ’bout that?” the heavy one asked before Finn threw his last card.
Finn kept losing. The next hand claimed his underwear. They howled, not mean exactly, but the commentary was relentless. The room spun as he looked up at their faces.
His head throbbed with the heat of it. There was no way he would remove his underwear. No way. Finn had it. Nothing left to lose, screamed in his head. So he stood up and climbed right on top of the table, kicking their cards everywhere. “I quit!” He made sure he smiled, a wide, defiant stretch of his lips, not letting on for a second how the whole rotten, losing, stripping ordeal had torn him up inside.
Then the door whooshed open. A bunch of guys in rainbow glitter and crop tops poured in—real Pride Express passengers. Their chatter died as they took in the scene: the table, Finn’s probably tomato-red face, the five dudes in black looming around him. One newcomer let out a low whistle.
