Page 113 of Stealing Blinds

Sidling up to the newly empty stool, I plop down with a friendly Noire welcome for our guest. “Danny Gordon, to what do we owe the … visit?”

He turns to me, attempting to discern my tone. I’m nearly certain he knows I’m with Sylvie, but he’s gauging whether that will affect him—or his ulterior motive for being here.

“I had a feeling this trip would be a treat, and right out of the gate, I’m greeted by the good-time Noire.” He sips his rum and Coke, eyeing me with enough contempt to announce that he intends to ruffle things. “Are you here to have a good time, Cash?”

“Oh, I think I’m about to.” I wink and accept a glass of Rémy Martin XO Cognac from the bartender—it’s always the drink of choice for special occasions. “We like to check in with any member who may be feeling … defeated.” I tip my glass toward him in feigned sympathy. “It was a shame to hear about your season being cut short. And then those rumors of a trade. Things have been off the last couple of years. I don’t know much about hockey, but you must’ve put your stick where it didn’t belong.”

“Appreciate it.” He grins and leans in like he’s about to share a secret, though his grating dipshit voice never lowers. “Just between you and me, I haven’t had any complaints about where my stick was. It consistently lets me score.”

“Huh,” I grunt, pulling out my cards and letting them fly between my hands in a spring that supplies a comforting rustling for our conversation. “Maybe you don’t know much about hockey either. If you hit the wrong net, it’s not scoring, Danny. It’s just fucking embarrassing. You should know that since you lost the most important gino of your life that way.”

Gino is slang for goal in hockey, so I guess I know a little something.

“Importance is subjective,” he returns, his shoulders stiffening enough to reveal I’m getting under his skin. “No one I surround myself with cares about that one abandoned goal. The net needed to be replaced. You know how it is when the holes just aren’t to your liking anymore.”

What the hell did Sylvie see in this asshole? He’s got shit-brown hair and a personality to match. I will spoil and worship that woman until any recollection of being with this fuckwad is buried beneath orgasms, gifts, and the confidence in knowing that she is nothing short of spectacular and will never be taken for granted again.

“With delusions like that, I have to assume your stick is broken.” I flourish my deck into a fan, tossing it into a spin before catching it again and drawing the attention of some of the other guests. “Or defective.”

“That’s not the popular consensus.” He shakes his head, sucking the liquid off the stirring straw in his refreshed drink and tapping it on the rim of his glass. “Teams fight over me. There’s a sister league that was itching to see what I could do with my stick—eager enough to invite me to simply make an appearance. It might not have the name recognition of the original league, but it has a much better net.”

It’s with this snide sentence that I know he’s backed by someone he believes is more powerful than us. He’s not afraid. He should be. But I got what I really wanted out of this discussion. For now.

“Yeah,” I sigh, not letting his words rile me because everyone knows the psycho you fear the most is the one you can’t anger. Instead, I flick a card in the air, and when it cascades toward the floor, I knee it back into my hands, relishing his eyes tracking it. “See, that’s the thing. Eventually, if you change your alliances enough, you find yourself on no one’s team or spending all your time in the”—as a helpful visual, I shuffle the cards into a rectangular house—“penalty box.”

“The penalty box is not a bad place. It’s a lot like here—a break from the grind and no altercations in that section of the rink.”

Since we’re in a bar packed with La Lune Noire guests, that is his way of daring me to go against our policy about no violence on the premises. One single act instigated by our members results in death—it’s the most effective way to ensure we don’t encounter anarchy. But we hold ourselves accountable too. We wouldn’t be very popular with our clientele if we shot them in the face every time they stepped out of line, like my great-grandfather did. This is why people get fucking nostalgic for the good ol’ days. But I’ve found that while methods change with a new era, final outcomes often stay the same.

I sip my cognac, leaving the box of cards intact to represent this nonviolent space we’ve established.

“And,” he goes on because he thinks he’s invincible, “I lived out some fantastic fantasies there. Once with my fiancée at the time—I think you know her—and several other occasions when she couldn’t make it. Some girls like to be punished.”

The thought of Sylvie with him is like poison injected into my veins—everything cramps, my skin heats, and my eyes fucking burn with an agonizing desire for me to smash his face into the bar repeatedly—but I keep my expression impassive, flatten my cards, and start sliding them through my fingers.

“It bodes well for you that you’re comfortable in small spaces.”

“Let’s just get to it, Noire,” he grits out in frustration, too exasperated by our coded conversation to give me room to explain my comment.

That’s okay. Wearing down an opponent with simple annoyance is always a strong strategy. He’s showing his weaknesses. Poor stamina and …

His eyes cloud with pain for a split second before he forces it away—he’s jealous. “You’re fucking my leftovers. You want to gloat about it or what?” He scoffs when I don’t give him anything. “I’ve been a member here for six years. I know who you are, and what you aren’t is her endgame. And she isn’t yours. The girl wants things you’ll never provide. So, tell me what you fucking want with her. I can probably do better.”

Interesting. He thinks I might be using her for something. Or he’s fishing about the Stanley Cup.

“Keep your defective stick over there, Danny. I just don’t see you that way.”

He chuckles snidely and swigs his drink.

“I can appreciate the comparison of La Lune Noire to your penalty box. In both places, your stick is useless.” I break into a sequence of moves—the one-handed Charlier Cut, flipping to a waterfall and into a butterfly fan. With each display of cardistry, I detail my stance, and the tension builds. “But since you’re comfortable here, spend the week you booked enjoying the amenities and remember that you’re in my house. No matter what kind of scum you are, we take your money, we own your freedom—when you showed up here, all smug, you might’ve forgotten that you sold your soul to be a member, and we don’t return those.”

He doesn’t respond, hypnotized by the fluidity of the deck and the threat floating with it.

“I know it bothers you that Sylvie is mine. My woman. My queen. My forever.” I lean close. “Trust me when I say, there is nothing left over from you there. She’s marked with only me—inside and out. And there’s no mulligan here. That’s not your sport, but you get the point—you’re too late.” I throw the cards into a cascade behind my back, garnering whoops from the onlookers in the bar. “But there is a silver lining. Because you’re a member, we won’t kill you. The thing is …”

With the accompaniment of a provocative saxophone solo, I keep flourishing my deck, but I boomerang a card right over the bartender’s head. He ducks comically to aid in the show—Jason has been keeping pace with me this whole time—before the card flies back toward Danny. Since he’s watching the rest of my deck and about to be pummeled by a soaring queen of spades, I catch it with a flick of my wrist, which has it dragging across his flesh.

Oops.