Chapter Ten
“This is a stupid idea,” Rhys grumbles, even though he’s gone to the trouble of hiring out a private room. I disagree, this is a brilliant idea. Better than throwing me over the balcony by far. Air out our bullshit, see if there’s anything worth saving underneath.
As annoyed and shaken as I am for the stunt earlier this evening, there is something magnetic about the way Rhys moves like he owns every building he steps into.
The cut of his suit, the confidence in his strides.
His palm finds my lower back without thinking, keeping me close by at all times.
That might have something to do with Clayton following close behind, his presence on high alert.
Even without peering back, I can sense the rigidness to his spine in the shirt and jacket Rhys gifted him.
All of this is playing havoc with the rub of my thighs beneath the tiny dress.
My heels click against the polished marble, cutting through the electronic buzz of slot machines and the low hum of chatter filtering through Rhys’ mic.
The pink liquid in my cocktail glass ripples as I carry it towards a closed door on the far side.
A bald security guard stands beside it, his hands crossed in front of him, a black coil leading to his earpiece.
Rhys hands him his ID, confirming the name that gains him access to these luxuries, and the three of us are escorted inside.
Once inside, the noise cuts off as if someone hit a mute button.
The room is dim and cool, lit by strips of LED lights tracing the ceiling.
A green felt table sits at the center, the surface pristine and waiting.
A vent hums quietly overhead, directly above a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a bottle of whiskey set neatly in front of the first chair.
Apparently, Rhys made specific requests when briefly meeting with the casino’s owner, whilst I shimmied closer to Clayton at the bar and convinced him to humor me. For tonight at least.
Next to it, a chilled bottle of rosé sweats in an ice bucket, condensation dripping down the glass.
By the last seat, a small army of beer bottles waits for Clayton.
It seems none of us are getting through a night in each other’s company without being shitfaced.
In the middle of the table, a fresh deck of cards.
“Classy,” I murmur, sliding into my chair.
The leather creaks softly under me. I cross my legs and take a slow sip of my drink, letting my eyes travel between the two of them.
Rhys leans back in his seat, fingers drumming once against the whiskey bottle before pouring himself a heavy shot.
Meanwhile, Clayton stays standing for a beat longer, eyes sweeping the corners of the room before he finally sits.
Tension hangs heavy over us all, the chill in the air raising goosebumps all over my arms. Okay, this might not have been the brilliant idea I thought.
“So how’s this going to work?” Clay asks, his voice laced with that familiar edge of suspicion.
It’s the most he’s said in hours. Back in the hotel room, after he’d brushed my hair free of tangles and pushed me from his lap, he’d muttered, “What the fuck am I doing here, Harper?” And I didn’t have an answer for him.
Hopefully I can conjure up the answers now.
“Blackjack,” I say, reaching for the newly sealed deck. Unwrapping the plastic, I shuffle the way I would whilst trying to fill the time in my aunt’s attic. “The dealer acts as the house. The winner of each round takes a drink whilst choosing one of the losers to reveal a truth.”
“I can’t believe we’ve come all this way for you to trick me into a therapy circle.” Rhys tips his head back with a groan. I smile sweetly, despite not being overly confident on how this little experiment will go, and deal out the first round of cards.
Clayton studies his hand, his expression a perfectly stoic mask.
Rhys downs his shot and flips his first card with a snap of his wrist, a smirk already forming.
I look between them, shivering beneath the weight of tension colliding against my sides and I flip the house cards.
Clay sticks straight away, whilst Rhys cockily smacks his hand on the table asking for another card, then another.
I raise my brow, sliding it over, anticipating the moment he growls and throws his cards across the green felt.
“Twenty-one my ass.”
Beneath his breath, Clay chuckles, sipping on his victory beer. I lean on my elbow, facing Rhys’ direction, resting my chin on my hand.
“Truth time.”
He glares at me for a long moment, jaw ticking, before tossing back another shot of his whiskey anyway. “Fine. I—” He breaks off, glances at Clayton, then back at me. “I binged Pretty Little Liars one summer, and now I have a crush on Lucy Hale. I watch everything she’s in.”
Blinking slowly, I try to withhold the grin that tries to break through.
It’s not exactly the kind of truth I had in mind but it’s a start.
Rolling my eyes, I pass the deck over, declaring it as Rhys’ turn to deal.
Using incredibly skilled fingers, he splits the deck multiple times and reshuffles multiple times, showing he’s done this before.
Steady breathing vibrates softly through the microphone on Rhys’ shirt, reminding me that I can only hear one side of the conversation.
Not that Clayton has much to say, but I switch over to my phone’s Bluetooth and place it in the center of the table instead.
I keep throwing him side glances, wanting to say so many things but settling for the fact he’s here and staying.
I can’t believe Rhys’ plan to get him here worked, and that’s the only reason I haven’t scratched his eyes out.
Two cards are dealt in front of us, and a sneak peek reveals that I’m happy to stick. However, Clay’s jaw tics fiercely.
“Hit,” he grinds out. Rhys leans back in his chair, swirling his whiskey around the glass.
“Change of rules. You’ve got to pay with a truth if you want another card.”
“I hate your fucking guts. How’s that for the truth?
” Clay bites back instantly. Laughing loudly, like a crack slicing through the air, Rhys slides a card across the table before revealing the cards laid out before him.
His face splits into a wide grin, his posture far too comfortable for someone who will be back in the game next round.
“House wins. What else you got to tell me, Scum?” Rhys chuckles, collecting the cards back in. I sink into my seat, taking my glass of rosé with me. The fruity taste is a good anchor whilst my mind is screaming, mission abort.
“Just before I left campus, I received a certain gif on my phone,” Clay says with a hidden smile.
My stomach drops. “I replay it every night before bed to help me sleep.” Rhys shoots to his feet and I react, grabbing whatever I can reach to get him to stand down.
Evidently, it’s his waistband, as he allows me to tug him back into his seat.
Clay’s lip curls, but he doesn’t rise to the challenge in Rhys’ glare. That’s the thing with him. His anger doesn’t explode, it simmers beneath the surface. Sometimes, his silence is louder than Rhys’ shouting, and it sets my nerves on edge.
“Clay, it’s your turn to deal,” I announce, pushing the deck of cards his way.
Twirling the stem of my glass between my fingers, I try to remain an impartial barrier between them, until Rhys drags my chair closer and places his hands on me.
Over my bare thigh, across my back, around my nape.
He possesses everywhere he touches, hitting Clayton in a place that fists can’t reach.
I bat Rhys off and scoot my chair back, reaching for the bottle. It’s going to be a long night.
Two cards land in front of me. A decent hand, but not brilliant. I sip my rosé like a continuous stream, weighing whether to risk another hit, while Rhys leans back in his chair, his arms spread like a king daring someone to unseat him. I narrow my eyes.
“Hit me,” I say quietly. Clay pauses, the faintest flicker of disapproval in his eyes before he slides a card toward me. Bust. I groan, letting my head drop into my palm.
“Truth,” Rhys drawls, smug as sin. I peek at him through my fingers. His grin is lazy yet curious, waiting to see what I’ll give. My pulse skitters but I force myself upright, refusing to let him see nerves.
“When I was sixteen, I thought about running away with someone I barely knew. The mechanic’s son.
Packed a bag, had a bus ticket and everything.
Aunt Marg stopped me at the door and smacked me with a hand towel all the way back to my room.
” Rhys’ grin falters for half a second, then he shoots a look at Clay and snorts.
“So you’ve always had shit judgment.” I huff, and slap his bicep.
“Evidently. I’m sitting here next to you.” Clay’s eyes flick between us, unsure about the dynamic Rhys and I have fallen into. His jaw flexes, but he says nothing as he passes the deck over to me.
This round goes quicker. Rhys busts almost immediately, tossing his cards across the felt with a curse.
“I hate the frat house being empty,” he states without needing to be forced.
He takes a long pull of whiskey and sets the empty glass down with a soft thunk, whilst a small smile grows on my face. Now we’re getting somewhere.