Chapter 10 #2
Rhys snorted and blew on Whitty’s dice, which he then tossed and immediately threw out.
His friend groaned, and Rhys said, “You know I’ve never had luck with the dice.”
Which was true.
Though he’d only realized how unlucky after this last year—after he’d stopped.
Whitty waved Rhys’s words away. “Can’t be arsed a whit.”
It surely wasn’t the second time he’d uttered those words tonight—nor the last.
Whitty used the back of his hand to swipe a bead of sweat off his forehead. “What are you doing here, anyway? Haven’t seen you in—” His eyes screwed up toward the ceiling. “When was the last time I laid eyes on you, anyway?”
“Thought I’d check in on an old friend,” Rhys replied neutrally.
Whitty cast his gaze around the room. “Who’s that?”
“You, Whitty.”
No one would mistake Whitty for the sharpest knife in the block, but somehow that was part of his charm.
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.
He dug his watch from his pocket.
Five minutes to eleven.
Five minutes from now, Tilly would be standing on the corner of Piccadilly and St. James’s, waiting for him.
Trusting him to be there.
And one thing he understood with more clarity than he’d felt since entering White’s tonight was he would never break Tilly’s trust.
Not even for another winning roll of the dice.
Again, he felt the dice in his hand.
This time, he set them on green baize without rolling.
This was a first.
Not once in his life had he ever left a table when he was on a winning streak.
The crowd gathered round the table groaned, but this determination inside him had turned into hard-tempered steel.
“What is this?” exclaimed Whitty, looking confused and betrayed.
“Come with me,” said Rhys. He knew that wild, reckless glint in his friend’s eyes. His blood was het up with the need for more action tonight.
“On to Brooks’s, then?” Whitty began nodding, as if he’d answered his own question. “Excellent idea. Got to spread the luck.”
“Actually,” said Rhys, “I have another idea.”
Whitty’s eyes went even brighter. “Oh?”
Doubt pinged through Rhys. When he’d devised this plan for his second noble deed, perhaps he’d focused on the idealized version rather than the realities, for Whitty was practically panting with excitement, like his best bosom friend was about to present him with a night that was truly novel, possibly the best night of his life.
That was the gambler’s dream, wasn’t it?
Always chasing the best luck.
Always chasing the best night of their life.
Always chasing, never looking back and realizing their best, most lucky night had been the first night all those years and nights ago.
But perhaps this night would be the luckiest, just not in the way Whitty expected.
Perhaps his friend would look back on this night as the one that finally got his life moving in a meaningful direction.
Perhaps.
“Follow me.” Rhys’s feet were already on the move.
He didn’t look back.
He now had three minutes to be on that street corner, and as much as he wanted to have done with his second noble deed, Tilly was the bigger priority.
If Whitty followed, he followed.
If he didn’t, he didn’t.
When had the priorities in Rhys’s life so rearranged themselves that Tilly was now at the top?