Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Jackson
D aphne's eyes stay fixed on me. She brushes a light, wavy strand behind her ear, but the lock defies her. It falls back in front of her face, drawing my eye all the way to her chest.
Okay, maybe I can't blame her long hair for drawing my eyes to certain areas. Daphne is a beautiful woman with a fantastic figure.
Those are facts.
The strong shoulders, the firm breasts, the curves of her waist and hips, the long lines of her legs—
There's no denying this. Or her sharp features. She's not girl-next-door pretty. She's beautiful in the way models are. She's striking.
That's a dare.
A fan-fucking-tastic dare.
There are too many in my mind.
But it's her turn, not mine. And despite her passion for sex, she's not about to dare me to lick her to orgasm.
She's too smart for that.
I can play her game. It's a good idea. Or a terrible idea. I'm not sure anymore. The stale air and the sounds of the casino are already twisting my thoughts.
No.
It's smart. From a certain angle.
This way, I can make sure she goes home with someone safe. Someone who will show her a good time.
If she picks a guy on her own, he might be no good. One of those selfish fuckers who doesn't believe in cunnilingus.
Or insists a condom ruins the experience.
Or thinks sex is over the second he comes.
I've listened to too many war stories. From women and family law attorneys. Sure, there are stories about men with selfish or difficult women, but they never really compare.
"Dare," I say.
The barista calls our order before she can issue a dare.
She pounces on her iced latte.
I sip my iced tea slowly. Usually, I don't mind my reputation as the stern, all-business guy. But with her, I don't like it. I want her to see me as someone who enjoys life. I want her to see me as, well, fun.
She stabs her lid with her straw, takes a long sip, sighs with bliss. "This is way better than I expected." She motions to the door shall we? When I nod, she moves back into the mall pathway and back onto topic.
She slows as the casino comes into view. The lights and sounds belong to a different universe. One of chaos and pain.
Not one of peace.
But that's fun, isn't it? Gambling and drinking cheap, free liquor are fun to the people here.
Her eyes go to my watch. "We have two hours. That should leave time for at least two rounds," she says. "So, first things first, Jackson Steele, I dare you to play a one-hundred-dollar round of blackjack."
It's not exactly I dare you to tell the dealer you want to tie her up , but it's a traditional idea of fun, yes. "Is that risky enough for you? Or should I put it all on red?"
"Oh, yes, you should. But I want to ease you into things." She shoots me a knowing look. "Blackjack has more strategy. That's a good game for you."
She's right. She knows me well.
How does she know me so well?
It warms me someplace that's usually cold. I don't just want to fuck her. I want to hold her too. I want to stay up late, talking about everything and nothing.
When's the last time I felt that?
Have I ever?
I don't know anymore.
"Come on." She intertwines her fingers with mine. "Lose control for once in your life. It will make it more satisfying when you take control later." She doesn't add we're both thinking about those furry handcuffs around my wrists but it fills the air anyway.
After we each buy a hundred dollars' worth of ten-dollar chips, we head to the ten-dollar minimum table. Daphne wants to enjoy at least ten rounds.
She places a single chip in front of her. She smiles as I place the entire stack in front of me.
"A big spender." The dealer, an older guy with short, grey hair, smiles at us. "Here on your honeymoon?"
Daphne looks around the space, noting the sparsely occupied tables around us, and the high rollers area hiding behind sheer curtains. At a glance, both groups look the same. Everyone is lost in a trance of gambling. Sure, a few of the guys in the high rollers area are wearing suits and designer watches, but others are wearing sweats.
Everyone is smoking free cigarettes and drinking from short glasses.
It's not the image of luxury I see at home or work. It's an older idea, an East Coast one, where people show off their money with cigars and fur coats, not private Pilates instructors and oceanfront condos.
"Not yet." Daphne holds up her unadorned left hand as she shoots the dealer a smile. "But maybe tomorrow."
"Maybe your boyfriend will pop the question," the dealer says.
"And then I'll get lucky," she says.
The dealer looks at the chips in our hands. "Are you and your boyfriend new to blackjack?"
"Oh, he's not my boyfriend. He's my conquest." She shoots me a knowing smile, but I don't know what it means. Only that I don't like the dealer flirting with her.
Or is he making conversation?
My signals are crossed.
I'm too interested in her. I'm not observing things neutrally the way I usually do.
It's hard to observe when you care. That's the difficult part of my job. When I work with someone again and again, I start to care too much to see straight. I have to pull in outside help.
Maybe it's the same for doctors too. Maybe that's why they have a reputation for curt behavior.
It's hard to look at someone as a collection of symptoms with a potentially fatal diagnosis if you want them in your life forever.
"I haven't played in a while," she says. "He's an expert though."
The dealer doesn't ask why Daphne knows so much about her conquest. He just smiles and explains the game. (No doubt, we're not even in the top ten strangest people he's met today). The goal is to hit twenty-one. Initially, everyone is dealt two cards, including the dealer; only one of his is face-down.
You can hold or ask the dealer to hit for another card. As many cards as you like until you hold or bust—hit above twenty-one.
You can also double-down, which means you double your bet but accept only one additional card.
And you can split a pair, so you have two hands instead of one.
"Too many rules," Daphne interrupts. "But my friend, uh, my—Oh what's the word? My consort Jackson—" She shoots me a troublemaking wink. The kind I expect from her brother. The kind I expect from anyone else. "Jackson loves rules. He probably knows them, and the odds, already." She looks to me for confirmation.
I nod.
The dealer too. "Then, Jackson, you must be ready." He looks to our empty green.
Right. I tap my chips.
Daphne copies the gesture.
"I didn't catch your name, darling." In a smooth motion, the dealer delivers our cards and a flirty smile.
"Daphne." She studies the table. The dealer has a six up. A hard hand to play against, statistically speaking.
But Daphne is at seventeen.
Most likely, the other card is a ten, statistically, and the dealer always hits on sixteen. That's what I like about blackjack.
The dealer plays by a simple set of rules.
Easy to gauge and understand.
Maybe more evidence I'm not fun.
I start to explain strategy, but Daphne shakes her head.
"I'm not here to win. I'm here for fun. And I like seventeen. The year I lost my virginity." She winks at the dealer and smiles at my frown.
I have a jack and a nine. Nineteen. A great hand. "Stay."
The dealer flips over his card. Sure enough, it's a ten. He hits. A five.
Twenty-one.
"Sorry, honey, bad luck." He takes our cards and our chips.
And that's it.
One hundred dollars gone. Our first dare finished.
Daphne nods her approval then she shifts straight into the strategy zone. "Let's ride this out." She tosses two chips on the table, taps the green felt, and shifts back to conversation.
He deals. "Would you look at that. Twenty-one. You win."
"Just like that?" she asks.
He nods. "Just like that."
She looks to me. "This is kinda fun."
It is, watching her. There's some sense I don't recognize. Not pride, exactly. Not amusement either.
The joy of seeing someone I care about having a great time, even if it's at my expense. More so because it's my expense.
And another layer to it—
A desire to expand her horizons elsewhere.
I try to ignore that impulse.
Daphne stays oblivious to my dirty thoughts. Or maybe it's apathy. She asks the dealer for Las Vegas recommendations as she plays.
He suggests a number of nightclubs and strip clubs, practically drooling at the mental image of Daphne in a tawdry strip club.
Or maybe that's me.
No, it's both of us.
She's lucky. She's up two hundred dollars when she calls it. She smiles at my loss and says goodbye to the dealer, who leaves her with a card for a free drink at the hotel's nightclub, LAX.
After we cash our chips, she holds up the card. "Is this our next stop?" She smiles at the absurdity of a nightclub themed after an airport. After the worst airport on the West Coast.
Why would anyone find that fun? "It's not open."
"Ah, that's good. You don't think LAX is fun yet. There's hope for you."
"I don't yet consider business trips fun?"
"Or do you?" She smiles, teasing.
My lips curl into a smile too. I like her teasing me. I like it too much.
We are on the same page here.
My shoulders fall in relief.
Daphne leads me to the club. At the moment, it's just a sign and a dark room. None of the joy people associate with a night out or the horror people associate with the Los Angeles airport. "If we really hit rock bottom, we can use this tonight." She slips the card into her pocket. "Until then, we've got another hour, and it's your turn."
So it is. I look her in the eyes, and I ask the question. "Daphne Webb, truth or dare?"