2. “Poker Face” - Lady Gaga
“Poker Face” - Lady Gaga
Heath
I need to get my own place. Pierce’s flat is great, but we’re twenty-two floors up.
I would kill for some fresh air. The closest we can get to being outside is the tiny balcony they call a terrace on the Atlantis’s website, but that thing is cramped enough with a small table and two chairs.
It could never hold the five of us for an entire game.
Once I have a house—on ground level with a sick outdoor space—I will fight for the right to host poker nights myself. All this regurgitated air is enough to make anyone claustrophobic.
I glance around the table. Maeve tucks that sleek black hair behind her ear.
She will shit a load if I dare break the tradition of poker at Pierce’s flat every Tuesday night.
Pierce doesn’t believe in half-assed efforts, which is why he’s still wearing his suit and tie, despite having left the office several hours ago.
Between the two of them, I’ll have a fight on my hands if I suggest we relocate our games to a place with more sunshine and less . . . chrome.
When Pierce commits to something, screw anything that gets in his way. Even his game room looks like something out of the fucking Bellagio in Las Vegas. A baize-covered poker table dominates the center of the space, a dimly lit chandelier dangling above it like a woman in diamonds.
One whole wall consists of rows of small cubicles from floor to ceiling, and inside each one is a miniature collectible slot machine. Red mood lights glow from each box, making this both the creepiest and coolest thing I’ve ever seen in someone’s home.
The whirr of cards being shuffled draws my attention back to the table. It’s Rhett’s turn to deal. His eyes are bloodshot and his dark curls smooshed, as if he rolled out of bed right before coming here.
He shuffles again, then looks around the table. “Antes? And what in god’s name are we drinking tonight?” He holds the purple cocktail to the light.
“Black- Beer- y Whiskey Smash,” Pierce says. Tradition dictates that he create a new cocktail for us every week. Depending on the night and the drink, this has been both a blessing and a curse.
“Oh god.” Lux takes a sip of hers. Her face screws up into a tight ball. She takes a bigger gulp. “Good news. It gets better,” she rasps.
I taste it myself. It’s a little like drinking blackberry-scented wiper fluid. Not intolerable, then. I take another swig.
Maeve tosses a chip into the center. “I’ll start. My manicurist didn’t get the right shade. I specified chartreuse.” She holds up her hand, showcasing neon-green fingernails. “Does this look anything like chartreuse?”
“I thought chartreuse was a liqueur.” Rhett echoes my own thoughts.
“It’s also a color,” she says. “Could you possibly be any more stoned?”
“The night is still young,” I say.
Rhett grins and tosses his own chip in. “Some hag yelled at me for double-parking. Total bitch.”
“One of my assistants got my coffee wrong yesterday.” Pierce’s chip clunks against the others.
I wince. Pity the poor girl who has to take orders from the domineering perfectionist that is Pierce St. James. I add my own chip to the pile and turn to him. “Your doorman looked at me funny when I came in.”
He furrows his brow. “Leonard?”
“Oh, come on, Heath,” Maeve says. “You can’t submit Leonard!”
“Why not?” I say. “He stared at me the whole time I was waiting for the lift, without smiling.”
“He was probably questioning your choice of footwear,” Lux says, with a pointed look under the table at my flip-flops. She’s been quiet tonight.
“Hey,” I say.
“Is that the best you can come up with?” Pierce challenges.
“I’m saving my best.” I cross my arms over my chest.
It’s a lie. I’ve got nothing else up my sleeve tonight.
Maeve pipes up again. “You showed up with nothing for your ante? Do you even care about this anymore?”
I let the corner of my mouth lift in a half smile. “Hey, someone has to be the disappointment. I’m taking one for the team.”
“Leonard stays in the pot because his name is Leonard ,” Rhett says with a cackle.
“The clerk at Prada rolled her eyes at me when she thought I wasn’t looking.” Lux tosses the last chip into the pile in the center of the table.
“All right, let’s do this.” Rhett deals each of us two cards.
The rules of the game are simple. Everyone buys in with a small grievance. These are easy to come up with, especially if you’re Maeve and consider a guy staring at your boobs for 0.482 seconds a close cousin to murder.
The final rounds of betting move on to higher stakes: leaked sex tapes, cheating, harassment.
The winning hand decides the winning grievance.
Sometimes it’s an obvious choice, like the time some skank tried to blackmail Pierce, thinking he was a stupid asshole who would tolerate getting sucked into drama like that without major payback.
Other times, it’s all about who will make the most interesting prey.
By the time Rhett flips over the turn, he’s folded, but I’m holding an eight of spades and a six of diamonds. There’s a seven of diamonds and a ten of hearts on the table. If the river turns out to be a nine, I’m looking at a straight and potentially the winning hand.
Pierce raises the bet. “I caught Isabella texting some guy.” He throws three chips into the middle.
Lux gasps. “That bitch.”
He keeps his eyes on his cards.
“You actually want to take her down?” Maeve asks.
Pierce shoots her a quick glance before focusing on his hand again. “Not down. Just . . . teach her a lesson.”
Maeve shrugs and tosses in five chips. “As much as I would love to see another Ella bite the dust, I’m raising too. Mimi Rabago didn’t send me an invite to her party.”
Lux scoffs. “You hate Mimi.”
“That’s not the point. She excluded me to send a message. I want to let her know the message has been received.” Her eyes flash with that particular brand of wickedness exclusive to Maeve Wilson. “Along with a message of my own.”
I think back over the past week, and the truth is, I’ve got nothing. Maeve is right. I don’t care about this stupid game anymore. I’m tired of keeping track of petty grievances. There are plenty, but remembering what they are is the least of my concerns.
I toss my cards down. “I’m out.” I couldn’t give a shit if that last card ends up being a nine.
A tiny frown crosses Pierce’s face but quickly disappears again. Maeve sighs dramatically, like me pulling out of the game is a personal affront. All eyes turn to Lux. It’s her against our two leading psychopaths.
“I’ll raise too.” She shoves her entire stack of chips into the center and leans back in her chair, a cat satisfied with herself.
Maeve’s mouth falls open. “What the fuck, Lux?” A satisfying tongue-twister that spins through my mind over and over.
“Who are you betting?” Pierce asks, the scowl taking up residence on his face again. Losing isn’t a word he’s familiar with.
Lux looks around the table, blinking those giant brown eyes at each of us in turn.
She reaches up to twirl a piece of long, blonde hair around her fingers.
The six inches of thick gold bangles she’s wearing slide down her arm, revealing what look like bruises around her wrist. She quickly shuffles the bracelets back into place before I can get a better look.
“Walker Halifax.”
I can’t speak for anyone else in the room, but my lungs feel like they’ve been rammed into a barbed wire fence. Everyone stays quiet, absorbing what she has said.
Maeve’s hiss breaks through the silence. “Lux!”
A few seconds pass, which I imagine are full of significant looks and shifting glances, but I can’t verify because I’m focused on draining the rest of my cocktail. I have no desire to witness whatever exchange is happening around the table.
Then the weight of Lux’s full attention becomes oppressive. “Shit, Heath. I am sooo sorry!” she says.
I set my glass back onto the table and crack my knuckles, turning to Pierce. “You got more whiskey in the kitchen?”
“Help yourself, mate.”
“You sure you don’t want more Black-Beer-y Smash?” Rhett says with a snicker.
A thumping sound under the table accompanies Maeve’s glare. Rhett curses and grabs his leg .
I get up and head for the kitchen, wishing I could keep walking, through the window in the living room and into the night.
“Dude, Walker’s back?” Rhett says from the game room. The guy is as quiet as a thunderstorm.
There’s more mumbled conversation, but I don’t stay to listen. I don’t give a damn what they’re saying in there. I don’t give a damn about Lux’s dramatic revelation, either.
I pour myself two fingers of whiskey from the top-shelf stuff Pierce stocks his liquor cabinet with. I toss it back and pour another shot. It follows the first. I refill my glass once more and decide to head back before someone comes looking for me.
Lux is talking animatedly as I approach. This explains why she was so quiet earlier. She knew the only way to keep this secret for the most dramatic effect was to say as little as possible beforehand.
“—airport bathroom is the new Mile High—” She stops abruptly as everyone’s eyes land on me.
I sit back in my chair, already eager for this night to be over.
“That’s disgusting, Lux.” Maeve fiddles with the pearls around her neck.
“Not if you come equipped with tons of hand sanitizer,” Lux replies. “Besides, Carter was in Japan for three whole weeks. I missed him!”
“How big of a dick can a guy who wears boat shoes have anyway?” Rhett says.
“Bigger than yours,” Lux retorts.
Rhett laughs loudly. “Oh darling, just say the word, and I’ll prove you wrong.”
“In your dreams.” She shoots him a murderous glare.
They’ve discarded the game. Lux’s cards are lying face up where she dropped them.
“You okay, mate?” Pierce asks quietly.
“I’m good.” I offer him a grin, then slide a stack of chips in front of me and work on restacking them. The dull clunks feel like the hollow beat of a heart.
“Why is she back, anyway?” Rhett asks.