21. Full House, Flush,Bust…
21
Full House, Flush, or Bust…
Paige
It’s been three days now since we slept in the same bed, and neither of us has even laid a finger on each other since. Not that I’m still thinking about it. That would be pathetic, especially since he clearly seems to have forgotten all about what almost happened. He’s switched over to being very professional again. Guarded. Polite. Still fun, but there are a lot less of those moments when we lock eyes and I feel my chest heave involuntarily. Instead, he avoids looking at me at all. There are times when I worry that he was so turned off when we were sleep-fooling-around that he can’t stand the thought of touching me. Oh, God, that thought is the worst. Seriously, what if he thinks I’m totally gross?
But then, just when I convince myself that that’s the awful truth, I catch him looking at me when he thinks I won’t notice. Sometimes at my body, sometimes at my face, and he has this sort-of dreamy, faraway look. Then he snaps out of it and clears his throat, usually followed by making some excuse to leave or bringing up a topic that is completely unsexy, like how to gut a fish. That’s a sign that he wants me, isn’t it? Sort of? Maybe?
God, I’m pathetic. I should be trying to think of new ways to get off the island, maybe figuring out how to make a HAM radio out of coconuts and, I don’t know, wires from the plane or something, because staying here torturing myself like this is getting me nowhere fast. And the longer I’m here, the worse it’s getting.
This afternoon, a plane went by. I wanted to shoot the flare gun, but Mac said it was too far and wasn’t facing the right way to see the flare. He was right, of course; it was so far away, you could barely hear it. And to be totally honest, I was relieved. Relieved?! I can hardly believe I felt that way. I should have been devastated, but I wasn’t. Not a bit. Even though my entire family, Vivian, and the people I work with could very well be assuming I’m dead, or they could be worried sick about me, unable to sleep or eat or think straight. And here I am, just hanging around, relaxing and wanting to get some. I literally spend every waking moment trying to will him to touch me using mental telepathy. So far, it’s not working.
We’re together every moment of the day, except at night, which is when I want him the most. My ankle is nearly completely healed, so during the day, we swim in the sea and talk about nothing. He’s been teaching me how to fish—I still haven’t caught anything yet, but my cast is getting a little better each day. We’ve been playing poker after supper each evening, using the Monopoly money. I owe him twenty thousand fake dollars, but I’m determined to beat him tonight. We just finished the dishes and are sitting down at the table. Mac shuffles the cards and says, “No limit Texas Hold ‘Em,” while I divvy up the Monopoly money we’re using in place of poker chips .
“What would you be doing if you were back home in New York right now?” he asks, dealing each of us two cards.
The question snaps me out of my current reality, reminding me I have an entire life waiting. “I’d probably be just leaving the office.” I have a look at my cards, a pair of jacks. Sweet!
“At this hour?” he asks, checking his cards. I watch him, but he gives nothing away.
We each put a hundred dollars into the pot.
Nodding, I say, “On a good day. By the time I’d get back to my apartment, I’d be starving, so I would probably wolf down a big bowl of cereal for supper while my best friend and I get caught up.”
Mac deals the three cards into the flop—a jack of diamonds, an ace of clubs, and a four of hearts. “She doesn’t cook?”
I throw two hundred into the pot, which causes Mac to let out a low whistle. He matches my bet. “Okay, I’ll pay to see what you’ve got.”
“She doesn’t have time to cook either. Well, occasionally, if she’s doing a video about healthy meals, she’ll make enough for both of us. But most of the time she winds up eating peanut butter and banana sandwiches for supper.”
I expect him to make some remark about my insane lifestyle, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Do you miss her?”
I nod and let out a sigh. “I do. She’s the best. She’s so fun and such a great listener. She’s my rock.”
He deals the next card to the flop. A two of diamonds.
“Check,” I say, even though I kind of want to raise him since I’ve got three jacks.
“Okay, check,” he answers, dealing the last card. The final jack appears.
Dammit. I should’ve raised. Scratching my neck, I stare at my pile of money. Four of a kind. I can’t see him doing any better than that. I take two five-hundred-dollar bills from my pile and slap them down.
“Whoa! Someone’s sure of her hand,” he says. He watches me, his gaze intense enough to make me want to squirm in my seat, but I don’t.
Instead, I do my best to wipe any expression off my face. “There’s only one way to find out,” I tell him.
Grinning at me, he says, “Nope. Not worth the thousand.” He tosses his cards into the pile and pushes the pot in my direction.
“Oh, come on. You’re no fun.”
He starts to shuffle the cards again. “I’m very fun, but I knew I wasn’t going to beat four Jakes.”
“How did you know what I had?”
“You’ve got more tells than a gossip column.”
I wrinkle up my nose and let out a little groan. “Dammit, I thought I was getting better.”
“You are,” he says, dealing the next round. “But I’m also getting to know you better.”
“So, I’m not really getting ahead.”
“You are if you play someone else someday. But not with me.”
“God, you’re cocky.”
“I’m honest. And I’ve been playing this game since I was a little kid, so I’m going to win every time. That’s just the way it is,” Mac answers with a shrug. “Don’t feel bad though. You’re definitely improving.”
“No, I’m not. I’m still losing.”
“But this time, at least you didn’t let your eyes get all wide and you didn’t say, ‘Oooh!’ when you saw your cards.”
I burst out laughing, then shake my head at him. “Okay, so I suppose that was a bit of a giveaway. But to be fair, you had served me two of your boozy iced teas that night.”
“Good point.” He grins at me for a second, and I find myself wishing I could snap a picture of Mac without him noticing. I’d send it to Vivian, so she could see him too, just like this.
“Want to hear something crazy?” I ask.
“Always.”
“I feel guilty having fun with you right now.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m afraid everyone who loves me is going through hell right now, when I’m here with you, having eaten a delicious supper, sipping drinks and playing poker.”
Nodding, he says, “Yeah, I get what you mean. I’m guessing by now, someone has noticed my plane is missing and my grandpa is probably worried sick.” He lets out a sigh, and says, “There was also this thing I was helping him with, and there’s a very good chance he’ll be running into some trouble soon.”
I can tell by how vague he’s being that he doesn’t want to talk about it. “I’m sorry. I can’t help but feel as if this is all my fault. If I hadn’t begged you to give me a ride, you wouldn’t have been out in that storm, and your plane would be intact and you’d be back in San Felipe living your normal life.”
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” he tells me, setting his jaw. “It was my job to make the right call about that storm, not yours. If I hadn’t decided to risk it, you’d be back in New York right now eating cereal with your best friend.”
“But my entire family would hate me.” I glance down at the table, thinking about how true that statement is. “Tiffany never would have forgiven me. Ever. And I wouldn’t blame her. I haven’t been there for her the way a big sister should be.” We exchange a look, knowing we’re in this together, no matter how it turns out. Offering him a small grin, I say, “I kind of wish I hadn’t said anything. Things were so much more fun a few minutes ago.”
Mac chuckles, then says, “Agreed. But I’m glad you told me how you’re feeling because it gave me a chance to set the record straight. You’ve got nothing to feel guilty about. None of this is your fault.”
“Well, maybe not the storm, but everything I did that led up to it was all me,” I answer. “I could’ve told Guy to shove it and left for the trip on time. It would’ve meant my job, but at the end of the day, it was my decision.”
“That’s an awfully tough call to make,” Mac says. “The career you’ve been busting your ass for for years or your sister’s wedding. Why did your boss make you stay, anyway? Did he at least have a good reason?”
“Yeah, he did,” I say, the memory of what happened flashing through my brain. “Have you ever heard of a rapper called Li’l Rhythm?”
He glances up at the ceiling, then says, “Is he the one from those Vialis commercials?”
My eyes pop open, excited that the commercials made an impression on him. “Yes!”
“My grandpa and his buddies love that song. When we’re watching baseball, they all sing along to the line about having some grey in my beard and wisdom in my eyes.”
“Do they really?” I ask, grinning with pride.
“Every damn time. It gets a little annoying, to be honest.”
“I wrote that song,” I answer.
He stares at me for a second, looking extremely skeptical. “You wrote that?”
I laugh a little. “I did. Can you believe it? ”
He shakes his head as if someone just splashed him with water. “You wrote a rap song about erectile dysfunction medication?”
“Sure, why not? Somebody had to.”
“But … you?”
“What? Are you offended?”
“No, I’m just shocked. I mean, look at you. You don’t exactly give off the vibe of someone who writes rap songs in your spare time.”
“I was on the clock at the time, which is why I don’t have any rights to it and will never see a dime from all the sales,” I answer. “It’s a shame too because it’s sold millions of copies.”
“Who are you, Paige Chadwick?” he asks, looking impressed.
Blushing, I say, “Just an extremely determined woman trying to break into a tough business.”
“So, what? Your boss just pops by your desk and says, ‘Paige, I need you to write a quick rap song about Vialis for Li’l Rhythm,’ and you say, ‘Okay boss. I’m on it?’”
“Not exactly. Not to brag, but the whole campaign was my idea. The makers of Vialis were looking to expand their customer based to include black men age forty to sixty-four. I guess they already cornered the market on old white dudes. Anyway, the team was having trouble coming up with ideas, and it just occurred to me that we should try to get a rapper who was super popular twenty-five years ago. And one thing led to another, and…voila. A huge comeback for a tiny rapper.”
“And he didn’t want to write the song himself?”
Shaking my head, I say, “Nah, he wasn’t too interested in the project at first. But he was also in danger of having his lambo repossessed, so he agreed to star in it, so long as he didn’t have to write the song. ”
“He owes you big time because you completely changed his life. He’s gotten really popular again.”
I wince, then say, “Yeah, except, did you hear about him collapsing on stage?”
“No.”
“Apparently, he became one of Vialis’s best clients. He took a couple before a concert, then another one on stage, then proceeded to have a massive heart attack.”
“Oh, that’s bad.”
“Yeah. The night before I was supposed to leave for Azure Island. The entire agency went into full damage control mode, which meant me working around the clock for days.”
“Is he okay?”
Nodding, I say, “Yeah, he had to have a double bypass surgery, but he’s supposed to recover fully. But honestly? Worst publicity ever for a drug.”
“No kidding,” he says. “How do you manage to fix that?”
“It’s going to be a long dig out of a deep hole, but we had to immediately get some doctors on the news talking about how safe the drug is if taken in the recommended dosage,” I answer. “Luckily, Guy knows everyone in the business so he was able to get some interviews going the next day.”
“Sounds like an exciting job,” he tells me.
“It can be. I mean, I work with a lot of celebrities, which, at first was a big thrill, but after a while it just feels normal, you know?”
“Not really, but I can imagine.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I love the job. Not everything about it, but I did love working on that campaign. It was a chance to show what I could do—that I could be versatile and creative and clutch under pressure, which is what it takes to be a good executive. It was my chance to show Guy that I could do it.”
“I’m sure you can do it. I’ve seen what you managed to come up with here with some clothes, a few coconuts, and a tarp,” he says. “You’ve clearly got talent.”
“Thanks.”
“And when you get back there, hopefully you’ll get your big shot.”
“If I even have a job by then,” I say, chewing on my lip. “Honestly, the thought of going back right now is … not a welcome one.”
A hopeful look crosses his face, but I don’t let myself read into it. Instead, I just keep talking. “Being here has been the break I didn’t know I needed. I haven’t had a chance to unwind for years. It’s always go-go-go. Every day. I was too busy to even realize how tired I was.”
“Well, in that case, I’m not sorry I crashed.” He gives me a grin that says he’s joking, but underneath it, there’s some truth to his words (says my wishful thinking).
I stare at him for a second, then say, “Are we going to play cards or sit here chitchatting all night?”
“Let’s play cards.”
“Good, because I figured out your big tell.”
He raises one eyebrow. “Really?”
“No, dammit. But with enough time I will.”