“We’ll see. I call,” Acne Steve said, fanning his cards onto the table, trying to catch his son’s attention. Trey stayed locked on his video game. “I flopped a set of jacks,” Steve said. Three of a kind.
“Well, lookie there,” Royall said. “Lucky for me, I got that seven on the river—straight to the jack,” he explained, revealing his own cards. A 7-8-9-10-jack straight. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. “Pleasure doing business with you, donkey.”
Acne Steve rolled his eyes. “Couldn’t happen to a bigger asshole.”
As Royall raked the pile of chips toward his chest, he shot a quick thank-you at Nola.
It pierced her chest like an arrow, expanding, filling her completely. God, it felt great to do something right.
Nola’s stomach again started to churn. She ignored it, determined to live in the moment—to focus on just this joy—which felt like it would never end.
That should’ve been her second warning.
“New round, new round,” Repeating Francis said, already dealing new cards.
Nola darted toward the bathroom to deal with her stomach. Royall shot her a look. Don’t leave. See what they have.
Picking up the waste bin, Nola made her way back to the table. “Here,” she said, leaning past Acne Steve to grab a stray beer bottle, “let me help you with th—”
A hand shot out, locking onto her wrist. “Don’t,” warned a man with butterscotch breath and narrow eyes the color of pennies. Hartley Spencer. The one who took a sniff of her when he first came in. Hartley held firm to her wrist, refusing to let go.
Nola’s instinct was to take the beer bottle and stuff it in his teeth.
Across the room, young Trey looked up.
“Hartley, she’s just trying to clean up,” Acne Steve said.
Hartley’s grip stayed tight on her wrist. So did Nola’s grip on the bottle.
When it comes to your dad’s friends, it’s hard to know who’s dumb and who’s smart. But even when you’re thirteen years old, it’s easy to know who shouldn’t be messed with.
Hartley leaned in, so close that now she could smell him. Cigarettes and wood chips. “I’m not done with my beer yet . . . ma’am,” Hartley whispered in a tone that perfectly matched the way Nola had been calling everyone sir.
Nola froze.
Hartley cocked a knowing eyebrow.
Royall and Nola’s code. Somehow . . . Did Hartley know?
Panicking, Nola let go of the bottle and took off, racing for the kitchen.
“Hartley, what the hell’d you say to her?” Royall challenged.
“CrapCrapCrapCrapCrap,” Nola muttered, pacing in the kitchen, the swinging door shutting behind her. As panic set in, a sharp pain pierced her stomach. Did Hartley know? It sounded like he knew. More important, if he told the others they were cheating, Royall would blame—
“Nola!” Royall shouted from the other room, his voice a bullhorn.
She wanted to run. The kitchen started to spin. Grabbing the counter to steady herself, Nola took a deep breath. Her stomach was on fire—
“What the hell’s going on?” Royall asked, shoving open the kitchen door.
“Hartley knows. He knows,” she whispered, bent over, breathing heavy.
Right there, Royall started to laugh. “Hartley? The guy who keeps smelling you?”
Nola looked up, confused.
“The man’s a moron,” Royall explained. “He doesn’t know squat. C’mon, get up. I’ll prove it.”