I sipped from the glass. "I think so," I lied. “Should we meet in New York next time, boys?”
Another grifter’s rule - always keep moving. We rotated cities and discarded identities like people changed clothes.
“At the Four Seasons, I think,” Iver said. “Or the Ritz.”
“The Ritz,” Oscar said. “Now, shall we retire to the restaurant for dinner?"
Iver paused. "Oscar, you look like the cat that ate the canary," he said. "What deviousness do you have planned?"
Emir wrinkled his nose. "Please say you didn't tell the maitre'd it was one of our birthdays," he said. “If I have to listen to wait staff sing to me…”
"Oh God, Oscar," I said. "If you have something up your sleeve..."
Oscar put his hands in the air. "Can't an old man dine with friends without his motives being questioned at every turn?" he asked, exhaling heavily. "Grifters are some of the least trusting people in the world."
Iver laughed. "Spoken like a guilty man," he said.
"Holy shit. This place is insane," Trigg said, his voice only semi-hushed, in the way that drunken people try to whisper.
"We can order food and everything, right?" Abel leaned in toward me. "I'm afraid they're going to come after us with an insanely huge bill."
I was wary myself, but I shook my head. "It seems to all be taken care of," I admitted. "I mean, they even let us in dressed the way we are."
We weren't exactly in gym clothes, but we weren't dressed like the few other people, mostly couples, here in the dimly lit restaurant. I'd seen two couples escorted through the bar area toward the restaurant, and they wore suits and dresses.
And here I'd thought I was getting really dressed up tonight by putting on jeans and a polo shirt. We had to stand out like sore thumbs here, even if the bar area was empty.
"Cigar, gentlemen?" A man appeared tableside, wearing a tuxedo and carrying a box.
"Hell fucking yeah," Trigg said, then cleared his throat. "I mean, yes. Please. That would be excellent. Sir."
Beside me, I heard Abel stifle a laugh. "Classy," he said under his breath.
We selected cigars, and laid them on the table.
"This is some kind of life," Trigg said. "Hell, if I go pro, this is how life would be all the time."
"If you went pro," Abel said. "You'd be training and living clean so you didn't lose everything you worked for."
"Shit, man," Trigg said, gesturing down the length of his body. "This body is a damn machine. It can handle anything I throw at it."
Abel laughed. "Whatever, dude," he said. "Give it a few years. Wait until you're thirty. Shit, even twenty five."
"That's forever away," Trigg said. "Right now, I'm in my motherfucking prime. All of us are."
"Yeah, man, look at me," Abel said, gesturing to his leg in the cast. "I'm like the definition of prime, right here."
I happened to look across the room as they laughed. And suddenly, everything faded into the background.
It was her.
Tempest.
She was standing there in the entrance to the restaurant, wearing this little black dress that skimmed over her curves, the material shimmering in the candlelight. She should have looked conservative, elegant in the dress she wore -it was that kind of a dress-but she couldn't have looked edgier if she had tried. The strapless gown did nothing to conceal the tattoos that twisted around her forearms and biceps, snaked across her shoulder, and peeked out from underneath the tiny straps.
Of course, she could have been wearing a fucking paper bag, for all it mattered to me - I couldn't take my eyes off her.
When her eyes met mine, her lips parted, just slightly.
It was like everything in the world stopped, in that moment.
I stood up.
I knew I should feel angry at her for leaving. I knew I should want nothing to do with her. She was a fucking thief who made promises, ran off with things that were precious to me.
Like my seventeen-year-old heart.
But I just couldn't help myself. I wanted her.
I crossed the room, hearing Abel protest from where he sat at the table. "What the hell are you doing, Silas?"
"Holy shit. That's that TV producer," Trigg said, hooting. "He's got some balls. She's out of his fucking league. She's with the rich guy, the one who bought our drinks."
Behind her stood a group of men. They were unassuming, nondescript, didn't look like they belonged together as a group in any way. One wore an expensive suit, like some kind of male model. One wore a hoodie and sneakers, black-framed glasses perched on the end of his nose. And the older man, the one who'd invited us up here to begin with, stood there behind them in a cardigan, holding a cane.
I felt a rush of something I couldn't quite place, seeing her with them. These men had to be the people she was working with, the people she'd chosen to be with.
Her crew.
A wave of jealousy washed over me, this feeling of possessiveness I couldn't shake. She'd been mine once.
Or, rather, once upon a time I thought she was mine.
I told myself I had no right to her anymore. I'd never had a right to her, even back then.