I was dead. Outmanned, outgunned, seconds away from disaster—and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.
“I’ll see your three and raise you two.” Michael smirked. If I’d been an emotion reader, I could have determined if it was an I have an incredible hand and I’m spoon-feeding you your own doom smirk or an it’s smirk-worthy that you can’t tell I’m bluffing smirk. Unfortunately, I was better at figuring out people’s personalities and motivations than the exact meaning of each of their facial expressions.
Note to self, I thought. Never play poker with Naturals.
“I’m in.” Lia twirled her gleaming black ponytail around her index finger before sliding the requisite number of Oreos to the center of the coffee table. Given that her expertise was spotting lies, I took that to mean that there was a very good chance that Michael was bluffing.
The only problem was that now I had no idea if Lia was bluffing.
Sloane looked on from behind a veritable mountain of Oreos. “I’ll sit this one out,” she said. “Also, I’m entertaining the idea of eating some of my poker chips. Can we agree that an Oreo missing its frosting is worth two-thirds of its normal amount?”
“Just eat the cookies,” I told her, eyeing her pile mournfully—and only partially joking. “You have plenty to spare.”
Before joining the Naturals program, Sloane had been Las Vegas born and raised. She’d been counting cards since she’d learned to count. She sat out about a third of the hands, but won every single hand she played.
“Somebody’s a bad sport,” Lia said, waggling a finger at me. I stuck my tongue out at her.
Somebody only had two Oreos left.
“I’m in,” I sighed, pushing them into the pot. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. If I’d been playing with strangers, I would have had the advantage. I could have looked at a person’s clothes and posture and known instantly how much of a risk taker they were and whether they’d bluff quietly or put on a show. Unfortunately, I wasn’t playing with strangers, and the ability to get a read on other people’s personalities wasn’t nearly as useful in a group of people you already knew.
“What about you, Redding? Are you in or are you out?” Michael issued the words as a challenge.
So maybe Lia misread him, I thought, turning that idea over in my head. Maybe he’s not bluffing. I doubted Michael would have challenged Dean unless he was certain he was going to win.
“I’m in,” Dean said. “All in.” He pushed five cookies into the pot and raised an eyebrow at Michael, mimicking the other boy’s facial expression almost exactly.
Michael matched Dean’s bet. Lia matched Michael’s. My turn.
“I’m out of cookies,” I said.
“I’d be open to discussing a modest interest rate,” Sloane told me before returning her attention to divesting an Oreo of its frosting.
“I have an idea,” Lia said in an overly innocent tone that I recognized immediately as trouble. “We could always take things to the next level.” She unknotted the white kerchief around her neck and tossed it to me. Her fingers played with the bottom of her tank top, raising it up just enough to make it crystal clear what the “next level” was.
“It is my understanding that the rules of strip poker specify that only the loser is required to disrobe,” Sloane interjected. “No one has lost yet, ergo—”
“Call it a show of solidarity,” Lia said, inching her shirt up farther. “Cassie’s almost out of chips. I’m just trying to even the playing field.”
“Lia.” Dean was not amused.
“Come on, Dean,” Lia said, her bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout. “Loosen up. We’re all friends here.” With those words, Lia pulled off her tank top. She was wearing a bikini top underneath. Clearly, she’d dressed for the occasion.
“Ante up,” she told me.
I wasn’t wearing a bathing suit under my top, so there was no way it was coming off. Slowly, I took off my belt.
“Sloane?” Lia turned to her next. Sloane stared at Lia, a blush spreading over her cheeks.
“I’m not undressing until we establish a conversion rate,” she informed us tartly, gesturing toward her mountain of chips.
“Sloane,” Michael said.
“Yes?”
“How would you feel about a second cup of coffee?”
Forty-five seconds later, Sloane was in the kitchen, and neither of the boys was wearing a shirt. Dean’s stomach was tanned, a shade or two darker than Michael’s. Michael’s skin was like marble, but for the bullet scar, pink and puckered where his shoulder met his chest. Dean had a scar, too—older, thinner, like someone had drawn the tip of a knife slowly down his torso in a jagged line from the base of his collarbone to his navel.
“I call,” Lia said.
One by one, we flipped over our cards.
Three of a kind.
Flush.
Full house, queens and eights. The last was from Michael.
I knew it, I thought. He wasn’t bluffing.