“Were you and your mom fighting?” he asks. “You look kind of flushed. And I heard you yelling.”
I wave my arm dismissively. “Oh, it’s nothing. You know, she’s just, um, a little weird about gambling and stuff,” I say, thinking fast. I brush a stray lock of hair from my forehead. “She doesn’t want me to get arrested.”
“Antigambling? That’s so . . . parental.” Garrett moves toward me with a twinkle in his eye. He wraps his arms around me and leans so that his lips are close to my ear. “I say we gamble up a storm tonight. Roulette. Five-card stud.”
“What about . . . strip poker?” I tease.
Garrett looks like he’s going to pass out from excitement. “I’m game.”
“What Mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” I murmur, turning my head to kiss him once more.
There are worse things in this world than the prospect of getting up close and personal with Garrett’s super-toned body.
As for Thayer, well . . . I guess we’re both making new friends, aren’t we? He’ll just have to deal.
7
LUCK BE A LADY
“Last roll, teams!” Madeline calls out a few hours later as we’re standing at the Venetian craps table. It’s hazy and dark inside the casino, and the room is a blur of ringing bells and flashing lights. Half-naked waitresses displaying miles of spray-tanned flesh walk trays of cocktails up and down the floor, and every few minutes a cheer erupts from a table as someone strikes it big.
Mads, Char, Laurel, and I are dressed in candy-colored party frocks and our highest heels, and Garrett and his two buddies were smart enough to bring along jackets to wear over their oxfords and jeans. A huge crowd, decked out in gowns and diamonds and sharp-looking suits, stands around us, watching. The croupier, who has slicked black hair and wears an immaculately fitting tuxedo, hands over a pair of red dice.
Well, he doesn’t hand it to me, but to a college-aged guy named Sam with a buzz cut, narrowed eyes, and beer breath.
With the dice in his palm, Sam moves closer to me. Maybe a little too close, but whatever. “Do your stuff, little lady.”
I close my eyes and blow softly on the dice, wishing I knew a good-luck voodoo incantation. Sam grins, then shakes the dice in his cupped palm. They clink together musically. I meet Laurel’s eye across the table. “You’re so going down,” I mouth.
For our second challenge, Laurel and I are facing off as “lucky dice blowers” to see whose player can win biggest. Yeah, yeah, technically, craps is a total game of chance, but I like to think that I have something to do with the way Sam is wiping the floor with Laurel’s choice of craps player, an older, overweight dude who sort of looks like the dad from Family Guy.
My overt victory totally makes up for the fact that with each roll of the dice—and bottle of Corona—Sam has inched closer and closer to me. A couple times, I’ve even felt his hand on my butt. I can sense Garrett looking at me, his face turning redder and redder, but I keep shooting him “it’s okay” glances.
As Sam shakes the dice, Char checks her watch. “When can we find Channing Tatum?” Char read that he was in town, and she’s completely obsessed with stalking him.
The croupier hands a pair of dice to Laurel’s guy, whose name is Darrel—or Derrick—I’m too bored with him to remember. Laurel leans over to blow on his dice, too, giving him a good peek at her cleavage. “Good luck.”
The players move their chips onto the appropriate pass line bets, which, from my crash course in craps from Garrett, mean that they are betting that their roll will win. Darrel-Derrick shakes the dice in his sweaty palms. He lets them go, and they tumble onto the table. Laurel holds her breath. Sam moves even closer to me. Every head around the table swivels to watch as they land.
The croupier gives a swift nod. “Snake eyes!”
I make a fake-sympathetic face at my sister. “Aw, better luck next time.” That won’t be too hard to beat. I glance at Sam. “Go for lucky seven,” I say, winking.
He gives my butt a quick squeeze. Ugh. I can’t wait until this challenge is over. “You’re my lucky charm. Let’s do it.”
He puts all his chips on seven. Laurel smirks at me, knowing this is a huge risk. But here, with this crowd, it’s go big or go home.
The dealer nods, tugging at his clip-on bow tie. Sam shakes the dice vigorously, then lets them go. As they fall to the table, he puts an arm around my shoulders, pulling me against him. We’re so close his cheek stubble scratches the side of my face. Garrett shifts again, and his hand curls into a fist.
The dice settle. The dealer examines them. I hold my breath, my heart pounding hard.
“Big red!” he pronounces. The dice read four and three—seven.