I pause in the middle of raking in the kitty. “I don’t even know the dealer’s name, so how am I supposed to be cheating?”
“I was winning until you got here. It’s real suspicious,” he says.
I roll my eyes.
“Play your cards,” Nate barks.
The punk grits his teeth but backs down.
I look down at my cards and pull out two. “Two, please,” I tell the dealer.
“Please? Like we’re in some country club,” scoffs Tough Guy, who folds his cards together. “I pass. My hand’s a winner.”
He ends up losing to Nate. We cycle through another deck with Tough Guy losing another two grand. I take his last hundred in a major bluff where I have jack shit. Nate folds and Tough Guy follows suit.
“Let’s see your cards,” he growls.
“No.” Maybe if it was with Nate and a few others, I wouldn’t mind, but this guy’s been an ass all night. I’m not in a friendly mood and haven’t been since lunch. Ella was right—getting reamed out by Hartley did upset me.
“I want to see your cards!” He reaches across the table to grab them, but I flick them toward the dealer, who smoothly slides them into the discard pile.
“Sit down,” I order.
“This is bullshit!” Tough Guy slams his fist on the table. “Take off your clothes.” He lunges forward as if to snatch my hoodie off my back.
I scramble out of the way while Nate arm-bars Tough Guy back into his chair. “Settle down,” Nate warns, flicking a finger in my direction.
Sullenly, Tough Guy crosses his arm. “I’m not playing another dime until he takes off his hoodie. I’m not bad at cards.”
I snort.
“I’m not,” he insists.
Nate tugs on the back of my sweatshirt. “Just do it so we can play.”
In other words, shut up so we can take more of this easy mark’s money.
I shrug out of the dockworker’s grip. “No. I’m not cheating and I’m not taking my clothes off because some dipshit who can’t bluff tells me to.”
Nate gets to his feet. “His money’s green. Just take it off, Royal.”
Talk about bullshit. Nate is so hungry for cash that he’s gonna throw me under the table? Forget that.
“Take it off, cheater,” Tough Guy taunts. He’s all false confidence now that Nate’s backing him.
I smile humorlessly. “No.”
Nate tugs on my arm, and I whip forward out of his grip. I’m not sure where it all goes wrong, but after that, it’s a blur. The table tips over. Money falls to the ground. Knuckles come out of nowhere and connect with my jaw, spinning me around.
I jump up with my fists flying. I don’t know who I’m fighting or even why, but it feels good. I take a kick in the gut and two punches to my upper body, but I land even more. I fight even though sweat and blood are clouding my eyes and filling my mouth. I fight until a stream of cold water blasts across my face. Huh. More water. Second time in one day.
“Enough!”
I find myself on my back looking up into Tony’s angry face. He’s got the end of a hose in his hand. My ears ring from his shouting or maybe a blow to the skull. I give my head a rough shake, but the ringing doesn’t go away.
“Time to go, Royal.”
I pick myself off the ground and blurrily take in the scattered tables, the floor littered with cash, and the bodies lying around.
“I didn’t start it,” I slur.
“Don’t care. Night’s a bust thanks to you. Get out.”
I plaster on a smile, even though it hurts like hell. “Aren’t you blaming the wrong party here? Who was that guy, anyway? I’ve been playing here for—”
“Are you deaf, son? I told you to get your pretty-boy ass out of my basement. And don’t come back.” He roughly shoves me toward the stairs.
The ringing persists. I stagger toward the exit, dragging myself up the steps. Man, my head kills.
The house is mostly empty. Outside, there’re a few people hanging out on the porch. I give a hasty wave and stumble down the steps.
The sidewalk shifts in front of me. I hold out my hand to steady myself but find nothing except air, and my forward momentum causes me to trip over my own feet. I fall to my knees.
Laughter lights up behind me. Assholes.
I push to my feet and then straighten. My bike is only a block away. Once I get there, I’ll be fine.
I lurch down the sidewalk, weaving and tottering, but I make it to my bike. I throw a leg over and try to start it. The motor rumbles but sputters out after a few seconds. I slam my hand on the tank and restart it. This time it roars to life. Good boy.
“Easton?”
I swing my head toward the familiar voice. What the hell?
Hartley Wright’s face appears in front of me, except there are like three of them. Three Hartleys to yell at me and be mean to me and soak me with water for having the nerve to want to kiss her. Awesome.
“Are you following me around?” I mutter.
“You wish.” The three Hartleys turn to leave.
I ease off on the clutch and the bike rolls forward.
“Wait.” She and her two doppelgangers return. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”
“You live around here?” Even with my shitty eyesight, I can see it’s a place where no Astor Park kid lives. Not even a scholarship student would come from this shithole, right?
“Come on.” She tugs on my sleeve. “If you drive off in this condition, you’ll hit some kid and ruin an entire family’s life.”
“Thanks for your concern for me,” I say sarcastically, but a sudden bone-deep weariness washes over me. She’s not wrong. My head’s ringing, I’m seeing double or triple, and my entire body aches.
Slowly, I back the bike against the curb and flip the kickstand down.
Or try to. I make four attempts before she leans down and pushes my foot aside.
“Why are you helping me?” I mumble.
“I have no clue.”
“You were a bitch to me at lunch.”
“You deserved it.”
She might’ve said something else, but my entire view turns black.
Chapter 7
The deep bass of Kendrick Lamar’s “Humble” pounding between my ears has me searching for the snooze button. I hate early-morning practices. Eyes still closed, I fumble on my nightstand for my phone, but instead of a hard wood surface, I find nothing but air.
I reach out farther and end up dumping myself on the floor. The impact wakes me up.
As I scrape myself off the carpet, I realize that I’m not home. There’s a dingy carpet underneath my feet and a ratty sofa behind me. Two folding chairs sit at a small wooden table to my right. Just beyond that is a tiny space housing a refrigerator, stove, and sink.
The need to piss grips me. Two strides and I have the sole door in the joint open. The bathroom, like the rest of the place, is miniscule. A small sink, stand-up shower, and toilet fill the space.
I use the can, wash my hands, and dry them on a surprisingly nice hand towel. I fold it in half and hang it on the ring where I found it.
Back in the living space, I begin remembering last night’s events. I drove out to the slums on my Yamaha, played a few hands of cards, and then got into a fight.
I must’ve blacked out from a punch to the head. No, wait. Something happened before that.