“I want to stay—”
“Nope, you’re done.” Billy took the bimbo with the self-esteem inflation problem by the arm and escorted her to the door. “I’ll take you home, and no, he’s not who you think he is. Later, assholes.”
“Yes, he is—I’ve seen him in magazines—”
Before the door could shut, the other guy who’d been bled dry got to his feet. “I’m out of here, too. Remind me never to play with the pair of you again.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Jeff said as he held up a palm. “Tell the wife I said hello.”
“You can tell her yourself when we see you at Shabbat.”
“That again.”
“Every Friday, and if you don’t like it, why do you keep showing up at my house?”
“Free food. It’s just that simple.”
“Like you need the handouts.”
And then they were alone. With over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of poker chips, two decks of cards, an ashtray full of cigar nubs, and no bimbage.
“It’s your bet,” Lane said.
“I think he wants to marry her,” Jeff muttered as he tossed more chips into the center of the table. “Billy, that is. Here’s twenty grand.”
“Then he should get his head examined.” Lane met his old fraternity brother’s bet and then doubled it. “Pathetic. The both of them.”
Jeff lowered his cards. “Lemme ask you something.”
“Don’t make it too hard, I’m drunk.”
“Do you like them?”
“Poker chips?” In the background, a cell phone started to ring. “Yeah, I do. So if you don’t mind putting some more of yours in—”
“No, women.”
Lane shifted his eyes up. “Excuse me?”
His oldest friend put an elbow on the felt and leaned in. His tie had been lost at the start of the game, and his previously starched, bright white shirt was now as pliant and relaxed as a polo. His eyes, however, were tragically sharp and focused. “You heard me. Look, I know it’s none of my business, but you show up here how long ago? Like, nearly two years. You live on my couch, you don’t work—which given who your family is, I get. But there’s no women, no—”
“Stop thinking, Jeff.”
“I’m serious.”
“So bet.”
The cell phone went quiet. But his buddy didn’t. “U.Va. was a lifetime ago. Lot can change.”
“Apparently not if I’m still on your couch—”
“What happened to you, man.”
“I died waiting for you to bet or fold.”
Jeff muttered as he made a stack of reds and blues and tossed them into the center. “’Nother twenty thousand.”
“That’s more like it.” The cell phone started to ring again. “I’ll see you. And I’ll raise you fifty. If you shut up.”
“You sure you want to do that?”
“Get you to be quiet? Yup.”
“Go aggressive in poker with an investment banker like me. Clichés are there for a reason—I’m greedy and great with math. Unlike your kind.”
“My kind.”
“People like you Bradfords don’t know how to make money—you’ve been trained to spend it. Now, unlike most dilettantes, your family actually has an income stream—although that’s what keeps you from having to learn anything. So not sure it’s a value-add in the long term.”
Lane thought back to why he’d finally left Charlemont for good. “I’ve learned plenty, trust me.”
“And now you sound bitter.”
“You’re boring me. Am I supposed to enjoy that?”
“Why don’t you ever go home for Christmas? Thanksgiving? Easter?”
Lane collapsed his cards and put them face-down on the felt. “I don’t believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny anymore, goddamn it, and turkey is overrated. What is your problem?”
Wrong question to ask. Especially after a night of poker and drinking. Especially to a guy like Stern, who was categorically incapable of being anything but perfectly honest.
“I hate that you’re so alone.”
“You’ve got to be kidding—”
“I’m one of your oldest friends, right? If I don’t tell you like it is, who’s going to? And don’t get pissy with me—you picked a New York Jew, not one of the thousand other southern-fried stick-up-the-asses that went to that ridiculous college of ours to be your perpetual roommate. So fuck you.”
“Are we going to play this hand out?”
Jeff’s shrewd stare narrowed. “Answer me one thing.”
“Yes, I am seriously reconsidering why I didn’t crash with Wedge or Chenoweth right now.”
“Ha. You couldn’t stand either of those two longer than a day. Unless you were drunk, which actually, you have been for the last three and a half months straight. And that’s another thing I have a problem with.”
“Bet. Now. For the love of God.”
“Why—”
As that cell phone went off a third time, Lane got to his feet and stalked across the room. Over on the bar, next to his billfold, the glowing screen was lit up—not that he bothered to look at who it was.