Page 71 of Center of Gravity
Instead of sounding like a broken record and expressing surprise that he went to poker night, I just stared, trying to imagine him at the table with a bunch of other guys. My imagination drew in a cigar crouched in the corner of his mouth, pouring thick tendrils of smoke into the air. Wisecracks, whiskey-laced antes. I smiled.
“Are you any good at poker?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t doubt it for a minute. “Who do you play with? Do you play for real money?”
“A few other guys in my complex, and yes. We play with real money.”
It was like catching a glimpse behind the curtain, fascinating and kind of sad all at once because I was getting this tiny breadcrumb of his life and knowing it came from a whole loaf I was unaware of.
“I’ve only ever played strip poker. But,” I lifted my finger, “I’m pretty damn good at it.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised.” It seemed he never was, with me. God, wasthatwhat tonight was about? He was getting bored, trying to spice things up? I cringed at my own insecurity. This wasn’t like me at all. It was so rare for me not to feel on equal footing with a guy. The feeling bubbled and fizzed in the back of my mind, all through dinner—which was as good as he’d said it would be—and by the time we climbed into the cab to go to Razz, it’d been replaced by the fizz of alcohol coursing freely through my system.
* * *
Razz smelledlike intoxication and sex. People were grinding on the dance floor, in the hallways, against walls and tables. The entire ambience was heady and pulsating. I snuck my arm around Rob’s waist as we navigated through people, bypassing the bar for the dance floor.
“I’m curious about you, is all,” I said. Twice, because the music was so loud.
He tipped his head to shout back at me. “Well I’m not tragically unhip, maybe just a little slow on the uptake.”
It wasn’t the best place for intimate conversation, so I let it go after that, focusing on the press of his body against mine as he laced his arms around me from behind. He moved to the music easily, naturally, the way he had when we’d first met at Liberation. I remembered being surprised by it then, because he’d seemed so buttoned-up and stiff as we exchanged names and polite smiles by the DJ booth.
I tried to turn and couldn’t, which was frustrating and amusing all at once. Tipping my head back into Rob’s shoulder, I peered at the strong lines of his profile, at the stern but generous mouth. “You planning on keeping me locked up all night?”
“Highly probable,” he murmured, and when I pushed back against him, he groaned and held my hips tighter, his fingers pinching into my skin until little blossoms of pain-pleasure unfolded petal by petal.
We danced for the better part of an hour, until we were both flushed, damp with sweat, and thirsty. At the bar, I drained a bottle of water in a single go and followed, slower, with a beer. Rob did the same.
Reese was up on his platform with all his little followers below. I watched his hips twist and undulate hypnotically, the flash of his legs in sky-high heels. He wore a miniskirt that looked as if it had been painted over his ass.
I’d only ever seen Reese once outside of the club, casual in jeans and a T-shirt, and without make-up. I’d never have recognized him except that Max pointed him out at the all-night diner we were at after hours. Reese had come in with a group of twinks, and he was the standout. He must have been heavy-handed with contouring makeup because while he was the picture of classic femininity on stage, there was no getting around that strong jawline unaided. He was androgynous, leaning toward masculine, with the petulant outward bow of his lower lip giving him an insolent, stand-offish appearance. And though he was cordial when Max had leaned out of the booth and bumped his knuckles, when I thought of Tom’s situation later, I felt sorry for the poor bastard. Tom didn’t stand a chance with a guy like Reese.
“You know her? Him?” Rob shouted in my ear. “You’re staring.”
“Not well.” I shook my head and then, as best I could, tried to fill him in on Tom’s situation. It wasn’t my secret to tell, but I figured Rob was safe and I’d been dying to tell someone anyway. Rob’s brows jumped up and then he laughed and had the same reaction I’d had, eyeing Reese as he said, “Tell Tom good fucking luck.”
We finished our drinks and Rob leaned in to ask me if I wanted to dance some more. I slid my fingers through his belt loops and pulled until his earlobe was close enough to catch between my teeth.
“I want to go back to your place and play you in strip poker.”
For the record,strip poker was the only poker variant where losing was about as fun as winning, and if I could wipe the smirk from Rob’s face, I’d say it was even preferable. When I’d lost my shirt, and taken my sweet time peeling it off, his eyes had been riveted to me, breath going shallow before his mask flicked back into place and that smirk turned up the side of his mouth. He still had his shirt, partway unbuttoned, and his jeans. Since it was just the two of us, we’d modified the rules some, otherwise I’d have been naked in about five rounds, which wasn’t as much fun as stringing him along.
“I’ll bet you’re a pain in the ass at poker night,” I said. “Always gloating.”
“I don’t gloat.” His smile tilted higher and he leaned back onto the pillows at the head of the bed, careful not to disturb the pile of cards between us. “But you’re terrible at bluffing.”
“I haven’t been bluffing. Just losing,” I grumbled, and he nudged me with his toe as I dropped a few cards into the discard pile and drew.
“You were trying to bluff on that last hand.”
“No I wasn’t.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Do I have tells?”
“Everyone has tells.”
“Well thentellme mine.”