I glanced around the busy downtown sidewalk. There. I spotted a bum, an older guy in his fifties sitting next to a garbage bag of his belongings. A battered hat sat in front of him, holding just a scattered handful of change. He had a cardboard sign propped up next to him, explaining how he was homeless and hungry. Looking at him, shrunken inside his oversized and dirty clothes, I could believe both counts.
"Hey," I said, sidling over to him. When he glanced up, I fanned out the credit cards in my hand. "These are hot, but probably good for another hour or so. Want them?"
The bum looked up at me, squinted and frowned as he saw the credit cards. "Where they from?" he grunted in a voice that sounded like he'd been gargling gravel.
"Big dick executive lost them," I explained, grinning. "Probably shouldn't use them on a hotel, but you could definitely get some food. He didn't look like the kind of guy with a credit limit."
The bum smiled up at me, revealing scattered teeth as he accepted the cards. "Thanks, girl," he said, struggling up to his feet and scooping up his hat full of change. "You're better than all them fuckers, you should know."
I glanced demurely down, smiling at the compliment. I watched him go, and then headed on my way, resuming my whistling.
What to do next, I wondered. I'd just made enough cash to cover a couple weeks' expenses. But right now, what I really wanted to do was celebrate, tell someone else about how I'd pulled off the perfect little grift.
And I knew just the right girl.
I headed to the nearby light rail station, waited for the next train to come along. As I waited, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, unlocked it and scrolled to the number of my best friend, Kelsey. I hit the call button and held it up to my ear as I stepped on board the aboveground electric train.
The call, however, beeped at me a second later as she declined it. I lowered the phone down from my ear, frowning at it – and it lit up with a text message, as if in response to my furrowed brow.
"At work, Ruby. Meeting. Boss is yelling at Jonas right now. What's up?"
"Just got paid!" I sent back. "What are you doing tonight?"
I saw the little bubbles appear and disappear several times, suggesting that Kelsey was typing out different responses but deleting them before pushing send. Finally, she sent a single word: "Scam?"
I sighed. I'd tried to explain to Kelsey multiple times before that I only targeted people who deserved to lose a bit of money, and I never took more than they could spare, but she insisted on still judging me for it. Thankfully, we'd been friends for long enough for this one little area of tension to not bring down our entire friendship.
"He deserved it," I sent back. "Total ass. And he tried to convince me to go sleep with him in his office."
"Would you have?"
"Ew, no!" As I hit send, I thought back to Austin Blair's appearance. He'd been handsome, sure, but I could just see all of the smarmy pretension leaking through. I refused to date anyone in a suit, just on principle. They all turned out to be brown-nosing, selfish asses in the end. "Definitely not my type."
"And what is your type?"
I sighed. A little deep for a text conversation. "Rich," I sent back shortly. "And in jeans."
Before Kelsey could respond to this message, I followed it up with another. "Okay, how about tonight? Are you free?"
"I was going to stay home and watch Mean Girls," Kelsey replied, and I literally groaned out loud as I leaned my head back against the slightly vibrating side of the train. Seriously, this was my only candidate for the title of best friend – a girl who preferred to stay home and watch some movie with Lindsay Lohan instead of going out and having fun with real guys.
"There's a club opening downtown tonight, DeMarco's," I texted her. "Let's go crash the big opening!"
"And how are we going to get in? Or are you being literal when you say crash?"
I grinned. It wasn't a direct no, which meant that, with enough wheedling, I'd be able to win Kelsey over and drag a yes out of her. "I'll figure that out. Trust me, have I ever failed to get us into a party?"
"Yes. Lots of times." I saw the bubbles of typing appearing again, and quickly interjected before she could start naming specific examples.
"Look, I'm getting off the light rail near your apartment. I'll hang around and wait for you to get home. When can you get out of work?"
"How about when it ends?" she sent back. I could almost feel the sarcasm dripping off of the message. "I'll be home a little after five."
"Ugh. Working a job. Sounds so dull." I put my phone away without waiting for a reply, and then stood up and headed off of the light rail as it slid to a stop in the station. I made my way past the small crowd of people boarding and disembarking – mostly college students and artists, the more Bohemian crowd that didn't work jobs with regular nine to five hours, moving about the city.
I loved my freedom, but I didn't understand why others didn't seek out the same thing as I wanted. Why did Kelsey cling so stubbornly to the idea that having a soulless corporate job, where she just sat in some cubicle somewhere and worked on a computer for eight hours a day while staring at gray fabric-covered cubicle walls, was a good thing? It sounded like my own personal version of Hell.
I'd nearly convinced her to come with me, back when we were finishing up high school together. She helped me pull some of my little tricks, and I knew that she always did have a good time, once she got out of her own head. We didn't need attachments, boys or jobs or a bunch of expensive stuff to own that didn't do anything for us besides putting us in debt. We could go out and make whatever we wanted of our lives. The world was our oyster, ready to give up its pearl.
But instead of joining me, Kelsey went off to college like the other people in our class. I always made sure to keep her updated as to my location, to drop by and visit her whenever I passed through the area, but that had really been the start of the rift that began to grow wider between us.
Kelsey found her spot in this corporate world, while I just kept on rebelling against it, making my own way in defiance of all those men and women who spent eight hours a day sitting around in an uncomfortable suit.
Half a block from her apartment, I found an outdoor seat at a cute little café, with lots of tiny little two-person white tables and lawn chairs sitting out on the sidewalk. I ordered a sandwich and coffee, handing over one of the bills that I'd lifted from Blair's wallet to pay. The young waitress behind the counter smiled at me, and I made sure to drop a good amount of change into her tip jar.
After all, there was always more money to be found, if one looked in the right places.
Coffee and sandwich in front of me, I settled into one of the chairs out on the sidewalk, tilting my head back and feeling the soft rays of the afternoon sun painting my skin, warming it. This, sitting outside and enjoying fresh food, birds chirping in the trees around me, was what I loved about not having a job.
I'd only just blown into town earlier that day, not thinking much beyond checking in on Kelsey and her staid, comfortably dull life. But maybe I'd stick around for a few days, I thought to myself. I'd hang out until I got bored, and then I'd just move onto the next thing to grab my interest.
The world was my oyster, and I could do whatever I wanted with it.
Chapter Three
DANE
*
I reached up and rubbed at my temples with both thumbs, staring at the spreadsheet of numbers displayed on my computer monitor. Interestingly, if I pushed at both sides of my temples, I noticed that it slightly compressed my eyes, making the numbers all blur together, swirling into a single black blot of incomprehension, collapsing into nothingness, an apt metaphor for my life-
With a groan, I kicked back, pushing my wheeled chair another foot away from my desk. I reached up and pressed both palms against my closed eyelids, trying to work out the little knot that seemed to be forming in the front of my brain. Was it possible that I could give myself a brain tumor from too much exposure to spread
sheets?
I decided that the spreadsheets themselves weren't going to give me a tumor – but all the stress of focusing on them might do it. I reached over, pulled out the deck of cards that I kept in the top drawer of my desk for times like these. I shuffled the cards, forming bridges of flying pieces of cardboard between my fingers, moving automatically to contain each of the fifty-two cards as they slid smoothly from one hand to another. I felt the tiny little series of ridges that I'd painstakingly filed into the sides of each card, each one unique and giving up valuable information to me about that individual card's markings.
Finally, as I worked through my shuffling pattern, my mind began to relax. I started off with basic moves, nothing fancy. After a couple of shuffles to get my fingers warmed up, however, I switched over to a Faro, splitting the deck into two equal piles of twenty-six cards, and merging those together. It had taken me a while to learn how to feel for exactly twenty-six cards, but I'd gotten pretty good at it.
Of course, when my natural method for releasing stress was to shuffle, and I worked a high-stress office desk job, I had plenty of opportunities to practice.
There was something relaxing about shuffling, about feeling the flex of the cards against my strong fingers, about seeing the muscles in my forearms flex and shift when I manipulated the cards. Sure, I built up my muscles through regular sessions at the gym, lifting iron weights, but those strength training sessions didn't provide any real precision. Working with cards taught my fingers how to be precise and move with pinpoint accuracy.
"What's this, Dane, you got a blackjack game going on in here?"
I jumped at the unexpected voice behind me, and I lost control of the half-completed Faro shuffle in my hands. Cards shot out everywhere, scattering all over the floor as I spun around to look at the new arrival to my cubicle.
"Marcus, come on, don't sneak up on me like that!" I exclaimed, reaching up to dramatically press one hand against my heart. "Nearly made me keel over from surprise! How would you feel if you gave me a heart attack?"
"What, at age twenty-eight? Not likely to happen, man." Still smiling, his white teeth striking against his dark skin, Marcus squatted down to help me pick up the scattered playing cards. "But really, you've got the least situational awareness of anyone I know."
"Big talk, coming from you." Truth be told, I had great situational awareness – when the situation demanded it. I didn't usually feel threatened while at work, so I let my guard down. "Did you come here just to distract me from working?"
Handing a clump of cards to me, Marcus paused to give me a wry look. "Yeah right, Dane. I know you, remember? Which means that I know you've finished your entire weeks' worth of work back on Monday or Tuesday. It's Friday, which means that while the rest of us are busting our asses to get our projects finished, you're probably working on something entirely different."
Marcus glanced past me, at the spreadsheet still displayed on the computer, and then back at me. His busy eyebrows climbed up towards his buzzed hairline. "Am I right?"
I thought about trying to insist that I had work that needed to get done today, but I knew that he'd see right through me. We'd been buddies for four years, now, the entire time that I'd been with Integrated Data Solutions, and we'd grown a lot closer than we ever expected. Normally, I don't think of finding the guy I'd consider my best friend at work, but there it was. Hell, if I could ever meet a girl who held more than a passing interest for me, he'd probably be my number one and only choice as best man.
"Fine," I gave in. "This is a program that I'm trying to help cut down some of the busy work with spreadsheets that takes up so much of my time. But I'm trying it because I'm procrastinating on doing my real work!"
"And what real work is that?"
I gestured to the huge stack of papers on the corner of my desk, balancing precariously on the verge of spilling everywhere. "These are all the recent updates to everyone's records, proclaiming that they've completed the most recent IT training."
I saw Marcus's brow furrow. "IT training? We had that?"
"We did. And you took it, like everyone else." I saw his look of incomprehension grow deeper. "Remember the training emails that you got? You had to click through a little deck of slides, had to watch that video with the guy that had the big porn 'stache?"
"Oh, yeah!" Marcus's face cleared. "Now I remember! I just left it playing in the background, though. Didn't pay any actual attention."
"Neither did anyone else, most likely. But now we have papers that say that you all took the course, so we can't be sued for leaking data. The problem, though, is that I need to get all of these papers filed away in each person's individual file, off in the filing cupboards."
Marcus grimaced. "Okay, yeah, that sounds like a pretty dull task. I'd be procrastinating on it, too. How'd you get stuck with that?"
"Karson Walker strolled in, pointed at me, and told me that I'd be doing it." I shrugged helplessly. "He's the CEO of the whole damn company, so I can't talk back to him – not if I want to keep my job."
"He's an ass, that's what he is. Penny-pinching, sexist ass. He just dumps money on problems until they go away." Marcus paused, and I could see that he had something else on his mind. "So what, are you going to stay late tonight to get it all done?"
I shrugged. "Hell, it's not like it really matters, except as busy work. I don't really need to rush. Maybe I can land an intern to do it all for me." I looked at how he kept on hovering near me. "Why? What did you have in mind?"
Seeing his opportunity, Marcus brightened, again flashing those white teeth that stood out against his dark chocolate colored skin. "There's this new club opening up downtown tonight! And I've got a couple of invites! Wanna come?"
Intentionally, I amplified my groan so that he couldn't possibly miss it. "Really? You want to try dragging me out to a club? Don't you remember what happened last time?"
"Hey, that girl was totally into you until you threw up in her purse." Marcus crossed his arms at me. "You make this big deal out of being alone, Dane, but you're an attractive guy. Broad shoulders, good muscles, cute smile when you eventually let it slip."
"Aww, thanks honey. You're such a sweetums. I never realized that you were so attracted to me." I puckered my lips at Marcus, making him laugh even as he slugged me in the shoulder.
"I'm just pointing it out as an objective observer, man. Now, tell me yes, you're going to come out with me tonight. It's a new club, just opening tonight, so it's going to be stuffed with barely legal hotties with their perky boobs practically bursting out of mini-dresses two sizes too small for them. When was the last time you got lucky, huh?"
I didn't want to count up the months since the last time I'd had a girl in my bed with me. Too long, even by my own camel-like standards. "You've got such a poetic way with words," I said dryly. "What's the name of this place?"
"DeMarco's," Marcus replied, smirking in victory. He knew that he'd got me hooked, and it would just take a little more reeling in to get a yes out of me. "And you wanna hear the kicker about this place?"
"It's a strip club where the girls all wear edible bikinis?"
He frowned, momentarily thrown off track by this. "No, but is that a real thing? That sounds really fun, man."
"No, it's not a real thing," I said, rolling my eyes. "Sarcasm, Marcus. What's the kicker, then?"
His smile returned. "There's a back room poker game, just like in those gangster movies!"
Remember before, how I said that I had great situational awareness? It's a useful survival skill. When I'm in danger of getting scammed, it starts going off like a damn smoke detector inside my head, all beeps and whoops and flashing red lights, the kind that doesn't ever shut up until you've whacked it with a broom a few times. Well, as soon as Marcus mentioned a poker game, that alarm started blaring full blast inside my brain.
"Marcus, tell me that you didn't promise to play in this game," I said, feeling my headache rushing back in full force.
He raised
his eyebrows. "I mean, I'm sure we could get you a seat, too – there's a pretty steep buy-in, but I've been watching lots of poker shows, play a bit online, and I'm sure that I'll do just fine. Besides, you can cash out whenever you want."
"Not the point," I muttered, reaching up to rub the bridge of my nose. Marcus was a great guy, but he didn't have the same background as me, the same experiences with card sharps or other hustlers.
And I knew now that, if I wasn't along, he was going to get fucking fleeced, taken for every cent on him – and likely more than that.
Perfect. So much for just thinking about meeting a nice girl at the club to bring back to my place.
"I'm in," I said finally. "Not to the poker game, but I'm coming. Someone's got to be there to keep you from losing the shirt off your back."
Marcus grinned, slapped me on the back. "Have a little faith in me, man! I've got a pretty good poker face!"
Marcus couldn't hide a secret if his life depended on it. I'd seen him break and cave after less than five minutes, confessing to me that he'd eaten a coworker's lunch. If I wasn't there tonight, he was going to get rolled with ease by the first hustler to lay eyes on the poor guy.
And it wasn't Marcus's fault – he was open and honest, which were normally great traits to have in a friend. But I felt like I needed to watch out for him, save him from blindly wandering off of this cliff ahead that I could see, but he couldn't.
"So what time are we meeting at this DeMarco's place?" I asked.
Marcus considered for a second. "A little before eight? Time enough to go home, maybe grab a shower and a change of clothes, then show up there?"
I looked at my half-completed spreadsheet program on the computer, at the huge stack of papers I needed to file away that I hadn't yet touched. If I wanted to get all of this done, have a weekend completely free for myself, without having to think about work, I'd definitely be here way later than eight. But by that point, I'd probably be so wiped that I'd end up just laying down under my desk and passing out.
Fool Me Once: A Bad Girl Romance Page 2
