by Callie Rose
“I dunno, Chase,” his brother—Dax, I’m assuming—drawls, an almost identical smile curving his lips. “Maybe give her some shit to clean up?”
Chase grins even wider, lifting his eyebrows as if this is some brilliant idea he hadn’t even thought of.
Fuck this shit. Whatever is about to go down, I’m not here for it.
I turn to slip by Chase—he’s big as fuck and standing right in my way, but at least there’s only one of him on this side of me, not three—but before I can make it more than a couple steps, a loud clanging sound behind me makes me jump. I whirl around just in time to see someone knock over a trash can. The lid comes off, spilling garbage everywhere.
And a second later, all of that trash is being hurled at me. Kids are laughing as wet, soggy paper, fast food wrappers, and empty Starbucks cups are flung at me. I throw my hands up, trying to bat the projectiles away, but I miss most of them. One coffee cup that’s still got the dregs of a caramel macchiato in it hits me square in the chest, and sweet-smelling milk drips down the front of my shirt.
“Hey!” a middle-aged man with glasses steps out of a nearby classroom, frowning at the downed trash can. “What’s going on here? Who did this?”
Wordlessly, as if they all had a damn meeting about this beforehand, the students fade back as a group, leaving me standing front and center with a crushed coffee cup and wad of papers in my hand.
The teacher narrows his eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Harlow Thomas,” I mutter, squeezing the paper cup so hard a few more drops of liquid come out.
“Ah, yes. You’re the new transfer student.” His face hardens. “Ms. Thomas, I’m not sure what your old school was like, but this kind of thing isn’t tolerated at Linwood. I won’t send you to the principal this time, but clean this mess up.”
I open my mouth to argue, even though my back talk will almost certainly earn me a trip to the principal’s office, but before I can say anything, he slips back into his classroom.
This—this is bullshit.
I still smell like stale milk, my shirt is damp and stained, and the floor around me is littered with trash.
The students in the hall all hang back to watch me, and fuck me if I’m gonna get on my hands and knees in front of all of them. But Chase is still hovering behind me, and River, Dax, and Lincoln are all gathered close by too.
Clenching my jaw, I walk over and throw the cup and wadded paper into the sideways trash bin. Then I kick the scattered pieces of garbage in the general direction of the large metal cylinder, ignoring the whispers and titters that spring up around me.
When I feel like I’m about to explode, I shove my way between Lincoln and River and storm down the hall. Behind me, I can hear them mocking my cleaning abilities in loud voices, and I want to fucking scream.
The corridor starts to empty out, and I shove my way into a bathroom just as the bell for first period rings. Great. Now I’m covered in trash and late for my first class.
I splash water on my shirt and try to sop up the milk, but I’m sure I don’t get all of it. And the wet spot, while temporary, looks even worse.
Political Science is a nightmare. The class itself isn’t anything too intense, but some kids behind me keep throwing shit at the back of my head when the teacher isn’t looking. That trend continues and grows throughout the rest of the morning, spilling into the halls too. I’m sure everyone who didn’t actually witness the “Pool Girl introduction” this morning has heard the whole story by now, and these rich kids really must be bored as hell, because they all go after me with a fucking vengeance.
Gym sucks, but that’s nothing new. It sucked at my old school too. We run some laps and do some calisthenics, and I don’t push myself, so I barely break a sweat.
Changing back into my street clothes makes me realize my shirt definitely still smells like garbage, and I grimace. Ugh. Gross.
Dressed in my bra and jeans, I take my shirt to the sink to clean it a little better, then hold it under the hand dryer for a few minutes to let it dry. The dryer only works for thirty seconds at a time though, so I have to keep pulling the shirt away and putting it back to re-trigger the sensor.
Behind me, raised voices blare over the hum of the dryer.
“No, Savannah! Jesus, I already told you I don’t want him. You’re such a fucking bitch sometimes!” a high, breathy voice shouts.
“I’m not a bitch. I just expect honesty from my so-called friends!” This voice is harsher, more shrill.
“Oh, like you were honest about why we need to have tryouts for the cheer squad? I know you’re planning on fucking dumping me, so don’t pretend you’re not.”
“Iris, I wasn’t—”
The dryer cuts out again suddenly, and the two girls break off, turning to stare at me. One’s blonde and lithe, and the other has full lips and strawberry red hair. They’re both model pretty, and they’re both glaring at me like I killed their entire families.
“Excuse me,” the redhead drawls with a curl of her lip. I think she’s the one called Savannah. “This is a private conversation.”
My eyebrows shoot up, and a choked laugh escapes my mouth before I can stop it. “Oh, is it?”
Her cheeks flush, and several different emotions cross her face before she settles on anger again.
“It would be, if you’d stop listening in, you skank! Don’t you have something to go clean?”
Oh Jesus. So that really has made it around the entire school.
“I could clean out your locker,” I offer with a shrug. “But I forgot my extra strong bitch bleach.”
“Why don’t you just go? It’s rude to fucking eavesdrop, didn’t anyone ever teach you that?” The blonde girl, Iris, walks up to stand beside the redhead. They may hate each other, but apparently they’re willing to team up against an outside threat.
What’s the word for that? Frenemies?
“Love to.”
I pull my shirt over my head. It’s still damp, but fuck it. It’ll dry eventually. Shoving past them, I grab the rest of my stuff from my locker and sling my backpack over my shoulder. Then I turn back to the two girls.
“Oh, and for the record—if I were going to eavesdrop, I’d pick a much more interesting conversation than one about boys and the fucking cheerleading squad. Try being more predictable next time.”
Someone in the corner behind me giggles. Then someone else. Savannah’s face is now almost as red as her hair, and the other girl, Iris, is glaring at me.
Yep, that’s definitely going to cost me later. At least, it will if these girls are anywhere near as vindictive as their male counterparts in this school. But fuck it. I’ve already got one target painted on my back. Why not make it two?
Shaking my head, I slip out of the locker room before shit can go any further downhill.
I start asking around at lunch, sidling up to a few people I’ve seen in my classes and trying to get a read on the social scene here. I don’t get any bites at first, although I do get several offers from students—mostly douchey-looking guys—to let me clean their trays, their rooms, their “undercarriage”.
Lincoln, River, Dax, and Chase are in a corner, surrounded by a few pretty girls, but I can feel them watching me. Almost as if me walking around the cafeteria talking to other kids is making them nervous somehow. Like they thought I’d be eating lunch in the bathroom or something, and they’re not quite sure why I’m here at all.
I like thinking I’ve surprised them. But I hate the feel of their gazes on me. I try to ignore it, but it prickles against my skin like little ant bites, constantly tugging my attention back toward them.
And that’s the last damn place I want it.
What is it about them that makes it so hard to look away? Partly their looks, I guess. They are fucking hot, asshole tendencies aside. But there’s something else too, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. Is it because of the instinct of a prey animal to keep an eye on the nearby predators at all times? Or is it b
ecause of that whole commanding aura they have, and the fact that they somehow, wordlessly, seem to demand my attention?
I don’t want to give it to them, so I finish off my lunch and head to my next class early. I still haven’t found out where a poker game will be happening, but I’m not going to give up. There must be one—probably more than one—and I’m going to find it.
Rich kids love to throw their money around, right?
5
On Friday, I finally find what I’m after.
It comes from an unexpected source too. I’m walking down the hall with a guy from my Biology class, Max, when he mentions a game he went to last weekend. He could just be talking about football, but it seems too early in the semester for that—we’re only a week in. So I press him a little harder, until he tells me about an underground gambling ring run by a few students. They use an abandoned warehouse space that one of their families owns and host card games every other weekend or so.
“But you wouldn’t be interested in something like that,” he assures me, flashing me a smile that’s somehow both skeevy and condescending. “It’s a really high buy in. Not for pool girls.”
I grit my teeth. Motherfucking assholes.
That name has stuck like glue, as have a million different rumors about how poor my family is, and what my mom and I did to earn money before we got here.
But I’m about to find out where I can play some poker, and I don’t want to risk missing out by pissing Max off.
“Yeah.” I bite my lip. “But I’d still kind of like to check it out. I think I could probably muster up the buy-in. I have a job.”
“Right.” One corner of his mouth tilts up, as if I just made some kind of innuendo.
Ugh. Gross.
“So where is it?” I press. If I’m going to let him get away with this shit without smacking him in the mouth, I’d better at least get some useful information out of him.
He gives me an address that means nothing to me, but I file it away in my head. I’ll look it up later. The game starts late enough that I should be able to borrow Mom’s car and sneak out.
Once I get what I want from Max, I veer down another hallway, doing my usual scan of the space before proceeding forward.
People haven’t gotten tired of giving the new girl shit yet, especially not after the wonderful ammunition Lincoln and his friends gave them. Pieces of trash are still randomly thrown at me, which is annoying and also fucking dangerous. I don’t think anybody really cares what they’re throwing, they just look for the nearest object and hurl it at me.
Chase said he wanted to introduce me to the school, and oh boy, did he. Everybody knows me already—or at least, they recognize me. And I don’t know if it’s out of sheer boredom or a compulsive need to suck up to their kings, but a lot of them have gotten on board with bullying me.
Fucking assholes.
I make it through the rest of the school day without having to wash and dry my shirt in the girls’ bathroom, so that’s a win, I guess.
Back at the Black mansion, I change into my pristine maid’s uniform and do some laundry—which has indeed turned out to be my designated job.
I’ll never get over the fact that I have to touch Lincoln Black’s damn boxer briefs, and it takes all my self-restraint not to fuck with them somehow. I dunno, put a little cayenne pepper in the crotch maybe?
But the goal here is to not get my mom and me fired, so I just fold his underwear like a good little servant and deliver them to his room when I’m done.
It’s weird. At home, he never talks to me and barely ever looks at me. But at school, I can always feel his gaze on me if we’re anywhere in the same vicinity. And he talks to me a lot at school, although he never has nice things to say.
I don’t know what his fucking deal is, honestly, and it’s exhausting.
His parents are just as damn weird. His mom’s on something, I’m sure of it, and his dad just seems obsessed with pretending everything around here is normal—which only serves to highlight how not normal it all is.
I barely ever see the two of them talk, and when I do, their conversation seems forced and stilted, like two strangers who are only pretending to have been married for years.
After I take care of what needs to get done around the house, I change into shorts and a tank and have dinner with Mom. Then I chill in my room until eleven. I know Mom probably passed out around ten, and the fact that she’s in a separate apartment makes sneaking out easy.
But as I open the door to my bedroom and creep out into the hall, low voices catch my ear.
Huh. I really thought everyone would be asleep by now. I tiptoe a few steps down the hallway, sticking close to the wall.
A deep, baritone voice I recognize as Mr. Black’s meets my ears. But it’s not coming from the master bedroom—that’s a lot further down the hall, in the east wing of the house. No, it’s coming from the guest room on the other side of the laundry room from mine.
What the hell is he doing in there?
I shuffle a little closer, holding my breath as if that will make me quieter, craning my neck to angle my ear toward the door.
“…need you so much. It’s always been you, you know that.”
He’s speaking low, and his voice is thick. A softer, quieter voice answers, but I can’t tell who it belongs to or what it’s saying.
Holy shit. Does Mr. Black have a woman in there? And is that woman Audrey?
When he speaks again, it’s too quiet for me to make out his words, and then more soft noises filter into my ears, and I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle my gasp.
Oh my God, that’s fucking. The two people in that room are definitely having sex.
I’m burning with questions, not to mention embarrassment, but I back away as quickly and silently as I can. There are few things I want less in the world than to be busted listening in on my older boss having sex with… who?
Retracing my steps, I head for the service entrance instead. I’d been planning to avoid this route, since the door to the stairs is right next to Mom’s apartment, but I’d rather risk getting caught by her than anyone else.
The door opens without a sound, and I take the narrow steps slowly at first and then faster as I get farther away from the second level. Mom’s car is parked in a second garage to the west of the house, and I drive slowly, leaving the lights off until I punch in the gate code and drive through.
The address Max gave me is a thirty minute drive away, but it turns into forty with the ATM stop I make. A prickle of nerves skates up the back of my neck as I roll slowly down the winding street in a warehouse district, trying to read the numbers on the sides of the buildings. Lincoln and his friends have made damn sure everyone at school feels just fine bullying me, and rumors I’m a hooker have been flying fast and loose. What if Max lied about the location—or about there being a poker game at all?
When I reach the exact address he gave me, I sit in the car with the engine running for a minute.
Fuck. I shouldn’t be here.
But I don’t want to go.
I haven’t played in a long-ass time, and I feel antsy and jittery. Ever since I learned how to play, this has been the one thing that made me feel in control, even when everything in my life seemed to be spiraling into chaos. When I was going through chemo and radiation, the only thing I looked forward to were my lessons from Gus and Marsden, the two old men who were going through treatments at the same time I was and took pity on a scared ten-year-old girl.
This week has been shit. I haven’t felt in control of much at all since I got to Connecticut.
And I need this.
Decision made, I turn the key sharply and pull it from the ignition. The area is dimly lit, but I make my way to the door of the warehouse just fine. When I tug it open, a relieved breath falls from my lips.
Thank fuck.
It’s just like Max described. A section of the large space has been set up with a few tables, and people are gathered around them,
talking in low voices.
A guy looks up as I enter. “Hey, you can’t—”
“Max told me about the game,” I interrupt, cutting him off before he can preemptively boot me. “I want to play. I have money.”
With that, I tug the thousand dollars I withdrew from the ATM using Mom’s card out of my back pocket, slapping the folded up bills lightly against my palm.
His eyes narrow. To this kid, a grand is probably chump change, but he obviously didn’t expect me to have it. Ordinarily, I might not, but Mr. Black paid us a stipend for moving expenses, and Mom and I did it on the cheap so we have some leftover.
He flicks his gaze back up to me, then finally shrugs. “Yeah, all right. If you can ante up, you can play. Let me get you chips.”
A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth. That was fucking easy. It’ll be harder if I want to come back again, or even if I try to find another game. After tonight, I have a feeling word will spread.
Once I get my chips from the guy, who mumbles something about his name being Carson, I sit down at one of the tables, smiling broadly at the others gathered around. It’s almost all guys, although there’s one girl with auburn hair and a sharp gaze. She’s the one I’ll have to watch out for, I decide immediately. All the rest of these dudes? Easy money.
The thing about learning poker from two heavily tattooed old men in the chemo center of Bayard Medical is that I didn’t just learn how to play the game. I learned how to win. Over the hours and hours we spent playing, I learned how to use every tool at my disposal to turn the odds in my favor.
The two old chips I got from them when they finished their treatments sit in my pocket now, and the one from Hunter is in my other pocket.
We start to play, and I throw the first few hands, making myself look new and inexperienced—just like I’m sure these guys expect the new girl from Arizona to be. By the next hand, I’m ready.
I’ve gotten decent at counting cards, so that helps. Plus, I’ve learned the tells of almost everyone around the table, which lets me know how to play against them.
