sweat. If I concentrate, I can hear someone’s heartbeat; though it gets hard to distinguish in groups, and I usually tune that sort of thing out the same way you might tune out the sound of an air conditioner in the background. As long it isn’t anytime close to a full moon, this gives me a great advantage.
Unfortunately, my gifts are also a curse. There are people chasing me who can trace their family lines all the way back to the days when dragon slaying wasn’t a metaphor. These modern-day knights have never forgiven me for having been one of them once, and poker is one of the ways I generate income off the grid. My real name is Charming, by the way. John Charming.
“What’s going on here, Jamie?” I asked.
She was still hard to read. There was a part of herself that Jamie always kept hidden behind deep internal walls, and there was a part of me that wanted to cut my way through the emotional thorns that surrounded her deepest self, to storm her gates, to climb her tower, to wake her up with a kiss. “What do you mean?”
“The last time I was here, Russell ran these things like a bed-and-breakfast for people who liked to play cards.” I reminded her. “All very low-key. Eight players tops, no dates allowed. Now there are forty-eight players and Russell’s providing prostitutes?”
“I call them party favorites,” Jamie said lightly. “I don’t think they’re actually prostitutes. I think he just hires some model wannabes for ambience.”
I refused to be distracted. “And what’s with all the scary-looking help? This place has gone from good old boys to goodfellas.”
“More people means more money. More money means more security.” Jamie’s tone suggested I was being slightly slow. “We even have a former sitcom star here tonight.”
“Then where’s Russell?” I asked. “Shouldn’t he be down here acting like a big shot?”
She looked surprised. “Russell has cancer. How can you not know that?”
“It’s not like we pinky swore to stay in touch,” I grumbled. “Russell didn’t say anything over the phone a couple of months ago.”
“Well, he wouldn’t.” Jamie sighed. “He’ll make a token appearance during the games, in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank. He looks like he’s dead already.”
I indicated the crowd around us. About fifteen feet away, a heavily sweating middle-aged man who was slightly ahead of the rest of us in terms of where the party was going had hastily put his clothes back on recently. His tie knot was loose, his zipper was half down, and the shirt button over his navel was undone. He was sucking on a plastic inhaler while an attractive brunette watched and jiggled and giggled. I was pretty sure he wasn’t taking asthma medication. “So who set all this up?”
“Nicole Matthews,” Jamie said. “She’s Russell’s…I don’t know what. Secretary, I guess. Lover. Nurse. She plays poker, too.”
“This place has changed,” I repeated. “Why do you still come here?”
“Every place has changed,” Jamie observed bitterly.
Jamie had held up pretty well over the years, though I could smell that she had started smoking. Her makeup was a little more noticeable, and she was dyeing her hair now, but there was nothing fake about the muscle tone in her arms and legs. It was the hint of bitterness and self-pity in her voice that was new. It made me sad.
Another trained gorilla walked by carrying a tray of bite-sized pastries.
“Oh, have you tried these?” Jamie asked me, snagging one off the tray with her left hand as the man went by. She had to stand on tiptoe to do it. “I don’t know what they are, but they’re delicious.”
“They’re baida rolls,” I offered, grabbing one myself. “Flatbread fried in egg yolk. They’re big in India.”
“How do you know?” Jamie asked, biting into the pastry. “Is that where you’ve been? Traveling?”
I didn’t answer. You can put anything you want in the center of baida rolls—cream, jelly,
Unfortunately, my gifts are also a curse. There are people chasing me who can trace their family lines all the way back to the days when dragon slaying wasn’t a metaphor. These modern-day knights have never forgiven me for having been one of them once, and poker is one of the ways I generate income off the grid. My real name is Charming, by the way. John Charming.
“What’s going on here, Jamie?” I asked.
She was still hard to read. There was a part of herself that Jamie always kept hidden behind deep internal walls, and there was a part of me that wanted to cut my way through the emotional thorns that surrounded her deepest self, to storm her gates, to climb her tower, to wake her up with a kiss. “What do you mean?”
“The last time I was here, Russell ran these things like a bed-and-breakfast for people who liked to play cards.” I reminded her. “All very low-key. Eight players tops, no dates allowed. Now there are forty-eight players and Russell’s providing prostitutes?”
“I call them party favorites,” Jamie said lightly. “I don’t think they’re actually prostitutes. I think he just hires some model wannabes for ambience.”
I refused to be distracted. “And what’s with all the scary-looking help? This place has gone from good old boys to goodfellas.”
“More people means more money. More money means more security.” Jamie’s tone suggested I was being slightly slow. “We even have a former sitcom star here tonight.”
“Then where’s Russell?” I asked. “Shouldn’t he be down here acting like a big shot?”
She looked surprised. “Russell has cancer. How can you not know that?”
“It’s not like we pinky swore to stay in touch,” I grumbled. “Russell didn’t say anything over the phone a couple of months ago.”
“Well, he wouldn’t.” Jamie sighed. “He’ll make a token appearance during the games, in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank. He looks like he’s dead already.”
I indicated the crowd around us. About fifteen feet away, a heavily sweating middle-aged man who was slightly ahead of the rest of us in terms of where the party was going had hastily put his clothes back on recently. His tie knot was loose, his zipper was half down, and the shirt button over his navel was undone. He was sucking on a plastic inhaler while an attractive brunette watched and jiggled and giggled. I was pretty sure he wasn’t taking asthma medication. “So who set all this up?”
“Nicole Matthews,” Jamie said. “She’s Russell’s…I don’t know what. Secretary, I guess. Lover. Nurse. She plays poker, too.”
“This place has changed,” I repeated. “Why do you still come here?”
“Every place has changed,” Jamie observed bitterly.
Jamie had held up pretty well over the years, though I could smell that she had started smoking. Her makeup was a little more noticeable, and she was dyeing her hair now, but there was nothing fake about the muscle tone in her arms and legs. It was the hint of bitterness and self-pity in her voice that was new. It made me sad.
Another trained gorilla walked by carrying a tray of bite-sized pastries.
“Oh, have you tried these?” Jamie asked me, snagging one off the tray with her left hand as the man went by. She had to stand on tiptoe to do it. “I don’t know what they are, but they’re delicious.”
“They’re baida rolls,” I offered, grabbing one myself. “Flatbread fried in egg yolk. They’re big in India.”
“How do you know?” Jamie asked, biting into the pastry. “Is that where you’ve been? Traveling?”
I didn’t answer. You can put anything you want in the center of baida rolls—cream, jelly,
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