Poker Face (17 page)

Chair legs scraped over the linoleum as she pushed away from the
table, her arms circled the old man’s thick neck. His fuzzy mustache tickled
her skin. “Thank you, Tink. Thank you, “she whispered in his ear.

****

Drew had never cried. Not once in all the years he’d lived with
his father: the abuse, the neglect, the void where a mother should have been…
none of it had been worth crying over. Men aren’t supposed to cry. It’s the law
of the universe. The one’s that do, are either gay or a momma’s boy— he was
neither. You take whatever the world throws at you, all the bullshit. That’s
just the way it is. Life isn’t always fair, so why cry over something you can’t
change.

But watching the exchange taking place between Tink and Megan,
done something to his insides, twisted them, muddled them. Honestly, he’d never
seen anyone get under Tinks skin the way Megan had, not even him. Shit, she’d
gotten under his skin too, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Of course, he was
hard, again, sitting at the table with people who’d been the closest thing to
family he’d ever had, imaging scooping her up in his arms and hauling her off
to the bedroom where he would make love to her for the rest of the day. Would
this insatiable thirst ever go away.

He hoped not.

Megan ran from the kitchen, and he considered following her, but
how obvious would that be.

“Guess you two are done fighting?” Tink inquired with the wiggle
of one of his bushy brows. The man wasn’t stupid. He continued, “Smartest move
I believe I’ve ever seen you make.” His voice lowered, “Be careful you don’t
let the shit in.”

If they’d been outside, working on the car, Drew might have said
something, anything. But with Birdie and Emma gazes boring into them, all he
could do was nod in agreement.

And he had a lot of shit that could get in, ruin his… what had
Lillian said? His one chance at true happiness. He reached for his iced tea,
suddenly feeling as if he was choking.

“What’d you think?” Megan asked, stepping into the kitchen looking
like a Fudgsicle he wanted desperately to lick, up one side and down the other.
He inwardly groaned. It was going to be a really long, long day. He’d never
been so ready for nighttime to come.

*****

“Well, well, look what the devil drug up,” Mackenzie said, from
behind the monstrous desk in his office that overlooked the city. “Thought
you’d be long gone with my money by now.”

Christopher Blackwell sank in one of the leather chairs angled in
front of the desk. His black boots settled on a corner of the desk, ankles
crossed, a permanent smirk on his sinful face. He balanced a manila folder on
his outstretched leg, held there by a wide hand. “Six thousand dollars gets you
nowhere. A rich man like yourself should know this by now.”

“So you came for more money? Is that it? Need I remind you I paid
you to make my son jealous, so he’d get up off his ass and make a move?”

“Chill. I took her out to dinner. Not my fault she wasn’t interested.
All she talked about was your damn golden boy.”

Leather crunched as Mackenzie reclined slightly, getting more
comfortable. A smile came to his smug face. “So there is one woman out there
you can’t convince to sleep with you?”

“It’s not going to work.”

“What?”

Christopher clasped his fingers behind his head, stretched out the
long, lean muscles along his side. “You getting under my skin. Besides the way
I hear it… you’ve already won your bet. Heard Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie slept
extra late this morning, and when I say extra… I mean till noon time. It
doesn’t take a real genius to figure out they been doing the bump and grind.”

The flat sole of Mackenzie’s polished shoes struck the marble
floor as he sat up straight in his swivel chair, his hands making a fist on top
of the desk. “She’s not a Mackenzie yet! And how the hell do you know the two
of them… slept in.”

Christopher chuckled. Realizing this game, the game Mackenzie was
playing, might end up backfiring in his own face. Served him right.

Another stretch. “Let’s just say, I have a little snitch on the
inside.”

Jonathan blinked, stared at the man. He really was an arrogant
son-of-a-bitch, wasn’t he? Could be his son, actually. “Who’d you bribe into
doing your dirty work?”

“Now, why the hell would I tell you?” He yawned.

Mackenzie went over the options:

Let’s see, there was Birdie. No. Not a chance in hell.

Tink? No. He was too much of a do-gooder.

Emma? Well, she was hot as hell. He had seriously been considering
her as the next Mrs. Mackenzie, wife number eight. Seven had turned out to not
be so lucky after all. Emma was a little young. Seventeen. But that only meant
she had a lot of energy. Probably a virgin, but he’d teach her. But a snitch.
She was way too innocent for that.

He rocked back in his chair, folded his arms over his chest,
laughter hurting his gut. “I got to hear this. How the hell do you get
information from a mute? Did he scribble it down on a little piece of paper for
you?”

“Fuck you. You’re just pissed I figured out the boys a fake before
you.”

He was right about that. Jonathan could have used someone on the
inside a long time ago.

Christopher swung his feet down, tossed the manila folder on
Mackenzie’s desk. “Anyways. Figured you’d want this.”

“What is it?”

“The ten thousand dollars Stratford paid me. It more than pays
back what you gave me.”

“Wait. Let me get this straight. Stratford and I, both gave you
money?”

“Yeah. He kept blabbering something about how I met all his
criteria’s. He wanted me to “pursue” his daughter.”

Jonathan laughed so hard tears seeped from the corners of his
eyes. “Blackwell, your lack of morals never ceases to amaze me.”

“Well, you won your bet. My obligation to you is over. You can
shove your money up your tight asshole for all I care.” Hands on the arms of
the leather chair Christopher pushed himself to his feet. For the first time in
years, the weight he’d carried on his shoulders was gone. “See you around.”

“Hold up, son. Not so fast…”

Christopher stopped cold in his tracks. That weight was back,
bearing down on him.

Jonathan slid the manila folder across his desk. “You keep this,
and they’ll be plenty more to go along with it.”

The marble floor held Christopher’s attention. He refused to look
at the worst excuse for a human being he’d ever met. It wasn’t about the money.
He didn’t need it. Or want it. “What do I have to do?”

“End this nightmare once and for all. No way in hell is Lillian’s
daughter marrying my son. He deserves better than that.”

*****

“Here, you do the honors,” Tink dropped the key’s in Megan’s palm,
key’s Drew was certain the old man would carry with him to his grave. The 1962
Chevy Nova had belonged to Mabel, Tink’s first and only wife of thirty-six
years, his one true love. Oh man, now he was thinking like Lillian. One true
love. Well, if there was such a thing, Mabel was Tinks. Her tombstone reads,
“We’ll be together again, someday soon.”

And getting that car to run was Tinks obsession.

Drew couldn’t image loving someone that much, soul deep. At that
moment he noticed the smudge of grease across Megan’s chin, her face lit, her
fingers closing around the set of keys. Her gaze narrowed on Tink. “Don’t you
want to be the one to start it?”

Was the old man blushing? Tink waved a hand. His eyes danced with
good humor. “Nah, you worked hard for it. Fire her up, beautiful. I’m not
getting any younger.”

She bounced around to the driver's seat like a kid with a new toy.
“Does that mean I get to drive it?”

“Don’t you think you need to start it first?” Tink said bracing
his hands on his knees by the open driver’s door.

“Okay, ready?” She waited for the green light.

Tink’s crippled hand came down, “Now!”

Megan turned over the key. Black smoke rolled from the tailpipe…

“Come on baby.” He cooed. The car rumbled, and then went “gissh”
as if something was on fire. “Dammit, start!”

Megan’s foot rested on the gas pedal, her hands still gripping the
key in the ignition. “Again?”

Tink hung his head, shook it twice.

“I’m sorry,” her hand lightly touched his bent shoulder.

“It’s not your fault, Filly.” He kicked at the dirt, and then was
gone.

*****

The room was dark. Darker than usual. Drew laid on top the covers
wearing a pair of faded jeans and white socks, no shirt. Megan had showered,
dressed for bed, and was curled up next to his side.

They’d been silent for the last half hour, a comfortable silence.
At one point he’d thought she’d fallen asleep, but then he’d felt the wetness
of her tears on his chest, and he’d nearly freaked. He didn’t really know what
to say or do. All he knew was… when she hurt, he hurt. Plain and simple.

“You okay?” he finally asked, not able to take not knowing what
she was thinking another minute.

“Yeah. I feel sorry for him, that’s all. He doesn’t have much to
look forward to, does he. I really wish that car would have started.”

“He told you? About Mabel?” His arms tightened around her. There
was no way to hide his surprise. He’d already kind of figured it out, by the
way she acted, but he wasn’t sure.

“Yeah. He needs to move past it. What about Birdie? I bet she’s
lonely too.” She rose up on an elbow, locking her eyes with his. “Why are you
laughing?”

“Because it’s not like that. Not with them.”

“Why not? They’re both alone.”

“I don’t know, Megan. I don’t think you can pick who you fall in
love with. It doesn’t work that way.”

“So, you believe in love?”

Oh hell. Dangerous territory. He tried to divert his gaze, to
anywhere in the room other than that hopeful face of hers, but she wouldn’t
allow it. Her hands were there, along his jaw, forcing him to look at her.

He panicked, his unintentional laughter filling the awkwardness.
“You’re just like your mother…”

His heart skipped a beat. How had that slipped out? Was he destined
to screw this up?

Megan sat up. Her eyes wide. “I figured you’d met Stratford, since
him and your father are best friend, but I had no idea you’d met my mother.
When?”

He’d never been too fond of Poker. When he was younger, his father
would force him to play. Made him practice his “poker face”. “When you lie,
son, you’ve got to be convincing.”

If he admitted to knowing her mother, then he’d have to admit to
Megan that he knew her way before they’d even met (through her mother’s
stories, during their lunches), and if he admitted to that, then he’d have to
admit knowing about the bet. It was the snowball effect, all his shit compiling
until it was hurtling towards him.

“Drew?”

“I haven’t… ever met your mother.”

“But you said…”

He leaned up seizing her lips, before she could say another word.
Her lips tasted like strawberries. Her flesh smooth and soft under his touch.
They both came up to their knees.

“I believe I’ve created a monster,” she said against his lips,
undoing the fly of his jeans.

“You have no idea.” He grabbed the hem of her T-shirt, pulled it
off over her head. His teeth grazed her bare shoulder.