Page 11 of Gambler's Conceit
“He was not amused,” I offer with a chortle in between bites of my own food. “But other than howling up a storm, he wasn’t that bad. Looks like a drowned rat now, though.”
Seven takes a bite of a sandwich before looking me up and down, something that makes my cheeks flush strangely hot. “Yeah?” he asks, a smile slowly spreading across his lips. “Let me see your hands.”
I blink, surprised at the request, but I hold out my hands to him.
He grabs them with surprisingly warm fingers, and I barely even breathe as he examines them.
“Little tiny needle marks from baby kitten claws… or teeth,” Seven observes.
I want to pull my hands away, but I’m not going to let the kid who’s not even half my size rattle me. “Nah. He just grabbed onto me a little when the water started.”
Caleb clears his throat, and Seven startles and lets go of me.
“The bath should’ve helped with fleas, butI sent somebody out for flea treatments. We’ll keep him isolated until we’re sure he’s clean. Just a few days. That’ll give the cats time to get used to each other too before we introduce them.” Caleb reaches out to pet Miss K again, smiling down at her. “Are you excited for a little kitty friend, Miss K?”
“A few days,” Seven repeats. He isn’t smiling now. “Mr. Spade, sir, I know you’re just being generous and all, but…”
“I’m being manipulative, not generous,” Caleb interrupts him. He smirks at Seven. “I did tell you that you weren’t leaving, didn’t I? Surely you didn’t think I’d changed my mind already.”
Seven fiddles with the crust of the sandwich, pinching the bread and pulling it away from the rest. He drops the crust onto his plate. “I mean… You could have.” He looks squarely at Caleb. “You’ve seen I’m damaged property, now.”
If only I could tell the boy that that’s only going to make Caleb lean in harder. Fuck, he’d freak if he knew to what extent Caleb will go to keep him here—and that’s because he’s damaged, not in spite of it.
“I’ve never held with the idea that we should throw away anything slightly used. I keep my cars until they’re falling apart, and then I have them repaired again. Vortex can tell you that.”Caleb leans forward. “The rampant, wasteful consumerism is what’s wrong with our society.”
Seven glares at Caleb. “Says the guy who runs a fucking casino.”
Caleb chuckles. “Yes, I do appreciate the irony. But we do what we can to limit waste. Linens and towels only get washed between guests, we serve all of our food and drink in reusable dishes, and the gift shop goods are made with eco-friendly materials.” He smiles brightly. “I’m aconscientiouscasino owner.”
“How noble of you,” Seven remarks. He’s quiet as he eats more of his sandwich, then he adds, “I’m going to waste every crust you give me on sandwiches, though.”
“What are you, five?” I interrupt to ask.
Seven smirks at me, though if he’s actually amused, I can’t tell. “Vortex can always eat it for me.”
“If you don’t eat it, it’s going into the compost,” Caleb says before I can think up a retort.
Seven shrugs. “Okay.” He finishes eating, ignoring the bounty of food on the table in favor of that one small sandwich. “I want to see Nacho.”
Caleb nods. “Vortex, you can take Seven to his room. I need to make a few phone calls anyway.” He scoots his chair away from the table, and Miss K immediately jumps onto his lap. He stares down at her, shakes his head, and moves her to the floor. “This shouldn’t take too long.”
Of course, when Caleb says something isn’t going to take too long, it ends up lasting an hour or two because he has a hard time delegating.
“All right, boss.” I stand up and glance at the table. “Uh, are we okay to leave all this out? The cat won’t try to eat this while I get Seven settled?”
Putting food away isn’t usually in my job description, but it’s not like Caleb is going to do it, and I’m not going to ask Seven to.
“She won’t. She never touches human food unless there’s a human actively around to make it look appealing.” Caleb gets his phone and starts tapping, walking off toward his office.
Seven gets up, too, and he follows me in the direction of the bedroom Nacho is trapped in. The cat’s little paws are still darting under the doorframe, and he starts to meow as we get closer. Seven breaks away from me to go ahead, opening the door and scooping the still-damp Nacho up into his hands.
“I told you he was fine,” I say gruffly, shutting the door behind us.
Seven scoffs at me. “You tried to drown him.”
I scowl. “I gave him a bath.”
“That’s not how he remembers it,” Seven says, and the words are so deadpan that it takes me a moment to realize he’s joking.