Page 45 of Gambler's Conceit
There’s something about the way he says “from Caleb” that still has my hackles up, but my fingers relax.
His smile is strange, not one I’m used to seeing from him. “You just never know, do you?” He pats my cheek. “C’mon. Let’s get food. I’m hungry.”
I follow him out, still trying to collect my thoughts. I realize it’s rich, coming from somebody who willingly signed up to work with somebody who isprobablyin the mob, but I don’t actually want to be part of this bullshit.
I grab Seven’s wrist and squeeze tighter. “You can trust me, okay? I mean, I’m just some fucking stranger, but if your life is in actual danger?—”
“It’s not,” Seven interjects. “It was a dumb joke. Now come on, I need a drink.”
I eye him dubiously but let go, then say, “Are you even old enough to drink?” I try to make it a joke, but suddenly I’m unsure aboutthat, too.
My discomfort makes him smirk, but he says, “Yeah. You’ll have to get something for me, though. I don’t have my ID on me.”
“Oh my god, you’re going to get me fired on my first day,” I complain, but I put my arm around his shoulder.
I didn’t think I’d ever want to do PDAs like this. When I was in the military, I stayed firmly in the closet.
Hell, my mother doesn’t even know I’m gay. I’d tell her, but I definitely don’t want to deal with my stepfather’s homophobic bullshit. He’s bad enough as it is.
But with Seven, it just feels natural.
We get seated at a small table, and when I discover that Seven doesn’t know any more about Thai food than he had about Japanese food, I order our appetizers and drinks for us. Unfortunately, no matter how much we cajole, the waitress refuses to allow Seven to order his own beer without ID.
“I guess we need to find you a fake ID,” I muse.
Again, that amused look. “Who says I need one?”
I motion toward the bar. “You don’t want to buy drinks?”
He shrugs. “I’ll just get Caleb to vouch for me. I mean, you have to be 21 to even be in the casino at all, so I don’t know why she’s got her panties in a twist.”
I observe him carefully, and I can’t tell if he actually is over twenty-one. He acts like it, but my perception might also beskewed from my army days. I’d enlisted at 18, and I remember what my peers in basic training were like.
“So how old are you really?” I ask. “I’m twenty-six.”
“Twenty-one,” he says with a sweet smile. He must see the skepticism in my face, because he adds, “Last month. So I’m barely legal for this place, but I am.”
I decide not to press. If him being here causes legal trouble for Caleb, I guess that’s his problem.
“Yeah? So where are you from? You don’t have a local accent,” I say, leaning forward.
The smile freezes on his face, his body tensing before he seems to get a hold of himself again. I can see the way he forces himself to relax, though; the question caught him off guard, and he didn’t have an answer ready. “Nowhere, anymore,” he finally says, right when I’m about to take pity on him and change the subject. “I’ve been traveling for a while.”
I make a non-committal sound. “Ah. Well, I’m local. I was born here, grew up here, and outside of my stint in the military, I’ve never been anywhere else.” I drum my fingers against the table. “Maybe I shoulda picked a different city. Calamity can be kind of a dump if you aren’t working for one of the casinos or hotels.”
“But now you are, so it’s fine,” Seven says. “You get to stay here and work for Caleb Spade at one of the biggest casinos in Calamity. That’s gotta count for something, right?”
The waitress arrives with our order, and I wait until she’s gone to answer.
“Yeah. We’ll see how long that lasts.” I take one of the satay chicken skewers and bite off a chunk. “Maybe you need a job too, if you’re bored all day.”
Seven reaches for my drink and glares at me. “I do not need a job.” He takes a sip of the Thai beer. He makes a face as he sets it down, picking up his own glass of soda and drinking fromit instead. “This tastes like every other beer. Just like all wine tastes the same.”
I shake my head and take my beer back, giving it a taste. It’s definitely higher quality than the piss I’d had while enlisted—hell, better than the piss my stepfather drinks. “It’s good,” I say after a gulp. “Much richer flavor.”
Seven gives me a look like he doesn’t believe me, then goes for the food. “So, Mr. Local. Where would you take me, if we weren’t stuck in the Roi de Pique?”
I give him a once over. “You like hiking? Because there’s some national parks in the area that are gorgeous. Provided you like the desert landscape, of course.”