Page 88 of Gambler's Conceit
People get drunk all the time, right? There has to be a reason. It has to help.
Somethingdoes.
“Thanks,” I say when he sets the drink in front of me. I try to be polite, even though I sort of want to pull a Grant and make some snarky comment about how that wasn’t really so hard, was it?
It’s not Dave’s fault I’m in a shitty mood, though, and harassing him won’t make things any easier. No, that’ll just make him refuse to serve me, and that’ll leave me at my wit’s end again.
I pick up the drink, staring at the clear liquid inside, and take a sniff. I grimace, not enjoying the taste but wanting the promise of what it might bring.
Escape. Distance from the world I’ve stumbled into, the world I’d tried so fucking hard to avoid.
I’d tried to get anywhere but Calamity City, but Caleb had stopped me. I should’ve known when he’d claimed me sothoroughly that he wasn’t a good person. He’s like everybody else, smiling to my face and backhanding me a second later.
Caleb had said he had vast resources, resources capable of keeping a kitten hidden away, and Havoc had said Caleb’s grandfather had been one of the biggest gangsters in Calamity.
He’s probably just like the families back on the East Coast, all dedicated to making everyone else’s lives hell while they profit off of their misery. That’s what men like him do.
They can’t help it.
It’s who theyare.
How had I been so goddamn stupid? I should’veknown.
I finally bring the vodka to my mouth, resisting the urge to hold my nose, and down it. It burns like hell going down, and the smell of it is just as bad as I start to cough.
Dave gives me a look like he’s not sure he should’ve given it to me in the first place, and he’s probably not wrong.
“It’s just strong,” I wheeze, still coughing. “I’m fine.”
“Try something top shelf,” a male voice suggests from just behind me.
I jolt upright, half in a panic, and my gaze locks onto the deep brown eyes of a man I don’t recognize. At least, I don’tthinkI recognize him.
“Here. I’ll buy you something worthwhile,” he says, handing a fifty to Dave. “Two shots each. The good stuff, this time.”
Dave’s lips purse, and he glances between us, but the guy adds another twenty to the pile. Dave isn’t immune to the allure of cash, obviously, and he takes the two bills without arguing.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, but I smile at him. I shouldn’t encourage him by accepting the drinks. I know what he’s after, and I’m not exactly hurting for companionship. I have three men vying for my time. I don’t need another.
But maybe a distraction would be nice.
The guy smirks at me and rests his elbow against the bar, so he’s half blocking me in. “I’m always in favor of sharing life’s luxuries.” He extends his other hand for a handshake. “I’m Michael.”
“Seven,” I say automatically, not even having to think about it like I used to. I take his hand, and the greeting is more aggressive than it has any reason to be. Testing me.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
Instead, I edge in closer to him, leaning in to the fact that he’s probably the kind of fucking dick who’d buy a guy a drink with the full expectation that he’ll get something out of it.
“Seven? That’s a lucky name,” Michael says. He puts a hand on my back and sits down next to me, scooting the bar stool closer than necessary. “What’s your game?”
I must already be feeling the alcohol in my system, or maybe it’s nerves and desperation that have me giggling. “Not blackjack. I suck at blackjack. God, you know people can count cards? I can’t.”
Dave returns with shot glasses of clear booze that looks exactly the same as before. These shots don’t go down much more smoothly, but the smell isn’t as atrocious.
Michael gives a sympathetic pat on my back. “They go down easier as you get used to them. Not a big drinker?”
I shake my head, wincing at the waves of dizziness. “Not really. How about another?”