Page 35 of How Much For A Broken Heart?

“You need to get your head out of your ass,” I muttered, then slapped the cards onto the table, picking up various meds and the nasty thick drink he was supposed to be downing. Grumpy August didn’t seem too thrilled with the idea—it was clear he wasn’t in the mood for a game of cards. Nevertheless, I was determined to coax him out of his funk, and maybe even get a smile out of him.

He shot me a pointed stare. “Fuck off.” His voice was laced with discomfort as he shifted in bed and stared out of the window.

“Come on, Navy, don’t be a wimp,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “A friendly game of poker can do wonders for the soul. And besides, it’ll take your mind off things and stop me reading to you all at the same time.”

August winced again as he moved. I leaned over him and the table and fussed with his pillow before raising the bed.

“You know, I could kill you with one hand,” he groused, but I could see the shakiness in said hand, and there was no way he had more strength than me.

“Then, I’d have to kill you back.”

He sighed in annoyance. “But you’d already be dead.”

“I’d manage.”

I dealt the cards and glanced at August, who stared down at them as if I’d offered him a hand grenade. “Texas Hold’em. Two hole cards for each of us, five community cards on the table. Standard rules apply, folks. No wild cards, and when I win, I get to help you to the shower.”

His gaze sharpened. “What?”

“You want a shower. I win I help you; you win, you help yourself with me sitting here in case. Take it or leave it.”

I couldn’t help but notice the slight tremor in August’s hand as he picked up the cards and held them close to his chest, frowning at his hands, then at me, with stubborn determination that I shouldn’t witness any sign of weakness. It was a trait we both shared, but right now, it was working against him. He peeked at the cards, and his expression gave nothing away, even as I studied his face for any hints. He had more color today, and I checked the calendar on the wall, day seventeen, and the gaunt post-op style he’d had going on was more like getting-better-style. Doc Jen said he could have a shower now but added that he wouldn’t let anyone help him out of bed, not even his PT, who was just about ready to kill a SEAL.

“One hand.”

His eyes widened, and I could see he was torn between telling me to fuck off again, and as he glanced at the bathroom door, pleading with me to go now.

“I’ll get myself to the shower.”

I huffed my disbelief. “You can’t even get out of bed on your own.”

“I can.”

“No, you can’t.”

“I’m not an invalid.”

“You are.”

“Fuck you.”

Not this again. “Fuck you back,” I deadpanned, and he scowled.

“One hand,” he muttered.

“One.”

“And when I win, I’ll let you help me to the door, and that’s as far as it goes.”

“Yep, I’ll wait outside.”

He jutted his chin. “I’m locking the door.”

“Then I’ll shoot it open.”

His lips thinned, but he didn’t even offer a fuck you; instead, he cursed under his breath and ignored me.

For a while, August was still uncomfortable, his focus on the cards, rather than the banter. But as the game progressed, I couldn’t resist making more remarks. “You know, August, you should consider a career in professional poker. You’ve got the perfect unreadable poker face.”

---