Page 35 of Wyatt

AIN’T NO HOLD’EM

Glancing up from my cards,I peer through the haze of cigar smoke at Colt Wallace.

He’s sitting across from me at the large, round table in The Rattler’s basement. There’s a Macanudo clamped between his teeth. A glass of Blanton’s single-barrel bourbon, neat, sits at his elbow. His Texas Rangers cap is pulled so low that I have to strain to see his eyes.

He looks like any other cowboy at this table. Could be his brother Beck’s twin for how alike their features are.

What is it about the Wallaces that caught Sally’s eye? Cowboys have never been her type.

Then again, she hasn’t been around Hartsville all that much. Maybe she’s just never had the chance to throw down here in town.

I blink when Sawyer clears his throat beside me. His eyes flick to my cards, which I’ve let wilt in my grip to the point that I’m about to reveal my hand to all eight players in the weekly poker game I’ve hosted for—wow—five years now here in the basement.

That conversation I had with Sally earlier has totallyknocked me off my game. The ugly part of me is jealous she’s set her sights on someone—anyone—else. I also feel a little angry. Hurt, too, that she wouldn’t consider me for a real date. Her insinuation that I’m the king of casual, meaningless sex was more than a little insulting.

But the rational part of me knows I’ve never led anyone to believe any different. It’s not Sally’s fault that she doesn’t know the one-night stands and dance-floor make-outs have left me feeling hollower and more alone than ever. Really, who the hell was I to tell her no one deserves to be alone? ’Cause I’m sure as hell lonely, but I ain’t doing jack shit to fix that. Maybe deep down, I also believe I deserve the loneliness I feel.

Ultimately, it’s not Sally’s fault I’m hurt. That’s on me, because I’ve been too chickenshit to tell her the truth.

Truth is, I’d let her use me until I got nothing left.

Also hurt, hearing how messed up she feels around men. Makes me wonder who the fuck made her second-guess herself that way. How could she not know how perfect she is? How witty and smart and sexy? She deserves to have a good time as much as anyone else.

If I gotta be the one to remind her how it’s done…

Well, I’ll do it.

I got no choice when it comes to Sally Powell. If she’s unhappy, I’ll move heaven and earth to make her feel better.

I’ll do whatever it takes to make her see she’s perfect just as she is. And then I’ll let her go, just like I did twelve years ago.

I take a deep, unhurried inhale through my nose. Firm my hold on my cards, then lazily drop my elbows to the table, like I don’t have a shit hand that jeopardizes the four hundred dollars’ worth of chips I have in the pot.

I get dealt bad cards as much as anyone else. But I’ve learned to make my own luck.

“Fake it till you make it,” Dad used to say.

He was the one who taught me how to play Texas Hold’Em. The game started out as a way for Dad to occupy my brothers and me when it was too wet or cold to be outside.

After he died, I insisted we continue playing it as a way to keep his memory alive. When my brothers and I lived in the bunkhouse on Lucky Ranch, John B and Garrett would join us after supper, and we’d play until we couldn’t keep our eyes open.

I won. A lot. Not because I was a particularly skillful player, but because I was—am—an excellent bullshitter. My poker face is second to none.

Once we started playing for money—pennies at first, small bills—I slowly amassed a war chest of cash. I liked the money, so when my old friend Tallulah took over as owner of The Rattler a few years back, I approached her about hosting a not-exactly-legal poker game every Wednesday night in the basement.

The space ain’t fancy. But the exposed brick walls and low lighting give it a speakeasy vibe, and the liquor is free—I cover the drinks—so we’re all drinking top-shelf shit. Don’t hurt that I usually walk away with a wad of hundreds in my pocket.

Needless to say, Wednesday night is the highlight of my week.

Was.It was the highlight of my week, until Sally finished her residency and came back into town. Now I look forward to seeing her more than anything.

A familiar ache grips my heart and squeezes as I watch the players around me fold, one by one. I guarantee they have better hands than me. But as long as I stay relaxed, crack jokes, I’ll be the last man standing.

Finally, it’s just me, Sawyer, and Colt left in the game. I feel Colt eyeing me from across the table.

“What’re ya thinkin’ over there, Wyatt?”

“I’m thinkin’ I’d like to buy myself a nice steak dinner with your money.”

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