Page 27 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
Deacon eats slowly, cataloging the spices as if they are structural elements in a cathedral.
Roman sits where he can see the room and the door, a habit he cannot put down, and he watches without blinking whenever Marisa laughs.
The men from the neighboring farm finish their plates, slap backs, and head out to their cabins with bellies full and faces ruddy.
A prospect asks if he should bank the fire or let it ride.
I tell him to let it ride.
The old stove in the kitchen clicks as it cools.
The lamps blink once, satisfied with themselves.
I pour water into a glass and set it within reach of Marisa’s elbow.
She takes it without looking, which means she trusts me, or it means I move like furniture.
I hope it is the first.
After dinner, Isla slides off her chair and announces that it is time for cards.
She points at the table by the fire with a queen’s command and adds a curtsy as if she remembers that we used to call the lodge Casa de Cupcake Defense whenever winter got rough.
Cards by the fire, she says, and penalty rounds.
Her idea of justice involves marshmallows and public embarrassment. I approve.
The guys haul out the battered box.
Someone produces honey whiskey from a cabinet that should be locked but never is. I tip the bottle, pour modestly, and catch Marisa’s eye.
“You play,” I ask.
“I work,” she answers, glancing toward the trays as if they might stage a coup in her absence.
“Work can wait,” I say, then lower my voice. “We will not play for anything you cannot afford to lose.”
Her mouth lifts, unsure, then sure.
She takes the seat beside me.
Isla climbs into the chair on Marisa’s other side, the kind of climb that starts with both feet and a determined grunt.
Roman stays in his chair near the hearth, not joining, not leaving. Deacon shuffles like a machine and deals without flourish.
Blackjack first, simple, clean.
I hit on sixteen, which is either faith or foolishness, and pull a five. Deacon folds with a decent hand because he says he refuses to win through luck.
The table groans.
Marisa studies her two cards, threads a strand of hair behind her ear, and taps the felt with her fingertip to stay.
Her hand is a perfect twenty.
When she flips it the cheer that rises is louder than the win demands. It is not about the cards.
It is about the lift in her shoulders when we make noise for her.
