Page 4 of Wild Card (Advantage Play 1)

“Some of them I picked up on my own. Some of them were little pieces of advice from my mom. Some of them were tiny tidbits of wisdom left by her friends.” I lift my fingers and dramatically place air quotes around the term. My mother was a druggie, and I’m pretty sure she was paid for sex on multiple occasions––scratch that. I’m positive about it.

“What do you mean her friends?” With a teasing smile, Gigi mimics my air quotes from seconds before.

“I’ve told you what my mom was like before she disappeared. Must’ve been stuck in the eighties because all she loved was sex, drugs, and rock and roll.” A scoff slips past my lips. “Unfortunately for both of us, she didn’t have the money to support that lifestyle, which meant she had to find alternative ways of earning income including, but not limited to, sex with strange men in our little trailer.” My eyes go wide at the memories before I sarcastically add, “That was a lot of fun. No wonder having sex is about as appealing as getting a colonoscopy.”

“Depending on who you’re with and how kinky they are, it’s probably pretty similar,” Gigi quips with a grin.

Gripping my stomach in laughter, Dottie interrupts us by planting my food on the table with a solid thud.

“Thanks, Dottie!” I yell to her retreating form.

Ketchup in hand, I squirt a generous portion of red sauce over my food. “Speaking of family, how’s the family life?”

She snorts. “Shitty, as always.”

Her words act like a wet blanket, sobering me instantly.

Gigi’s a very private person, but she broke down a few weeks ago and told me that her family is falling apart, and she feels helpless. Hopeless. I held her as she cried before she wiped under her eyes with a napkin and pretended her little breakdown never happened at all.

“I’d say I can relate, but since my only family went missing when I was twelve….”

“Sometimes, I wish I could be the one to disappear.” Gigi’s confession is said under her breath, and I doubt I was meant to hear it. Regardless, it hangs in the air with a weight I can’t disburse.

Clearing her throat, she reaches for a sausage link off my plate. “I’m jealous you get to go have fun and live on the edge, Ace. I think you should let me tag along one of these days.”

“Ya think? No offense, Gigi, but you would stick out like a sore thumb.” Scooping up a forkful of scrambled eggs, I bring it to my mouth and chew slowly.

With a gasp, a mock offended Gigi chucks her crumpled napkin at my head. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re drop-dead gorgeous, and every guy will notice you as soon as you step foot onto the carpet.”

Gigi tosses her thick, dark hair over her shoulder in outrage. “Whatever. You’re just as gorgeous as I am, so cut the shit.”

Laughing, I pick up the second link of sausage and take a bite. “Sorry, G. But I’m going to have to disagree with you on that one. I,”—I point to my chest— “am girl-next-door cute. You,” —I motion to her— “are runway-model cute. There’s a difference. I can blend in at the blackjack table. You can’t.”

With a shake of her head, she tries a different tactic. “Then let’s skip the blackjack table. I need to get out. I need to live. The slots look fun.”

I balk, pointing my utensil at her and talking through a mouth full of food. “Don’t waste your money on slots. They’re designed to make you lose.”

“And what would you suggest I play, then?” She leans forward and rests her elbows on the table, clearly intrigued.

After taking another bite of eggs, I reply, “Blackjack.” She snorts. “Or poker. Hell, even roulette has better odds than the freaking slot machines. Especially when the gaming commission turns a blind eye and doesn’t audit their machines since they’re owned by the freaking mob. Just sayin’.”

She quirks her brow. “Then you should teach me blackjack or poker. Just sayin’,” she mimics with a teasing smile.

“We’ve already discussed this.”

“I know, I know. What if we play just for fun, then? No counting. No crazy strategies. No rules. Just fun.” She bounces her brows up and down suggestively like it’s a preposterously genius idea, and it’s a little pathetic that I can’t remember the last time I played for fun. I guess, with my history of the game, the answer would be never. And I can thank Burlone for that.

The same worn deck of cards that I learned how to count with is sitting in the front pouch of my backpack, burning a hole in the pocket as I consider using them for fun instead of an outlet for revenge.

I release a sigh then pull my backpack out, unzip the compartment, and grab one of my most prized possessions. The cards have swirling gold ink on the back with a cursive ‘A’ woven into the colors. Though they’ve definitely seen better days, I push my plate aside then deal her in.

We continue to shoot the shit while playing cards for a few more hours when dawn finally breaks, and we go our separate ways with the promise of meeting again tomorrow night.

Just like always.

And, just like always, I make the trek back to my lonely apartment in a bad part of town by myself, praying it’ll be nighttime soon, so I’m one step closer to my revenge.

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