For a minute there, I think Derrick’s really going to do it, that he’s going to make a run for it. But eventually he sits down and tears his jersey over his head, scowling and shaking, his teeth clenched so hard they look like they might crack.
Myron kneels down, and starts to swab at the area above Derrick’s right hip with a disinfectant wipe. That’s when I see it: the infinity tattoo. A tingling starts in the base of my neck, and I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself as I watch the scene unfold. Myron cleans the area, and then positions the tattoo machine near the infinity symbol, turning it on and filling the sudden silence with the mechanical buzzing.
I stand up on my tiptoes, straining to see what design he might be inking into Derrick’s skin. It only takes a few minutes, and then Myron’s wiping the excess ink off with a clean paper towel. He stands up and hands his tattoo machine over to someone else before bandaging up the spot.
A dark black line runs horizontally down the center of the infinity symbol, slicing it in half. As simple as it is, there’s something violent about it, severing the original design like that.
“Get up and get out.” Tristan stands stone-still as Derrick replaces his jersey and heads inside, an entourage following behind him to make sure he grabs his duffel bag and leaves. I beat the crowd by running around the side of the lodge, so I can get a sneak peek at the parking lot.
Derrick climbs into a yellow Aston Martin and peels out of the driveway with the shriek of his horn, and a middle finger. I stand there in the shadows as the dust settles, and then jump when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
Spinning around, I find Tristan standing far too close to me.
“What … was that all about?” I manage to choke, trying to understand why I feel equal parts terrified and excited at being alone in the dark with him. He just stares at me, silent and cold and unreadable. It makes me want to crack his façade and see what’s lying underneath, if anything.
“Come upstairs and play a little game with us, and maybe we’ll tell you.” He runs his palm over my shoulder and down my bare arm. I shed my leather jacket a long time ago, but now I’m wishing I had it on. His skin is too hot where it touches me, sending this violent little thrill through me that has nothing to do with fear. “I assumed you were curious because you wanted to know what I could do for you.” His words thunder in my skull, but I push them away.
My mother lost her virginity at age fourteen, and just before I left home to come here, she stopped by for her first visit in years. “You won’t last long at that school. You’re too much like me, Marnye. You’ll be sniffing around those filthy rich boys like a dog in heat.” I’ve made it a whole year past her mark, and I plan to make it a few more at that.
Not … that I’d be interested in losing my virginity to Tristan Vanderbilt anyway. He’s beautiful, I can’t deny that, but he’s too cold on the inside, too cruel. Even though his hands are wicked hot.
“What sort of game?” I ask, and he smirks, looking me over with a flicker of heat in his eyes that surprises me.
“Poker.”
The way he sneers as he says that tells me definitively that I’m witnessing a very big mistake.
Poker, huh? The way he says it makes me think he’s a damned good player. I bet they all are.
The thing is, I grew up in Lower Banks, the poorest neighborhood in Cruz Bay. There’s nobody that can outdo me at a round of Texas hold ‘em.
Holding back a smile, I follow him back inside and up the stairs.
There’s a second lounge area on the top floor with its own wet bar and series of round tables. Creed and Zayd sit at one, each with an empty chair beside them, while the other partygoers take up the rest. Zack is already there, seated at a different table, but his dark eyes follow me as I move across the room.
Cards and chips are already set out, but I get a feeling we’re going to be betting more than money here. The Idols don’t give a crap about money. Well, I mean, in all reality, they care a lot, they just have so much of it that playing for cash probably doesn’t excite them much.
And that … scares me a little.
“Take a seat, Working Girl,” Zayd says with a smirk, reaching up to smooth his palm over the gelled spikes of his hair. I sit next to him, watching as he downs another full cup of beer. After how much he’s had tonight, I’m surprised he’s still standing. Then again, practice makes perfect, and I’m guessing he’s built his tolerance up over many, many parties.
Creed deals a hand, and then distributes the chips evenly amongst us.
“Texas hold ‘em?” I ask, and he flicks his eyes my direction, barely acknowledging me with a slight tilt of his chin. He’s still clinging to that anger from outside, his rage toward Derrick only partially satisfied. Tristan sits across from me, and folds his forearms on the table, leaning in close.
“We’ll start with a warm-up round,” Tristan begins, and I have to hold back a smile. They think they’re going to smoke me here. I’m happy to prove them wrong. Zayd lights up a cigarette and Creed wrinkles his nose, but I’m used to it. Everyone in the Cruz Bay Mobile Home Village smokes, including my own dad. “Buy in is ten grand; I’ll cover for the charity case. You shouldn’t have any problem with that, right, Working Girl, taking other peoples’ money?” He stares at me with zero emotion in his eyes, and I shrug.
“I can’t afford a ten thousand dollar buy in, so if you want me to play with you, then yeah, I accept.” I stare him down, but he just smirks at me. He probably thinks he’ll win it all back anyway. On the inside, my heart is pounding and I’m having trouble not thinking about how much ten thousand dollars could help my dad. He could fix the moldy walls in our bathroom, buy a truck that actually starts up on a reliable basis, maybe even take a vacation …
“Figures.” Tristan leans back in his chair and looks between the three of us. “You ready?”
“I was born ready,” Zayd says, flashing a bright grin, and then the round starts. I’m sitting on Creed’s left, so I start with a small blind, trying to see the chips as just chips and not actual dollars. If I do, I’ll get distracted.
Everyone knows what they’re doing so the rounds move quickly. Zayd is so outgoing and expressive that I pick up his tells within minutes. If he’s confident in his cards, he reaches up to play with his hair. If he’s not, he scratches at his tattooed chest with inked fingers. He’s the first to fold.
“Man, fuck this game,” he groans, putting his hands over his face as I smile. Creed is as unreadable as ever, but he’s cautious, and eventually, he folds too.
Tristan is the one to beat. He bets high every time, and when it comes time to show our cards, I’ve got a royal flush, and he has a straight.
He scowls at me as I collect the pile of chips, and find it impossible to hold back the smirk on my face.
“Did we just get wiped by the Working Girl?” Zayd asks, blinking wide, green eyes in my direction. “Holy shit.”
“Where the fuck did you learn to play?” Tristan snaps, as Creed studies me with his bored, too-rich-to-care look.
“I grew up in the Lower Banks neighborhood,” I explain, my hands shaking as I stack the chips. Did I just win forty-grand? Impossible. Literally impossible. I fully don’t expect the guys to actually pay up. Why should they? What could I possibly do, complain to the staff that we used the student lodge during break to play illegal rounds of poker, and I didn’t get my payout? “You think you’re good at poker? I know kids who could wipe the floor with all of us.”
Tristan’s mouth tightens, but it doesn’t stop him from passing me the dealer button and demanding we start a new round.
“Text us your account information, and we’ll wire the money,” he says, the anger fading from his face and voice. Back to being stone-cold again.
“I don’t have a bank account,” I say, and all three boys turn to look at me. Zayd cocks a disbelieving brow, and Tristan sighs.
“Of course you don’t,” he says, as I stare skeptically back at him. No way are they really going to wire me any money. No freaking way. “I’ll have my dad’s assistant set one up for you.”
“You don’t have to pretend,” I tell him as I shuffle the cards. “I don’t expect you guys to actually pay me.”
“Why wouldn’t we?” Creed drawls, putting his curled fingers up against the side of his cheek. “Those are the rules of the Infinity Club: you make a bet, you pay out.”
“You’re going to give me forty thousand dollars?” I choke out with a scoff. Well, technically half of my winnings belong to Tristan for loaning me the buy-in, but that’s a moot point if money never exchanges hands.
“No, you won forty thousand dollars, fair and square,” Creed says, dropping his hand into his lap. His blue eyes are so intense, I want to look away, but I feel like I’m losing something if I do. We end up just staring at each other. “Besides, my mother wipes her ass with that amount of money. It’s not exactly going to break our banks.”
He pulls his phone from his pocket and frowns at a text message.
I’m too caught up on the idea of having that much money to even notice. My dad could use the money to put down on a house. Or, selfishly, I think about keeping it for college. How amazing would that be? I’d always assumed scholarships and loans would be there to help me make ends meet, but this money could really be life-changing.
“Excuse me,” Creed says, standing up and giving Zayd a look.
Tristan watches with narrowed eyes as Zayd follows after, heading down the stairs. A few seconds later, and there’s the sound of a car coming up the driveway.
“Guess we’re taking a break?” I start, but Tristan isn’t looking at me, or even listening. Instead, he’s staring out the window like he’s seen a ghost, his face going white, hands curling into fists. He shoves up from his chair, nearly knocking it over in the process, and makes his way downstairs.