Crazy Eights (Stacked Deck #8) - Emilia Finn Page 0,14

your right. I’m still at risk of an uppercut, but it’s better than a jab with a windup behind it.”

“Well, I’ll be standing in the hall.” I pick up my bag and swing it over my shoulder. “Holding Uncle Aiden before he passes out from fear.”

“He’s gonna need you all,” Smalls whispers. “I’m taking Mom with me, which means he’s gonna be freaking the hell out, and he won’t have her there to help him.”

“We’re gonna have to knock him out,” Bry finally adds to the conversation. “Straight up knock that motherfucker out and sit on him.”

“Who are you knocking out?” Uncle Aiden himself walks into the room. He looks to his daughter, to her swollen belly, to Ben’s hand resting on it. Then he looks away, because having a pregnant daughter is fucking him up in ways I’m not sure any of us could have predicted.

“Nobody,” Bry announces like a coward. “No one is knocking anyone out. Except Kyle Baker. Since we all hate that prick.”

A memory flashes through my mind, something from a lifetime ago at a shitty hotel, but I lock it down, lock it away.

Move the fuck on.

“You’d think he’d take a hint by now.” Bean steps aside when Aiden – also known as Biggie – steps toward Evie – his Smalls – and pulls her in for a gentle hug.

He touches her like she’s a soap bubble. Treats her like she’s breakable – or a bomb – and hugs her in a way that their bellies do not touch. I’m not sure he can handle feeling her baby bump pressed against him.

“He hasn’t won yet,” I tell them. “He’s a shitty-ass fighter, but he thinks he’s good.”

“He’s actually a good fighter,” Evie admits. “Back when I was training with him, he was unstoppable. Not a single person walked through their gym and came out on top in a bout against him. And it wasn’t only washed-up wannabes who stepped up. He was seriously good, but it’s like he has a brain snap every time he comes here. He lets his anger control his fight. He gets sloppy and stupid, all because he’s mad that we don’t wanna be his friend.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not gonna be mad if he never comes back,” Bean grumbles. “I can’t stand to look at his face.”

“It’s so strange that he does come back.” Aiden releases his daughter and looks at each of us in turn. “Like, I get a man’s burning hunger to win, but he’s lost every single time he’s been here. Doesn’t he care that he looks like a pussy?”

“Biggie!” Evie gasps. “Language!”

“Shit, sorry.” He pulls her in and presses a kiss to her temple.

As Kincaids, we were raised in a home of bad language, where fists would fly to settle disputes, but those bad words tended toward shit, bitch, and fuck. I’m certain this isn’t the first time Uncle Aiden has said pussy, but it sure as hell is the first time he’s said it in front of his baby girl.

“I’m sorry, honey. Biggie meant to say he’s a sissy.”

“I can’t believe you said pussy,” she murmurs. “Like, way to shatter this illusion of a perfect father.”

“No! It’s not shattered!” He pulls back to hold her arms, and studies her with wild eyes. “I’m still me. I’m still Biggie. I just slipped on that word, but I swear, I won’t slip twice.”

“Biggie said pussy,” she whispers in disbelief, then when Aunt Tina steps through the doorway and stops, Evie looks up. “Mom! Biggie said pussy.”

“Aiden!”

“I’m sorry!” he cries out. “We were talking about Baker, and I got carried away.”

“Oh, well…” Tina kicks her shoes off and makes her way across the rubber mats. “Which Baker?”

“Kyle,” every single person in this room says at the same time.

“Kyle Baker is a pussy,” Tina assures Evie with a roll of her eyes. “You can wrap a log of shit in rose petals, honey, but underneath it all, it’s still a log of shit.”

“Mom!”

For four years now, I’ve tried to talk myself down from the anger I feel toward a certain beautiful, brunette dancer. Legs. Long, perfect legs that still star in my dreams. Eyes the color of the jeans I wear right now. That butt chin… I swear, I haven’t seen one like it since, which is both a relief and heartbreaking.

If I saw a beautiful woman strutting along Main Street with that chin, I might be weak enough to drop to my knees and beg for a minute of