Rebel at Spruce High (Spruce Texas Romance #5) - Daryl Banner Page 0,172

triple patty heart-attack cheeseburger.”

“Preach,” grunted Lewis, to which Quinton bumped his fist.

“We are here. Away from all of that noise. In the end, it doesn’t matter if it’s an Ebon Oasis chair cradling our overworked butts, or a Talisman chair, or even the fancy ones at Elysium that look like thrones—or toilets, depending on the angle. Personally, the casino I prefer is the Crystal Dragon, but that’s because I’m a sucker for their spring rolls and pad thai.” I shot each of them a look. “But I’m not over here whining like a bitch about which craps table I can pitch a pair of dice at, now am I?”

Lewis folded his arms. Quinton hid an amused chuckle behind his big hand as he glanced between Lewis and Duncan. After a while, Duncan just shrugged and said, “Fine. Ebon Oasis first up, then Elysian for the drinks, then the Dragon for a sober-up bite of Asianese. We can hit the Talisman tomorrow when all the college brats are hung over in their hotel rooms.”

“Hell yeah!” cried out Quinton like he just won a hand, but likely he still had lesbian boobs on his mind.

I wouldn’t blame him. I had someone else’s perfect face, tight bod, and pouty lips on mine.

A moment later found us sitting around a blackjack table at the Ebon Oasis with drinks in our fists. Smoke drifted in a wispy haze over the casino’s signature black marble countertops, and the noise of thumping music, riotous laughter, and repetitive slot machine tunes flooded my ears. By the time we finished with the first casino, none of us felt up to going to the second. We were at least up to our knees in the proverbial pool of intoxication, and none of us were as young as we mentally pretended to be.

It wasn’t long before we were sitting at a small table in the Crystal Dragon food court that served midnight eggrolls and pad thai from a nearby kiosk. All of our wallets were lighter, and not because of the food and drinks. None of us had a lick of winnings to show for our crazy night, unless you counted Duncan scoring five dollars off the penny slots.

Our spot in the front corner of the food court had a perfect view of the whole casino. And as we sat there chowing down and listening to Lewis complain about something to do with his wife driving him crazy—“She messages me ten times an hour when she knows dang well what weekend this is!”—I spotted him through the coil of steam rising off my plate of food.

I stopped eating at once. The sight of him alone cast a spell of paralysis over me.

I blinked the blurriness from my eyes several times, as if to be sure I was seeing what I was seeing. For a second, I wasn’t sure if it was the same guy. I mean, he was gorgeous like him. He wore the same clothes—tight white tank top, blue jeans, and a black cap—but he had a hoodie tied around his waist now, and he looked considerably younger than he did before, even with the facial hair.

Just when I thought my system had returned to normal, there went my insides turning over again. A weight of expectation sat right on my chest the longer I watched him as he strolled slowly through the casino like he had nowhere to be.

Really, he looked lost. It was easy to tell that he was headed nowhere in particular with the slow, uncalculated way in which he moseyed about. Also, he was with no one. He buried his hands in his pockets and stiffened up, which did something quite appealing to his arm muscles, making them look flexed, sinewy, and taut. His shoulders were hunched ever so slightly, giving him a guarded air. Was he on the lookout for someone? Was he on the run?

It was unclear whether he was in danger—or was the danger. The victim … or the criminal.

That ambiguity, I’m ashamed to say, turned me on.

A lot.

“I think it’s … uh … about time to call it a nighty-nighty-night, fellas,” Duncan announced as he staggered to his feet.

Lewis scoffed at him. “Shit, man, it’s barely midnight.”

“And I had a day … a day full of … of entitled teenagers talking to me like I was their f-freakin’ butt butler.” Duncan coughed and wiped his face with a clumsy hand. “I meant to just say ‘butler’.”

Quinton chortled. “I liked butt butler better.”

“I’m