SLOW PLAY (7-Stud Club #4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,69
man to make it to poker night. Rule was, last one in was required to be the last one out, along with taking the recyclables and garbage to the cans. Upon reaching the walkway to the front door, a car pulled up to the curb. Hah. Not the last arrival.
He watched as Shane leaned from the passenger side toward the driver, kissing the cheek of the woman behind the wheel. Then he climbed out at the same time his half-brother Raf exited the back seat. As Shane moved to the trunk and popped it open, Raf walked around the front of the car and leaned against the frame of the driver’s open window.
To chat up his brother’s girlfriend.
The shit-eating grin on the man’s face only served to turn up the volume of the warning bells going off in Mad’s head. He couldn’t assess the response of the driver-cum-Shane’s-girl, but when the hood of the trunk slammed down, Raf straightened away from the car. All innocence.
Totally underhanded.
Mad rubbed the back of his neck, then waited for the other two men to join him. “Good evening,” he said, as they walked toward the entrance.
“What’s with the stink eye?” Raf murmured.
“I saw what you were doing,” he answered through gritted teeth.
“Had to report on the vanilla-almond oil hunt.”
“Right.”
Raf elbowed him. “You don’t win a game by sitting it out.”
With a shake of his head, Mad pulled open the front door and ushered the other men in. He’d thought about making excuses and persuading Harper to spend the entire night with him, but had decided that maybe some time with the guys would straighten out his muddled head.
Give him some clue on how to proceed. If he should proceed at all.
Shit.
“What did you say?” Boone asked, as he handed him a beer in exchange for the non-greasy snack that each poker participant was obliged to bring.
“Nothing.”
“Hey.” Boone held up the bag of black licorice bites Mad had purchased on his way to poker night. “What the hell? When do you bring licorice? On poker night we count on you for those rye pretzels.”
Mad narrowed his eyes. “I’m not always rye pretzels.”
“You’re always rye pretzels. And when it’s your night to host poker, you’re always the tamales.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re rye pretzels and tamales. And when we play blackjack, you never hit on twelve and when you lose big you never get shit-faced and murder Journey songs at the top of your lungs like Cooper.”
“Hey!” yelled Cooper from across the room.
“I don’t murder Journey songs or any other band’s because I never lose big,” Mad said, with a touch of smug.
“You never win big either,” Boone pointed out.
Mad could only frown at him.
The poker crew gathered in the kitchen to help themselves to the grilled steak, baked potatoes, and salad that Boone provided—and yeah, Mad had to admit the other man’s host menu varied, unlike his. Once they were done eating and the dishes piled in the sink, they gathered around the poker table for the first round of play.
It was then that their friend Hart Sawyer’s mood made itself apparent.
The man sat back in his chair, nursing a whiskey straight-up and eyeing the cards as if they were venomous snakes. As the evening progressed, he left the conversation around him untouched. When it was time to bet, he shoved his chips toward the center of the felt and when it was time to fold he threw down his cards with a violence that made his long-time friends uneasy.
They exchanged glances but no one said anything until they took a break. Some of the guys moved to grab another beer. Hart took himself into the backyard, alone.
“I thought it was getting better,” Boone said, frowning after him. “That he was feeling better. I shouldn’t have discussed the guest list for my bachelor party with him on Tuesday.”
Eli took a long swallow of his beer, an act that didn’t erase his guilty expression. “I may have asked him to go out with me next week to listen to a band we’re considering for my and Sloane’s wedding reception.”
Next, they all turned their gazes to Cooper, the third of their group to have recently made a serious commitment to a woman. “What?” he asked, holding up both hands. “I didn’t do anything!”
Then he mumbled something.
Raf tilted his head. “What was that? Speak up.”
Cooper glared at him. “Fine, it’s possible that I mused aloud—I was really talking to myself and he just happened to be there, okay?—whether Willow would prefer