Push(59)
I think David is enjoying seeing me let loose, though I’m not sure how he is feeling about me sitting so close to Carl. He puts himself between us the moment Carl leans a little too close, and his hand spends a minute or two on my shoulder every time another male sits down at the table. David hasn’t said a word to me all night since his “yes, ma’am” hours ago. But he is watching me like a hawk.
Groups of men have been coming and going through most of the night. Brad seems to be a doorman of sorts, deciding who is allowed inside and whose drunk ass to kick to the curb. It is a role he must take seriously because he hasn’t cracked a smile since we got here. There are another three or four men here that seem to be part of the operation. I recognize them from David’s bedroom. David is clearly good friends with them, but he doesn’t introduce me to any of them. I know they recognize me from that night, though, because they all smile knowingly when our eyes meet. I think David is right—they would like to have a crack at me. And they would gladly take him down for the opportunity.
As Carl is telling us a hysterical story about a female-only dirt bike race he once staged, Brad opens the door to let in another small gaggle of men. My eyes fly open when I spot Matt in the group. Matt! He is dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, smoking a cigarette and smiling at the friend he’s walking in with. I see a long, dark tattoo on his right forearm. What the fuck? How did I not notice that before? Long sleeves. He always wears long sleeves. I glance up at David, who is also watching the men walk in the door. He looks down at me and raises his eyebrows. Ahh. I can see on his face that he has known the douche bag all along. I shake my head at David, and he gives me a shrug. Then he walks over to Matt and they talk. Matt looks over at me and raises his chin. I give him a sheepish wave and narrow my eyes at David. What the hell is going on here?
Matt and his friends swap money for chips and sit down at a table to play. I try to climb gracefully out of my chair, but I end up stumbling away. I can hear Carl and his table mates chuckling softly at my drunken gawkiness. I am clearly more intoxicated than I thought. My head is light, and despite my confusion about Matt, I feel euphoric. I feel perfect.
But I also have to pee. As I am walking toward the hallway at the front of the room that I suspect leads to the restrooms, I feel a hand grab my arm and turn me around. My dizzy head moves faster than my eyes, and it takes me a few seconds to realize that it is David who has stopped me. His hand is still holding my arm, and I see fire racing across his face. What’s this? He must be angry with me for getting so drunk, for sitting so close to Carl, for flirting and doing shots and waving to Matt. Oh, he’s mad. He’s really mad. I haven’t seen this from him, and frankly, I’m surprised at the intensity of it.
Both his hands are holding me now, gripping my upper arms. Steadying me. His face looks cross, and his brow is tight.
“You promised,” he says sharply. “You can’t leave.” What?
“I’m not leaving, you ass. I’m taking a piss.” Relief brushes across his face, and his eyes briefly close.
“The bathrooms are in the back,” he says with a sigh. And then his arms are around me, and his tongue is sweeping into my mouth. Right here in front of this room full of people, he is kissing me like a fucking porn star.
When he pulls away, he tells me that he thought I was bailing because he didn’t tell me about knowing Matt. He tells me what I already know—that this gambling ring is private. And illegal. No one is supposed to talk about it outside of Tuesday nights. Outside of this room. They could all go to jail for a very long time if they let the wrong person in the door. I lean into him and joke that I’ll be sure to keep all their shenanigans under my hat.
“Shhhh,” I say, with so much drunken silliness that I want to punch myself, “it’s all good, baby. I got your back. Because you, David Calgaro, are one fine-ass man.” I pat him irreverently on the chest, and he shakes his head at my sloppy drunkenness. My neck feels floppy, and I roll it backwards and start to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he says with a grin.
“Me. I’m funny,” I say, poking myself in the chest with my own index finger. “When that half-dressed girl kissed you earlier, I wanted to wring both of your fucking necks.” Oh, this is bad. I am going to say more than I should. I am about to engage in the whole so-drunk-it’s-embarrassing thing. “I wanted to knock you both to your knees. David, I don’t give a flying fuck about your knowing Matt. It’s business. Whatever. But what I do give a flying fuck about is you. You, David Calgaro. I give a flying fuck about you.” Oh, sweet Jesus. What am I doing?