Texas Hold'em
Page 13
He snorted, face scrunching in disgust. “You might catch what they have.”
She widened her eyes. “Oh, no! They have impetigo?”
“What? No. They’re jokers! You might catch the wild card virus.”
“Ohhhhhhhhh,” she said, then shook her head. “Whoever told you that was stupid. I mean really stupid.” She beamed at him then continued outside.
Four jokers clustered near the deep end to her right. Adesina, Ghost, the boy with the color-rippled skin, and the bald pastel boy. No sign of Antonia, to LoriAnne’s disappointment. At the opposite corner of the pool, a group of half a dozen nat teens sat by the shallow end—as far away from the jokers as possible. One brown-haired nat girl in a skimpy bikini kept sending longing glances at the water. LoriAnne could only assume she believed the crap about catching the virus.
Okay, you’re at the pool. Now what? Be brave and go talk to the jokers? Shun them like all the cool kids were doing?
Well, shunning was obviously out of the question. LoriAnne started a casual saunter toward the jokers, but her bravery quickly fizzled out against their wary glares.
They’re just kids, she scolded herself, but gave up and plopped her bag on an unoccupied chair halfway between the two groups. These were kids whose attitude screamed, Don’t mess with us. Hard to blame them considering what had happened to them today.
The skeeter hummed a comforting melody in her hair as she tugged off her shirt and shorts. She loved having the skeeter near, but she sent it away before she forgot and went into the water with it.
“You’re the drummer for the Louisiana band, right?”
LoriAnne whirled to see one of the nat boys standing a few feet away. Brown hair swept in waves past his jawline, and a nice smile hovered beneath dark and soulful eyes. “I saw you raise your hand in class today,” he said. “I’m Basilio, the drummer for the Modesto Melody Makers.”
“I’m LoriAnne,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You guys sounded great today.” He gave a warm chuckle. “I saw a clip of one of your shows before we got here. I remember thinking your drummer had a lot of fire.”
“That must have been Reese Fowler,” she said. “He moved to Australia.”
Basilio’s mouth twitched. “No, it was fairly recent. Amazing drummer with really pretty hair.”
“Huh. Then I guess it was me.” She shrugged. “Did you check out the other bands beforehand, too?”
“Yeah, our director insists it’s like football, where you watch the other team’s old games to learn all their secrets.” He rolled his eyes.
“And a one and a two and a hut?”
“Exactly!” His smile widened. “That’s a quick wit you have there.”
“Um, thanks,” she said. “We watched videos of a few of the other bands, but Mr. Sloane told us to just trust ourselves and do our best.”
Basilio shifted closer. “How long’ve you been drumming?”
“Since I was eleven,” she said. “You?”
“I started when I was eight,” he said. “You’re really good for only playing a few years.”
“It’s about as long as the Mob’s drummer has been playing, and she’s pretty solid.”
Basilio made a little scoffing noise in the back of his throat. “Sure, but she’s a joker, so it’s hardly a fair comparison. You’re just as good without cheating.”
LoriAnne stiffened with sudden sharp anger.
“No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that—” He gulped as she speared him with her best ice-cold glare.
“Oh, really? You sound like one of those turdface protesters!”
Basilio’s face twisted. “LoriAnne, please, lemme explain!”
As if. Keeping her glare at full throttle, she jerked her chin up and spun to march away.
And collided with a bare male chest. LoriAnne let out a yelp as she lost her balance and tilted precariously toward the pool. The boy made a grab for her. She clutched wildly at him, toppled, and—
Splash!
Mr. Bare-chest came down on top of her, pushing her under until the pool bottom scraped her hip. Water filled her nose and mouth, but before she could panic, strong hands seized her flailing arms and hauled her upright.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Bare-chest asked as she sputtered.
“Yeah,” she said, coughing. “I’m good.” At least the pool was only waist deep here. She cleared the water from her eyes then realized it was the pastel-skinned joker she’d seen in the lobby before breakfast. Except close up it wasn’t odd at all, but a lovely light peach. His skin was peach fuzzy as well, and repelled the water the same way. Was it as soft? She let her hands drop to his forearms, as if she needed the help to remain standing. Yep. Soft. And six—no, eight-pack abs. Holy kamoley. Plus, now that he was close, she saw that the top of his head … fizzed, while an amazing peach scent wafted from him, subtle and enticing. It almost made up for the fact that everyone around the pool was laughing at her.
“I’m soooo sorry,” she finally managed. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. That boy was such an—ugh!”
“No worries,” he said. His gaze tracked Basilio’s return to the other nats.
She suppressed a sigh of disappointment as he released her. “I’m LoriAnne. From the Folsom Funkalicious Four.”
“I’m Asti.” He gave her a wonderfully kind smile then gestured toward his head. “Probably don’t need to tell you I’m with the Jokertown Mob.”
“I kind of figured that much out,” she said with a light laugh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get to see much of your set. What do you play?”
“Guitar. You?”
“Drums.”
“That’s pretty cool. You a fan of Drummer Boy?”
“Ugh. No.” Then she hurried to add, “But not because he’s a joker! I don’t like him because he’s a jerk.”
Asti laughed. “Yeah, I hear you. Antonia thinks Drummer Boy is a complete tool, and I can’t help but agree with her. I don’t know if you’ve ever watched American Hero, but—”
“Only every single episode,” she said, but held off adding “twice.”
“Yeah? Have you had a chance to meet the Amazing Bubbles? She’s super-nice.”
“Um, not yet.” LoriAnne wasn’t about to tell him that she’d completely frozen up when faced with Bubbles in the elevator. “I haven’t met Rustbelt or Rubberband either.”
“Maybe I can introduce you.” Amusement flashed in his eyes. His gorgeous amber eyes. “I mean, since you obviously aren’t afraid you’ll catch the virus by breathing the same air—or being in the same water.” He shot a look at the nat bikini girl.
“I’m not afraid of the virus,” LoriAnne said quickly. “And it would totally rock if I could meet one of the aces. But what I’d like to know, um, ask you…” She groped for the right words.
“You want to know about this?” He swept a hand out to indicate the peach-skin and effervescent scalp.
She blew out a breath. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m being nosy. You don’t have to tell me anything.”
Asti chuckled. “I don’t mind. I’d rather people ask than have them jump to conclusions.”
Gorgeous and nice! “How old were you when your card turned?”
“Eleven and a half,” he said. “I had eczema ever since I was a baby. Nothing too awful. I mean, I wasn’t covered in it or anything, but there was always a patch on my legs and shoulders. One day the doc prescribed a new cream for it, and about a week later, the eczema spread to my entire body. I was one giant scab.”
“Oh my God,” LoriAnne breathed. “That must’ve been horrible.”
“It was,” he said. “Mom freaked and called an ambulance. I remember listening to her argue with the ER doctor. Then the itching went insane. I started clawing at the scabs, and where they peeled off, I had all this underneath. I was lucky. It all turned out okay for me.”
This was okay? Yet LoriAnne also realized it could’ve been a whole lot worse. “You don’t mind bein
g a joker?”
“I’d be lying if I said it never bugged me,” he said. “But I was a bit of a freak already with the weird skin.”
“Still, because you have the virus, you’re…”
“Labeled?”
“Yeah. That’s not right.”
“I agree, but—” His gaze went past LoriAnne, and his smile brightened. “Hey, how’s it going? I’m Asti.”
LoriAnne swung around to see Basilio wading toward them from the direction of the nat herd. Her eyes narrowed in a glare. What the heck was he up to? Why did he have to pick now to interrupt? And why did Asti have to be so darn friendly?
“Basilio,” he replied, offering a hand to Asti. “Does the fizz make real air?”
Asti shook his hand. “A little,” he said, then added with a laugh, “But not enough to keep anyone alive underwater.”
LoriAnne ground her teeth in annoyance as she watched Basilio’s display. It was obvious he was putting on this I-love-jokers act in a pathetic attempt to cover for being a turd.
“LoriAnne, I’d like to start over,” Basilio said. “A few of us are going to walk down to the Alamo then get ice cream. A pre-dinner dessert sort of thing. Wanna come?”
“Sorry, I’ve already been to the Alamo today and had ice cream,” she said with a tight smile. “Besides, I have to dry my hair before dinner. It takes a really long time.”
His face fell, but then he shrugged. “That’s cool. Maybe I’ll see you around later. You too, Asti. It was nice meeting you.”
“Likewise,” Asti said. He watched Basilio leave the pool then returned his attention to LoriAnne. “What happened between you two?”
LoriAnne winced. She really didn’t want to tell him about Basilio’s joker comment and possibly upset him. “We got off on the wrong foot, that’s all.” One side of her mouth quirked up. “And I actually wasn’t fibbing about drying my hair. It’s too heavy if I leave it wet, and I end up with a crick in my neck.”
“That’s so tragic,” he said, eyes sparkling.
Cell phones all around the pool began to ring, beep, and vibrate. “It’s the results!” Adesina cried. “We made the cut!” With a whoop of delight, she seized Ghost up and tossed her into the pool. Or rather, at the pool, since Ghost went ghost right before hitting the water and hovered above it.
At the other end of the pool, several teens jumped to their feet with exultant shouts. “Plano! Plano!”
LoriAnne gulped. “What about Folsom?”
“Folsom made it,” said one of the nat boys who wasn’t cheering. His eyes skimmed over his phone. “Seattle and Detroit didn’t.”
Bikini girl burst into tears then grabbed her towel and ran back into the hotel. The boy with the phone shrugged. “Oh well. At least now I don’t have to practice every night while I’m here.”
LoriAnne spared a few seconds for sympathy then let the joyous relief pound through her. “Congratulations,” she told Asti.
“You, too,” he said, smiling broadly. “But I’d better let you go so you can dry your hair. I guess I’ll see you at the competition tomorrow!” With that he turned, dove underwater, and swam toward the other jokers, leaving a trail of tiny bubbles in his wake.
Well, crap. So much for more time with Asti. Tripped up by the dumb I-have-to-dry-my-hair line. Jeez!
You have all week, she reminded herself. Plenty of time to find out everything she might ever want to know about living with the virus.
But later in the week wasn’t now. And LoriAnne had to admit she was interested in Asti for reasons that went way beyond his potential as a source of information. Asti was hot.
However, even jokers had to eat, which meant he’d most likely be at the dinner tonight. Maybe it was a good thing she’d fibbed about drying her hair. Now she had ample time to get cleaned up for dinner.
The Secret Life of Rubberband
Part 5
IT WAS ALMOST—ALMOST—a relief when the afternoon performance turned interesting. Assholes set off a stink bomb, not even a threat, really, but it did concentrate the mind, and give Robin something to do. The falling lights, those pissed him off. Poor rigging or sabotage? Someone could have been hurt. But they kept the kids together, and their spirits up, and after Michelle’s speech—she had a way with words—they walked the kids home.
He’d almost forgotten about his kitchen adventure by the time they returned to see fire engines parked in front of the hotel.
“Whoa, Mr. R—what happened?”
“Think someone set off a stink bomb here, too?”
“I can’t say,” he said, almost truthfully. “I heard there was an accident in the kitchen.”
“Was it the ghost?”
Robin spent a critical few seconds searching for words, enough time for Jacobson to come to his rescue with, “We all know the place’s haunted.”
“I don’t think it’s a ghost,” he said, though he wasn’t certain what it was. Anyway, the ambulance had already left, empty, thank God—Jan found the dough boy’s inhaler in time, and the burns from the spilled stock hadn’t been anything a bit of overeager first aid couldn’t treat, and the chef’s ankle was probably only sprained anyway. Robin might have cursed the combat medic challenge during his American Hero days, but his skills—plus Jan’s leather jacket, which contained enough ointments, creams, antibiotics, and salves to sterilize just about everything in East Texas that wasn’t already wasteland—came in handy now and again.
He hadn’t anticipated ghosts to be so slippery.
To be fair, he hadn’t anticipated ghosts to be anything at all. In his experience, ghosts were something that most certainly weren’t. (Excepting, of course, the occasional intangible wild card, like Yerodin, who just happened to call herself Ghost. But that was different.)
Whatever that blue-gray thing with the enormous mouth was, it most certainly existed. If Robin still possessed a circulatory system, he would have had the bruises to prove it. The “ghost” was solid—when it wanted to be. It was light—unless it wanted to be heavy. When he reached for it, it had grabbed his hand and swung hard enough to slam him into the wall, if he had bones like a normal person. Instead, it only tore his sleeve and bent one of his arms one hundred eighty degrees below the wrist, which had the positive effect of making the chef stop swearing, and the negative effect of making the chef vomit.
He’d wrapped his arms around the ghost, but it wriggled free; he’d wrapped his entire torso around the ghost, but it wafted through his skin, leaving only a clammy chill. Then it jumped on the stove, upended the stockpot, and life got interesting in the racist joke sense.
Entering the hotel lobby, he expected the desk clerks to point and scream and go for the whole Invasion of the Body Snatchers routine, but either his exploits or his description hadn’t reached the desk staff yet.
Sharon, though, was signing at one of their hosts about the presence, or absence, of dinner.
The attendant stammered something about a kitchen accident. The hotel was calling around, they were going to set up a Mexican buffet, but it was all so last minute and such a large order, so many kids, he couldn’t say how long.…
“Sharon,” Robin said, “it’s okay. I’ll go out with Wally and get the kids pizza.”
She glared at him.
Shit. “I can—” He stopped himself, unsure what he could do. Pay for pizza? With the last of his cash, sure, if they found a cheap enough place. He could keep the receipt, get reimbursed. But they hadn’t caught the ghost yet, and his chances of begging Jan for the second half of his ghost bounty without actually delivering said ghost were about the same as her chances of convincing him of the immediate reptoid threat beneath their very soles.
“Shit,” said Jerry Jeff Longwood in two syllables, sidling up spurs jangling beside Robin. “I don’t mean to interrupt—”
Sharon wasn’t good at keeping her em
otions to herself. She colored beet red, then paled, then flushed an entirely different sort of violet. A slow whistle escaped her lips. If she could speak, this would have been the time to say “Mister Longwood,” in the kind of low breathy swoon you only ever heard in movies after someone had applied vaseline to the lens. If someone swapped Sharon’s and Robin’s cards, she would have been a puddle.
“Anything I can help y’all with? I was just fixin’ to drop by and wait until ol’ Rob here could wiggle free for supper.”
Perhaps there was an upside to this wrecked-kitchen fiasco after all. “Jerry Jeff, something went wrong with the hotel kitchen, and I need to find pizza for our kids. I won’t be able to make it to dinner. I’m so sorry.”
Jerry Jeff looked from Robin, to Sharon, to the kids—Look hungry, kids, Robin tried to tell them with his eyes, but they weren’t looking at him. “Well,” he said, and his shoulders slumped, and Robin’s relief grew.
But before Jerry Jeff could say another word, vaseline-lens Sharon trilled protest, and signed, cutting, sharp,
“We need to solve the dinner problem.”
“I can help y’all take care of that! I know a great barbecue place, three, four blocks from here. Cheap, too! We’ll drive … aw, no, we’ll just walk over there, bring the barbecue back, all them kids get to eat, and then Robin and I dip out for supper. How’s that sound?”
“Can you excuse me, Jerry Jeff?” He took Sharon by the arm and escorted her a few steps to the side. She craned her neck to look over her shoulder at Jerry Jeff. “Sharon, the kids should be our number one priority, here. I know I let things slip this afternoon, I’m so sorry, but I want to make amends—”