Chapter 12

 

 

 

TWENTY-TWO, TWENTY-THREE, twenty-four… Wes counted golf balls into buckets, tired as hell, and ready to get the eff out of there. Twenty-five, twenty-six…

The door to the lobby opened and Chance wrestled a huge container inside. “This is the last tub. I cleaned the johns and turned off the outside lights.”

When he realized he’d lost count, Wes cursed, dumped the bucket, and started over. One, two, three…

“And the parking lot was looking kind of weedy, so I sprayed.”

… eleven… twelve… thirteen…

“And I changed the oil in the mower. Man, that machine is awesome.”

He lost count again. “Dude! I’m counting here.”

“Sorry. My bad.”

Wes was instantly contrite. Chance had been working his ass off, and incredibly, seemed happy as shit about it.

“Want some help?” Chance asked, jumping in. “I used to spend hours counting pills and putting them in little baggies. This is way easier.”

Except Chance counted out loud, which threw Wes off again.

He stepped back, marveling over how much his buddy had taken to running the driving range. Chance seemed to be in his element, schmoozing with customers and running around the property finding ways to improve things. “Did you even smoke any weed today?”

Chance looked up. “No time. Do you want some now?”

Wes pursed his mouth, then shrugged. “Sure. We’re done for the day.”

Chance reached under his bill cap and pulled out a plastic baggie with a big fattie in it. He removed it reverently, then tucked the butt between his lips, pulled out a lighter and sucked on it like it was female until it caught. Then he inhaled deeply and held his breath, and passed it to Wes.

Wes took a deep draw, then coughed out most of the smoke. “Dude… this is strong. What is this stuff?”

“Banana Kush, man, it’s some of the best grass ever. Don’t waste it.”

Wes tried again and managed to keep some of the smoke in his lungs. He instantly felt the high coming on. “Wow.” He passed the joint back to Chance, who took another expert hit.

“I know, right? Yum. Never could understand why you liked that Oxy shit when you could have weed.” He passed the joint back.

Wes inhaled. “You sold me that Oxy shit,” he said while holding his breath. Then he passed the joint back.

“Well, I’m glad you’re done with it.”

Wes kept quiet, but the little bag of Oxy had burned into his leg all day. The only thing that had kept him from hitting it was being entertained by Chance. He took the joint for another hit, had just drawn a huge lungful when the door opened and Randolph walked in.

Wes coughed out a white cloud and stood frozen while his dad sized up the scene.

“What the hell is this?” Randolph demanded.

“Banana Kush,” Chance supplied. “It’s the most primo weed on the market right now, Mr. Wren. You want a hit?”

Wes closed his eyes briefly, praying to become invisible. But when he opened his eyes, he could still see himself, could see his hand holding the joint, shaking.

Randolph’s face was mottled. “No, I don’t want a hit. Put it out.”

Wes used his fingers to pinch the fire at the end, wincing against the pain. Then he handed it back to Chance, who tucked it back into the baggie, and returned it under his cap.

“We had decent sales today,” Chance offered, but the good news was somewhat mitigated by his slow, flabby delivery.

Randolph worked his mouth back and forth. “I can’t believe you two. I’m trying to build a business here, and you’re getting high?”

“We were just kicking back,” Chance said.

“You are a bad influence on my son.”

“Probably,” Chance agreed with a shrug. “But Wes is a good influence on me. He used to take all my college exams, and got me real good grades.”

Wes looked at Chance and shook his head.

“What? You were smarter than the professors who didn’t even realize you weren’t taking the class.”

Randolph locked gazes with Wes, then pursed his mouth. “No smoking weed on the premises.”

“Not even in the john?” Chance asked.

“Not even.”

“How about while we’re mowing? That shouldn’t bother anyone.”

Randolph put his hands on his hips. “Except it’s probably not a good idea to operate heavy machinery while you’re stoned.”

“How about—”

“Dude,” Wes cut in with a hiss. “Shut it.” He hated that look of disappointment on his dad’s face.

“You can’t afford to get into any more trouble, young man.”

“Did you just come back to lecture me?” Wes asked. The weed was making him brave.

“No. I came back because I bought you a chair in a poker tournament tonight in Peachtree City. Thought you could use some real-life practice.”

Wes nodded. “Sure. Sounds good.”

“Will you be able to play in two hours?”

“Yeah, I’ll chug some Red Bull.”

“Okay,” Randolph said. “Let’s go.”

“Can I go, too?” Chance asked, sounding like an eager little kid.

Randolph hesitated, then nodded.

“Great!” Chance said, heading for the door. “Can we get some burgers on the way? Also I gotta warn you—smoking weed gives me gas, and whew, it will not be pleasant.”

Randolph cut his gaze to Wes, who gave him a flat smile and followed Chance.

They piled into his dad’s luxury SUV, and stopped to get takeout. Wes chowed down, hoping to soak up the high. True to his word, Chance passed enough wind to go airborne—they rolled down the windows and rode down I-75 south of the airport to Peachtree City, a town populated with lots of pilots, and lots of retirees.

The poker club was in the basement of a bar, and a typical tournament setup. There was a separate entrance for the players and the spectators so the management could keep a tight rein on the crowd. The buy-in was a grand. There were five tables, and five players at each table. The top player would take home ten grand, and the four other players at the final table would get back their buy-in money, plus a little extra.

Wes scanned the crowd, but he didn’t see anyone he knew. He picked up his number then found the corresponding seat at a table. Three of the seats were occupied by men who seemed to know each other. They were chatting casually while each of them shuffled a deck of cards and went through their own warmup exercises. Randolph had given him a deck from the several he kept in his glove compartment, no doubt a holdover habit from when he dealt blackjack and poker in Vegas. Wes cut the deck and attempted a shuffle, but his tender fingertips nibbled down to the quick then burned by dousing the joint, made him awkward. He dropped the slick cards like a newbie, and glanced up to see if Randolph had noticed.

He had. His dad’s mouth tightened in disapproval. Wes swallowed hard and tried to focus, but his left leg was jumping like mad. He glanced around the table to see if the other players had noticed. He realized the weed had made him a little paranoid.

Then the fifth player took their seat. He knew because he sensed a change in the rest of the players. Wes looked up to see a gorgeous Asian girl with a fall of white hair covering most of her face. She was wearing a thin white shirt and a red denim jacket with the collar turned up. She looked sullen and bored as she studied and seemed to dismiss each player.

Until she got to him. She leveled those black eyes on him and stared until he had to blink. She was mesmerizing.

The club manager announced the tournament’s start, then a dealer joined each table and ran through the rules for Texas Hold ‘em, how each player could use the community pot to improve their hand—a formality since everyone there knew the score.

Wes acknowledged a hum of excitement in his chest—he hadn’t played cards since Vegas. He’d been on a winning streak until he was dragged out of the casino for playing with counterfeit bills.

But in Vegas Randolph hadn’t been standing a few feet away watching every move.

He started off playing rocky, but thankfully two of the players were really terrible, probably on a married men’s outing for the month while their wives did bookclub. They lost their thousand in chips pretty quickly, which left him and another guy and the foxy girl. She was so chill he might’ve thought she was tranquilized if not for the way her enormous eyes moved around the table and how confidently she bet.

Wes tried to play his game instead of hers, slow-playing good hands and bad hands alike. After four more rounds, the third guy was out, leaving him and Manga Girl to play for the table title. Randolph stood in his sight-line, arms crossed and judging.

Each of them had roughly half the chips the other three players had sacrificed. For the first six hands, they passed the lead back and forth. Wes was finding his zone, though, and on the seventh hand, he was dealt three of a kind, which improved to four of a kind with the turn of the community cards. He slow-played, as usual, and since she seemed to be willing to go along, he guessed she had a natural pair, and three of a kind with the community cards. He was contemplating his next raise when she removed her jacket.

She wasn’t wearing a bra.

Talk about a natural pair.

Wes tried to avert his gaze, but it had been ages since he’d had sex. And there her nipples were, right there poking out in front of him. In the middle of the hand, he forgot what he was holding and had to look at his cards again. Oh, right—four of a kind. He went all in.

So did she.

The dealer pointed to him—he revealed his hand, and the spectators oohed. Then the dealer pointed to Manga Girl, and she turned over her cards.

“Straight flush,” the dealer said. “We have a table winner!”

The crowd awed, then gave her a smattering of applause.

Wes stared, and the air left his lungs. He glanced up to Randolph, who wiped his hand over his mouth and turned away.