Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(17)
I smile and try not to think about my realistic parents, who’ve probably made plans to pick me up from the airport.
Before I pocket my phone, it pings again.
Natalie and Jordan miss you. They keep asking when you’ll be back. – Shay
He’s lying. For one, Natalie and Jordan didn’t even notice when I had bronchitis our freshman year and missed three practices. If we didn’t share a single commonality—the girl’s gymnastics team—I doubt we’d even be Facebook friends. I text quickly: I’ve been gone for a day and a half.
This is reason enough that no one probably misses me. I wouldn’t even miss myself for that long.
I think I’d need a solid month. Then I’d start missing myself. Maybe.
He replies back with a devil emoji. I send him an angel one.
Right as I return to the craps game, I spot someone familiar dealing cards at a blackjack table. My feet lead me there before my head does.
“Oh no,” John says as I approach. “This table is reserved for non-AE artists.”
“I’m not an artist yet,” I tell him, resting my hand on an open stool. “I’m just a gymnast.” If I’m really unwanted, I can go wander aimlessly somewhere else. Maybe I’ll find a good reading bench.
John looks surly, so I begin to back away.
“Wait, wait,” he says slowly and motions for me to return. “It’s been a quiet afternoon, and I’m predicting an onslaught of loud, obnoxious fraternity guys. It always happens. It’s an easy day and then fucking tobacco-chewing, sunglass-wearing douche bags roll in, pretending they’re professional poker players, leaving two-dollar tips and bottles of brown spit.” He shuffles his cards. “But if you sit here, you’ll most likely detract them from my table. You’ll be my asshole repellent.”
I hesitate to ask. “Why will I repel them?” I settle into the open seat, taking the invitation regardless. I mean, I don’t have many options. Or friends here. So yeah, I’m left with moody John Ruiz. It’s not bad, all things considered.
His eyes flicker to my black leotard and loose pony, flyaway pieces of dirty-blonde hair around my oval face. “They go for the empty tables or the ones with models. You’re neither invisible nor a model. No offense.”
“None taken.” I’m glad he doesn’t ask about my auditions. Not dwelling has alleviated some stress. I watch him shuffle another deck. John wears a tux with a gold bowtie, the dealer’s uniform, and he scowls so much that his forehead wrinkles.
“You have RBF?” I blurt out. I internally grimace. Why did I ask that? Maybe I can relate to someone else who suffers from Resting Bitch Face. I’ve bonded with a girl on the gymnastics team that way. We unite together. But it’s not like that term is common or even a “thing” with lots of people.
His face scrunches more and he gives me a weird look. Then he says, “No, I’m just a bitch.” He smiles dryly.
I can’t help but smile back. And the corner of his mouth even rises in a more genuine one.
“What’s your bet?” he asks me.
“Can I just watch?” I didn’t bring any money to the casino, and this is a pretty expensive table.
“Elbows off the table,” he suddenly tells me.
Okay, that must be a rule. I don’t even know proper poker etiquette. I quickly take them off. And then he passes me a glass bowl of Chex mix. “I’m usually not this nice. But you look like you need a friend, and I’m never that friend. Never.” He shakes his head like this is cemented in truth. “This is only because you’re working for me today. Incentive to stay when I become surly at two-thirty. Happens every afternoon. Prepare yourself for it.”
“Surlier than now?” I ask with the raise of my brows.
“You’re meeting the most cheerful me there is. I can’t help it if the world is fucking lousy. There’s not much to take pleasure in. And the only reason more people aren’t like me is because they’re living in a fantasy world of cupcakes and daffodils and—”
“Glitter,” a guy suddenly interjects, sliding onto a stool, two separating us. “Can’t forget the glitter, old man.”
John solidifies, and he shoots the new guy a glare as dark as thunderstorms and lightning. It’s a look only reserved for people you know.
I whip my head from one to the other. It’s like they’re silently having a conversation through their eyes. I scan the young guy’s features: dark brown hair, long in the front so the tips brush his eyelashes. Pale skin. Thin, almost gangly build underneath a leather jacket. Topping off his look with high-cut jean shorts and boots.
By the shorts alone, he seems a bit brazen. And not one of the tobacco-chewing, sunglass-wearing assholes that I’m supposed to repel.
John breaks the death-stare first. “There are ten other blackjack tables, Timo. Go find another one.”
Unperturbed, Timo places a tall stack of chips on the green felt. “I would, definitely, go find another one. You are my least favorite dealer in all of The Masquerade. Congratulations on that, by the way. And yet, I have this feeling—” he touches his chest dramatically “—that today you’re going to bring me some luck, old man.”
“Stop calling me old man,” John retorts, his mood darkening as the seconds pass by. “I’m twenty-fucking-five. Don’t make me bring over security again.”