Push(50)

I follow David, who is now lifting the cases of beer up on to the bar. But before I can get to him, one of the waitresses throws her arms around his neck and plants a kiss on his lips. I am frozen in my tracks, a swell of rage building in my chest. I want to rush at her, to knock her off of him, to smash her down to the floor. But I don’t because I promised David that I wouldn’t freak out. Damn her. The kiss is blissfully brief, because the moment their lips connect, David calmly pushes her away. He says something to her, and she lets go of his neck instantly. He drops his hands on to his hips, and she starts to laugh, throwing her head back and sticking out her chest. When she stops laughing, she looks over at me and then back at David. Then she slinks away from him, sending me a small wave as she goes. I want to flip her the finger, but instead I plaster a psychotic “girlfriend smile” on my face. One that I hope conveys both attitude and arrogance. One that I hope David sees, too. It is my way of telling him that I am not about to let some half-dressed whore ruffle my f*cking feathers.
Now it seems that I have something to prove. I vow to not get visibly fired up at all tonight. I’m going to lay myself down for him. To show him that I can handle whatever is about to be dished out. I promised him exactly that, but up until now, I thought it was a moot point. I didn’t think anyone would be able to fire me up. But clearly this poker game isn’t what I thought it would be. I’ve got one sentence to say to David, and I need to say it before I see anything like that again.
“Don’t make me kick your f*cking ass,” I say, looking him dead in the eye. He is wearing a look of utter surprise.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a smile in his voice. He grips my wrist for a second and skims his thumb across it. I am sure he can feel my skin burning. When he lets go, I grab a beer from the counter and turn on my heels. I want to watch.
Despite feeling incredibly out-of-place, I decide to wear my confidence like a goddamned badge. I’m not going to cling to David tonight. I’m going to treat this poker game like it’s precisely where I belong. I don’t know how to play poker, and I’m not sure they’d let me play anyway, but I do know how to drink. And flirt. And pretend.
David spends a good amount of time behind the bar, unloading the beer and pouring drinks. Then he moves around the room, chatting with the gamblers, checking in with the dealers, swapping wads of cash for chips. He talks easily with the waitresses who all seem to know him very well. They are flirtatious and engaging, and I know that he is watching me carefully from across the room to see my reaction to their touches and smiles. But I see now that it is part of the game going on here tonight. It is more than a poker game. It’s an atmosphere of energy, sex, money, alcohol and business. Watching David is mesmerizing. He is exuding light, and whenever he glances at me, I feel my breath stick. Suddenly I am feeling very f*cking lucky to be this fine-ass man’s girlfriend. I want to stand next to him, to touch him. I want everyone here to see that he is mine and I am his. But I don’t, because I don’t want to be that kind of girlfriend. The word “covetous” pops into my head because it is precisely how I am feeling.
I’ve been leaning against the wall drinking beer and watching for the past hour and a half. I decide I’m done with the wallflower shit and step out into the room.
Two hours later I am drunk as hell, sitting at a table right next to Carl. My ass alarm is sounding loud and clear, but it doesn’t stop me from chatting Carl up because I know that David is here, standing right next to me. Carl might be a fat prick of a landlord, but he is funny as shit. Telling stories, playing cards, slurping down shots, smoking cigars. He is riotous. Unfettered. Gregarious. I haven’t laughed this much ever.
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 f*ck? 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?