The Art of Losing(33)

I shook my head, speechless.

The next girl we ran into was closer to our age. Pretty. And normal-seeming. With her perfect posture and blonde hair, she could have been on our cheerleading squad. “Harley, this is Tina,” Raf said.

I stuck my hand out, but she pulled me into a hug before I knew what was happening.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Harley,” she murmured. “Welcome.” And then she skipped off, literally skipped, to Dave and an Indian guy in his twenties who I assumed was Arjun. Tina cuddled up next to him, and I caught him sneaking a look down her long-sleeved V-neck shirt. Tina didn’t seem to mind. Maybe they were together. Besides, she wasn’t showing much skin, so I figured she’d spent enough time in the apartment to know that it was freezing. But then she pulled up one of her sleeves to scratch her forearm, and I caught a glimpse of the dark veins that trailed from deep purple track marks. My stomach turned.

Raf turned toward the kitchen and I trailed behind, following our noses to the source of the scent of frying sausage. Thankfully, it was also about twenty degrees warmer in the kitchen. I sidled up to the stove instinctively. A thirty-something guy, with a grizzly beard and round belly, was transferring the sausage to a rice-based concoction in a second pan. He put the lid on it and wiped his brow with a paper towel.

“Rafael, my man,” he said as he saw us.

“Cajun,” Raf answered, doing that dude greeting thing that’s half handshake, half hug. “What are you making tonight?”

Cajun lifted the lid off the pan. My mouth watered at the spicy, exotic aroma.

“That’s jambalaya, my friend. It’s going to be orgasmic.” Cajun noticed me standing there and reddened slightly. “Sorry. But really, just wait.”

“Believe me, I’ll be first in line when you start doling it out,” I answered. “But isn’t jambalaya a little on the nose for someone whose name is Cajun?”

He laughed, a big, full-bodied laugh that filled the small kitchen and made me feel instantly relaxed. “I guess that’s true, but I didn’t get the nickname because I’m from New Orleans. I just like my food spicy. All of it. Pasta, tacos, vindaloo, fried chicken, Bloody Marys . . . well, I guess not that last one anymore. Virgin Marys just aren’t the same, you know?”

I smiled and shrugged, not knowing how to answer, or if I should.

“Um, Cajun, this is Harley,” Raf said, jumping in.

“Are you a friend of Bill’s?” Cajun asked.

“No,” I answered. “I’m a friend of Raf’s.”

Cajun laughed again, and I couldn’t help smiling. His eyes met Raf’s, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. I tilted my head, confused.

“He meant Bill W.,” Raf said. “He’s the guy who started Alcoholics Anonymous. Cajun’s asking if you’re an alcoholic.”

“Oh, so ‘friend of Bill’s’ is, like, code?” I asked.

Raf flashed a grin. “It helps us find each other out in the world,” he said.

“That’s cool! But no, I’m not.”

“And that’s cool, too,” Cajun said with a wink. He took a couple of deep breaths. He seemed a little winded from laughing. “Listen, I have to let this sit for about thirty minutes. You guys up for a game of spades?”

I looked back at Raf. He grimaced. “Like I told you, I’m not very good,” he warned me in a low voice. “But you can be my partner. That way, when we both suck, at least no one will get mad at me.” Clearly, this was a sore spot.

“I’m in.” I’d never been especially competitive—or good at card games—but it would give me something to do with my hands. Also, we wouldn’t be wandering around the party aimlessly, which was a big plus for me. Being Raf’s wingwoman, even at a completely sober party, didn’t magically turn me into an extrovert.

Cajun grabbed Dave to be his partner. We sat down at a card table with four mismatched chairs as Cajun dealt the cards. He shuffled and tossed them out with the deftness of a pro. Raf didn’t look particularly happy. We played a practice hand while Dave and Cajun taught me (and retaught Raf) the rules of the game. Or tried anyway. It was complicated. By the end of the practice hand, I was just staring at Raf, silently asking him what he had gotten me into. That prompted a laugh from him, at least.

When Dave cleared his throat, I realized we’d been gazing at each other for a little too long.

“We might be in trouble, Cajun,” Dave said. “These two can talk to each other with their eyes.”

Cajun sniffed. “Do I smell a hustle?”

“If I was here to hustle you, this would be a pretty long con, wouldn’t it?” Raf said. “Getting myself sent to rehab, going to AA, getting invited to your party, bringing a pretty girl to distract you . . .” He let his voice trail off.

Cajun’s lips twitched in a smile. “It was the girl that gave you away,” he said. “No girl this beautiful would willingly hang out with a bunch of nut jobs like us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dave said, pretending to be offended. “Harley and I are the normal ones here. It’s you two I don’t trust. Can we trade partners?”

I willed my cheeks not to blush. “I wouldn’t be so quick to assume,” I said. “Have you checked your wallet lately?”