Wild Horses Read Free Page A

he dealt. When he gave them a flick of his wrist, the cards didn’t merely skitter across green felt — they glided. They seemed to hover, then settle wherever he wanted with a precision defying natural law. He could deal a quick round of blackjack, five hands, and align each second card perfectly atop the first. He would ask who was Catholic, then deal their hands in the shape of a cross. Even the losers were applauding the show.
    “Wherever did you pick that up?” Allison asked, genuinely curious, during a rare lull in the action.
    “Zen,” deadpanned this dealer savant. “ Be the card.” Then an amiable shrug, and his shoulders flexed nicely beneath his shirt. While he could stand to be taller, it was no dealbreaker; although if she found out he slicked his hair down the middle in real life, it would be a severe setback.
    He elaborated: “You’ve heard how all the great jazz and blues greats are supposed to’ve slept with their instruments?”
    She arched an eyebrow. “You sleep with a deck of cards?”
    “It’s a … a spiritual thing.”
    “And from a distance,” she said, jousting, “you looked like a grown-up.”
    “So you’ve never once, as an adult, slept with your childhood teddy bear.”
    He had her there. “It was a floppy dog named Roscoe. And he was a lot more cuddly than any deck of cards.”
    “Oh, I’m sure he was. Then again, nobody ever tipped you because you were good with Roscoe, did they?” Smug as an indicted politician, he produced a green bill that he’d wrapped tightly around his finger. His middle finger. “Deal a few winning hands for play money, and get the real thing. Not bad, huh?”
    Allison told him how lucky it was that he had cards to sleep with, for obviously without them he’d be sleeping alone. Wondering why, moments later, when going back to reload her drink tray, she had bothered to check his ring finger…
    Unencumbered.
    Yet he proved oddly chivalrous later. Allison doing her duty, delivering frequent gin-and-tonics to a man with a face like florid dough and a habit of dropping a humid hand to skim over her rump. Patting firmly, oh so avuncular; thank you , little girl. Lecher. She let it pass the first time. He was drunk, after all. She fought against impulse the second time, a kill-urge uncoiling within, a dragon awakening in its cave. She could taste the fire on her breath. Could anticipate his lecher’s scalp peeling away from his skull with one brutal swipe of her hand.
    The third time he groped her, Allison’s breath locked in her throat, the world constricting to the point of this moment. Her hand gripped a bottle from her tray. He’d never know what hit him.
    Before she could lift for the windup, she saw Boyd’s hand flash, a single card leaving his thumb and fingers as a martial arts throwing star might leave a ninja’s hand. The card’s edge cracked across the bridge of the man’s nose, the sound sharper than she would’ve imagined, and her own hand was stayed.
    “Oh, now would you look at what I’ve done?” Boyd gushed with apologies while the rest of the deck went spilling from his hand across the green felt table. “Sir, I’m so sorry, I’m on medication for the seizures, but sometimes one sneaks up on me.”
    The groper wobbled in his chair, eyes watering, and after he massaged the bridge of his nose he stared at his fingertips. “I’m … bleeding,” he said in a frightened slur.
    Boyd apologized again, sparing a discreet wink for her, then assured him it wasn’t bad. Allison stared with vindication at the thin tributaries trickling like red tears down either side of the man’s nose.
    “Don’t unnerstand. I’m — I’m a — I’m a—” groping the table now instead of her ass ”—hemophiliac!”
    Towels and ice compresses were rushed to the table, and there was more than one doctor in the house, plus a besotted priest who hovered nearby in case he was needed for last rites.
    Allison was able to hold it off until she