Chapter 8

When I texted Matt, I hoped he would ask Scottie to join. He’s not one to let the new guy sit out. However, when he enters the cafeteria alone, there’s an edge of disappointment.

Matt pulls up a chair and gives a chin lift to King, Caleb, and the other guys: Opie, Bobby, and Dixon. Xander has decided to be the responsible one and get caught up on some paperwork while we have our poker game.

“About time I got to play a hand with y’all,” Caleb says, leaning back in the plastic chair. “I always miss the text that goes out.”

King cuts the card deck. “Funny how that happens…”

“Ever wonder if it’s by design?” Opp asks.

“No, dumbfuck.” He chucks an individually wrapped meat stick at him.

Opp laughs and adds it to his pile of snacks. “Keeping it as your entry fee.”

Caleb furrows his brow. “Nobody else paid an entry fee!”

“No, they did not.” King shakes his head and deals.

“Oh, deal a hand for Scottie. She’s on her way down.”

The table grows quiet .

“Scottie, the she ? As in Scottie the hottie?” Caleb groans under his breath. “That girl could start a brush fire with a wink and a smile. Dude, one night with her and?—”

“Keep that shit up and see what happens,” I say a little too quickly.

“Come on, man.” Matt chastens Caleb, the same time I do.

I pin him with an unamused glare. “You just earned yourself another week of veggie omelet MREs, rookie.” No amount of hot sauce can save that gastrointestinal war crime.

“Dude, wait,” Caleb pleads, holding up his palms in surrender, “but they hiss when you open them!”

Opp winces. “For anyone who’s wanted to make a fart tangible…”

“Enjoy the vomlet bar.” I collect my cards and blow out a breath. “Your guts are about to have a rough week, brother.”

Bobby smiles. “We could switch to clam chowder?”

“No!” Caleb protests. His gaze bounces from player to player, but he won’t be receiving any sympathy. “That’s almost worse.”

Almost.

“I don’t care how many preservatives you add, no clam should be good for twenty years. Either it’s not a clam, or it’s not good for twenty years,” Bobby states.

Dixon speaks up. “I’ve got a conspiracy the clam chowder MRE is actually government surplus wallpaper paste from the Truman era.”

A few of us nod. It’s plausible.

“Pork sausage?” Opp suggests, trying to sweet-talk him. “It comes with a free placenta.”

“Still not as bad as the veggie omelet, though,” King adds. “You can rat-fuck ’em for the desserts, though.”

Scottie hurries through the doorway, right on schedule and thankfully, oblivious to the table talk. “Hi!”

I tuck my tongue into my cheek as King sets down the deck. A few of the guys lift their hands in a wave as she pulls out a chair across from me and brings her cards into her chest. She’s changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. Her ponytail sparks the mental image of me fisting her hair, prompting me to clear my throat and my thoughts. Like shaking a stubborn Etch-A-Sketch and watching the grainy image slowly fade. She reveals a couple bags of something from the kangaroo pouch of her sweatshirt.

“Whatcha got there, Scottie?” Dixon asks, craning his neck to take a gander at her stash.

“Caramel corn.”

“Homemade?”

“Yup.”

I love homemade caramel corn. I lift the corner of my two cards. Seven of hearts and four of clubs.

King lays the flop: a five, six, and a jack. I’ve got a chance at a straight.

We take a beat to review our hands. I throw in a small bag of Cheetos. Opp folds. Caleb throws in a Rice Krispie Treat, and Dixon adds in a fruit cup.

Bobby snatches up the fruit cup and turns it over in his hand. “The fuck is this?”

“Fruit cocktail,” he replies.

“Motherfucker, this is all pears, and it went bad six months ago. Do you have anything decent? Scottie brought homemade caramel corn and you’re showing up with expired poverty pears. Come on, now.” His southern accent peeks out at the end, and a few of us laugh.

Dixon adds a fruit cup of peaches. “There. Bougee bitches.”

Scottie folds. “I’m out.”

Bobby tosses a granola bar onto the pile.

The turn is an eight of diamonds, so I toss in a half-smashed Hostess cake.

Everybody else folds, and I steal the pot of prepackaged junk food. We go a few more rounds, and Scottie folds after the flop each time. I casually slide my phone from my pocket and shoot her a text.

You ever going to bet that caramel corn?

I keep my eyes on her as we go around the table again. I’ve got pocket sevens, and Dixon dropped another seven on the flop, along with a queen and a two. Scottie glances up at me, then her cheeks pinken as she texts under the table.

Scottie

If I get a decent hand.

Life is about taking risks.

Scottie

You just want my caramel corn.

Damn right I do.

The bet comes to her, and she smirks, tossing in her bag of gooey, buttery caramel corn.

Scottie

Come and get it.

I throw in the Rice Krispie Treat I won in the last round. Dixon gives the turn. Two of clubs. Full house. Everyone but Scottie folds. I toss in a Pearson’s Nut Roll, and she throws in her second bag of popcorn. Dixon drops the river—a queen, and I rub my chin.

“What else have you got to bet?”

“I have Ramen in my bag upstairs… but I won’t need it.”

The corner of my mouth tips up. “Table talk from the new guy. Pretty bold of you.”

Her stormy eyes flicker with mischief. She’s got a wicked streak. "Boldness with fear is courage. Boldness without fear is confidence."

I narrow my eyes at her. “So are you feeling courageous or confident?”

“Are y’all gonna fuck or play your hands? The rest of us are waiting on a new deal. Let’s wrap this up.”

Her cheeks heat, and I chuckle, then throw the bag of Cheetos on the pile and drop my cards to show the full house—sevens and queens.

She drops her hand. “Jacks full of queens.”

“Scottie’s a sniper,” Caleb jokes.

I shrug and push my cards to Prescott since it’s her turn to deal. She looks quite pleased with her new winnings.

Confidence?

Scottie

I’ll never tell.

I peer across the table at her, and she darts her eyes away when I briefly glimpse at the two cards she dealt me. Nothing good.

I’m stealing that caramel corn.

Scottie

I’ll share.

Yeah? Picnic later?

Scottie

Haha sure.

Maybe we can get a chance to talk not over text.

This time, I feel her eyes on me, and it feels good.

Scottie

“Talk” huh?

Scout’s honor.

Scottie

Were you a boy scout?

I’m always prepared, if that’s what you mean.

Scottie

Flirt.

Just with pretty EMTs.

Scottie

Oh, Matt gets this treatment too?

Only until you showed up. See how disappointed he looks?

Her gaze lifts from her phone to see Matt’s furrowed brow as he double-checks his cards for the fourth time. Dude has the worst tell. She laughs across the table and tries to cover it with a cough, shoving her phone into her pocket.

Picnic tonight it is.