Page 49 of Dreadful

Gage rolls his eyes. “We’re literally playing strip poker, asshole.” He points at Cruz. “And it was your idea. What the fuck did you think was going to happen?”

“To see my girl in various states of undress, of course.” Cruz grins as he catches the collar of his T-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the pile despite the fact that he folded two hands ago.

“Our girl,” Gage and Rafe correct at the exact same time.

A ridiculous swarm of butterflies erupts inside my stomach. I duck my head before any of them can catch the smile threatening to split my face and slip off one of my sandals instead.

“Call.”

Ten days. That’s how long we’ve been living under Bishop’s version of a soft lockdown, which apparently means nobody leaves Coco’s property, there’s always someone on watch, and every unlocked door is treated like a personal attack against him.

The first few days, the tension was suffocating.

Every unfamiliar engine had one of the guys reaching for a weapon. Every text or phone call sent somebody outside. Rafe and Bishop barely slept.

But nothing happened.

No Widowmakers. No Devil’s Hand. No whispers making their way back to us from the street.

Nothing.

And somewhere along the way, the sharp edge of that constant adrenaline started to dull. Not enough that anyone stopped watching.

But enough that tonight, there’s a pitcher of Arnold Palmers sweating onto the table instead of guns sitting on top of it. Enough that the remnants of Coco’s latest snack spread—chips, salsa, guacamole, brownies, and at least three other things nobody needed—are scattered between us.

Enough that four grown men somehow decided strip poker was an appropriate way to pass the time while their mother treats a lockdown like some kind of fucked-up family staycation.

Rafe leans closer, his shoulder bumping mine. “You gonna smoke ’em again, baby?”

I lift one shoulder in a hapless shrug, keeping my cards tucked safely against my chest. But on the inside, I’m fucking preening. Because I am absolutely kicking their asses.

“Where’d you learn how to play?” Bishop asks, but somehow, it still sounds like an accusation.

“My mom had some shitty boyfriends over the years, but one was cool enough.” I rearrange the cards in my hand even though I already know exactly what I’m holding. “He taught me how to play, so whenever they had their fucked-up friends over, I’d hustle them for grocery money so Lola, Beck, and I could eat that week.”

The air around the table shifts. Nobody gasps or tells me how terrible that is. But the easy banter from a second ago disappears, leaving something heavier behind.

Bishop’s fingers still against the edge of his cards.

“Shit, Bell,” Gage murmurs.

“It’s fine.” I give him a half grin, refusing to let the weight of something I can’t change wrap around my neck again. “Besides, it’s your turn.”

A lock of hair falls across Gage’s forehead as he studies me. My fingers itch to brush it back. But then he shoves his boxer briefs down his thighs, and I forget all about it. I don’t bother pretending not to look.

My gaze follows the navy fabric down, taking my sweet time perusing all nine and a half inches of him as his cock bobs beneath my attention. My core clenches as long-ago memories flash through my mind.

Gage laughs, low and shameless, making absolutely no move to cover himself.

The first chip comes from Cruz’s direction—a tortilla chip that catches Gage square in the chest and bounces off. Then a pretzel from Bishop, sharp and precise. Then another chip, this one sailing wide before Gage snatches it out of the air without even looking.

“Fuck all of you.” He pops it into his mouth.

I press my lips together hard, but a sound escapes anyway.

Gage drops back into his chair with that infuriating grin still intact and tosses the boxer briefs onto the pile with a little flourish. Then he lays his cards faceup on the table.

A straight.