Chapter 2: A Game of Poker

He watched the chaotic scene before him and felt he was in his element. It was a stupid feeling, really…and even more stupid of him to stand out here on the balcony watching it.

But the thrilling chords in the thunder, the percussion in the rain, the energetic dancer in the lightning…he always found their performance exhilarating. He could—and often did—lie in bed enthralled by that dissonant concert.

“Chris, what the hell are you doing out here?”

He turned his head, broken from his reverie. A slim young man stood behind him with a befuddled expression, his form framed by the pulsing lights from the glass door he had just closed.

“Well, look who made it,” Chris said with a languorous grin. “Last I heard, Jonathan, you weren’t coming.”

Jonathan strode over to join him at the railing, ebony skin glistening with raindrops.

Chris’s grin nearly widened to see his friend’s eyes darting around at the rumbles of thunder before muttering, “Good thing I did. Otherwise you’d still be out here like some hammered idiot. Bro, the party’s inside, where your wet ass should be.”

Chris shrugged as he ran a hand through his dripping locks. Although he had been watching it the whole while, he strangely hadn’t even realized that the storm had gotten progressively worse. “I like watching the storm,” he said simply.

Jonathan cast him a quizzical look. He glanced down at Chris’s half-empty bottle and promptly questioned him, “How many d’you have?”

Chris sent him a sly grin as he took another swig. “Go get me another and it’ll be four.”

“That’s low for you, man.”

“Night’s not over yet.”

His friend let out a grunt. “All right, guess I can’t argue with that.” There was a brief lapse in the conversation, a moment in which he was suddenly aware of the muffled beats beyond the door pulsating throughout his body like an external heart. Or maybe it was the drinks that had that effect.

Then lightning struck close by, and Jonathan swore and said, “Look. I try to play along with some of your dumber ideas—even if Hiram mostly drags you into it—but you’re not about to drag me into this crazy shit you’re doing. I’m going back inside, and you oughta too if you know what’s good for you. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were wasted already.”

Chris only chuckled as he followed Jonathan back inside. The penthouse, the heart of the music, was thickly warm within as though it truly did beat blood, forcing him to now notice the stark contrast that was his cold wet skin. The partygoers that saw them looked at him strangely, and he humoredly figured he must have been a sight.

Jonathan was also appraising him before shaking his head and remarking, “Why’s it that these parties come down to me looking after you and Hiram like I’m a goddamn mom? Nine times out of ten I gotta stay sober for your guys’s sakes.”

“And we appreciate you so much for it,” Chris said with a simper. “But bro, it’s not like we tell you to. You choose to. It’s not our fault you don’t wanna go all out.”

Jonathan scratched his forehead. “Anyway, this round I come here and find that idiot dancing in front of everyone after he’s pulled down his pants, and then you—”

Chris threw back his head and guffawed. “Damn I wish I’d seen it. Please tell me you got that recorded.”

Jonathan pulled out his cell and waved it suggestively, raising a single brow. “A whole two minutes worth. And that’s not counting everyone else who had their phones out.”

That only made him smile wickedly with delight. “Send that to me. Where the hell is Hiram, anyway?”

“Who knows…probably doing some stupid shit again. But anyway,” Jonathan said, ushering him towards the bathroom, “dry up, bro. You stay like that any longer and someone’s gonna have to get a wet floor sign on your ass.”

He laughed. “All right, all right. Hey, you have any idea if we’re still on for poker tonight?”

“Should be.” Jonathan was already walking away, hollering back as Chris closed the door, “Anyway, I’m gonna go look for that—”

Chris didn’t catch the rest with the drop in the music coupled with the door shutting behind him, but a small smirk tugged at his lips as he figured out the last part of the sentence.

He was vigorously drying his hair and face over the sink when his cell rang. Pulling the phone out of the pocket of his jeans, he let out an amused grunt when he saw the caller ID. He answered the phone with, “Dude, Jo-Jo’s looking for you.”

“Looking for me? When the hell’d he get here?”

Chris snickered. “You mean to tell me you don’t remember being a stripper?” He was surprised it was pretty quiet on Hiram’s end of the phone and figured he must’ve stepped out into the hall. Or maybe went to one of the bedrooms for some other reason, as Hiram usually wasn’t that practical.

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“Huh?” Hiram sounded genuinely confused. Chris wouldn’t put it past him in his state.

“Looks like he’s got a video to show you. He recorded you before saving your ass—before you showed it, better yet.”

“Oh yeah…he did,” said Hiram, although he still sounded disconcerted. “Man, whatever. Show me later. I’ve probably done worse. Anyway, I was gonna say my friend’s setting up the game in a few.”

“Cool. Hey, does he have a shirt I can borrow? Shit, what am I saying? I should be asking you. Sounds like you won’t have any use for it tonight, anyway.”

Hiram’s following retort made him snicker again. Then he asked, “The hell you need a shirt for?”

He glanced down at his blue button-down shirt. “Mine’s soaked through.” He noticed a hair dryer hanging from the wall and said, “Nah, screw it. I’ll just dry this one up best I can.”

As he expected, Hiram wasn’t interested enough to inquire further—which he was grateful for, since he didn’t care to explain his own stupidity. “All right. Later then, bro.”

“Later.” He hung up and reached for the dryer. After he was satisfied enough with his relatively drier shirt, he stepped out of the bathroom and promptly spotted Jonathan seated on a couch towards the middle of the room. As he walked over, Jonathan held up a beer and handed it to him. “There’s your fourth,” he said shrewdly.

“Thanks, man,” Chris said as he opened it, sitting down beside him. “Found Hiram yet?”

“Yeah,” Jonathan replied, nodding his head straight ahead at the food tables. “He’s grabbing a bite.”

“Seems like he forgot that he got a stripper gig. He called me and barely remembers the whole thing.”

“Gig? Who in their right mind would pay him?” asked Jonathan with a grunt, eliciting a chuckle from Chris.

“Yo, Jo-Jo!” They both looked up to the holler, Jonathan muttering something under his breath and Chris suppressing a grin. A young man was seconds away from them, holding a plate of food in one hand and a drink in the other. Those brown eyes were undoubtedly twinkling with stupid thoughts circling in that head of curly dark brown hair.

While Hiram was still out of earshot, Jonathan grumbled, “He says it like it’s a goddamn catchphrase.”

“Well, he’s pretty drunk. You’re gonna hear it a lot more tonight.”

“I know. That’s one of the reasons why I recorded him.”

“So you’re not gonna guess what happened to me tonight,” Hiram cut in as he reached them, sitting across from them.

“Well, we already know most of what happened to you tonight. I don’t see how it’ll get better than that,” Chris teased with a grin.

“Screw that. I’m talking about this chick I met. So we were having this drinking game…”

The hour is fast approaching.

Chris blinked. Hiram and Jonathan, along with the scene around him, were suddenly blurring at the edges. The lights muddled into bright blots, the music muting in his ears, the beat falling to a slower tempo along with the hazy figures walking past him.

Only one figure didn’t move at the same pace the others did. It was an indistinct pillar of darkness wading through the pulsing pools of lights. It strode across the room until it stood before him.

Funny. He didn’t recall drinking this much.

What price would you pay for freedom, I wonder—freedom from this monotony? I doubt gambling is all you’ll ever be content with, boy. Your true nature belies that, I think.

He was pretty sure it was a man’s voice. He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t form the words to reply. Not that he would know how to respond to something like this. His own thoughts were jumbled and sluggish in his head.

After all, continued the man—at least, he figured it was a man—she would not have chosen you otherwise.

“What?” he managed to splutter.

Even now in her prison, she’s looking for you.

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“The hell’s what supposed to mean?”

He blinked again, and realized Hiram was addressing him. Or actually, responding to his question with a question. When had everything reverted back to normal?

“Spaced out during my story, didn’t you?” Hiram asked with a cocked brow. “Heh, figures. I knew you couldn’t hold a beer.”

He’d reoriented himself enough to retort with, “Not my fault you ramble.”

“Hey, I ramble ‘cause I’m Puerto Rican. I got an excuse. What’s yours for spacing?”

“Tch. Chris, you missed nothing, anyway,” said Jonathan.

“You wanna say that again?” Hiram asked. Though there was a challenge in his tone, they both couldn’t take it seriously with the additional hint of a drunken slur.

Still, Jonathan humored him, “Yeah. He missed nothing, bro. You do that all the time. And me, as always, have to pretend I’m listening.”

It must’ve been in my head, Chris thought as he watched the light banter that ensued between the two. Of course it had been. What person here would’ve talked like that, like some old English professor? He blamed it on the drinks…not that he’d ever tell Jonathan and Hiram. But still…

“Looks like they’re finally setting up,” Hiram said, drawing Chris out from his thoughts. He nodded to the group of people moving couches in the corner as he stretched. “Your asses’ll be sore as hell tonight. If you know what I mean.”

“I don’t swing that way, bro.”

“Gotta side with Chris there.”

Hiram laughed. “Then don’t lose to me. But let’s face it: that’s not gonna happen. You might have a chance with them tipsy chicks.”

“Yeah? We’ll see about that,” said Chris, standing up.

“Wanna bet right now?”

He hated to admit it, but Hiram did win a good majority of the time when the three of them played poker. The guy was good. Still, he’d be damned if he backed out of a challenge.

And like he was about to submit to Hiram’s arrogance. “What’s the bet?”

“Whoever wins the most rounds. Loser pays up a hundred. I’ll even let you and Jonathan team up against me.”

“That cocky, huh?” Jonathan asked dryly.

Chris held his hand out, and Hiram shook it. “You’re on.”

I doubt gambling is all you’ll ever be content with, boy.

He couldn’t help but ponder on those odd words even as the three of them headed over to the table. Why did they bother him so much? Was it because they made him think of his band breakup last year—of how he looked through “backpacking in Europe” videos last week at work, of how he lost the contest to win music festival tickets just earlier today?

Life could really be a cruel game at times. Even though he still found himself playing halfheartedly, even though he dreaded another day of humdrum, even though he wanted to change this game and its rules. What other option was there for him but to continue playing? But that wasn’t to say he was “content” with it. Far from it.

It was all a game, a game of poker he just hadn’t found a way to win. He tried not to dwell on that thought.

“Stupid.”

“What?” Chris asked Jonathan, realizing that he had been addressing him, as Hiram had walked on ahead of them.

“Hiram. He’s stupid. He could’ve bet on more things than money.”

“Yeah, well, we both know he needs it.”

“Not that. If he’d been smarter, he would’ve made the bet us deleting that video.”

He couldn’t help but smirk. “No. If he won, he’d have us delete it and record us doing the same thing. Probably have us moon at the camera while we’re at it.”

Jonathan just laughed.