Chapter Twelve
Of course we don’t play cards at anything as mundane as a kitchen table.
Not over a coffee table, the way Daddy sometimes fiddles with an old deck, shuffling the cards and running them through his fingers. He would never even bother with Solitaire. It couldn’t satisfy that itch.
Damon has a private card table, deep emerald velvet and butter-soft leather on the bumper surrounding. There are only two seats at the table, even though poker usually has more. I imagine private business meetings happening in this small wood-lined room.
Or maybe he brings women here.
It seems appropriate for a man like him. A bordello for people turned on by risk.
He pulls out a chair for me, every inch the gentleman. Even in a shirt soft from wear, in slacks less than crisp, he could be in a
