Boondocks

Chapter 39: Games

FERN

Telling Tex he couldn't have pie was like asking a mountain lion to please go away. He tracked my every move with dark, hooded eyes that heated my flesh. Stalking. I'd let him catch me if he'd only give me a turn, but—while he hadn't flat out refused—he hadn't agreed. "Let's talk about it," he'd said. "Privately."

I knew his tricks. If I let him get me alone without some sort of agreement, I'd never win. I wanted to win. I needed to win. This was the absolute last time I'd ever get the chance. So I'd looked at him, really looked at him, and in the firmest tone I could conjure, I said, "No."

Neither of us had said a word for almost an hour since. We were at a standoff. Circling each other like two predators intent on the kill. Planning our next move, speculating what the other's might be. It was a game I knew how to play, and I'd never wanted to succeed more. If I wanted to eat, I needed to hunt. And I wanted that damn pie.

Plates emptied, bellies filled, and little groups sprouted from the hoard. Men formed circles as cards were dealt. Others talked and laughed, mainly with Sergio, who told more grand stories about the ship. The children formed a little row in front of him, cross-legged on the floor. Croc sat even closer, listening as if expecting a test afterwards.

Then, on the opposite side of the deck, one of the men played a harmonica. Cecil's voice drifted up like smoke between each stream of notes. Wispy and hoarse, yet somehow beautiful in its ugliness. In the shadows just outside the glow of lanterns, a couple swayed to the sound. I watched. Longing. I wanted to do that. I wanted to dance like that with Tex, whisper secrets of my own, but he wasn't budging.

I had no idea how to move the mountain that was Tex. I'd been trying every night since the first. I'd gripped, tugged, begged, pleaded, yanked, groaned, and whimpered. None of it had been enough. Tonight had to be different. He needed a hard shove over the line he'd drawn. So when Sergio's nephew, Dimitri, asked me to dance, I answered before Tex could.

"Sure." I gave him my hand.

Tex gripped my opposite arm before Dimitri could lift me from the deck. "Darlin'." It was a warning, like a dog growling over his food.

I turned to him, let those dark eyes burn me, unflinching. I didn't want a different pie or a new baker. All he needed to do was compromise. Bend. Slacken his hold on the reigns. I leaned over, pressed my lips to his ear, and whispered, "I do what I want." If he didn't want to share, there were other, less–impressive pies on other, less–tempting windowsills.

His grip didn't loosen as he scanned my face, jaw tight, expression dark, plotting his next move. "I don't want you to do that," he murmured.

"So, I can have a turn?" I whispered.

He didn't answer.

"Then we don't always get what we want, do we?" I pulled my arm free and stood.

Dimitri grinned like a cat who just stole honey from a bear, which wasn't a bad comparison. He lifted my arm as he led me to an open space, then spun me once before settling his hands on my waist. He rumbled a stream of Russian as he swayed.

I studied his face, smooth and unblemished. Youthful. I barely had to tilt my head to see it. Nothing like Tex, who dominated whatever space he happened to occupy. His hands, smaller. They reminded me of Jimmy Johnson's hands, and I remembered the conversation I'd had with Tex that day in the woods. A nice boy from a nice family. But, despite his boyish looks, Dimitri didn't give the impression that he was the same kind of sweet Jimmy had been. He said something else in Russian, nodding his head as he spoke.

"I don't understand," I said.

A secret smile twisted his mouth. "I know." He pulled me tighter, slowly circled us in place, and I found myself at the center of a merry-go-round. Sergio's wide, open smile. Men with wary looks. Then Tex, a shadow growing larger in the spot where I'd left him. Sergio again. The men. A lit cigar.