Shark of Spades

Back to Basics

I felt the bed sink as a figure sat down beside me, depressing the mattress. "Took you long enough," I said, not bothering to open my eyes.  "I expected you here an hour ago."

"What am I, a pizza delivery man? If you're not paying for my time, then my punctuality is my own business."

I yawned, opening one eye. "Did you at least get something for dinner?"

Jack narrowed his eyes. "Is that all I am? A food ticket?"

I made a so-so gesture, and he scoffed.

"Stop treating me like your dad, Card."

"You're not nearly old enough to be my dad," I replied reasonably, mock-scrutinizing him. "What are you, twenty-five? Twenty-six tops? That  must have made you a very ambitious, and very lecherous if I might add, five-year-old."

He grinned rakishly, managing to appear as a charming shark. "That makes you, what? Twenty-one?"

The smirk on my face and the grin on his kept our faces frozen, neither of us willing to cross the line from idle joking to the making known of  personal information, especially not for the laughingly implausible price of free, a concept that existed in neither of our worlds. We could never become too personal with each other; that guaranteed death, or attachment. I wasn't sure which was worse. For now, we were just toys for each other to play with. What would happen if we were really partners?

I yawned, breaking the moment of strained silence and batting my thoughts away. "So. Dinner."

He glared at me, but did that stop him from going into the mini kitchen and producing a box of pasta from the grocery bag he'd evidently left on the counter? Nope.

***

Twenty minutes later, he called me into the kitchen, where we sat across from each other, the scene almost identical to the night before, although the setting was different.

"It feels like with you around, I only ever eat pasta," I remarked as I took another bite.

Jack glared at me. "And if I weren't around, you wouldn't be eating anything."

I  shrugged. "True. Point taken." I shrugged again. "I don't know. I guess I just assumed that reading directions off the side of a box and boiling something in water was the paramount of your skills in the kitchen."

He leaned back in his chair, the gleam of a challenge in his eyes. "I can cook quite well, actually."

"Oh? Can you really?" I asked, not really interested either way. "Then how about you cook something great tomorrow? How about...I don't know..." I  snapped my fingers, inspiration swooping from my brain and into my  mouth. "You could make fish. You know, wali or tilapia or whatever."

He narrowed his eyes, trying to assess what I was thinking. "What's your angle, your ulterior motive?"

"Getting you to make me anything better than slightly overcooked pasta that came  from a cardboard box," I said directly, meeting his eyes (or as much as I could from behind my sunglasses).

He leaned forward, still looking awfully suspicious of me. "You sure it's not some weird, "Oh, my family always made this for my birthday" kind of special memory occasion thing?" he asked, looking as though the Past was at the top of his hit list.

"Nope." I met his eyes before getting seconds on the pasta. "So what do you say?" When he remained in contemplative silence, I leaned a little closer. "Let's make a bet."

His eyes lit up. "What kind of a bet?"

"We'll bet on a card game, of course. Your choice."

"What about leverage?"

"Hmmm...Let's  see." I slowed down my words a tad, realizing how serious of leverage I was about to propose but finding myself craving that fish too much to  care. "If I win, you make me fish. If you win, I'll tell you my age."

It was as if I had waved a live mouse in front of a hawk. His eyes zeroed in on mine, searching to determine to veracity of my statement, before he stuck out his hand. "Deal."

So we shook on it. If I won, I got fed. If I lost, I was out a well-kept secret. A lot was on the line, but this was my job, after all. I paid to win, and I won by being professional.