The voluptuous purple-haired Black woman standing beside him—Bobbi, Gretchen assumes—raises her drink in the air. “Gorgeous, honey. Absolutely gorgeous.”
The asshole’s anger takes a back burner for a moment as the complexity of the shot registers, but soon it comes roaring back.
“You’re a real motherfucker, you know that?” he says to Charlie with a humorless chuckle.
“Yep,” Charlie says, holding out his hand. “Pay up.”
The guy glances around as if weighing the likelihood of getting away without handing over the money, realizes he’s surrounded by people who have been cheering for Charlie, and snarls as he pulls out his wallet to reluctantly toss ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills onto the table. As if that’s a normal amount of cash to have on one’s person. Gretchen shakes her head.Consulting bros.
“Thanks.” Charlie pockets his winnings. “But hey, good game. You should definitely keep playing, man. I’ve heard that practice makes perfect.”
Gretchen’s lips part to yell a warning when Mr. Deloitte makes a fist and pulls it back, but she’s not the only one who notices; Bobbi effortlessly grabs the guy’s wrist from behind and keeps him in the uncomfortable position of being about to throw a punch. “Now, I don’t think that’s a smart move, buddy,” Dutch says from beside them. “Maybe take a second to reconsider.”
The furious, tipsy spoiled brat of a man blinks a few times, then nods. Bobbi releases him but stays close, just in case.
Charlie tosses one of the hundreds back onto the table with acasual arrogance Gretchen never imagined he might possess. “Next round’s on me.”
Then he downs the rest of his beer in one big gulp, takes Gretchen’s hand, and leads her through Tipsy Lou’s and into the crisp, dark night.
21
It might be a secondhand version of the gotcha euphoria, or the adrenaline response of their escape, or maybe even just the thrill of Charlie and her being on the same side of a confrontation for once, but Gretchen’s heart pounds against her rib cage with the same urgency as someone locked out of a house. She can’t seem to stop grinning, even as a slight ache spreads through her cheeks.
When they come to a stop around the side of the building, she stares at Charlie. Could this truly be the same man who called her a charlatan when they met? She should probably be angry, or at least annoyed, that he’s been condemning her for tricking people into giving her their money when it’s something he’s apparently quite skilled at himself. But for some reason, she can’t muster any negative feelings toward him right now. All she feels is a little bit of awe and a whole lot of attraction.
It’s a problem. A really big problem.
“You,” she says.
“Me?” He points to himself, feigning innocence that would be much more convincing if he weren’t smiling back at her. “What about me?”
“You just fuckinghustled a guy!”
“Hmm,” he says, expression unchanging.
“Where did you learn to do that?”
“I think maybe you’ve been a bad influence on me. I’ve never done anything like that in my life.”
“Oh, bullshit,” she laughs, ignoring the first part even though she had a similar thought earlier. “There’s no way that was the first time.”
He chuckles lightly before admitting, “You’re right, it wasn’t. First time in a while, though.” He glances back the way they came, double-checking that no one’s followed them outside. “Look, I enjoy playing pool. I like coming out here to play with friends. We never bet beyond who’s gonna cover the next round. But when I was younger and stupider, I would sometimes play for money and maybe... when the mood was right...encouragestrangers to bet larger amounts than they might otherwise.”
“ ‘Encourage’ them. That’s a pretty way to say it. Mm, and how often did those strangers try to beat the shit out of you?” If he acted anything like he just did in Tipsy Lou’s, she can imagine college-aged Charlie was often at the receiving end of some guy’s fist, but she hates to think of it. Perhaps it comes with the territory of trying to save his life, this feeling that she wants to keep him safe from not only the curse but every form of harm, and somehow that extends into his past too. Even if he probably would’ve deserved it.
“Well, I was usually a little more subtle about it. They’d almost always walk away thinking it was close, that I was just lucky,” he says, punctuating it with a chuckle. “But that guy was really annoying me, so I kind of stopped caring.”
Charlie’s chuckle turns into a full-blown laugh, and Gretchen laughs too, and she’s not quite sure what they’re laughing at, but it feels incredible to be sharing this moment. The comedown from running a con can sometimes feel a lot like the minutes immediately post-orgasm. Full of emotions that don’t make much sense but flood you anyway. She leans back against the cool metal of the truck’s passenger-side door, memorizing that wave in Charlie’s hair as he bows his head to collect himself.
“And to think... you’ve been so goddamn sanctimonious ever since I showed up at Gilded Creek,” she says through her laughter. “Meanwhile, you—”
He plants a palm against the door beside her and leans in closer. For once it doesn’t feel like he’s looking down at her so much as meeting her where she is. “Sanctimonious? Me?”
“Yes! You’ve called me a thief and a con artist and a scammer and whatever else based on nothing but the assumption”—he raises his eyebrows—“theassumptionthat I’m not being honest with my clients. Meanwhile, you go out and hustle people in bars with the skill of a professional grifter like it’s no big deal.”
It’s... fascinating. The way he can turn this part of himself off and on. Gretchen is always on. She grew up thinking that was the only way to be. That if you had skills of the lying, cheating, stealing variety, you had no choice but to make them part of you. Part of your life. It never occurred to her that there are people in the world who can do what she does, and simply... choose not to.
“And you would know,” he says, as if highlighting the ignorance she’s only just discovering.
