“We’re going to play Liar’s Dice a fourth time,” Three-Finger John announced.
By Amari Dixit ©: The Middle 500 Words
Everyone groaned. Tom said, “No, we’re not. You’re drunk. Who knows what you’d do to us if you lost again.”
“Keep your bloody self-fulfilling prophecies to yourself,” John slurred. “She’s going to blow on my dice this time.” He pointed at me.
I gulped and looked to Tom and my Aunt for help. They appeared as stricken as I was, and just as dumbfounded.
“Got the money for the next round of drinks, Tom?” John smirked.
“I’m never one to back away from a dare.” Tom’s grin was lopsided and not really genuine.
“I’d rather not,” I said. “I’ll just finish my drink and esca-, go home.”
But John grabbed me by the wrist, held out the dice cup and said, “Blow.”
My heart was thudding as I looked for help one last time. None came. “Hey, don’t blame me anyone, for how the dice turn out.” I blew on the dice. I hoped John’s hand was covered in my spit, that’s how angry I felt towards him.
“What you got?” John’s red eyes shot daggers at Tom, his nervous energy catching.
Then Three-Finger John pumped the air with his fists. Remarkably, he had won. We all made saucer eyes at each other. John gestured at me, and said, “This witchy has some power. Another game, so I get more money back.”
Now I reclaimed my power, and said, “No way. I’m out of here. The only thing you’ll get, John, is drunker. Then one of us will have to drive you home.”
A tall, good-looking guy approached our little group. “Very interesting,” he said, looking straight at me. He was dressed in cool, branded clothes; his dark hair just the right balance between ruffled and combed.
I hoped my own hair was smooth and my eye makeup unsmudged. Keeping my hands around my glass, I glanced around, pleased there wasn’t a girl tagging along.
“I’m Zack.” He extended a large hand to me, warm when I put mine into it. I kept my expression neutral as I drank in his dark eyes. Zack shook the others’ hands, then talked directly to me. “Look, I’m studying parapsychology at Summer School. You’d make a very good subject in my experiment. If you don’t mind?” His expression was like a child asking for an ice-block.
Again I looked to Tom and Aunty for help. They shrugged.
“Look, I’ll pay you,” Zack said. “And, my Dad is Director of The American Conservatory Theater.” His master stroke.
My ears perked up. I glanced at his gear again; I couldn’t help it. Zack certainly looked like he could be made of money.
“Look I’ll show you what’s involved if you like. It’s no big deal.” Zack pulled up a bar stool.
“How much will you pay her?” John asked. “I’m her agent.” Then laughed, his breath rancid.
Luckily I was on my first drink; quite sober for whatever came next.
