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The sky seemed to fade from its light blue into a black abyss in the blink of an eye. Already half past eleven, I curse to myself—I should be home in bed by now. Instead, I'm in the cabin I provide for my ranch hands, surrounded by them in a tormented poker game. I don't know how they talked me into it, and I'm sure as hell regretting it now.
Folding at the last chance, I flip my cards face down. I'd be having more fun if Tommy wasn't screaming in my ear next to me—give that man one too many beers, and he suddenly is on volume eight thousand.
"Damn, Sutton, that's the fourth time tonight," Samuel says, cocking an eyebrow. He holds his hand in front of him with his head resting in his other. "Lousy cards, or you got something on your mind?"
I respond with a simple shrug of my shoulders, leaning back in my seat as I swirl what cheap whiskey I had left in my glass. The ice was half-melted, diminishing the awful taste it had. But who was I to complain? Alcohol is alcohol, right? (And I knew how much I paid these people.)
