Page 39 of Cherry Picking

Then the road schedule called us back. That’s where I work best anyway. Three cities in two nights, pillows that feel like cardboard, and a pressurized tube full of men who get paid to hit things. Just perfect.

The Kings fly in a gutted commercial jet, all leather recliners and card tables bolted down in the back third. There are fifty of us occupying a space meant for two hundred, and it still isn’t nearly enough real estate to escape August Kessler.

We’re mid-hand somewhere over Tennessee. It’s Augie’s deal, which means the math gets creative the second his chips start to dip. We’re currently four amendments into a game that didn’t even have rules when we took off.

“That’s not how you play,” Kyo says, frowning. He swipes a strand of black hair away from his forehead. “You made that up.”

Augie tips his chin. “It’s an old Kings standard.”

Kyo huffs but plays along, because he’s nineteen and hasn’t earned the right to actually litigate a rule with Augie. He’ll get there. Right now, he just tosses a card and mutters something about a rigged system.

“I think they’ve been counting cards over there,” Fozzy accuses.

“You can’t count cards in this,” I tell him. “There’s nothing to fuckin’ count.”

Fozzy considers this, deeply. “I’m sure I could try.”

“You couldn’t count your own fingers,” Kyo says, and the row loses it.

My phone buzzes against my thigh. I glance down to check it.

Evie

update. Phil got a live bird for a dove release during the service this weekend

I repeat. ONE. and did you know it’s actually a homing pigeon? they don’t use real doves because doves get lost and die. pigeons just fly home

I chuckle out loud.

Augie’s head comes up like a dog hearing a can open. He watches as I type back.

Briggs

a release, huh? isn’t that just the bird’s daily commute?

Evie

THANK YOU. that’s what I said. Phil says it’s “symbolic of a singular soul ascending”

Briggs

it’s symbolic of Phil being cheap

Evie

you know him so well already

I tilt my head back against the leather seat, staring at the cabin ceiling and trying to kill the grin before anyone notices. It’s a losing battle.

Augie lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “Maxie. You dog.”

I cut him a tired look, the performance already fraying. “What?”

He leans over the card table, his smirk widening. “You’ve got that phone smile again.”

“I’m folding,” I announce, tossing my cards face-down and shoving the phone into my pocket.

Augie clutches his chest in mock agony. “You can’t fold now. We haven’t even—” He shakes his head, recalibrates. “So, what’s your girl up to tonight?”