Page 50 of Cherry Picking

“As mentioned, I left this town at eighteen. When was I supposed to learn craps?” He gestures to the layout, all those boxes and chaotic numbers. “This looks like a tax form.”

So I give him a tutorial, and it’s a delight. The man can dissect defensive rotations at professional speed, but the pass line has him defeated for three full rounds. He keeps hunting for the logic. There isn’t any.

You’re a winner until the exact second the universe decides you aren’t. That’s the beauty of craps.

An elderly woman with a glittering brooch starts a streak, and our end of the table erupts. Briggs wins sixty dollars and actually punches the air.

“This is basically an organized scam,” he declares, gathering his chips. “I hope you’re aware of that.”

“It’s just probability.” I bump his arm. “Just say thank you, Mother Vegas.”

“Hell no.”

We cash out before I can waste all his money, and we wander Fremont for a stretch. Past the main canopy, the crowd thins, and the vintage motel signs take over—a neon diving lady, a starburst missing half its wattage.

“I have a whole portfolio of sketches like these,” I say, gesturing to the glowing woman. “Did a series of historic signs for a gallery show in college.”

“Yeah?” He pivots, walking backward so we’re facing each other. “Any of the ones we just passed?”

“No, mostly from the Neon Museum.”

“Ah, I thought the goal was proving you weren’t a tourist.”

I roll my eyes. “That place is magnificent. It’s a Vegas staple.”

“I’ve never been there.”

My jaw drops. “That is genuinely criminal.”

“Take me, then,” he says with a smirk. “I’ll pay double for the extended VIP tour.”

I laugh. “Yeah, next time you’re back.”

“Next time,” he agrees.

At a taco window on Eleventh with no name and no seating to speak of, I order for both of us. We eat leaning against the cinder-block wall in the cold, balancing paper trays in our hands.

“Okay,” I say. “One favorite thing about this city. Go.”

He chews for a while, likely ranking his lack of options. Then he swallows and says, “There isn’t one. I hate this town with everything I’ve got.”

I lower my taco. “You can’t hate an entire municipality.”

“Watch me,” he mutters. “Everyone here is selling a version of something. The lights, the odds, the whole of it. If you glitter hard enough, nobody bothers checking what you’re actually made of. That’s what this town taught me.”

The night air works through my coat as I process that. “For what it’s worth,” I say, “you’re not as good at faking it as you think. If you recall, you’re the one who told me your father was difficult during your job pitch.”

A short, real laugh escapes him. “He is difficult.”

“He’s a lamb.” I swipe his last taco as a tax. “And for the record, this city has me in it. So it can’t be all bad.”

He turns his head, looking at me for a heartbeat longer than the joke warrants. My pulse kicks up and refuses to settle.

“No,” he says. “It can’t be. Can it?”

I clear my throat, crumpling the empty tray. The plan was the Cherry Bomb, but the thought of it sits wrong now. That bar belongs to me and Hazel. It feels like too much exposure for one night.

“Change of itinerary,” I say. “Can you dance?”