Page 35 of So Thirsty

I’d rather be back courtside at the orgy. “And nothing. I’m not playing this game.”

“You’re quitting on me?” he asks, pouting.

“Nobody has hurt me.”

“Then why are you hurt?” he asks, slipping a metal case out of his back pocket and getting another cigarette. He lights it with a Zippo. “I can tell.”

“How?”

He exhales. “I’ve been around.”

“That so?”

“I don’t look it. But I’m old. And wise.”

I scoff. “Wise.”

He pouts again, ashes his cigarette on the floor. “Don’t be cruel.”

“How old are you?”

“It’s not your turn,” he says. “It’s still my turn.”

“I answered your question. Nobody hurt me.”

“You will think I’m lying. About my age.”

“Tell me anyway.”

He nods, takes a drag. “I am five hundred and ninety-two.”

The audacity. “You are such a liar!”

That grin slinks out again. “See?”

I stand to get away from him, walk over to the far wall, the musty scent from the cushion clinging to me like a parasite.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I suppose I’m no fun to play with.”

Outside, the snow falls with purpose, as if fleeing the dark of the sky. There’s nothing peaceful about it. It’s frantic. The glass walls must be thick, because I can’t hear the storm. It’s eerily quiet.

I assume Naomi will finish eventually. Come find me.

I hate not knowing how much time I have to kill.

“Fine. Dare,” I say. “And if I do it, I win.”

“With the dare I have in mind, I think we’d both win,” he says. The way he says it, and the way he looks at me when he does, I can’t. I lose my nerve.

“All right, old man,” I say, returning to my chair. “What if we drop the game and have an honest conversation? Just talk.”

“Whatever you want,” he says.

I realize I still don’t know his name. “You could start by telling me your name.”

“Henry,” he says, tossing his cigarette to the floor and stomping it out. He doesn’t look like a Henry, and maybe my face reacts without permission, because he adds, “But in the spirit of truth and honesty, that isn’t the name I was born with. That name was ugly, with an ugly history. I changed it.”

“I’m Sloane,” I say. “Sloane is my mother’s maiden name. Sometimes I feel like it suits me. And sometimes someone says it and I can’t believe they’re referring to me. There’s a complete disconnect. I’m no more attached to it than my Social Security number.”