A/N Happy Valentine's Day! I honestly hadn't intended to leave the valentine's dance chapter until the actual day, but unfortunately it kind of worked out that way. At least the approach of the holiday gave me extra motivation to work hard on it!
Reasons for the huge delay are various, but the most important one is that we had some serious illness in my family. I had planned to spend Christmas break hanging out in my apartment, doing a lot of writing, but instead I took a long road trip to be with them. Which was good, but sucked for the writing. So that, added to crazy graduate school, plus the fact that I've started serious work on an original project, means this story has dropped low on the priority list. But, I am not abandoning it! It may be slow, but it will come!
A very, very special thank you to those of you who took the time to send me encouraging notes saying you missed the story! Every time I got one of those, it helped me focus on writing a few more pages. So this chapter is as much yours as it is mine.
Chapter 16
Sometimes nothing can be a real cool hand.
- Cool Hand Luke
Carmen tugged nervously at her dress and craned her neck in a futile attempt to see the back of her head. "Grandma, does my hair look all right?"
"You look beautiful, dear," Helena Fredricks reassured her granddaughter, repressing a sigh. Children grew up so fast.
"For once," Carmen murmured, trying again to see the back of her head.
Helena tapped her granddaughter's nose reprovingly. "No more comments like that, thank you very much. You look wonderful, and if you don't believe me, I'm certain that Richard will back me up."
Carmen blushed. "Grandma!"
"That is, if he's a young man of any intelligence."
Carmen laughed and shook her head, but she was smiling as she picked up her long silver shawl and her purse. Then her smile was replaced by a small frown as she asked, "Are you sure we shouldn't have told Grandpa about the dance?"
Helena clasped her hands in front of her and met Carmen's eyes gravely. "Your grandfather is an honorable and an admirable man, but about some things he is blind. Sometimes because he has been hurt by something in the past, and sometimes because he's just plain stubborn. I'll explain things to him when he comes home tonight. I promise that he won't be angry with you."
"I don't want him to be angry with you either," Carmen protested, her face troubled. "Rick isn't at all like Mr. Wayne. Maybe if I explained …"
"You can. When you come home, after you've had a wonderful time at the dance."
Outside on the driveway, the sound of a motor came faintly through the closed window. "He's here," Carmen said happily and ran down the stairs to the ground floor, Helena close behind her.
But when they arrived, Matthew Fredricks was standing just inside the front door, grasping his carved mahogany cane in one hand while he struggled to undo the buttons of his coat with the other.
Carmen stopped short in confusion and let Helena sweep on ahead of her. "Matthew, you're home early," she exclaimed, reaching out to help him with the buttons. "I thought you and Mr. Tupman were going to have dinner in town."
"We were, only Tupman's got a devilish cold, so I told him to go home and go to bed."
"Very wise," Helen murmured, hanging up the troublesome coat and taking his arm to walk with him to his favorite chair in the library.
But he caught sight of Carmen as they turned. "Carmen!" he exclaimed in surprise. "You look lovely, my dear, what is the occasion? Is there a party?" He looked at his wife in sudden anxiety. "I don't have to go to a party, do I?"
"You can relax, Matthew, it's a dance at Bailey. One of those things they do every year. You'd better sit down and let me put a heating pad on your leg. The cold's not going to do your arthritis any good."
"Don't fuss, Helena, my leg is fine," he said impatiently and returned his attention to his granddaughter. " I thought you didn't like school dances, Carmen."
"I … I don't," she stammered. "Not usually."
"Hmph," Matthew said speculatively, watching the blush creep up her cheeks. "And who is the fortunate young man?"
"I …" Carmen looked pleadingly at her grandmother.
"He's the student who tutors her in math, a very kind and intelligent boy. Matthew, sit down before you strain your leg."
Unsuspecting but persistent, he asked, "What is this kind and intelligent boy's name? I assume he does have a name?"
Wishing fervently that she could stop blushing, Carmen answered, "Rick. It's Rick."
"Matthew …"
"Helena, will you stop dithering? I'm not in my coffin yet. Rick what, Carmen?"
"Grayson."
A frozen expression settled over Matthew Fredricks' face. "Rick Grayson," he repeated slowly.
"Matthew, I would like to have a word with you in the library," Helena said firmly.
He looked over at her. "Yes. I think you'd better. Curious, that you never happened to mention that Carmen was going to this dance."
She set her chin and held his gaze fearlessly. "I think you know why."
"Carmen, please go to your room," Matthew said quietly.
"But Grandpa! He's coming to pick me up. He'll be here any minute."
Leaning heavily on his cane, Matthew advanced until he stood face to face with his granddaughter. "Carmen, I try as much as I can not to pull you into the unpleasant affairs of the adult world. But I think you must know that we no longer have anything to do with the house of Wayne."
"But Grandpa, Rick's not—"
"Please go to your room," he repeated.
Tears spilled out of Carmen's eyes as she spun and ran back up the stairs.
Trevor rang the Gordons' doorbell and waited, roses in one hand, car keys in the other. Whistling cheerfully, he looked up at the sky, which, for once, was clear. He could even see a couple of stars, which didn't happen very often in Gotham. It was a good omen.
Last night, he'd been woken up by his phone ringing. It was Barbara, and in a half hysterical voice she said that she was at the front door, and could she please come in. Up in his room, she had paced the floor in frantic silence for five minutes, before suddenly launching into a uncontrolled torrent of confession. She told him about the last fight she'd had with her mother and all the nights that guilt kept her awake. She told him about Jimmy, and how she hated taking so much responsibility for him and how she hated herself for hating it. She told him about the fight with Sarah in the department store, and the long weeks of waiting for her father to find out. And at the end of it, she burst into tears and threw herself into his arms.
As he held her and let her cry for the second time in a month, Trevor suddenly realized that he was on the verge of getting what he had wanted for so long. If he could play his cards right. If.
When she looked up at him and asked brokenly what he thought she should do, he had hesitated, and thought. Most girls would have wanted him to say that her mom would never have wanted her to feel guilty, that it was natural to resent Jimmy, that dating Sarah was her dad's worst decision ever. But Barbara wasn't most girls. Taking a leap in the dark, he said, "Apologize to Sarah."
She'd stared at him and then looked down at her hands. "You're right," she whispered. And then she threw her arms around his neck and kissed his mouth, hard. "Thank you for telling me the truth," she said, before she ran out of the room. By the time he got downstairs, she was gone.
They hadn't had much chance to talk at school that day, but the smiles she had sent him were warm, and as he stood waiting for her on the porch, he had the definite feeling that his luck was in.
Alfred pulled to a stop in front of the Fredricks' home and started to climb out of the car.
"Alfred, I can open my own door. Really," Rick protested, hopping out to prove his point. Holding half a dozen pink carnations in one hand and adjusting his bow tie with the other, he hurried up the front steps and rang the doorbell. After a minute, during which he began to wish he'd put on his coat instead of leaving it in the car, the door was opened by a distinguished elderly man who leaned heavily on a cane. "Good evening, Mr. Fredricks," Rick said politely. "I'm here to take Carmen to the dance."
The old man regarded him unsmilingly. "I'm afraid Carmen is feeling a bit under the weather."
"She's not coming?" Rick asked slowly.
"She needs to rest. I'm sorry we didn't call you in time."
"Don't worry about it," Rick said automatically, feeling awkward. "I'm sorry she's sick. Could you give her these?" He handed the carnations to Mr. Fredricks. "Tell her I hope she feels better soon."
"Goodnight," the old man said coolly, and shut the door.
Rick stared at it for a moment, confused, before hurrying back to the car. "Carmen's sick," he explained, sliding into his seat and slamming the door.
"Is she?" Alfred asked in an odd tone.
Rick noticed. "You think her grandfather lied to me?" he asked, laughing.
"That's rather unlikely, isn't it?" Alfred asked, driving the car along the turn-around and headed back down the driveway.
Rick slumped in his seat. "This sucks. I can't go to the dance without a date."
"Perhaps you'll find one there."
"That's what I'm afraid—" He broke off as a figure darted out of the bushes at the side of the road and Alfred hit the brakes. "That's Carmen!" Rick opened his door and climbed out.
She was dressed in a red satin formal, and if the state of her makeup was any evidence, she had been crying. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't worry about it," he said, feeling very awkward. "You can't help it if you're sick."
"I'm not sick!" she burst out. "But my grandpa won't let me go to the dance with you." The last word caught on a sob and more tears made mascara trails down her cheeks.
"Why not?" Rick asked, searching his pockets for a handkerchief. "Please don't cry."
Alfred joined them and, to Rick's relief because his own pockets were coming up empty, offered Carmen a handkerchief.
"Because he hates Mr. Wayne," she gasped in answer to the question, wiping her face clean on the linen.
"Carmen!" an angry voice called, and then Mr. Fredricks was limping down the drive toward them.
His wife hurried behind him. "Matthew, for heaven's sake, you'll put yourself in bed for a week."
He ignored her and hobbled determinedly on. "Carmen, go inside."
"I'm sorry," she sobbed again, and then ran toward the house.
"Don't be a fool, Matthew, they're only children," Alfred said, anger clear in his voice.
"Is that your excuse for the other one, too?" Mr. Fredricks asked contemptuously and turned as his wife laid a hand on his arm. "Yes, Helena, I'm coming." He began to limp toward the house.
"You cannot blame the son for the sins of the father," Alfred called after him, and then as Mr. Fredricks stopped and turned back, he added, "Anymore than you can blame the father for the sins of the son."
"Alfred, I'll thank you not to tell me how to conduct the affairs of my house." The two old men glared at each other, and then Mr. Fredricks resumed his slow progress back, obviously in pain.
"Let's go, Master Richard," Alfred said grimly.
Rick climbed obediently back into the car, feeling embarrassed and angry and confused. "What did Bruce do?" he demanded.
Alfred paused with his hand on the gear shift, and then he turned around and Rick almost flinched at the anger still visible in his face. But after a moment, Alfred's expression softened, and he turned back to put the car in gear. "Matthew Fredricks and Thomas Wayne were particular friends," he said, as they sped down the street. "During the long years Mr. Earle had control of the company, Matthew fought the hardest to keep Thomas's visions for Wayne Enterprises alive. And then, after seven years of absence, Bruce Wayne returned, got drunk, and burned down his father's house. Matthew Fredricks has decided that he will not forgive him, any more than he will forgive himself for the way his own child has disappointed him."
"Carmen's mom?" Rick asked.
"Yes."
"But I'm not Bruce. I'm not even related to him."
"Bitterness does not always leave a man enough judgment to make such distinctions."
They rode the rest of the way to the school in silence. Rick stared glumly out the window at the lighted entrance to the gym, where a steady stream of students was entering. "I'd much rather just go home."
"We'd all like that," Alfred answered, not unsympathetically. "Call when you're ready to come home."
Rick got out of the car and dragged his feet toward the building. As he drew closer, he had to smile and wave at people who recognized him—he'd managed to scrape up some form of acquaintanceship with a lot of them during the past couple of weeks, but he was no closer to discovering the link to the riddle killer than he had been at the start of the semester. More and more frequently he thought that this whole undercover bit was a complete waste of time, and that his energy would have been much better spent patrolling Gotham as Robin.
The gym was very pink. The decorating committee had gone overboard with pink and silver streamers, pink and red hearts, and pink and white candles. Snagging a heart shaped cookie loaded with frosting and sprinkles, Rick nodded at a couple of fellow sophomores and began wending his way through the crowd toward what was obviously the stag corner.
"Rick, there you are!" a girl's voice exclaimed, and a slender hand with a pink manicure caught his arm.
He turned uneasily, but it was one of the students he hadn't had a conversation with yet, a petite brunette junior who was on the cheerleading squad. She was smiling in a very friendly way, and he smiled back in some confusion. "Hi." He couldn't remember her name.
"I've been looking for you for twenty minutes. Come on," she began to pull him toward the far side of the gym, where the collapsible bleachers had been folded up against the wall.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
Her smile became mysterious. "You'll see."
Rick stopped and was about to demand more information when he caught sight of Amanda halfway across the room. She was standing with Hal and April and a nerdy freshman who must be her date, but she was ignoring them and scanning the crowd purposefully. Reflexively, he turned his back and allowed the cheerleader to pull him on.
When they reached the far wall, she cast a quick look around to make certain no one was watching them, and then ducked into the narrow space between the bleachers and the wall. Thinking that Robin would never follow a strange guide into such a perfect ambush setup, Rick edged after her, and was surprised to discover a door. His guide tugged on a silver chain around her neck, and a moment later a key had emerged from the bodice of her dress. She unlocked the door and, catching Rick's arm again, pulled him inside.
In the light from the gym, he saw steps descending into the basement, and then the door shut behind them, plunging them into darkness. "There's a flashlight here somewhere," his guide murmured, and she brushed against him as she reached up and behind him. "Got it," she announced, and then stumbled. He had to catch her, and she leaned against his chest for a moment. "I'm sorry, it's these shoes."
What the heck, he thought, and kissed her, finally remembering, as he did, that her name was Darla.
After a moment, she pulled away, giggling. "Johnny's going to think I ran out on him." Clicking on her flashlight, she started down the stairs.
"Johnny?" he asked curiously. "Johnny Zorello?"
"He's the man," she agreed as they reached the bottom of the steps and started down a cobwebby corridor. "He asked me to hostess this year." She sounded proud.
"Hostess what?" he was about to ask, when they reached a section of corridor that was lighted, albeit with one forty-watt incandescent, and paused in front of a closed door. There were voices behind it, and music.
"Wait here, I know Johnny wants to take you in himself," she said, before opening the door and slipping inside.
Rick shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the doorframe, waiting. In addition to the chatter and music, he could hear the clink of glass and a sharp rattling. After a moment, he realized that not all the voices were coming from inside the room. The corridor took a sharp turn a yard away from the door, and a hushed conversation was drifting around it. He couldn't make out the words, and automatically began edging closer, until one of the voices said abruptly, "That's fine," and Johnny Zorello, dressed in a white tuxedo, strode around the corner.
He saw Rick and smiled widely. "Rick, my friend, glad you could make it. I see Darla found you," he added, eyeing Rick with one eyebrow quirked.
"I thought you were suspended? Banned from school grounds?"
"Please. I would never let such a minor issue stand in the way of tradition. Besides, mankind deserves an alternative to that … pink … thing upstairs."
"So this is the real party?" Rick asked, understanding.
"As close to a party as it is possible to get within the sacred and stifling halls of dear old Bailey." Johnny placed his hand on the knob, and then paused. "You may want adjust your lipstick before we go in." He pulled out a crisp handkerchief and offered it with a flourish.
Rick took it and wiped the red smudge off his mouth. "Thanks. It's not really my color."
Johnny's eyebrow quirked again. "Are you sure? She's currently between football players." Before Rick could answer, he pushed open the door and led the way in.
The room was larger than Rick expected, and when he detected the remains of a wall that had once cut it in half, he wondered just how far back this particular Bailey tradition went. There was red carpet on the floor and heavy swaths of red and black silk covered the walls. About fifty people—the uppermost crust of the elite student body—were gathered around tables, holding glasses, playing cards, and shaking dice.
"A micro-scale operation, obviously," Johnny said modestly. "Just blackjack, craps, and poker, and blackjack's the only one with a house bank. We operate only during the Valentines dance, offering a much needed alternative entertainment to a select guest list. No one is allowed to plunge deeper than a thousand, since the essence of our operation is secrecy, and we don't want anything getting out of hand. No IOUs, but you are allowed to bid anything you come in with in a poker game, as long as the other players agree. Watches, phones, things like that. and I can promise you that several people will have lost their shirts before the night is over. There's also a two drink limit." He nodded toward the bar which, despite being small and obviously portable, gleamed impressively.
"No getting out of hand?" Rick asked.
"You got it. Now, if you'll accompany me to the lovely Tracy, we'll get your chips—"
Rick reluctantly trailed after him. "You know, Johnny, I don't have much cash with me …"
Johnny pulled out his wallet and handed several bills over to his designated cashier. "Tracy, I'll be personally bankrolling my friend Mr. Grayson tonight, since his advance invitation got lost. My suspension made things a little more difficult than usual," he explained to Rick, looking apologetic.
Tracy, another cheerleader, handed over five hundred in chips with a coy smile. "Have fun, Rick."
"Thanks, Johnny, but I'd really rather just watch …"
"Nonsense," Johnny said genially, steering him toward the nearest table. "Have a drink, shoot a little craps, and enjoy yourself."
Rick obediently took a seat at the table and watched the guy next to him, a senior named Martin, throw for his pass bet. He made it, and enthusiastically pulled in the chips of the player who had bet against him. "It's the beginning of a streak," he told Rick confidentially, although as far as Rick could remember they'd spoken only once before, passing in the hallway. Martin had apparently already reached his two drink limit, which may have been one too many. "The Tren better watch his back because I'm coming up behind him."
Abruptly interested, Rick demanded, "What about Tren?"
Martin clapped a heavy but friendly hand on his shoulder. "I forgot, you're a new kid. The Train's been the big winner for two years running, but tonight, he's going to be derailed." He guffawed at his own joke and knocked over his stack of chips.
Rick turned and systematically scanned the room, something he had neglected to do when he first entered. As the crowd around the poker table shifted, he saw Trevor, cards in hand, staring coolly at his opponent, who looked torn with indecision. And behind him, framed against a panel of black silk, stood Barbara.
She was wearing a short, white silk sheath with a crimson sash, and her long auburn hair fell smoothly over her bare shoulders. She looked happy, chatting merrily to another girl, and he knew that he had never seen her looking so good. He wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been staring when his dazed reverie was broken by Martin jostling into him as he slammed both fists on the table in frustration. Hoping that no one had seen him gawking and slightly relieved that Barbara had remained engaged in her conversation, Rick tore his eyes away and found Trevor watching him, looking amused.
Rick turned back to his own table, confused. What had suddenly happened to Trevor's "breathe-in-my-girlfriend's-vicinity-and-I'll-kill-you" mentality? Either they've broken up, Rick thought, not likely, or he's finally figured out he doesn't have any reason to be jealous. Which had been true all along but was still depressing.
Rick mechanically accepted the dice Martin shoved at him and picked up a chip to make his bet at random, which, Alex had told him once, was only honest thing for a mathematician to do.
"You probably want to start out with a pass line bet," Martin encouraged him, and Rick stared at him, seized with sudden temptation. Martin, tipsy and superstitious, was obviously not going to be the night's big winner. But he, Rick, could probably do it without breaking a mental sweat. It was only a matter of working the statistics. He and Alex had even done a study of casino games once, just for fun.
Of course, in addition to working the numbers, they'd had a conversation about ethics. But it's not actually cheating. It's just this once, and it's not even like I'm playing a real casino. It's low stakes, no one's going to get hurt. And I'll do something good with the money. One last glance over at the poker game decided him. Trevor was raking in the pot, smiling in a cool, self-congratulatory way that said he was confident in his game and his luck, and then Barbara walked over and ran her fingers through his hair, smiling down at him. It wasn't fair. No guy should get everything like that.
"Ok," Rick said purposefully, throwing down his chips. "Let's make a train wreck."
Selina dropped the innocent looking package with no return address into the mailbox and walked on the Metropolis street, a small smile playing around her mouth. She did wish that she could be there to see the commissioner's face when he opened it, but that would be, if not impossible, at least very foolish. Thinking about Commissioner Gordon drew her thoughts to Gotham in general and Bruce Wayne in particular. Her smile deepened as she admitted to herself how eager she was to return. The little games they played were more than she had had in, well, ever. Patience, she counseled herself. She had almost gotten ahead of the game during their last encounter. The time is coming. And until it came, it was better that she stay in Metropolis.
Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket, and the caller ID presented a number she had never seen before. "Hello?"
"Luthor is moving without you. The facility is being evacuated as we speak."
Selina's fingers whitened as she gripped the phone tightly. "That's impossible," she told the low voice, but he had already hung up.
That Luthor would go behind her back in this way seemed inconceivable, but if he said it was so, it must be happening. How did he know? He has a contact, she immediately answered herself, one he didn't tell me about. Something sharp twisted in her gut, but she ignored the pain as she quickened her pace toward the parking garage where she had left her car, not daring to go fast enough to attract notice, but burning inside with impatience and worry. Finally at her vehicle, she drove to LexCorp's massive Metropolis headquarters and parked in her reserved spot, then made her way to the elevator, appearing as cool, calm, and collected as she always did.
Selina rode the elevator as low as it would travel, to the lowest officially existing level of the complex. Once there, she transferred to another elevator, one that took a key to summon and required a retinal scan before it would obey her command to go down.
She got off at level sub-6, and found the place in orderly chaos. Equipment and files were being hastily packed, and down the hall she caught sight of Jonathan Crane leading one of the subjects toward the exit.
"Dr. Crane," she called, hurrying to catch up, without seeming to hurry at all.
He flinched as she came near, and she looked him over with contempt. Jonathan Crane had once been a genius, who had a gift for manipulating minds that, from what she had been told, had been truly remarkable. But she had never known him before that same brilliant mind had fallen prey to his own weapons, and it had never recovered. He still had flickers of that genius, which was why Luthor had hunted him out of the slums and used him, and she had once hoped that she might be able to resurrect more than a flicker, by challenging him to the games he had once so skillfully used to torment others. But instead of rising to the challenge, he had only added her to the list of things he was cringingly, coweringly afraid of. His mind was too completely overthrown, not only as a result of the toxin, but because the dark and guiding light of his psyche, his faith in his own genius, had been extinguished by another darkness—the shape of the Batman.
"Miss Kyle," he now stammered, pushing at spectacles that didn't need pushing. "I wasn't expecting you."
"Obviously," she said coolly. "Where are you taking them?"
"I … I don't know. I'm only following Mr. Luthor's orders. There's a plant, that's all I know." He looked at her pleadingly, hoping she was pacified.
It was probably true, and there was no point in browbeating him. "Where is Lex?" she demanded.
"He was just here. When he saw everything was fine, he said he was going to take the evening off."
She knew what that meant. Without another word, she returned to the elevator and went back up, all the way up this time, to the complex's very top level, which also needed special security clearance. She didn't have it. She could make the elevator go up, but she couldn't get out until he chose to let her. He made her wait several minutes, but she stood patiently, refusing to let the rage smoldering inside her take over. She had to regain control of the situation, and that started, she knew, within.
"Selina, I'm so sorry," Lex exclaimed, as he finally opened the elevator doors. "I didn't hear the bell."
His mouth smiled but his eyes were hard, and she knew that he knew she had discovered his attempted betrayal, and he wasn't happy about it.
"Don't worry about," she said smoothly. "I apologize for disturbing you on your night off, but I just wanted to let you know that I'll be flying with the subjects to their new facility."
He was angry, and he had to turn his back to hide it. "You have a lot of work here in Metropolis. Do you really have time for a leisure trip?" He was pretending to be casual, but they both knew he had already lost the round to her.
"You know that I represent certain vested interests in the project. I think it's best."
He had failed to hide the transfer from her and thereby gain the upper hand in their relationship. And it galled him because she had always somehow held that upper hand, so Lex lost hold of the frayed edge of his temper and snapped, "Don't forget that you do work for me." Which was a stupid thing to say, by anyone's standards.
"Only on paper," she returned coolly. "Don't forget that as an enemy, I may prove too costly even for the great Lex Luthor." And with that reminder, she left.
The project was being moved to a remote LexCorp facility in Montana. When she had flown there, made certain that Luthor didn't have a second trick up his sleeve, and flown back again, her cell phone rang. It was a number she had never seen before.
"Hello?" she asked. There was no response, but the silence was familiar. "I have the situation under control."
"How novel," he said at last, biting irony in his tone.
"You have an inside contact," Selina accused, the shame of the betrayal suddenly to great to be silenced. "I thought you trusted me with this project."
"And it's a good thing I didn't, isn't it? Since you obviously were on the verge of failing me. What happened? Were you distracted?" The questions were asked gently, sympathetically, and she shuddered because she knew the rage they concealed.
"It won't happen again."
"You know what will happen, if it does."
Barbara was feeling seriously annoyed with Richard Grayson. This was supposed to be Trevor's night. He was the best poker player in the school, and for the first time in the three Valentines dances they'd attended together, she actually cared whether he won the stupid game. Things between them had shifted so rapidly, that she still wasn't entirely certain she had her bearings, but she did know that Trevor was suddenly important, and that she wanted him to be happy.
And Trevor had been winning. Until little Rick had made a killing at craps, and broken Johnny's blackjack bank, and then wandered over to the poker table and asked, with that angelically innocent face of his, whether he could bid in.
One of the players, down to his last ten bucks, willingly gave up his seat, and Rick sat down and proceeded to win. And win again. And again, and again. He lost a few hands, but never nearly as much as he won, and he had an aggravating trick of increasing the bid by astronomical amounts, that were impossibly high for anyone who hadn't been winning all night. And when he sent the bid skyrocketing, you never knew whether it was because he had an excellent hand or because he just felt like it—he'd pushed it past five hundred dollars once on a pair of fives.
But the most irritating thing of all was that he didn't seem to care. If he'd gone half crazy with puppyish excitement over his phenomenal luck, she could have felt condescendingly amused at the little sophomore who thought he was making it in the big time. But Rick seemed more interested in flirting with Darla, or any other pretty girl who drifted over to watch the game, than in his cards.
Trevor was down to his last stack of chips, and although his expression remained cool, Barbara could read the tense line of his shoulders. She knew that this game was important to him because, like her, he didn't really have friends at school. But he had gone from being an undersized, ostracized, disliked twerp to a guy nobody messed with. He wasn't popular, but he got respect, and this game was one of the ways he got it.
Last night, when things had suddenly gotten to her, she'd snapped, and she'd instinctively gone to the one place she could go, to the one person she could really talk to. She hadn't realized before how much she depended on Trevor to be there when she needed him. And after she'd woken him up for the privilege of watching her fall apart, he'd had the courage to tell her the truth.
She wasn't suddenly blinded to his faults. He was still a liar and something of a creep, but he was her creep, she thought with an unexpected burst of tenderness. And she hated watching him lose.
Rick opened the bidding for what was undoubtedly going to be the last hand. He opened high, and the two players besides Trevor who were left, folded in disgust. Trevor didn't have enough chips to cover the bet, but he took off his expensive watch and looked questioningly at Rick.
"Why not?" the younger boy said agreeably, and took the last of Trevor's chips and the watch with a full house.
"It looks like we have the night's the big winner," Johnny announced, clapping Rick on the back. "Unless there's anything else you want to put on the table, Trevor?"
Everyone looked at Trevor, but Barbara hoped that she was the only one who saw how close he was to losing his temper. Forcing a smile, he made a show of rummaging around in his pockets and pulled out his car keys.
Rick shook his head. "I don't think so."
Trevor raised eyebrow. "Oh, that's right. You don't have a license."
Rick remained unoffended. "Next week," he said cheerfully. "But I only get one space in the garage. Bruce had to get rid of his Audi to make room, and he was whining enough about that. Not that he ever drove it." For some reason, he looked at Barbara when he said this, maybe because she was one of the few people who had actually seen Bruce Wayne's garage and knew just how ridiculous the statement was. He smiled at her, not the killer charm one he'd been using all night on the cheerleaders, but a half-shy are-we-still-friends? one, and in that he gave himself away. Barbara abruptly realized that he'd been flirting with the cheerleaders all night because he couldn't flirt with her, and that in thinking so much about Trevor, she'd forgotten all about Rick's persistent crush. Which gave her an idea. Not a very nice one, perhaps, but one that would give Trevor one more chance to recoup his losses. Tugging on her boyfriend's arm, she said, "Excuse us a minute," and pulled him into a corner for a private conference.
Trevor was against the idea at first, until she pointed out that he really couldn't lose anything, and then, because he really wanted to win and maybe because of the new level of trust between them, he gave in, with the caveat that, "We'll have to run it past Johnny."
Johnny, predictably, was delighted. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced grandly, "Miss Gordon has agreed to put up on the behalf of Mr. Wren, the stake," he paused, to make certain he had everyone's attention and continued, "of one kiss. The Bailey gaming committee, meaning me, has agreed to let this stand, but it shall be left to Mr. Wren's opponent to decide how much a kiss is worth." Dropping his affected manner, he grinned broadly. "So, Rick, how much are you going to put up?"
She had thought that he would look flustered, or at least pleased. But he only shot her one inscrutable glance out of his unnervingly pale eyes, and then he looked down at his chips, worth close to twenty thousand dollars—an astronomical amount for Bailey poker, but probably not that much to boy who had a trust fund worth a billion dollars.
Looking back up at her, he grinned unexpectedly, and then deliberately shoved all of his chips into the center of the table. Johnny laughed and started to say something, undoubtedly something stupid, but Rick held up a hand, and pushed Trevor's watch next to the chips. Then he added his own watch and started pulling things out of his pockets—a cell phone, a wallet, a key ring, and two crumpled napkins with numbers written on them. People were starting to laugh now, and Rick was smiling too, in a way that said he knew he was making a spectacle out of himself and enjoying every minute.
The laughter suddenly doubled as he stood up and took off his jacket and added it to the pile on the table. He followed it up with his bow tie, his vest, his belt, and his shoes. Johnny was laughing so hard he had to lean against the table to keep his balance, but he managed to gasp out, "You're not going to stop there, are you?"
"Of course not," Rick said calmly, and unbuttoned his shirt. That caused a sensation, but it was nothing to the whistles he got as climbed out of his pants and placed them, neatly folded, on top of the stack.
Wearing nothing but his undershirt, boxers (blue with yellow ducks), and long wool socks, he bowed deeply to his catcalling audience and sat back down. "I should have worn layers," he said cheerfully, causing Johnny to go into convulsions, which had to be calmed down before he could get on with the honor of dealing the very last hand of the night.
"You'd better win, man, or you're going to freeze your ass on the way home," Johnny said, shaking his head as he finally distributed the cards.
"You can ride with me, Rick, I'll keep you warm," Tracy offered, inspiring another round of catcalls. Barbara rolled her eyes and wondered why Darla wasn't chiming in too.
The room grew quiet as both players studied their hands. Barbara held her breath. Trevor glanced at his cards with his best blank expression, but she could tell he was pleased, when, after a moment, the line of his shoulders relaxed a fraction.
Trevor retained his original cards, but Rick took two from the dealer, and spent a moment rearranging his hand. "Ok," he said, and threw down his cards. Two pairs, aces over eights.
Trevor threw down his cards triumphantly. "Flush," he announced. "Sorry, Rick, looks like you'd better take Tracy up on her offer."
"What?" Rick asked, sounding surprised, looking at his own cards. "Oh. Sorry." He looked genuinely apologetic as he nudged an eight aside to reveal his third ace. "Full house." His second one in a row.
Half the crowd was cheering and the other half was still laughing as Trevor shook his head in disgust. "You have the devil's luck," he said, but to Barbara's relief, he didn't sound too upset. Maybe you couldn't be too mad at a guy in ducky boxers.
Rick managed to get most of his clothes back on before someone in the crowd remembered what the whole point of this had been. "Kiss!" came the shout, and then everyone was chanting it. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"
Barbara sighed and started around the table, but before she got to Rick's chair, the chant suddenly stumbled and died. "Johnny," a girl gasped, and Barbara saw that a path had opened in the crowd to let Darla through.
She was gasping for breath and she looked terrified. Her dress was torn and dirty where she must have fallen, and there was a crimson streak smeared on her shoulder. "Johnny, everyone, come quick," she sobbed. "There's been a murder!"
To Be Continued
A/N Remember, reviews make the best valentines!