Play Your Cards Right Quotes

You don’t have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt with. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you’re holding and my dear one, you and I have been granted a mighty generous one.

If you play your cards right, the next generation will have so much more than you did.

You only go around once, but if you play your cards right, once is enough.

You don't have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you're holding.

You just implied you’re banging me tonight.” His grin gets bigger as his hands snake around my waist. “Play your cards right.” “I forgot my cards … But I did bring my penis.

This is where you first failed us. You gave us minds and told us not to think. You gave us curiosity and put a booby-trapped tree right in front of us. You gave us sex and told us not to do it. You played three-card monte with our souls from day one, and when we couldn't find the queen, you sent us to Hell to be tortured for eternity. That was your great plan for humanity? All you gave us here was daisies and fairy tales and you acted like that was enough. How were we supposed to resist evil when you didn't even tell us about it?

Nobody gets to be Queen of England by being loveable. You will have to play your cards right.

Here we are," he said, pointing down an unshoveled path. "The Gardens." Cath tried to look appreciative. You wouldn't know there was a path here at all if it weren't for one set of footprints in the melting snow. All she could see were the footprints, some dead bushes, and a few weedy patches of mud. "It's breathtaking," she laughed. "I knew you'd like it. Play your cards right, and I'll bring you back during the high season.

Dawson pressed his mouth to Adam’s ear and whispered, “Play your cards right, that won’t be the only place on you I stick my tongue.

I'll try not to embarrass myself." "Why would you embarrass yourself?" "Because I'm about to be trapped ona jet for more than two hours with the Brian Sinclair." "Last night you got laid by the Trey Mills." "And it was amazing," she said, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling to express her bliss. "If you play your cards right, you might get laid by the Trey Mills in the bathroom back there in about half an hour.

On the back part of the step, toward the right, I saw a small iridescent sphere of almost unbearable brilliance. At first I thought it was revolving; then I realised that this movement was an illusion created by the dizzying world it bounded. The Aleph's diameter was probably little more than an inch, but all space was there, actual and undiminished. Each thing (a mirror's face, let us say) was infinite things, since I distinctly saw it from every angle of the universe. I saw the teeming sea; I saw daybreak and nightfall; I saw the multitudes of America; I saw a silvery cobweb in the center of a black pyramid; I saw a splintered labyrinth (it was London); I saw, close up, unending eyes watching themselves in me as in a mirror; I saw all the mirrors on earth and none of them reflected me; I saw in a backyard of Soler Street the same tiles that thirty years before I'd seen in the entrance of a house in Fray Bentos; I saw bunches of grapes, snow, tobacco, lodes of metal, steam; I saw convex equatorial deserts and each one of their grains of sand; I saw a woman in Inverness whom I shall never forget; I saw her tangled hair, her tall figure, I saw the cancer in her breast; I saw a ring of baked mud in a sidewalk, where before there had been a tree; I saw a summer house in Adrogué and a copy of the first English translation of Pliny -- Philemon Holland's -- and all at the same time saw each letter on each page (as a boy, I used to marvel that the letters in a closed book did not get scrambled and lost overnight); I saw a sunset in Querétaro that seemed to reflect the colour of a rose in Bengal; I saw my empty bedroom; I saw in a closet in Alkmaar a terrestrial globe between two mirrors that multiplied it endlessly; I saw horses with flowing manes on a shore of the Caspian Sea at dawn; I saw the delicate bone structure of a hand; I saw the survivors of a battle sending out picture postcards; I saw in a showcase in Mirzapur a pack of Spanish playing cards; I saw the slanting shadows of ferns on a greenhouse floor; I saw tigers, pistons, bison, tides, and armies; I saw all the ants on the planet; I saw a Persian astrolabe; I saw in the drawer of a writing table (and the handwriting made me tremble) unbelievable, obscene, detailed letters, which Beatriz had written to Carlos Argentino; I saw a monument I worshipped in the Chacarita cemetery; I saw the rotted dust and bones that had once deliciously been Beatriz Viterbo; I saw the circulation of my own dark blood; I saw the coupling of love and the modification of death; I saw the Aleph from every point and angle, and in the Aleph I saw the earth and in the earth the Aleph and in the Aleph the earth; I saw my own face and my own bowels; I saw your face; and I felt dizzy and wept, for my eyes had seen that secret and conjectured object whose name is common to all men but which no man has looked upon -- the unimaginable universe. I felt infinite wonder, infinite pity.

There will come a time--perhaps even by the time you read this--that people will no longer be on Facebook. There will come a time when the stars of your favorite teen TV show will be sixty. There will come a time when you will have the same unalienable rights as your straightest friend. (Probably before any of the stars of your favorite teen TV show turn sixty.) There will come a time when the gay prom won't have to be separate. There will come a time when you look at someone younger than your and feel that he or she will know more than you ever did. There will come a time when you will worry about being forgotten. There will come a time when the gospel will be rewritten. If you play your cards right, the next generation will have so much more than you did.

Everyone stares and smiles as he carries me down the street toward my apartment. “I feel like you should be wearing a white Navy uniform right now.” “I have one of those. If you play your cards right, I’ll bust it out someday.” He shoots me a look, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch as he begins to hum, Up Where We Belong.

Buckley followed the three of them into the kitchen and asked, as he had at least once a day, “Where’s Susie?” They were silent. Samuel looked at Lindsey. “Buckley,” my father called from the adjoining room, “come play Monopoly with me.” My brother had never been invited to play Monopoly. Everyone said he was too young, but this was the magic of Christmas. He rushed into the family room, and my father picked him up and sat him on his lap. “See this shoe?” my father said. Buckley nodded his head. “I want you to listen to everything I say about it, okay?” “Susie?” my brother asked, somehow connecting the two. “Yes, I’m going to tell you where Susie is.” I began to cry up in heaven. What else was there for me to do? “This shoe was the piece Susie played Monopoly with,” he said. “I play with the car or sometimes the wheelbarrow. Lindsey plays with the iron, and when you mother plays, she likes the cannon.” “Is that a dog?” “Yes, that’s a Scottie.” “Mine!” “Okay,” my father said. He was patient. He had found a way to explain it. He held his son in his lap, and as he spoke, he felt Buckley’s small body on his knee-the very human, very warm, very alive weight of it. It comforted him. “The Scottie will be your piece from now on. Which piece is Susie’s again?” “The shoe?” Buckley asked. “Right, and I’m the car, your sister’s the iron, and your mother is the cannon.” My brother concentrated very hard. “Now let’s put all the pieces on the board, okay? You go ahead and do it for me.” Buckley grabbed a fist of pieces and then another, until all the pieces lay between the Chance and Community Chest cards. “Let’s say the other pieces are our friends?” “Like Nate?” “Right, we’ll make your friend Nate the hat. And the board is the world. Now if I were to tell you that when I rolled the dice, one of the pieces would be taken away, what would that mean?” “They can’t play anymore?” “Right.” “Why?” Buckley asked. He looked up at my father; my father flinched. “Why?” my brother asked again. My father did not want to say “because life is unfair” or “because that’s how it is”. He wanted something neat, something that could explain death to a four-year-old He placed his hand on the small of Buckley’s back. “Susie is dead,” he said now, unable to make it fit in the rules of any game. “Do you know what that means?” Buckley reached over with his hand and covered the shoe. He looked up to see if his answer was right. My father nodded. "You won’t see Susie anymore, honey. None of us will.” My father cried. Buckley looked up into the eyes of our father and did not really understand. Buckley kept the shoe on his dresser, until one day it wasn't there anymore and no amount of looking for it could turn up.

You don’t have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you’re holding.

What if, ladies and gentlemen, today I told you that anyone here who was born on a Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday was free to leave right now? Also, they'd be given the most central parking spots in the city, and the biggest houses. They would get job interviews before others who were born later in the week, and they'd be taken first at the doctor's office, no matter how many patients were waiting in line. If you were born from Thursday to Sunday, you might try to catch up – but because you were straggling behind, the press would always point to how inefficient you are. And if you complained, you'd be dismissed for playing the birth-day card.” I shrug. “Seems silly, right? But what if on top of these arbitrary systems that inhibited your chances for success, everyone kept telling you that things were actually pretty equal?

So what’s all the fuss?” he asked instead. “Where’s all the shit coming from?” Dean told him. He tried to make it concise, using flash words such as “fire” and “conspiracy” and “big freakin’ shape-shifter,” and told Roland, too, about Miri and Robert and Kevin. The red jade. “You’re both fucked,” Roland said. “Seriously. I’ll start arranging the funeral now.” “I want a happy boss. Where’s the positive reinforcement?” “Buried with Pollyanna in my backyard. Which is where you’ll be if you don’t play your cards right.

There’s a wound in you, and the tables, the dice, the cards—they feel like medicine. They soothe you, put you right for a time. But they’re poison, Jesper. Every time you play, you take another sip. You have to find some other way to heal that part of yourself.” She laid her hand on his chest. “Stop treating your pain like it’s something you imagined. If you see the wound is real, then you can heal it.

You have a picture of life within you, a faith, a challenge, and you were ready for deeds and sufferings and sacrifices, and then you became aware by degrees that the world asked no deeds and no sacrifices of you whatever, and that life is no poem of heroism with heroic parts to play and so on, but a comfortable room where people are quite content with eating and drinking, coffee and knitting, cards and wireless. And whoever wants more and has got it in him--the heroic and the beautiful, and the reverence for the great poets or for the saints--is a fool and a Don Quixote. Good. And it has been just the same for me, my friend. I was a gifted girl. I was meant to live up to a high standard, to expect much of myself and do great things. I could have played a great part. I could have been the wife of a king, the beloved of a revolutionary, the sister of a genius, the mother of a martyr. And life has allowed me just this, to be a courtesan of fairly good taste, and even that has been hard enough. That is how things have gone with me. For a while I was inconsolable and for a long time I put the blame on myself. Life, thought I, must in the end be in the right, and if life scorned my beautiful dreams, so I argued, it was my dreams that were stupid and wrong headed. But that did not help me at all. And as I had good eyes and ears and was a little inquisitive too, I took a good look at this so-called life and at my neighbors and acquaintances, fifty or so of them and their destinies, and then I saw you. And I knew that my dreams had been right a thousand times over, just as yours had been. It was life and reality that were wrong. It was as little right that a woman like me should have no other choice than to grow old in poverty and in a senseless way at a typewriter in the pay of a money-maker, or to marry such a man for his money's sake, or to become some kind of drudge, as for a man like you to be forced in his loneliness and despair to have recourse to a razor. Perhaps the trouble with me was more material and moral and with you more spiritual--but it was the same road. Do you think I can't understand your horror of the fox trot, your dislike of bars and dancing floors, your loathing of jazz and the rest of it? I understand it only too well, and your dislike of politics as well, your despondence over the chatter and irresponsible antics of the parties and the press, your despair over the war, the one that has been and the one that is to be, over all that people nowadays think, read and build, over the music they play, the celebrations they hold, the education they carry on. You are right, Steppenwolf, right a thousand times over, and yet you must go to the wall. You are much too exacting and hungry for this simple, easygoing and easily contented world of today. You have a dimension too many. Whoever wants to live and enjoy his life today must not be like you and me. Whoever wants music instead of noise, joy instead of pleasure, soul instead of gold, creative work instead of business, passion instead of foolery, finds no home in this trivial world of ours--

You look like a Disney Princess.” “A Disney Princess?” “Yeah,” he whispers roughly. “One of those princesses who look like they might give you a BJ if you play your cards right but in the end she probably won’t.

She smiled with a newfound optimism. "The one thing I've learned most out of all this is that it's not over until all the cards are played. She laid down her ace, thinking we can't beat it. But there are fifty-one other cards in the deck and the game isn't over yet. We'll figure something out. Her little fit right now just shows that she's played her best hand. That was all she's capable of doing to hurt you which is exactly why she did it. Don't let her ruin your day, baby, and don't let her take from us what we have. We've gotten this far together. What's another bitter goddess to us? Like my papou always says, over, under, around or through. There's always a way and we'll find it."- Tory

You don't have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you're holding.

And then I went on to make the most of those two years. It's over and done, Aubrey," he promised. "And anyway, I'm hoping if I play my cards right, you're going to give me a lifetime.

You don't have to come with me," Ash said. "I only brought you along because you're good with a knife. And got us the uniforms. And the explosives." Lila snorted. "Sorry I'm not pulling my weight." "This may not be your idea," Ash said doggedly, "but it's what we're going to do." "Is it? Are you really going to start playing the prince card after all?" "Don' start in about my mother the queen, because I don't want to hear it." "All right, then, as your peer and absolute equal, I can't help thinking this is a really bad idea.

As she took Liam, she whispered to Dragos, “You win all the good Daddy points.” His eyes glinted with wicked sensuality, and his eyelids lowered to conceal it. Ever the opportunist, he murmured, “And what will that get me?” “If you play your cards right, it might get you lucky later.

There's a wound in you, and the tables, the dice, the cards -- they feel like medicine. They soothe you, put you right for a time. But they're poison, Jesper. Every time you play, you take another sip. You have to find some other way to heal that part of yourself." She laid her hand on his chest. "Stop treating your pain like it's something you imagined."

There is no why. You don't have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you're holding.

You dont have the right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you're holding...

It's a big, big world And there are great people wherever you look And if you play your cards just right They will all leave you alone OLDER CAT'S ADVICE

But Celia was the sort of beautiful that felt as if you could hold it in your hands, like if you played your cards right, you might just get to marry a girl like Celia St. James.

There’s a wound in you, and the tables, the dice, the cards—they feel like medicine. They soothe you, put you right for a time. But they’re poison. Every time you play, you take another sip. You have to find some other way to heal that part of yourself. [...] Stop treating your pain like it’s something you imagined. If you see the wound is real, then you can heal it.

But that’s a luxury. You can do that when you’re rich and famous. You can decide that wealth and renown are worthless when you have them. Back then, I still thought I had all the time I needed to do everything I wanted. That if I just played my cards right, I could have it all.

Never challenge Life to a game, my mother used to say to me. Because Life plays dirty, changes the rules, steals the cards right out of your hands or, sometimes, turns them all to blank―

You don’t have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you’re holding. And, dear one, you and I both were granted a mighty generous hand.

There is no why. You don’t have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you’re holding. And, dear one, you and I both were granted a mighty generous hand.

The Neimoidian gave a long, gurgling sigh. “You’re right, Des. The decision is made. Grim fate and ill fortune have conspired against you. It’s not like sabacc; you can’t fold a bad hand. In life you just play the cards you’re dealt.

Did you know that Jacques Benveniste, one of the world's leading homeopathic "scientists," now claims that you can *email* homeopathic remedies? Yeah, see, what you do is you can take the "memory" of the diluted substance out of the water electromagnetically, put it on your computer, email it, and play it back on a sound card into new water. I mean, that could work, right? (Nick's thoughts after reading Francis Wheen's book "How Mumbo-Jumbo Conquered the World")

He’s right, you know. Kaz shouldn’t send you to do his dirty work.” “It’s all dirty work.” “But we do it just the same,” he said with a sigh. “You look exhausted. Will you sleep at all tonight?” Jesper just winked. “Not while the cards are hot. Stay and play a bit. Kaz will stake you.” “Really, Jesper?” she’d said, pulling up her hood. “If I want to watch men dig holes to fall into, I’ll find myself a cemetery.” “Come on, Inej,” he’d called after her as she passed through the big double doors onto the street. “You’re good luck!” Saints, she’d thought, if he believes that, he really must be desperate.

Fuck this place and fuck your games. This is where you first failed us. You gave us minds and told us not to think. You gave us curiosity and put a booby-trapped tree right in front of us. You gave us sex and told us not to do it. You played three-card monte with our souls from day one, and when we couldn’t find the queen, you sent us to Hell to be tortured for eternity. That was your great plan for humanity? Whatever

And, whoa!” He looked at Mr. D. “You’re the wine dude? No way!” Mr. D turned his eyes away from me and gave Nico a look of loathing. “The wine dude?” “Dionysus, right? Oh, wow! I’ve got your figurine.” “My figurine.” “In my game, Mythomagic. And a holofoil card, too! And even though you’ve only got like five hundred attack points and everybody thinks you’re the lamest god card, I totally think your powers are sweet!” “Ah.” Mr. D seemed truly perplexed, which probably saved my life. “Well, that’s…gratifying.” “Percy,” Chiron said quickly, “you and Thalia go down to the cabins. Inform the campers we’ll be playing capture the flag tomorrow evening.” “Capture the flag?” I asked. “But we don’t have enough—” “It is a tradition,” Chiron said. “A friendly match, whenever the Hunters visit.” “Yeah,” Thalia muttered. “I bet it’s real friendly.” Chiron jerked his head toward Mr. D, who was still frowning as Nico talked about how many defense points all the gods had in his game. “Run along now,” Chiron told us. “Oh, right,” Thalia said. “Come on, Percy.” She hauled me out of the Big House before Dionysus could remember that he wanted to kill me.

Is that your wife?" I asked. "Some day, if I play my cards right

Children are much more apt to share and talk while building something, playing cards, or riding in the car than when you sit down and look them right in the face and ask them to open up.

I was the sort of beautiful that women knew they could never truly emulate. Men knew they would never even get close to a woman like me. Ruby was the elegant, aloof sort of beauty. Ruby was cool. Ruby was chic. But Celia was the sort of beautiful that felt as if you could hold it in your hands, like if you played your cards right, you might just get to marry a girl like Celia St. James.

I believe, if you played your cards right, you could still marry her, Pongo.’ ‘Aren’t you overlooking the trifling fact that I happen to be engaged to Hermione?’ ‘Slide out of it.’ ‘Ha!’ ‘It is what your best friends would advise. You are a moody, introspective young man, all too prone to look on the dark side of things. I shall never forget you that day at the dog races. Sombre is the only word to describe your attitude as the cop’s fingers closed on your coat collar.

We meet at school, or work, or maybe a store. Wherever it is, there's just a random group of individuals, right? Within that group, you find your mate. If you were in a different group, you' d end up with a different mate, right? But we never dwell on that. We live our lives in the groups we have - in our cities, our countries, even though we didn't choose them. Know what I mean? We like to tell ourselves it's love, that we're choosing our own partners. But in reality, we're just playing the cards we've been dealt.

Svetlana had written about whether love was a game you could get infinitely good at, like in French novels - whether it was a matter of playing your cards right - or whether it existed between certain people in some kind of current and you just had to tap into it. "So you think it's about playing your cards right?" I said. "Pretty depressing, huh? Sometimes I think there could be two kinds of love. There could be one rare kind that just naturally exists between certain people. Then there's the more common kind that's constructed." It was a mystery to me how Svetlana generated so many opinions.

When I was young, it was never about finding love. Love was something you cultivated. Your parents picked your life partner. Romance never entered the equation until then. People didn’t marry people. Families married families. Your father liked his father, or his grandmother played cards with your grandmother. That was how it started. Marriage was a garden that grew slowly. You only got one patch, so you worked hard at it. You planted the seeds, you watered them, you waited for things to bloom—love, respect, intimacy, connection. But things are different now. Everyone expects fruits and flowers right off the bat. When those are done, it gets plain and boring. Then it’s time to move on to the next patch. Relationships are more disposable now. So many people, so many choices. I look at you, I look at Isabelle, and I see both the blessing and curse that freedom brings you—so much potential for happiness, so much pressure to realize it.

Khalid al-Hassan, the PLO’s virtual foreign minister at the time, later explained to the British journalist Alan Hart, “I was opposed to the playing of the terror card. But I have to tell you something else. Those of our Fatah colleagues who did turn to terror were not mindless criminals. They were fiercely dedicated nationalists who were doing their duty as they saw it. I have to say they were wrong, and did so at the time, but I have also to understand them. In their view, and in this they were right, the world was saying to us Palestinians, ‘We don’t give a damn about you, and we won’t care at least until you are a threat to our interests.’ In reply those in Fatah who turned to terror were saying, ‘Okay, world. We’ll play the game by your rules. We’ll make you care!’ 

Do you remember when we played cards and you told me about how your father said everyone is dealt a hand and they have to play it all the way out?” “Yes.” “I don’t think he’s right. I think you get cards, and you play them, but then you get more cards. I don’t think it’s all predestined from the beginning. All along the way, you could have made a different choice and this all could have ended up differently.” I pause. “Failure isn’t absolute. Just because you couldn’t save everyone doesn’t mean you didn’t save anyone.

You don't have to come with me," Ash said. "I only brought you along because you're good with a knife. And got us the uniforms. And the explosives." Lila snorted. "Sorry I'm not pulling my weight." "This may not be your idea," Ash said doggedly, "but it's what we're going to do." "Is it? Are you really going to start playing the prince card after all?" "Don't start in about my mother the queen, because I don't want to hear it." "All right, then, as your peer and absolute equal, I can't help thinking this is a really bad idea.

Svetlana had written about whether love was a game you could get infinitely good at, like in French novels - where it was a matter of playing your cards right - or whether it existed between certain people in some kind of current and you just had to tap into it. "So you think it's about playing your cards right?" I said. "Pretty depressing, huh? Sometimes I think there could be two kinds of love. There could be one rare kind that just naturally exists between certain people. Then there's the more common kind that's constructed." It was a mystery to me how Svetlana generated so many opinions.

Truth or Care by Stewart Stafford It's not every day you find out you're going to die, A sweaty doctor hit me right between the eyes, With my body's Judas kiss and then I was prey, Life had left me without any cards to play. Reading the shocked expression on my face, The doctor played his "it's treatable" ace, Treatable is good but curable is better, Survival hinges on the placement of letters. Turns out I never had a chance, sadly, The doctor lied to me and lied badly, Flop sweat had put truth to the sword, And I'm writing all this through a ouija board. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

Wow, this pizza is so good,” I said, swallowing a gooey bite. “It is,” Ben agreed. “But I think Sage needs a little more garlic on his. Piri says he loves the stuff.” “Nice,” I said, nodding. “So what have you guys been doing since we got to the hotel?” Rayna asked. “Playing cribbage,” Ben said. “Ask Sage who won.” “You say that like you never lost a game,” Sage countered. “Not at all. I’m just asking you to inform the ladies who won the most games.” “That would be you,” Sage admitted. “Four out of seven,” Ben crowed, “which is like winning the Stanley Cup of cribbage.” I had no idea what that meant. Ben had to explain that the Stanley Cup is a best-of-seven match. “I prefer soccer,” Sage said. “In the World Cup the preliminary games are just lead-ups to the final. And if Ben would be so kind as to let you know who won our final game…” “Misnomer,” Ben said. “You won the last game we played before dinner, yes, but the final game won’t come until right before we go our separate ways. You let me know when you’re about to head back to South America for good, and I’ll bring out the cards for that match. I’m ready whenever you are.” He said it lightly, but his eyes were steely, and we all picked up on his real message.

The old woman sat in her leather recliner, the footrest extended, a dinner tray on her lap. By candlelight, she turned the cards over, halfway through a game of Solitaire. Next door, her neighbors were being killed. She hummed quietly to herself. There was a jack of spades. She placed it under the queen of hearts in the middle column. Next a six of diamonds. It went under the seven of spades. Something crashed into her front door. She kept turning the cards over. Putting them in their right places. Two more blows. The door burst open. She looked up. The monster crawled inside, and when it saw her sitting in the chair, it growled. “I knew you were coming,” she said. “Didn’t think it’d take you quite so long.” Ten of clubs. Hmm. No home for this one yet. Back to the pile. The monster moved toward her. She stared into its small, black eyes. “Don’t you know it’s not polite to just walk into someone’s house without an invitation?” she asked. Her voice stopped it in its tracks. It tilted its head. Blood—from one of her neighbor’s no doubt—dripped off its chest onto the floor. Belinda put down the next card. “I’m afraid this is a one-player game,” she said, “and I don’t have any tea to offer you.” The monster opened its mouth and screeched a noise out of its throat like the squawk of a terrible bird. “That is not your inside voice,” Belinda snapped. The abby shrunk back a few steps. Belinda laid down the last card. “Ha!” She clapped. “I just won the game.” She gathered up the cards into a single deck, split it, then shuffled. “I could play Solitaire all day every day,” she said. “I’ve found in my life that sometimes the best company is your own.” A growl idled again in the monster’s throat. “You cut that right out!” she yelled. “I will not be spoken to that way in my own home.” The growl changed into something almost like a purr. “That’s better,” Belinda said as she dealt a new game. “I apologize for yelling. My temper sometimes gets the best of me.

Hackers could even install brain spyware into the apps and devices you are using. A research team led by UC Berkeley computer science professor Dawn Song tried this on gamers who were using neural interface to control a video game. As they played, the researchers inserted subliminal images into the game and probed the players’ unconscious brains for reaction to stimuli—like postal addresses, bank details, or human faces. Unbeknownst to the gamers, the researchers were able to steal information from their brains by measuring their unconscious brain responses that signaled recognition to stimuli, including a PIN code for one gamer’s credit card and their home address.

Yeah, Jules!" Chelsea said in a voice thick with envy. "Go away, you're making the rest of us look bad." She winked at Jule's date wickedly. "I bet you just want to eat her up, don't ya?" He stared at Chelsea with bewilderment and glanced back at Jules for help. "Just ignore her," Jules explained over the noise from the sound system. "She doesn't get out much." Chelsea tried to look hurt by Jule's words, but she couldn't quite pull it off. "I'm just sayin', Jules, he'd better watch his back tonight, or I might be trying to take you away from him." Chelsea loved to play the potentially bi-curious card, even though everyone knew she liked boys far too much to go to bat for the other team. "Gross!" cried Claire, who wasn't pretending at all. Claire hated it when the conversation deviated too far off her straight and narrow path. The operative word being straight. "Don't worry, Claire-bear," Chelsea soothed condescendingly. "I'm not going to hook up with Jules." She wrapped her arm around Claire's waist and then said suggestively in he ear, "I'm much more likely to make a move on you." "Eww!" Claire shrieked, shoving Chelsea away. "Get away from me!" "Leave her alone, Chels," Jules interrupted. "Or you're gonna make her start her 'It's Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve' speech. And sorry, Claire, but none of us really want to hear that." Jay pulled Violet close to him as they listened to the familiar, playful bantering. He slid his arm around her waist from behind, and let his lips gently tease her earlobe while no one was paying attention to the two of them. Violet wanted to turn around right there, in his arms, and forget this whole dance thing altogether. "Hey!" Chelsea's voice interrupted them, and Violet jumped a little, realizing that everyone was staring at them. "Did you hear me?" Violet leaned forward on her crutches and away from Jay, still feeling bemused by the close and intimate contact. "What?" she asked, trying to focus on what had been said. "I said, 'I gotta pee.' Let's go to the bathroom," Chelsea repeated as if Violet were some sort of imbecile, incapable of understanding normal human speech. "Keep it up, Chels, and none of us is gonna want to hook up with you tonight," Violet promised jokingly. Chelsea grinned at Violet. "I like the way you think, Violet Ambrose. Maybe you'll be the lucky girl I choose.' And then she turned to Jay. "Don't worry, I've got her from here," Chelsea announced. Jules and Claire followed. Violet laughed and glanced back at him. "I'll only be a few." Jay gave her a skeptical look that no one else would have even noticed, as he assessed the three girls who would be escorting Violet. And then he finally nodded. "Okay, I'm gonna show these guys my car." He was beaming again. "I'll be right outside, but I won't be long." Violet did her best to keep up with the trio ahead of her, but it was hard on one high heel and two crutches. Finally she yelled at them exasperatedly, "If you guys don't wait, I'm not going!" They all three stopped and turned around. Chelsea tapped her lovely silver shoe impatiently. "Hurry up, Violet, or I swear I'll take you off my list.

But I'm pretty sure Mom won't consent to a field trip across the country with my hot boyfriend. Especially not back to Florida." I clamp my mouth shut so fast my teeth should be chipped. He grins. "You think I'm hot?" "My mom thinks you are." Except, Mom's not the one blushing right now. "Hmm," he says, giving me a you're-busted look. "As hot as I am, I don't think she'd buy into my charm on this one. We'll have to call in a professional." Then that fish prince actually winks at me. "You mean Rachel," I say, toeing the sand. "I guess it's worth a shot. Don't expect much, though. I've already missed too much school." "We could fly down on the weekend. Be back before school on Monday." I nod. "She might go for that. If Rachel plays her cards right." Yeah, she might go for that. She might also pierce her tongue, dye her hair cherry red and spike it peacock-style. Ain't happening. I shrug. "I'll just keep practicing while you're gone. Maybe we don't have to go-" "No!" Galen and Toraf shout, startling me. "Why not? I won't go too deep-" "Out of the question," Galen says, standing. "You will not get in the water while I'm gone." I stomp a hole in the sand. "I already told you that you're not ordering me around, didn't I? Now you've pretty much guaranteed that I'm getting in the water, Your Highness." Galen runs a hand through his hair and utters a string of cuss words, courtesy of Rachel, no doubt. he paces in the sane a few seconds, pinching the bridge of his nose. Suddenly he stops. Relaxes. Smiles even. He walks over to his friend, slaps him on the back. "Toraf, I need a favor.

Before she could don her wide-brimmed hat and leave the sanctuary of their willow bower, Val did wrap his arms around her again, this time positioning his body behind hers. “I will come back after dark,” he whispered, “if you’ll allow it.” She went still, and he knew a moment’s panic. “Talk to me, Ellen.” He kissed her cheek. “Just be honest.” “My… tonight might not be a good time.” “Sweetheart…” Val let her go and turned her to face him. “I will not force myself on you, I just want… I want to see you.” To make sure she was all right, whatever that meant in the odd, new context in which he was trying to define the term. She must have sensed his bewilderment, because she turned away and spoke to him from over her shoulder. “My courses are due.” Val cocked his head. “So you become unfit company? Do you have the megrims and cramps and melancholy? Eat chocolates by the tin? Take to your bed?” “Sometimes.” Ellen peered at him, her expression guarded. “Then I will comfort you. I’ll cuddle you up and bring you tisanes and rub your back and your feet. I’ll read to you and beat you at cards and bring you hot-water bottles for your aches.” Ellen’s brows knit. “I truly am poor company at such times and usually before such times, as well.” “You are poor company for people who expect you to play on without missing a note, perhaps,” Val replied, holding her gaze. “May we sit a moment?” She nodded but had gone too shy even to meet his eyes. “My Uncle Tony’s wife,” Val said, wrapping an arm around Ellen’s shoulders, “is blunt to a fault. She told me relations with Tony were the best way to ease her cramps.” “Valentine!

Once the vehicle started moving, she realized she had no idea where she was going. Wasn’t that always the case? Her phone chimed. Nick. Where did you go? Quinn deleted it. Then she started a new text. Playing sentry again tonight? The response text took less than three seconds. Why? Need rescuing, baby girl? Quinn smiled. Now that you mention it, yeah. I do. Her phone vibrated almost immediately. What’s up? I’m on a bus, bound for nowhere. Sweetheart, it’s a TRAIN bound for nowhere. Her heart gave a little squee at the endearment. It meant nothing and everything all at once. She smiled over her phone while she texted back. Well, I’m on a bus with no destination in mind. Want me to come get you? Quinn stopped and stared at the phone. Was this dangerous? It didn’t feel dangerous. Tyler had had ample opportunity to hurt her last night and he hadn’t. When Becca had first told her about finding Chris in the middle of a fight with Tyler and Seth in the parking lot, Quinn’s first question had been, “Why?” She’d never gotten a good answer. She slid her thumbs across the face of her phone. Are more taquitos in my future? Play your cards right and there might be a soda, too. His texts were teasing, so she wasn’t sure if his offer to come get her was genuine. She didn’t want to get off the bus until she knew for sure. Then her phone lit up with a new message. Don’t make me ride the bus all night. Where should I pick you up? “Excuse me,” she called to the driver. “What’s the next stop?” “Annapolis Mall. West side.” Next stop is Annapolis Mall. West side. Well look at that. You just got upgraded to a soft pretzel. See you in 10.

That’s right. You can’t win. You think you’re a gambler, but you’re just a born loser. Fights. Cards. Boys. Girls. You’ll keep playing until you lose, so for once in your life, just walk away.” Jesper swung first. Kaz dodged right and then they were grappling. They slammed into the wall, knocked heads, drew apart in a flurry of punches and grabs. Wylan turned to Inej, expecting her to object, for Matthias to separate them, for someone to do something, but the others just backed up, making room. Only Kuwei showed any kind of distress. Jesper and Kaz swung around, crashed into the mechanism of the clock, righted themselves. It wasn’t a fight, it was a brawl—graceless, a tangle of elbows and fists. “Ghezen and his works, someone stop them!” Wylan said desperately. “Jesper hasn’t shot him,” Nina said. “Kaz isn’t using his cane,” said Inej. “You think they can’t kill each other with their bare hands?” They were both bleeding—Jesper from a cut on his lip and Kaz from somewhere near his brow. Jesper’s shirt was halfway over his head and Kaz’s sleeve was tearing at the seam.

The love of my life is gone, and I can’t just call her and say I’m sorry and have her come back. She’s gone forever. So yes, Monique, that is something I do regret. I regret every second I didn’t spend with her. I regret every stupid thing I did that caused her an ounce of pain. I should have chased her down the street the day she left me. I should have begged her to stay. I should have apologized and sent roses and stood on top of the Hollywood sign and shouted, ‘I’m in love with Celia St. James!’ and let them crucify me for it. That’s what I should have done. And now that I don’t have her, and I have more money than I could ever use in this lifetime, and my name is cemented in Hollywood history, and I know how hollow it is, I am kicking myself for every single second I chose it over loving her proudly. But that’s a luxury. You can do that when you’re rich and famous. You can decide that wealth and renown are worthless when you have them. Back then, I still thought I had all the time I needed to do everything I wanted. That if I just played my cards right, I could have it all.

Evelyn looks at me as if I am stupid. “She’s gone now,” Evelyn says. “The love of my life is gone, and I can’t just call her and say I’m sorry and have her come back. She’s gone forever. So yes, Monique, that is something I do regret. I regret every second I didn’t spend with her. I regret every stupid thing I did that caused her an ounce of pain. I should have chased her down the street the day she left me. I should have begged her to stay. I should have apologized and sent roses and stood on top of the Hollywood sign and shouted, ‘I’m in love with Celia St. James!’ and let them crucify me for it. That’s what I should have done. And now that I don’t have her, and I have more money than I could ever use in this lifetime, and my name is cemented in Hollywood history, and I know how hollow it is, I am kicking myself for every single second I chose it over loving her proudly. But that’s a luxury. You can do that when you’re rich and famous. You can decide that wealth and renown are worthless when you have them. Back then, I still thought I had all the time I needed to do everything I wanted. That if I just played my cards right, I could have it all.

After two weeks came the first letter from Alexander. Tatiasha, Can there be anything harder than this? Missing you is a physical aching that grips me early in the morning and does not leave me, not even as I draw my last waking breath. My solace in these waning empty summer days is the knowledge that you’re safe, and alive, and healthy, and that the worst that you have to go through is serfdom for four well-meaning old women. The wood piles I’ve left are the lightest in the front. The heaviest ones are for the winter. Use them last, and if you need help carrying them, God help me, ask Vova. Don’t hurt yourself. And don’t fill the water pails all the way to the top. They’re too heavy. Getting back was rough, and as soon as I came back, I was sent right out to the Neva, where for six days we planned our attack and then made a move in boats across the river and were completely crushed in two hours. We didn’t stand a chance. The Germans bombed the boats with the Vanyushas, their version of my rocket launcher, the boats all sank. We were left with a thousand fewer men and were no closer to crossing the river. We’re now looking at other places we can cross. I’m fine, except for the fact that it’s rained here for ten days straight and I’ve been hip deep in mud for all that time. There is nowhere to sleep, except in the mud. We put our trench coats down and hope it stops raining soon. All black and wet, I almost felt sorry for myself until I thought of you during the blockade. I’ve decided to do that from now on. Every time I think I have it so tough, I’m going to think of you burying your sister in Lake Ladoga. I wish you had been given a lighter cross than Leningrad to carry through your life. Things are going to be relatively quiet here for the next few weeks, until we regroup. Yesterday a bomb fell in the commandant’s bunker. The commandant wasn’t there at the time. Yet the anxiety doesn’t go away. When is it going to come again? I play cards and soccer. And I smoke. And I think of you. I sent you money. Go to Molotov at the end of August. Don’t forget to eat well, my warm bun, my midnight sun, and kiss your hand for me, right in the palm and then press it against your heart. Alexander Tatiana read Alexander’s letter a hundred times, memorizing every word. She slept with her face on the letter, which renewed her strength.

You will make a very good Chief Magistrate, I think.” Shock swept over him that he fought mightily to disguise. So she knew of that, did she? “I’m only one of several possible candidates, madam. You do me great honor to assume I’ll be chosen.” “Masters tells me that the appointment is all but settled.” “Then Masters knows more than I do on the subject.” “And more than my granddaughter as well,” she said. His stomach knotted. Damn Mrs. Plumtree and her machinations. “But I’m sure you took great pains to inform her of it.” The woman hesitated, then gripped the head of her cane with both hands. “I thought she should have all the facts before she threw herself into a misalliance.” Hell and blazes. And Mrs. Plumtree had probably implied that a rich wife would advance his career. He could easily guess how Celia would respond to hearing that, especially after he’d fallen on her with all the subtlety of an ox in rut. His temper swelled. Although he’d suspected that Mrs. Plumtree wouldn’t approve of him for her granddaughter, some part of him had thought that his service to the family-and the woman’s own humble beginnings-might keep her from behaving predictably. He should have known better. “No doubt she was grateful for the information.” After all, it gave Celia just the excuse she needed to continue in her march to marry a great lord. “She claimed that there was nothing between you and her.” “She’s right.” There never had been. He’d been a fool to think there could me. “I am glad to hear it.” Her sidelong glance was filled with calculation. “Because if you play your cards right, you have an even better prospect before you than that of Chief Magistrate.” He froze. “What do you mean?” “You may not be aware of this, but one of my friends is the Home Secretary, Robert Peel. Your superior.” “I’m well aware who my superior is.” “It seems he wishes to establish a police force,” she went on. “He is fairly certain that it will come to pass eventually. When it does, he will appoint a commissioner to oversee the entire force in London.” She cast him a hard stare. “You could be that man.” Jackson fought to hide his surprise. He’d heard rumors of Peel’s plans, of course, but hadn’t realized that they’d progressed so far. Or that she was privy to them. Then it dawned on him why she was telling him this. “You mean, I could be that man if I leave your granddaughter alone.

The next day we booked a three-hundred pound sow for a most unusual photoshoot. She was chauffeured to Hollywood from a farm in Central Valley, and arrived in style at the soundstage bright and early, ready for her close-up. She was a perfect pig, straight from the animal equivalent of Central casting: pink, with gray spots and a sweet disposition. Like Wilbur from Charlotte's Web, but all grown up. I called her "Rhonda." In a pristine studio with white walls and a white floor, I watched as Rhonda was coaxed up a ramp that led to the top of a white pedestal, four feet off the ground. Once she was situated, the ramp was removed, and I took my place beside her. It was a simple setup. Standing next to Rhonda, I would look into the camera and riff about the unsung heroes of Dirty Jobs. I'd conclude with a pointed question: "So, what's on your pedestal?" It was a play on that credit card campaign: "What's in your wallet?" I nailed it on the first take, in front of a roomful of nervous executives. Unfortunately, Rhonda nailed it, too. Just as I asked, "What's on your pedestal?" she crapped all over hers. It was an enormous dump, delivered with impeccable timing. During the second take, Rhonda did it again, right on cue. This time, with a frightful spray of diarrhea that filled the studio with a sulfurous funk, blackening the white walls of the pristine set, and transforming my blue jeans into something browner. I could only marvel at the stench, while the horrified executives backed into a corner - a huddled mass, if you will, yearning to breath free. But Rhonda wasn't done. She crapped on every subsequent take. And when she could crap no more, she began to pee. She peed on my cameraman, She peed on her handler. She peed on me. Finally, when her bladder was empty, we got the take the network could use, along with a commercial that won several awards for "Excellence in Promos." (Yes, they have trophies for such things.) Interestingly, the footage that went viral was not the footage that aired, but the footage Mary encouraged me to release on YouTube after the fact. The outtakes of Rhonda at her incontinent finest. Those were hysterical, and viewed more times than the actual commercial. Go figure. Looking back, putting a pig on a pedestal was maybe the smartest thing I ever did. Not only did it make Rhonda famous, it established me as the nontraditional host of a nontraditional show. One whose primary job was to appear more like a guest, and less like a host. And, whenever possible, not at all like an asshole.

How did you find me, anyway?” “We went to your office, and your butler told us you had left to come here.” She laughed, remembering it. “Max said, ‘What, already?’ and Mr. Shaw said, rather loftily, that you could ‘wait for no man’s leisure’ and ‘tend on no man’s business.’ I gather that the man is as fond of Much Ado about Nothing as we are.” “Oh, he likes them all,” Dom said dryly. “Too many years spent as a bit player in the theater, I’m afraid. He keeps hoping that if he memorizes every play in existence, he will advance to a lead role.” He fastened his trousers. “But how did you even get away from your uncle and Blakeborough? They just let you ride off after me with Max and Lisette?” “Well, Blakeborough had no choice since I had just jilted him.” She sighed. “Oh, Lord. I have once again jilted a fiancé, haven’t I? I’m forever going to be known as the woman who jilted two men.” She made a face. “I should have calling cards made--‘Jane the Jilt,’ to go along with ‘Dom the Almighty.’” “I will never carry a card with the appellation ‘Dom the Almighty,’ so just put that right out of your head,” he said irritably. “In any case, since you’re marrying me, I’m no longer jilted.” He paused a moment to shoot her a wary glance. “You are marrying me, aren’t you?” That was even closer to asking. “Say ‘please,’” she teased. Though he eyed her askance, he pulled her close for a long, lingering kiss, then said, “Please, Jane, will you marry me?” She beamed at him. “I do believe I will.

Cribbage!” I declared, pulling out the board, a deck of cards, and pen and paper, “Ben and I are going to teach you. Then we can all play.” “What makes you think I don’t know how to play cribbage?” Sage asked. “You do?” Ben sounded surprised. “I happen to be an excellent cribbage player,” Sage said. “Really…because I’m what one might call a cribbage master,” Ben said. “I bet I’ve been playing longer than you,” Sage said, and I cast my eyes his way. Was he trying to tell u something? “I highly doubt that,” Ben said, “but I believe we’ll see the proof when I double-skunk you.” “Clearly you’re both forgetting it’s a three-person game, and I’m ready to destroy you both,” I said. “Deal ‘em,” Ben said. Being a horse person, my mother was absolutely convinced she could achieve world peace if she just got the right parties together on a long enough ride. I didn’t know about that, but apparently cribbage might do the trick. I didn’t know about that, but apparently cribbage might do the trick. The three of us were pretty evenly matched, and Ben was impressed enough to ask sage how he learned to play. Turned out Sage’s parents were historians, he said, so they first taught him the precursor to cribbage, a game called noddy. “Really?” Ben asked, his professional curiosity piqued. “Your parents were historians? Did they teach?” “European history. In Europe,” Sage said. “Small college. They taught me a lot.” Yep, there was the metaphorical gauntlet. I saw the gleam in Ben’s eye as he picked it up. “Interesting,” he said. “So you’d say you know a lot about European history?” “I would say that. In fact, I believe I just did.” Ben grinned, and immediately set out to expose Sage as an intellectual fraud. He’d ask questions to trip Sage up and test his story, things I had no idea were tests until I heard Sage’s reactions. “So which of Shakespeare’s plays do you think was better served by the Globe Theatre: Henry VIII or Troilus and Cressida?” Ben asked, cracking his knuckles. “Troilus and Cressida was never performed at the Globe,” Sage replied. “As for Henry VIII, the original Globe caught fire during the show and burned to the ground, so I’d say that’s the show that really brought down the house…wouldn’t you?” “Nice…very nice.” Ben nodded. “Well done.” It was the cerebral version of bamboo under the fingernails, and while they both tried to seem casual about their conversation, they were soon leaning forward with sweat beading on their brows. It was fascinating…and weird. After several hours of this, Ben had to admit that he’d found a historical peer, and he gleefully involved Sage in all kinds of debates about the minutiae of eras I knew nothing about…except that I had the nagging sense I might have been there for some of them. For his part, Sage seemed to relish talking about the past with someone who could truly appreciate the detailed anecdotes and stories he’d discovered in his “research.” By the time we started our descent to Miami, the two were leaning over my seat to chat and laugh together. On the very full flight from Miami to New York, Ben and Sage took the two seats next to each other and gabbed and giggled like middle-school girls. I sat across from them stuck next to an older woman wearing far too much perfume.

Equal protection under the law is not a hard principle to convince Americans of. The difficulty comes in persuading them that it has been violated in particular cases, and of the need to redress the wrong. Prejudice and indifference run deep. Education, social reform, and political action can persuade some. But most people will not feel the sufferings of others unless they feel, even in an abstract way, that 'it could have been me or someone close to me'. Consider the astonishingly rapid transformation of American attitudes toward homosexuality and even gay marriage over the past decades. Gay activism brought these issues to public attention but attitudes were changed during tearful conversations over dinner tables across American when children came out to their parents (and, sometimes, parents came out to their children). Once parents began to accept their children, extended families did too, and today same-sex marriages are celebrated across the country with all the pomp and joy and absurd overspending of traditional American marriages. Race is a wholly different matter. Given the segregation in American society white families have little chance of seeing and therefore understanding the lives of black Americans. I am not black male motorist and never will be. All the more reason, then, that I need some way to identify with one if I am going to be affected by his experience. And citizenship is the only thing I know we share. The more differences between us are emphasized, the less likely I will be to feel outrage at his mistreatment. Black Lives Matter is a textbook example of how not to build solidarity. There is no denying that by publicizing and protesting police mistreatment of African-Americans the movement mobilized supporters and delivered a wake-up call to every American with a conscience. But there is also no denying that the movement's decision to use this mistreatment to build a general indictment of American society, and its law enforcement institutions, and to use Mau-Mau tactics to put down dissent and demand a confession of sins and public penitence (most spectacularly in a public confrontation with Hillary Clinton, of all people), played into the hands of the Republican right. As soon as you cast an issue exclusively in terms of identity you invite your adversary to do the same. Those who play one race card should be prepared to be trumped by another, as we saw subtly and not so subtly in the 2016 presidential election. And it just gives that adversary an additional excuse to be indifferent to you. There is a reason why the leaders of the civil rights movement did not talk about identity the way black activists do today, and it was not cowardice or a failure to be "woke". The movement shamed America into action by consciously appealing to what we share, so that it became harder for white Americans to keep two sets of books, psychologically speaking: one for "Americans" and one for "Negroes". That those leaders did not achieve complete success does not mean that they failed, nor does it prove that a different approach is now necessary. No other approach is likely to succeed. Certainly not one that demands that white Americans agree in every case on what constitutes discrimination or racism today. In democratic politics it is suicidal to set the bar for agreement higher than necessary for winning adherents and elections.

Whatever doesn’t kill you only serves to make you stronger. And in the grand scheme of life, I had survived and grown stronger, at least mentally, if not physically. I had come within an inch of losing all my movement and, by the grace of God, still lived to tell the tale. I had learned so much, but above all, I had gained an understanding of the cards I had been playing with. The problem now was that I had no job and no income. Earning a living and following your heart can so often pull you in different directions, and I knew I wasn’t the first person to feel that strain. My decision to climb Everest was a bit of a “do or die” mission. If I climbed it and became one of the youngest climbers ever to have reached the summit, then I had at least a sporting chance of getting some sort of job in the expedition world afterward--either doing talks or leading treks. I would be able to use it as a springboard to raise sponsorship to do some other expeditions. But on the other hand, if I failed, I would either be dead on the mountain or back home and broke--with no job and no qualifications. The reality was that it wasn’t a hard decision for me to make. Deep down in my bones, I just knew it was the right thing to do: to go for it. Plus I have never been one to be too scared of that old imposter: failure. I had never climbed for people’s admiration; I had always climbed because I was half-decent at it--and now I had an avenue, through Everest, to explore that talent further. I also figured that if I failed, well at least I would fail while attempting something big and bold. I liked that. What’s more, if I could start a part-time university degree course at the same time (to be done by e-mail from Everest), then whatever the outcome on the mountain, at least I had an opening back at M15. (It’s sometimes good to not entirely burn all your bridges.)

The day-to-day horror of writing gave me a notion of tournament time. Writing novels is tedious. When will this book be finished, when will it reveal its bright and shining true self? it takes freakin’ years. At the poker table, you’re only playing a fraction of the hands, waiting for your shot. If you keep your wits, can keep from flying apart while those around you are self-destructing, devouring each other, you’re halfway there. … Let them flame out while you develop a new relationship with time, and they drift away from the table. 86-7 Coach Helen’s mantra: It’s OK to be scared, but don’t play scared. 90 [During a young adult trip to Los Vegas] I was contemplating the nickel in my hand. Before we pushed open the glass doors, what the heck, I dropped it into a one-armed bandit and won two dollars. In a dank utility room deep in the subbasements of my personality, a little man wiped his hands on his overalls and pulled the switch: More. Remembering it now, I hear a sizzling sound, like meat being thrown into a hot skillet. I didn't do risk, generally. So I thought. But I see now I'd been testing the House Rules the last few years. I'd always been a goody-goody. Study hard, obey your parents, hut-hut-hut through the training exercises of Decent Society. Then in college, now that no one was around, I started to push the boundaries, a little more each semester. I was an empty seat in lecture halls, slept late in a depressive funk, handed in term papers later and later to see how much I could get away with before the House swatted me down. Push it some more. We go to casinos to tell the everyday world that we will not submit. There are rules and codes and institutions, yes, but for a few hours in this temple of pure chaos, of random cards and inscrutable dice, we are in control of our fates. My little gambles were a way of pretending that no one was the boss of me. … The nickels poured into the basin, sweet music. If it worked once, it will work again. We hit the street. 106-8 [Matt Matros, 3x bracelet winner; wrote The Making of a Poker Player]: “One way or another you’re going to have a read, and you’re going to do something that you didn’t expect you were going to do before, right or wrong. Obviously it’s better if you’re right, but even if you’re wrong, it can be really satisfying to just have a read, a feeling, and go with it. Your gut.” I could play it safe, or I could really play. 180 Early on, you wanted to stay cool and keep out of expensive confrontations, but you also needed to feed the stack. The stack is hungry. 187 The awful knowledge that you did what you set out to do, and you would never, ever top it. It was gone the instant you put your hands on it. It was gambling. 224

Marriage meant jointures and pin money and siring an heir to continue the dynasty. A cottage meant just him and Maria. What a fool he was. Even a woman with Maria’s low connections wanted more. And he couldn’t give it. The very thought of attempting it made him ill, because he could never make her happy. He would muck it up, and the legacy of misery would go on. But he’d be damned if he’d watch her throw herself away on that fool Hyatt. She deserved better than an indifferent fiancé who had no clue how to make her eyes darken in passion as she shuddered and trembled and gave her mouth so sweetly… He groaned. He shouldn’t have gone so far with her. It had frightened her. Worse yet, his reaction to it bloody well terrified him-because he’d give a great deal to be able to do it again. He’d never felt that way for any other woman. Freddy was still blathering on, and suddenly a word arrested him. “What was that you said?” Oliver asked. “The beefsteak needed a bit more salt-“ “Before that,” he ground out. “Oh. Right. There was a chap in that club claiming he was your cousin. Mr. Desmond Plumtree, I think.” His stomach sank. When had Desmond gained membership at such a selective club? Did it mean the bastard was finally becoming accepted in society? “Though if you ask me,” Freddy went on, “with family like him, who needs enemies? Insulting fellow. Told me a bunch of nonsense about how you’d killed your father and everybody knew it.” Freddy sniffed. “I told him he was a scurrilous lout, and if he couldn’t see that you were a good sort of chap, then he was as blind as a town crier with a broken lantern. And he didn’t belong in the Blue Swan with all those amiable gents, neither.” For a moment, speech utterly failed Oliver. He could only imagine Desmond’s reaction to that little lecture. “And…er…what did he say?” “He looked surprised, then muttered something about playing cards and trotted off to a card room. Good riddance, too-he was eating up all the macaroons.” Oliver gaped at him, then began to laugh. “What’s so funny?” “You and Maria-don’t you Americans ever pay attention to gossip?” “Well, sure, if it makes sense. But that didn’t make sense. If everybody knew you’d killed your father, you’d have been hanged by now. Since you’re sitting right here, you can’t have done it.” Freddy tapped his forehead. “Simple logic is all.” “Right,” Oliver said. “Simple logic.” A lump caught in his throat. Maria’s defending him was one thing; she was a woman and softhearted, though that had certainly never kept any other woman from gossiping about him. But to have an impressionable pup like Freddy defend him…he didn’t know whether to scoff at the fellow’s naivete or clap him on the shoulder and pronounce him a “good sort of chap” as well.

Take care, ye philosophers and friends of knowledge, and beware of martyrdom! Of suffering "for the truth's sake"! even in your own defense! It spoils all the innocence and fine neutrality of your conscience; it makes you headstrong against objections and red rags; it stupefies, animalizes, and brutalizes, when in the struggle with danger, slander, suspicion, expulsion, and even worse consequences of enmity, ye have at last to play your last card as protectors of truth upon earth—as though "the Truth" were such an innocent and incompetent creature as to require protectors! and you of all people, ye knights of the sorrowful countenance, Messrs Loafers and Cobweb-spinners of the spirit! Finally, ye know sufficiently well that it cannot be of any consequence if YE just carry your point; ye know that hitherto no philosopher has carried his point, and that there might be a more laudable truthfulness in every little interrogative mark which you place after your special words and favourite doctrines (and occasionally after yourselves) than in all the solemn pantomime and trumping games before accusers and law-courts! Rather go out of the way! Flee into concealment! And have your masks and your ruses, that ye may be mistaken for what you are, or somewhat feared! And pray, don't forget the garden, the garden with golden trellis-work! And have people around you who are as a garden—or as music on the waters at eventide, when already the day becomes a memory. Choose the GOOD solitude, the free, wanton, lightsome solitude, which also gives you the right still to remain good in any sense whatsoever! How poisonous, how crafty, how bad, does every long war make one, which cannot be waged openly by means of force! How PERSONAL does a long fear make one, a long watching of enemies, of possible enemies! These pariahs of society, these long-pursued, badly-persecuted ones—also the compulsory recluses, the Spinozas or Giordano Brunos—always become in the end, even under the most intellectual masquerade, and perhaps without being themselves aware of it, refined vengeance-seekers and poison-Brewers (just lay bare the foundation of Spinoza's ethics and theology!), not to speak of the stupidity of moral indignation, which is the unfailing sign in a philosopher that the sense of philosophical humour has left him. The martyrdom of the philosopher, his "sacrifice for the sake of truth," forces into the light whatever of the agitator and actor lurks in him; and if one has hitherto contemplated him only with artistic curiosity, with regard to many a philosopher it is easy to understand the dangerous desire to see him also in his deterioration (deteriorated into a "martyr," into a stage-and-tribune-bawler). Only, that it is necessary with such a desire to be clear WHAT spectacle one will see in any case—merely a satyric play, merely an epilogue farce, merely the continued proof that the long, real tragedy IS AT AN END, supposing that every philosophy has been a long tragedy in its origin.

But…but that’s tragic! To go through life without color? Unable to appreciate art, or beauty?” He laughed. “Now, sweet-hold your brush before you paint me a martyr’s halo. It’s not as though I’m blind. I have a great appreciation for art, as I believe we’ve discussed. And as for beauty…I don’t need to know whether your eyes are blue or green or lavender to know that they’re uncommonly lovely.” “No one has lavender eyes.” “Don’t they?” His gaze caught hers and refused to let go. Leaning forward, he continued, “Did that tutor of yours ever tell you this? That your eyes are ringed with a perfect circle a few shades darker than the rest of the…don’t they call it the iris?” Sophia nodded. “The iris.” He propped his elbow on the table and leaned forward, his gaze searching hers intently. “An apt term it is, too. There are these lighter rays that fan out from the center, like petals. And when your pupils widen-like that, right there-your eyes are like two flowers just coming into bloom. Fresh. Innocent.” She bowed her head, mixing a touch of lead white into the sea-green paint on her palette. He leaned closer still, his voice a hypnotic whisper. “But when you take delight in teasing me, looking up through those thick lashes, so saucy and self-satisfied…” She gave him a sharp look. He snapped his fingers. “There! Just like that. Oh, sweet-then those eyes are like two opera dancers smiling from behind big, feathered fans. Coy. Beckoning.” Sophia felt a hot blush spreading from her bosom to her throat. He smiled and reclined in his chair. “I don’t need to know the color of your hair to see that it’s smooth and shiny as silk. I don’t need to know whether it’s yellow or orange or red to spend an inordinate amount of time wondering how it would feel brushing against my bare skin.” Opening his book to the marked page, he continued, “And don’t get me started on your lips, sweet. If I endeavored to discover the precise shade of red or pink or violet they are, I might never muster the concentration for anything else.” He turned a leaf of his book, then fell silent. Sophia stared at her canvas. Her pulse pounded in her ears. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of her neck, channeling down between her shoulder blades, and a hot, itchy longing pooled at the cleft of her legs. Drat him. He’d known she was taunting him with her stories. And now he sat there in an attitude of near-boredom, making love to her with his teasing, colorless words in a blatant attempt to fluster her. It was as though they were playing a game of cards, and he’d just raised the stakes. Sophia smiled. She always won at cards. “Balderdash,” she said calmly. He looked up at her, eyebrow raised. “No one has violet lips.” “Don’t they?” She laid aside her palette and crossed her arms on the table. “The slope of your nose is quite distinctive.” His lips quirked in a lopsided grin. “Really.” “Yes.” She leaned forward, allowing her bosom to spill against her stacked arms. His gaze dipped, but quickly returned to hers. “The way you have that little bump at the ridge…It’s proving quite a challenge.” “Is that so?” He bent his head and studied his book. Sophie stared at him, waiting one…two…three beats before he raised his hand to rub the bridge of his nose. Quite satisfactory progress, that. Definite beginnings of fluster.

Any prize off this bottom row,” the guy tells us, walking away to a waiting customer. “You did it!” I jump down off the counter and wrap my arms around his neck. “You won me a prize!” “Thank fuck.” His arms wrap around me. “I was starting to worry for a moment there. Felt like I was losing my man card.” I reach up on my tiptoes and kiss his lips. “Never. And thank you.” I tip my head back to look into his face. His hands slide down my back to my ass, and he gives it a squeeze. “Go pick your prize, Boston.” Leaving Liam, I head back to the counter and lean over, looking at the bottom row of prizes. I see all kinds of crap here, including really cheap-looking stuffed animals and dolls. I definitely do not want a doll. They freak me out. Then, I spy this sad-looking odd toy. Reaching over, I grab it. Liam comes up behind me as I right myself. His chest is pressed to my back. “Is that a…fucking knitted jellyfish?” I turn my head to look up at him. He’s squinting at the toy I’ve picked up. I look back down at it in my hands, and I think he’s right. It is a knitted jellyfish toy. “I think so.” It’s white and pink and looks like a little princess jellyfish. And the more I look at it, the cuter it becomes…in a weird knitted jellyfish way. “She looks like a jellyfish princess,” I say. “It looks like a piece of shit.” “Hey! You’ll hurt her feelings.” I jab him in the arm. Then, I hug her. “I shall call her Squishy, and she shall be mine.” I laugh, meeting Liam’s blank expression. “Finding Nemo? No?” I say. Liam slowly shakes his head, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Okay, makes sense. You were probably too old to watch it when it first came out—you know, when I was still in diapers and you were out serenading teenage girls with the Backstreet Boys—hey!” I squeal when he digs me in the ribs with his fingers. “We’ll watch Nemo later, and then you’ll get the reference.” I turn to the guy. “I’ll take Squishy,” I tell him, holding the stuffed animal up. “Okay, what’s next?” I hook my arm through Liam’s, holding Squishy to my chest. “Hook a Duck.” “Hook a what?” I give him a confused look. “Duck.” “And what’s Hook a Duck?” “You don’t know what Hook a Duck is?” Liam looks appalled. “No…but I feel like I should.” “You should.” “What’s so special about it?” “Well, nothing special per se, but it’s like a rite of passage. Every kid plays Hook a Duck when they come to the fair.” “Hate to break it to you, Hunter, but we’re not kids.” “Maybe not. But it’s your first time at a fair in England, and you have to play.” Liam grabs my hand and sets off, I assume, in search of this Hook a Duck game. We find one a few minutes later, and it’s closed. All shut up with the tarpaulin covering the booth. “It’s closed. Never mind,” I say to him. I start to walk away, but Liam tugs me back by the hand he’s holding. “Like a little thing like it being closed is going to stop us from playing.” He gives me a grin and drops my hand. I watch as he unhooks the tarpaulin at the bottom and lifts it just enough so that he can sneak in underneath it. “Hunter, what are you doing?” I hiss. He ducks his head back out. “Come on,” he whispers, holding the material up for me to go under. “I’m not going in there.” “Yes you are. Now hurry the fuck up, or you’ll get me arrested for breaking into a Hook a Duck tent,” he whispers. “Ugh,” I complain.

You are a totally pathetic, historical example of the phallocentric, to put it mildly." "A pathetic, historical example," Oshima repeats, obviously impressed. By his tone of voice he seems to like the sound of that phrase. "In other words you're a typical sexist, patriarchic male," the tall one pipes in, unable to conceal her irritation. "A patriarchic male," Oshima again repeats. The short one ignores this and goes on. "You're employing the status quo and the cheap phallocentric logic that supports it to reduce the entire female gender to second-class citizens, to limit and deprive women of the rights they're due. You're doing this unconsciously rather than deliberately, but that makes you even guiltier. You protect vested male interests and become inured to the pain of others, and don't even try to see what evil your blindness causes women and society. I realize that problems with restrooms and card catalogs are mere details, but if we don't begin with the small things we'll never be able to throw off the cloak of blindness that covers our society. Those are the principles by which we act." "That's the way every sensible woman feels," the tall one adds, her face expressionless. [...] A frozen silence follows. "At any rate, what you've been saying is fundamentally wrong," Oshima says, calmly yet emphatically. "I am most definitely not a pathetic, historical example of a patriarchic male." "Then explain, simply, what's wrong with what we've said," the shorter woman says defiantly. "Without sidestepping the issue or trying to show off how erudite you are," the tall one adds. "All right. I'll do just that—explain it simply and honestly, minus any sidestepping or displays of brilliance," Oshima says. "We're waiting," the tall one says, and the short one gives a compact nod to show she agrees. "First of all, I'm not a male," Oshima announces. A dumbfounded silence follows on the part of everybody. I gulp and shoot Oshima a glance. "I'm a woman," he says. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't joke around," the short woman says, after a pause for breath. Not much confidence, though. It's more like she felt somebody had to say something. Oshima pulls his wallet out of his chinos, takes out the driver's license, and passes it to the woman. She reads what's written there, frowns, and hands it to her tall companion, who reads it and, after a moment's hesitation, gives it back to Oshima, a sour look on her face. "Did you want to see it too?" Oshima asks me. When I shake my head, he slips the license back in his wallet and puts the wallet in his pants pocket. He then places both hands on the counter and says, "As you can see, biologically and legally I am undeniably female. Which is why what you've been saying about me is fundamentally wrong. It's simply impossible for me to be, as you put it, a typical sexist, patriarchic male." "Yes, but—" the tall woman says but then stops. The short one, lips tight, is playing with her collar. "My body is physically female, but my mind's completely male," Oshima goes on. "Emotionally I live as a man. So I suppose your notion of being a historical example may be correct. And maybe I am sexist—who knows. But I'm not a lesbian, even though I dress this way. My sexual preference is for men. In other words, I'm a female but I'm gay. I do anal sex, and have never used my vagina for sex. My clitoris is sensitive but my breasts aren't. I don't have a period. So, what am I discriminating against? Could somebody tell me?

Jane, the captain, and the colonel begged out of cards, sat by the window, and made fun of Mr. Nobley. She glanced once at the garden, imagined Martin seeing her now, and felt popular and pretty--Emma Woodhouse from curls to slippers. It certainly helped that all the men were so magnificent. Unreal, actually. Austenland was feeling cozier. “Do you think he hears us?” Jane asked. “See how he doesn’t lift his eyes from that book? In all, his manners and expression are a bit too determined, don’t you think?” “Right you are, Miss Erstwhile,” Colonel Andrews said. “His eyebrow is twitching,” Captain East said gravely. “Why, so it is, Captain!” the colonel said. “Well observed.” “Then again, the eyebrow twitch could be caused by some buried guilt,” Jane said. “I believe you’re right again, Miss Erstwhile. Perhaps he does not hear us at all.” “Of course I hear you, Colonel Andrews,” said Mr. Nobley, his eyes still on the page. “I would have to be deaf not to, the way you carry on.” “I say, do not be gruff with us, Nobley, we are only having a bit of fun, and you are being rather tedious. I cannot abide it when my friends insist on being scholarly. The only member of our company who can coax you away from those books is our Miss Heartwright, but she seems altogether too pensive tonight as well, and so our cause is lost.” Mr. Nobley did look up now, just in time to catch Miss Heartwright’s face turn away shyly. “You might show a little more delicacy around the ladies, Colonel Andrews,” he said. “Stuff and nonsense. I agree with Miss Erstwhile, you are acting like a scarecrow. I do not know why you put on this act, Nobley, when around the port table or out in the field you’re rather a pleasant fellow.” “Really? That is curious,” Jane said. “Why, Mr. Nobley, are you generous in your attentions with gentlemen and yet taciturn and withdrawn around the fairer sex?” Mr. Nobley’s eyes were back on the printed page, though they didn’t scan the lines. “Perhaps I do not possess the type of conversation that would interest a lady.” “You say ‘perhaps’ as though you do not believe it yourself. What else might be the reason, sir?” Jane smiled. Needling Mr. Nobley was feeling like a very productive use of the evening. “Perhaps another reason might be that I myself do not find the conversation of ladies to be very stimulating.” His eyes were dark. “Hm, I just can’t imagine why you’re still unmarried.” “I might say the same for you.” “Mr. Nobley!” cried Aunt Saffronia. “No, it’s all right, Aunt,” Jane said. “I asked for it. And I don’t even mind answering.” She put a hand on her hip and faced him. “One reason why I am unmarried is because there aren’t enough men with guts to put away their little boy fears and commit their love and stick it out.” “And perhaps the men do not stick it out for a reason.” “And what reason might that be?” “The reason is women.” He slammed his book shut. “Women make life impossible until the man has to be the one to end it. There is no working it out past a certain point. How can anyone work out the lunacy?” Mr. Nobley took a ragged breath, then his face went red as he seemed to realize what he’d said, where he was. He put the book down gently, pursed his lips, cleared his throat. No one in the room made eye contact. “Someone has issues,” said Miss Charming in a quiet, singsongy voice. “I beg you, Lady Templeton,” Colonel Andrews said, standing, his smile almost convincingly nonchalant, “play something rousing on the pianoforte. I promised to engage Miss Erstwhile in a dance. I cannot break a promise to such a lovely young thing, not and break her heart and further blacken her view of the world, so you see my urgency.” “An excellent suggestion, Colonel Andrews,” Aunt Saffronia said. “It seems all our spirits could use a lift.

Jake flattened the knife against the wall, filling the crevice. It was all he could do to smother a grin. He didn’t know which he’d enjoyed more, spending a couple hours alone with the kids or finding new ways to provoke Meridith. And to think he was getting paid. Maybe once she went back outside, the kids would come down and pretend to play a game at the kitchen bar while they talked. He could hear Meridith talking to them now, asking them about the game they’d supposedly been playing, acting all interested in their activities. If she really cared about them, she wouldn’t be ripping the kids from Summer Place just so she could go back and live happily ever after with her fiancé. And he was pretty sure that’s what she was planning. Their voices grew louder, then Jake saw them all descending the steps. Noelle led the pack, carrying her Uno cards, followed by the boys, then Meridith. Noelle winked on her way past. Little imp. The kids perched at the bar, and he heard the cards being shuffled. Dipping his knife into the mud, Jake sneaked a peek. Meridith was opening the dishwasher. Great. Ben kept turning to look at him, and Jake discreetly shook his head. Even though Meridith faced the other way, no need to be careless. “Noelle, you haven’t said anything about your uncle lately. He hasn’t e-mailed yet?” He felt three pairs of eyes on his back. He hoped Meridith was shelving something. Jake smoothed the mud and turned to gather more, an excuse to appraise the scene. Meridith’s back was turned. He gave the kids a look. “Uh, no, he hasn’t e-mailed.” “Or called or nothing,” Max added. Noelle silently nudged him, and Max gave an exaggerated shrug. What? “Well, let me know when he does. I don’t want to keep pestering you.” “Sure thing,” Noelle said, dealing the cards. Her eyes flickered toward him. “I was thinking we might go for a bike ride this evening,” Meridith said. “Maybe go up to ’Sconset or into town. You all have bikes, right?” “I forgot to tell you,” Noelle said. “I’m going to Lexi’s tonight. I’m spending the night.” “Who’s Lexi?” “A friend from church. You met her mom last week.” A glass clinked as she placed it in the cupboard. “Noelle, I’m not sure how things were . . . before . . . but you have to ask permission for things like this. I don’t even know Lexi, much less her family.” “I know them.” “Have you spent the night before?” “No, but I’ve been to her house tons of times.” He heard a dishwasher rack rolling in, another rolling out, the dishes rattling. “Why don’t we have her family over for dinner one night this week? I could get to know them, and then we’ll see about overnight plans.” “This is ridiculous. They go to our church, and her mom and my mom were friends!” Noelle cast him a look. See? she said with her eyes. Did Meridith think Eva would jeopardize her daughter’s safety? The woman was neurotic. Jake clamped his teeth together before something slipped out. “Just because they go to church doesn’t necessarily make them safe, Noelle. It wouldn’t be responsible to let you spend the night with people I don’t know. You never know what goes on behind closed doors.” “My mom would let me.” The air seemed to vibrate with tension. Jake realized his knife was still, flattened against the wall, and he reached for more mud. Noelle was glaring at Meridith, who’d turned, wielding a spatula. Was she going to blow it? To her credit, the woman drew a deep breath, holding her temper. “Maybe Lexi could stay all night with you instead.” “Well, wouldn’t that pose a problem for her family, since they don’t know you?” Despite his irritation with Meridith, Jake’s lips twitched. Score one for Noelle. “I suppose that would be up to her family.” He heard Noelle’s cards hit the table, her chair screech across the floor as she stood. “Never mind.” She cast Meridith one final glare, then exited through the back door, closing it with a hearty slam.

I guess there’s nothing else to say.” “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said, crooking a finger. “Come here.” Her throat went dry, and her heart gave a thud. On instinct, she shook her head. His expression turned ruthlessly intent. “Maddie, I’ve been thinking about that mouth of yours for almost twenty-four hours straight. You don’t think I’m going to let you go without touching you, do you?” Had it only been one day? How was that even possible? It seemed as though a lifetime had passed since she’d run out on her wedding. “Um . . .” She swallowed hard and squeaked out, “Yes?” A long pause filled with sexual awareness so thick it practically coated the air. How did he do it, flip the mood? Only moments ago, she’d felt bereft, but with one wicked glance she’d forgotten everything dogging her. “I’ll tell you what.” He smiled, and it was so filled with cunning that the fine hairs on her neck rose in anticipation. “Tell me you won’t regret it and we can end things right here with a friendly pat on the back.” “I-I d-don’t know what you mean,” she lied, loving and hating the direction the conversation had taken. “Do I need to spell it out?” “No?” The word was a question instead of the statement she’d intended. “You want to take care of yourself, right?” She nodded, sensing a trap but unable to stop playing into his hands. He leaned close, placing his elbow on the console, taking up every spare inch of breathing room. “You’re ready to ditch the good Catholic girl and start doing what you want?” The strange mixture of lust and irritation he evoked pulled in her stomach. “Well, when you put it that way.” The curve of his lips held a distinct sexual tilt. “If you get out of this car untouched, tell me you won’t lie in bed late at night and regret it. Tell me you won’t wonder and wish you’d done things differently.” Her pulse hammered and her throat dried up, leaving her unable to breathe, let alone speak. He stroked a path over the line of her jaw, and Maddie forced her eyes to stay open instead of fluttering closed from sheer desire. Why did it feel like an eternity since he’d touched her? Even more troubling, why did his hands feel so right? The slightly rough pads of his fingers trailed down the curve of her neck, leaving an explosion of tingles coursing through her. “And remember, Princess,” he said, in a deep rumble of a voice that vibrated through her as though he were her own personal tuning fork. “Lying is a sin.” She gasped, sucking in the last available bit of air left in the car. “That’s a low blow.” He gave a seductive laugh, filled with heat and promise and the kind of raw passion she’d always dreamed about. “I’m not above playing dirty.” A sly smirk as he rubbed a lazy circle over skin she hadn’t known was sensitive. “In fact, I think you prefer it that way.” “I do not!” Her heart beating far too fast, she clutched at the credit card hard enough to snap it in two. “Liar.” He slipped under the collar of her T-shirt to wrap a possessive hand around the nape of her neck. “I’m waiting.” She gritted her teeth to keep from moaning. How did one man feel so good? Hot and sinful. Irresistible. She whispered, “For what?” “My answer,” he said, inching closer. Their mouths mere inches away. She swallowed hard. The truth sat on the tip of her tongue, and for once in her life, she decided to speak it instead of stuffing it back down. “I’d regret it.” “Exactly,” he said, the word a soft breath against her skin. The pad of his thumb brushed over her bottom lip, sliding over the dampness until it felt swollen. Needy. “I can’t live with myself unless I’ve tasted this mouth.” This

Seasoned parents and child therapists will also tell you that some of the best conversations with children take place while something else is happening. Children are much more apt to share and talk while building something, playing cards, or riding in the car than when you sit down and look them right in the face and ask them to open up.

My bout with the Marquis was much like the others. Even more than usual I was hopelessly outclassed, but I stuck grimly to my place, refusing to back up, and took hit after hit, though my parrying was steadily improving. Of course I lost, but at least it wasn’t so easy a loss as I’d had when I first began to attend practice--and he didn’t insult me with obvious handicaps, such as never allowing his point to hit me. Bran and Savona finished a moment later, and Bran was just suggesting we exchange partners when the bells for third-gold rang, causing a general outcry. Some would stay, but most, I realized, were retreating to their various domiciles to bathe and dress for open Court. I turned away--and found Shevraeth beside me. “You’ve never sampled the delights of Petitioners’ Court,” he said. I thought of the Throne Room again, this time with Galdran there on the goldenwood throne, and the long lines of witnesses. I repressed a shiver. Some of my sudden tension must have exhibited itself in my countenance because he said, “It is no longer an opportunity for a single individual to practice summary justice such as you experienced on your single visit.” “I’m certain you don’t just sit around happily and play cards,” I muttered, looking down at the toes of my boots as we walked. “Sometimes we do, when there are no petitioners. Or we listen to music. But when there is business, we listen to the petitioners, accept whatever they offer in the way of proof, and promise a decision at a later date. That’s for the first two greens. The last is spent in discussing impressions of the evidence at hand; sometimes agreement is reached, and sometimes we decide that further investigation is required before a decision can be made.” This surprised me so much I looked up at him. There was no amusement, no mockery, no threat in the gray eyes. Just a slight question. I said, “You listen to the opinions of whoever comes to Court?” “Of course,” he said. “It means they want to be a part of government, even if their part is to be merely ornamental.” I remembered that dinner when Nee first brought up Elenet’s name, and how Shevraeth had lamented how most of those who wished to give him advice had the least amount worth hearing. “Why should I be there?” I asked. “I remember what you said about worthless advisers.” “Do you think any opinion you would have to offer would be worthless?” he countered. “It doesn’t matter what I think of my opinion,” I retorted, and then caught myself. “I mean to say, it is not me making the decisions.” “So what you seem to be implying is that I think your opinion worthless.” “Well, don’t you?” He sighed. “When have I said so?” “At the inn in Lumm, last year. And before that. About our letter to Galdran, and my opinion of courtiers.” “It wasn’t your opinion I pointed up, it was your ignorance,” he said. “You seem to have made truly admirable efforts to overcome that handicap. Why not share what you’ve learned?” I shrugged, then said, “Why don’t you have Elenet there?”--and hated myself for about as stupid a bit of pettiness as I’d ever uttered. But he took the words at face value. “An excellent suggestion, and one I acted on immediately after she arrived at Athanarel. She’s contributed some very fine insights. She’s another, by the way, who took her own education in hand. Three years ago about all she knew was how to paint fans.” I had talked myself into a corner, I realized--all through my own efforts. So I said, “All right, then. I’ll go get Mora to dig out that Court dress I ordered and be there to blister you all with my brilliance.” He bowed, lifted his gray-gloved hand in a casual salute, and walked off toward the Royal Wing. I retreated in quick order to get ready for the ordeal ahead.

Why in the world would you sit down to play cards with gentlemen who freely admitted they’d heard about your reputation for losing at the table?” Nigel wrinkled his nose right back at her. “They heard I was remarkably skilled at cards.” “When you’re not drowning yourself in a bottle of brandy, which, I hate to say, is something I’m afraid everyone knows you make a habit of doing most nights.” “I was delighted to accept the invitation after their flattering words,” Nigel continued as if Lucetta had not spoken. “And was doing quite well, but then . . . I’m afraid I got overly ambitious and lost everything on a single turn of the cards. To my relief, Mr. Silas Ruff was incredibly gracious. When he discovered I might not actually have the deed to Plum Hill readily available, he offered me another way to honor my debt to him.” Lucetta suddenly found it rather difficult to breathe. “You sat down to cards with Mr. Silas Ruff?” “Ah, wonderful, so you do know him.” Nigel smiled. “He spoke most highly of you, my dear, and learning you’re acquainted with him makes this so much easier to say.” “Makes what easier to say?” “That Mr. Ruff is perfectly willing to take something in lieu of the deed to Plum Hill—something he seems very anxious to acquire. . . . That something being . . . well . . . you.

But there’s good news, folks. If you play your cards right in situations like the one above, you can avoid violence altogether most of the time. What’s more, you can do so without having to back down or feeling like a wimp. These are the social dynamics this book is going to teach you.

Charles Darrow set a goal when he was in his twenties; he determined that he was going to be a millionaire. This isn’t all that unusual today, but back then, it was extremely unusual. Charles lived during the Roaring Twenties, a time when a million dollars was an enormous sum. He married a woman named Esther, promising her that one day they would be millionaires. Then tragedy struck in 1929—the Great Depression. Both Charles and Esther lost their jobs. They mortgaged their house, gave up their car, and used all their life savings. Charles was absolutely crushed. He sat around the house depressed until one day he told his wife she could leave him if she wanted to. “After all,” he said, “it’s clear that we’re never going to reach our goal.” Esther wasn’t about to leave. She told Charles they were going to reach their goal, but they would need to do something every day to keep the dream alive. What she was trying to tell Charles was this: Don’t let your dreams die just because you made a few mistakes in the past. Don’t give up just because you tried something a few times, and it didn’t seem to work. God wants you to press on past mistakes. The devil wants you to give up. Progress requires paying a price, and sometimes the price you pay for progress is just to “keep on keeping on” and saying: “I’m not going to quit until I have some kind of victory.” Don’t be the kind of person whose way of dealing with everything hard is: “I quit!” Esther Darrow told her husband: “Keep your dream alive.” Charles responded: “It’s dead. We failed. Nothing’s going to work.” But she wouldn’t listen to that kind of talk; she refused to believe it. She suggested that every night they take some time to discuss what they would do toward reaching their dream. They began doing this night after night, and soon Charles came up with an idea of creating play money. His idea was something quite appealing since money was so scarce in those days. Since they were both out of work, he and Esther had lots of time, and now they had lots of easy money to play with. So they pretended to buy things like houses, property, and buildings. Soon they turned the fantasy into a full-fledged game with board, dice, cards, little houses, hotels . . . You guessed it. It was the beginning of a game you probably have in your closet right now; it’s called Monopoly.

The next afternoon we got a studio car to take us up to the pool at the inn. We were like kids—Duke was 41, Pete 36, and I was 27. We splashed one another, pushed one another under water, and shoved one another off the diving board. We had a hell of a time, laughing and talking about all the crises during the shooting. In those days, everybody smoked. You were either odd or in training, if you didn’t. But Duke! He lit one Camel off another all day long. We used to raise hell with him about it. “You’re not patting me down already? It’s only ten-thirty in the morning, and you’re already out?” He’d start toward, you patting the pockets on his vest or pants with a big grin on his face, trying to make you think he’d forgotten his. “Hell-ooo, Ol’ Dobe,” he’d say. Then he’d start searching you like a detective looking for dope in one of today’s TV shows. When I’d give him one, he’d say, “Jesus, how can you smoke these (meaning the brand) goddamn things? I’ll give you a pack tomorrow.” He never did so, but I found a remedy for that problem. One day I was passing his dressing room—the kind that is on coasters and is on the sound stage. The door was open, and I looked in. He wasn’t there, but his cigarettes were! Right there on his dressing room table were five cartons of Camels. He’d posed for an ad for them. I just took a carton to my own dressing room, and then, when he wanted a cigarette, I gave him one of his own! He finally said, “Ya’ finally learned to smoke the best cigarette!” The reason I bring all this up is because I thought I was some sort of champ at staying underwater a long time. I figured that because of the way Duke smoked and the fact that his only exercise was playing cards, I could easily beat him swimming underwater. So, as we were splashing around, I said to Duke, “I’ll bet I can swim underwater in this pool longer than you can.” “What? Hah—hah—hah. You have ta’ be kiddin,’ friend! You are on!" I really did think I could beat him; after all, I was younger, and I exercised a lot more than he did. I played golf and tennis, and rode horseback. It was a very big pool. My turn first. I swam up and back twice and then another half. I ran out of air and surfaced. “Not too bad, for a skinny guy,” he commented and jumped in. He then went almost twice as far! I couldn’t believe it! He didn’t razz me or brag—he just knew what he could do. It never occurred to me that his lung capacity was over twice mine and that he’d been diving for abalone off Catalina Island for years.

All right, Lord Ashton. If I win the trick, you will ask Miss Sinclair for the first dance. If you win, I will grant you my first dance when I am able to walk again. However long it takes.” He met her gaze with a sudden intensity that made her stomach flutter with nerves. “I accept the wager.” Very deliberately, she chose his weakest suit and laid down the king of hearts. She never took her eyes off him, but let him see that she had taken this quite seriously. He was not going to defeat her. “Oh dear,” Lady Penford said, following suit with a queen. “Lily, can you help?” But Lily only discarded a ten. “I’m sorry, but someone dealt me a rubbish hand once again.” She glared at Rose. All eyes turned to Iain. He withdrew a single card from his hand but did not lay it down. For a moment, they all waited for him to make his move. He didn’t smile at all, but locked his green eyes upon hers. She couldn’t read his expression, for he offered neither defeat nor triumph. “Go on, Ashton,” she urged. “If you have a card to play, then set it down. Admit your defeat.” With that, he turned over his card and laid down the ace of hearts.

Dr. Andrew continued, "The Hadrad is quite charmed by you, Young. He finds you witty, and, judging from my conversations with him, he is quite smitten by you. Play your cards right and you'll go far, young man.

She took one look at me and fireworks shot out of her ears. I think she hates me. At least, she’s still mad. But it could mean she still cares,” he added hopefully. “If I knew where to run into her again, I could try my persuasive charm on her without crowding her. I might’ve tried something like that the first time around. Like being at the officers’ club every time I thought she’d be there, till she got so sick of me shadowing her, she gave in.” Luke laughed. “Suave,” he said. “Think I should throw myself on her mercy? Nah,” he answered for himself. “From what I saw, she doesn’t have a lot of mercy in her right now. Besides, humility really isn’t my strong suit.” Luke laughed at him. “And, God forbid, we manly Riordans always play our best cards.” “You know what I mean. What woman wants a man who grovels? Did you grovel? When you and Shelby—?” “I hate to burst your bubble, pal, but I said I’d do anything that would make her happy. I know—it’s hard for you to imagine your tough big brother caving like that, but when I got down to it, I was doomed without her. She’s the breath in me.” Then he grinned. “But she doesn’t make me grovel anymore. She lets me pretend to be the big man.” “Swell,” Sean said, a long way from understanding all the rules for this game.

Look, sorry to almost take you out. I thought you were his soon-to-be ex, too.” Syn walked over to the couch to get his jacket. “Sure. Whatever, Captain America,” Doug quipped angrily. Syn barked a laugh, putting his coat on. Furi walked over to him, keeping his back to his friend. Wanting to say something, anything to Syn before he left. “You talked to him about me?” Syn didn’t know if he was upset or not about that. He guessed it depended what Furi said. “A couple days back. When I left upset after those college bastards took a cheap shot at me.” Furi huffed. “I was pissed, okay. I didn’t know what you wanted from me. I thought it was just–” Syn moved in close, looking directly at him. “Just what? That you thought I only wanted to play around and experiment with you? Is that what you think?" “Not after what just happened tonight, no. But at that time, I thought so, yes. I only called Doug for a little comfort.” Furi’s voice was deep and raspy, his tight body pressed up close against Syn's. “I’m sure he comforts you damn good, too,” Syn hissed before he could think better of blurting that out. Wow. Really? "It’s not like that. Doug is my friend.” “A friend who just happened to come by after one in the morning and bust through the door to get to you.” “Stop cutting me off. Doug is straight and not my type even if he weren't. I don’t do jealousy, Syn. So knock it off.” Furi leaned in and brushed Syn’s neck with his lips. “Well, he pops up and it’s late as fuck, so what am I to think?” Syn whispered. “Hey, I’m not gonna fuck around with you if I’m already fucking around with someone else. I’m not that type of guy.” Furi moaned in Syn’s ear when he buried his thick palm in Furi's hair, soothingly massaging his scalp. Syn’s deep whisky-rough voice penetrated his brain. “I’m sorry. I’m just all screwed up right now; with you and me, what happened tonight. I just really wish we hadn’t been interrupted.” “Me too.” Syn wrapped his arms around Furi’s narrow waist. “I want to spend more time with you. I need to spend more time with you.” “We will.” “Why do you look upset?" Syn asked. “I’m nervous about the call you just got.” Furi released a shaky breath. “It’s okay. We’ll catch this person soon.” Syn held Furi’s hand, making his way to the door. “Yeah. Sounds like someone is after Illustra’s entertainers,” Doug piped up from his position on the arm of the couch. “My team is good. We’ll catch 'em.” Syn turned to Doug, “I’ll need you to come back to the precinct first thing tomorrow.” “Why?” the man asked with an exaggerated huff. “Because I said so. You were at Illustra not long ago, right?” Syn pulled out his keys while talking, not letting Doug answer. “That means the murder may’ve happened while you were there. So, like I said, I’ll need you to come back in the morning. For now. Stay here with Furi.” Syn took Furi by the shoulders, turning him to face him. “Any shit comes up, you call me on my cell.” Syn handed Furi a card from his inside jacket pocket. “If you have any problems; and I mean any at all, you call me immediately. I’m going to have the beat officer for this area do regular drive-bys to check for activity. Especially since your door is broken now.” Syn glared in Doug’s direction. Furi nodded his head. “Okay.” “I mean it.” Syn smiled and kissed Furi’s cheek like a perfect gentlemen. He leaned in and inhaled his hair one more time, whispering into it, causing Furi to quiver. “Call me later.” Furi nodded again. “Sure thing, Sergeant.

I will not be surprised if he requests your services in his Household when you have completed your time at the Sekham. Aziz and I were hoping to keep the two of you for another term, in order for Young to complete “Sacred Sex In Sacred Places,” but it appears that won’t be the case, now that His Highness has shown interest in the both of you.” “His Highness hasn’t indicated that he will require our services at his Household,” I answered in a befogged tone. Amused by my naiveté, the Wazir commented, “You know very little about the Prince’s attributes. As charming and personable as His Highness is, he is a descendant of one of the wealthiest families in the Emirates, and whatever he sets his eyes on, he gets. My advice to you is, play your cards right and you’ll not be hurt. P was my classmate in school; we grew up together, and I know him and his family well.” “Thank You for your advice, Sir.” My Valet said with gratitude.

I’ll take all those crimes and robberies, wars and villagers, generals and crooks, that are asleep in the silence of the archives and write each of them down, one by one, on slips of paper the size of playing cards. Then I’ll shuffle that awesome deck consisting of hundreds—no, millions—of cards, just as you shuffle a deck of playing cards, but, of course, with much more difficulty, perhaps using special machines, like those lottery machines in front of notaries, and I’ll place them in the hands of my readers! And I’ll tell them: None of these has any connection with any other, preceding or following, front or back, cause or effect. Come, young reader, this is life and history, read it as you will. Everything that exists is in here, it all simply exists, but there’s no story binding it together. Then the disappointed young reader will ask: No story at all? At that point, appreciating his point of view, I’ll say, You’re right, at this age you do need a story to explain everything just so you can live in peace, otherwise you’d come unhinged. And with that, as if slipping a joker into my deck of millions of cards, I’d write Story and begin to gather together the cards in a way that tells a tale.

Are you all packed up?” I ask, sitting up to kiss Pandora. “Yep. It’s nice having stuff at both places, though, so all we have to do is grab the essentials.” I reach out and grab her breast, and she giggles. “What? Just the essentials, right?” “You play your cards right, and we can have a babysitter tonight.

While I realize that there are a lot of different angles on this, I’m going to set all of these speculations aside for now and try focusing entirely on trends in fantasy from the perspective of tabletop gaming alone. The first thing you need to know is that the men who laid the groundwork for the role-playing hobby had an incredible appetite for books. You may have been in a comic book shop on a Wednesday when the new shipment came in and the most dedicated fans in your town are right there to get the latest installment of everything they’re into. Well, Gary Gygax and James M. Ward were like that with books: One fateful Tuesday, I was poring through the racks, picking up the newest Conan and Arthur C. Clarke novels. When I reached the end of the racks, I had seven books in my hand. There was a gentleman doing the very same thing beside me. When he got done, he and I had the exact same books in our hands. We laughed at the coincidence and he started talking about a game he had just invented where a person could play Conan fighting Set. I was instantly hooked on the idea. A few weeks later I was regularly going over to Gary Gygax’s house to learn the game of Dungeons & Dragons.1 Note that the main selling point of the game at its inception was that it was not merely an adaption of their favorite stories to game form. No, the “lightning in the bottle” that Gary Gygax had gotten hold of was, in fact, the apex of genre fiction.2 He was opening up an entirely new method for creating worlds and allowing people to enter them. We take it for granted today, but J. Eric Holmes was not exaggerating when he declared that it was a “truly unique invention, probably as remarkable as the die, or the deck of cards, or the chessboard.”3

throughout my life, using skills or talents or a person’s raw physical power to help them rise to the top of their society came and went. In the beginning, it was the strength in their arms to swing their swords. Then the tongue to sway large groups to accomplish something together. It became those who developed the sciences, and then—to a degree—it was those again who had physical prowess and could run or shoot a ball into a hoop. Yet, it was those who produced the food, built the homes, protected society, or taught the children or young adults who often weren’t supported. They would do their jobs, punch their time cards, and do what needed to get done to keep society going. My suggestion is to consider all work—if done well—equal. Government needs to be in place, but we’ll require some form of service as your debt to society. Perhaps you are a musician but can test into working with an R&D lab in the future. Can that be your service?” “That,” Bethany Anne replied, “could be a nightmare. Just think about the ongoing effort for some of Jean Dukes’ stuff. There’s no way we could place a person into a project for two weeks and then they leave.” Michael tapped a finger on the table. “I understand. However, let me give you a quote from a worker to Jack Welch.” “Who?” Peter interrupted. Stephen answered, “Jack Welch. He was the CEO of General Electric—GE—back on Earth in the twentieth century.” Michael continued, “He was talking to the assembly line workers at one of their businesses and one of the men spoke up, telling Welch that ‘for twenty-five years you paid for my hands when you could have had my brain as well for nothing.’” The table was quiet a moment, thinking about that. Peter was the first to break it. “Makes sense. We use that concept in the Guardians all the time. Everyone has a role to play, but if you have ideas you need to speak up.” “It would,” Addix added, “allow those interacting to bring new ways of thinking to perhaps old and worn-out strategies.” “What about those who truly hated the notion?” Stephen asked. “I can think of a few.” “I’m tempted to say ‘fuck ‘em.’” Bethany Anne snorted. “However, I know people, and they might fuck up the works. What about a ten-percent charge of their annual wealth if they wish to forego service?” “Two weeks,” Michael interjected, “is at best four percent of their time.” “Right,” Bethany Anne agreed, “so I’d suggest they do the two weeks. But if they want to they can lose ten percent of their annual wealth—which is not their annual income, because that shit can be hidden.” The Admiral asked, “So a billionaire who technically made nothing during the year would owe a hundred million to get out of two weeks’ service?” “Right,” Bethany Anne agreed. “And someone with fifty thousand owes five thousand.” “Where does the money go?” Peter asked. Admiral Thomas grinned. “I suggest the military.” “Education?” Peter asked. “It’s just a suggestion, because that is what we are talking about.” Stephen scratched his chin. “I can imagine large corporations putting income packages together for their upper-level executives to pay for this.” “I suggest,” Bethany Anne added, “putting the names of those who opt out on a public list so everyone knows who isn’t working.” “What about sickness, or a family illness they need to deal with?” Stephen countered. “With Pod-docs we shouldn’t have that issue, but there would have to be some sort of schedule. Further, we will always have public projects. There are always roads to be built, gardens to be tended, or military

Again, no clue. If they’re wasting our time, I promise to exact revenge and lure them out to Cyberniskos’s lair.” Cyberniskos, the card-playing faerie cannibal that had been at the Faerie Ring? “What? No! Nausicaä you can’t kill the Seelie Prince of Summer just for ‘wasting your time,’ you…do know that, right? “Mmm, better come along, then. It’s hard to keep track of all these made-up rules on my own.” She waggled her brows. Arlo sighed heavily through her nose.

On our trip from Atlanta to San Diego we had a stopover in Dallas at Love Field. There’s a huge statue of a Texas Ranger in the terminal and it’s inscribed: “One Riot, One Ranger.” It reminded me of an incident when I was playing baseball in Amarillo. There were about five or six players having a drink at a table in the middle of this large, well-lit bar, all of us over twenty-one. Suddenly, through the swinging doors—Old West fashion—come these four big Texans, ten-gallon hats, boots, spurs, six-shooters holstered at their sides, the works. They stopped and looked around and all of a sudden everybody in the place stopped talking. I wouldn’t have been surprised if one of them said, “All right, draw!” They spotted us ballplayers and sauntered over, all four of them, spurs jangling, boots creaking, all eyes on them. “Let me see your IDs, boys,” one of them says. I don’t know what got into me, but I had to say—I had to after that entrance—to these obvious Texas Rangers, “First I’d like to see your identification.” I said it loud. He rolled his eyes up into his head in exasperation and very slowly and reluctantly he reached for his wallet, opened it and showed me his badge and identification card. I gave them a good going over. I mean a 20-second check, looking at the photo and then up at him. Then I said, “He’s okay, men.” Then, of course, we all whipped out our IDs, which showed we were all over twenty-one, and the Texas Rangers turned around and walked out, creaking and jangling. We laughed about that for weeks. I find it curious that of all the things Dallas could have chosen to glorify in the airport, it chose law enforcement. The only thing I know about Dallas law enforcement is that its police department allowed a lynching to occur on national television. Maybe the statue should have been of a group of policemen at headquarters, with an inscription that read: “One Police Department, One Lynching.

Whether in dating or the office, we realized the power of pretending your children didn’t exist. A man could say he was taking the day to go fishing with his son, while a mother was usually better off hiding the fact that she took a long lunch to run her child to the doctor’s office. Children turned men into heroes and mothers into lesser employees, if we didn’t play our cards right.

just think people always want what everyone else has. Nothing is more desirable than something that isn’t yours yet, but could be, if you just played your cards right. Nothing is prettier than the forbidden, nothing shines so bright and so wicked on a moonlit night.

I'm mooring my rowboat / at the dock of the island called God. / This dock is made in the shape of a fish / and there are many boats moored / at many different docks. / 'It's okay,' I say to myself / with blisters that broke and healed / and broke and healed -- / saving themselves over and over. / And salt sticking to my face and arms like / a glue-skin pocked with grains of tapioca. / I empty myself from my wooden boat / and onto the flesh of The Island. 'On with it!' He says and thus / we squat on the rocks by the sea / and play - can it be true - / a game of poker. / He calls me. / I win because I hold a royal straight flush. / He wins because He holds five aces, / A wild card had been announced / but I had not heard it / being in such a state of awe / when he took out the cards and dealt. / As he plunks down his five aces / and I am still grinning at my royal flush, / He starts to laugh, / and laughter rolling like a hoop out of His mouth / and into mine / and such laughter that He doubles right over me / laughing a Rejoice-Chorus at our two triumphs. / Then I laugh, the fishy dock laughs / the sea laughs. The Island laughs. / The Absurd laughs. Dearest dealer, / I with my royal straight flush, / love you so for your wild card, / that untamable, eternal, gut-driven ha-ha / and lucky love.

You can hide a lot, or maybe just get away with a lot, if you play your cards right. I only hope the hand I'm about to deal myself will hold an ace or two.

Some people just work harder than others. And some just have better ideas than others. Take Ten has earned their right to be there. That’s it. That’s all it is. The universe doesn’t owe you anything. Don’t turn it into something it isn’t and definitely don’t play the victim card when we all know your family is far from innocent.