He lays out his hand; "Trip kings."

Across the table, a smile appears on James's face. "Full house, my friend."

"I'm out? Thank God, let's go home, I'm exhausted," he says to the girl next to him, who is resting her head on her knees.

"Bye, Megan," she says, and bids everyone else goodnight as they go up the stairs and out to the car.

"So, was it as fun as with your friends?" the girl asks her friend. "Or did we bore you to death?" she adds with a smile.

"It was fun, but it goes on too damned long," he says as she starts the car. "Four hours in and three people out, and the blinds were only at 20-40. I'd start at 30-60 and raise every time someone goes out."

"Yeah, Josh mentioned that, too," the girl says as she turns onto the main road. "I usually get too tired to play right, anyway."

"That's how James always wins; he's patient, and just waits us all out," he says.

"Maybe if enough of us says something, they'll do that," she says.

"With Nate and the crew, we usually start with less chips and raise whenever someone goes out, and it goes way faster and we end up talking for the rest of the night, which is probably better," he says.

"Ah, but we talk and make snarky comments to each other as we play!" she jokes. "Though Megan usually doesn't have to tell anyone to keep the domestics outside."

"Yeah, that's just because you're not funny."

"But I've got a killer rack, so in this society that makes up for everything!"

"Modest, aren't we?" he laughs, and decides to let her have her fun.

"You know I actually finished my first rum and coke on that trip with Nate and his friends," he says a few minutes later.

She furrows her brows as she merges into the turn lane. "Why?" she asks, still looking at the road.

"Eh, it was just that group, you know? I still don't drink if I can avoid it," he explains, and casts a sidelong glance.

"No, I know what you mean," she says, making the turn onto his street.

"You don't drink, do you?" he asks, turning to face her, wide-eyed.

She bites her lip, still keeping her eyes on the road, and she hesitates to break the silence. "Well, Andy's 22- er, 23 now- and if the crew offers, I'm not gonna say no," she says. "Don't get the wrong idea, though, it's not a regular thing, I'm not that bad."

He looks away at the road in front of them, not really seeing it, not really believing his ears. "But have you ever been really drunk?" he asks again, once again looking at her- through her.

They've arrived at his house, and she doesn't have a road to focus on anymore, so she looks at the silver ram head on the center of the steering wheel. It's just like answering the cops: tell them what they ask, no extra information. However, cops don't have that wavy brown hair, those blue-gray-green eyes whose color the two of them and his mom spent an evening determining, the strong hands that sent her stomach dancing at a simple touch that she wants to over-think, or that smile that is currently missing in action.

"I'm not too bad, except for that one night a friend decided that since he's Asian with a tolerance and I'm Scottish, that he could go shot for shot with me," she admits.

"You do shots?" he coughs, and his eyes bulge.

"No, just like once," she says, and her mouth hangs open, taking a long time to form the word 'I.' "It's not a habit, plus, I get sick before I feel it." Shit. "Like I said, it was only like once, and I'm not usually that bad, don't get the wrong idea."

He smiles with his eyes closed, and lets a small, surprised "Heh" escape him. "Whatever," he says, smile still in place.

"Anyway, you said you're available most mornings? For music and DVDs and whatnot?" she asks.

"Yeah, I'm just practicing my saxophone, so I'm here, just give me call," he says, taking off his seatbelt.

"Ok," she says. "I work Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday, so I'll probably give you a call some day that's not one of those days," she adds with her own smile.

He leans over and they hug briefly before he opens the door. "Well, goodnight," he says.

"See you," she says, and he shuts the door.