Disclaimer: I've yet to come up with a witty disclaimer, so until one comes to me, "They're not mine," will have to do.

A/N: This has been sitting on my computer for a while, and I'm not entirely happy with it. However, months have passed and I've had no better ideas, so I figure this is as done as it's ever going to get. I apologize about the shortness and if it feels rushed.

According to Rumor

According to rumor, Spot Conlon is good with women. The story has been solidified over time—Whether or not it started off true means little; it's sure as hell fact now.

Whenever he comes in from Brooklyn for our weekly poker games, we can always count on a hearty recap of his exploits. From the blonde at the bar who all but proposed to him last Tuesday to the redhead to smiled at him on his way to Manhattan—He remembers them all.

He sits at the tiny round table and tells his stories with the cocky air of an experienced playboy. His comments are careless and often lewd. Meanwhile, I sit back in my chair, smoking my hard-earned cigar and observing his tells. I know them all; the subtle chewing of his tongue when he's bluffing and the way he ever-so-slightly scrunches his lips to the left when he's satisfied with his hand.

No one notices the quirks of the King of Brooklyn. They simply listen intently as he dishes out "tips." They follow his advice blindly. All they see is that at bars, girls flirt with him and he always leaves with at least one of them. They don't see that he never fails to drop her off at home before returning to Brooklyn. They don't know that Spot Conlon has a thing for a girl he met ten years ago, and that he wishes he was good enough to marry her. No one sees Spot's subtleties, and it's probably for the better.

"I fold," Spot says, slapping his cards down on the table. He leans back in his chair and stretches. His back cracks loudly in at least four different places. He lets out a groan of satisfaction. Kid Blink flinches—he can't stand the sound of popping bones. I don't blame him, but I manage to remain stoic.

"One," I say, dropping a card on the table, I need a four or a nine. Jack deals me a card—a queen—that bastard.

"I am the luckiest son-of-a-bitch ever," Spot announces proudly and out of the blue.

"Oh yeah, why's that?" Jack asks off-handedly as he deals himself cards.

"Someone spent the night with a pretty girl last night, and it wasn't Racetrack here," Spot punches my shoulder and laughs wildly. Of course, Jack joins in and slaps Spot on the back. Spot flashes his lop-sided grin and cocks his head to the side when I meet his eyes. I remain stony and his grin fades, melting into a scowl. He sits back in his chair in a huff, folding his arms across his chest. Ever-so-subtly, Spot Conlon begins to gnaw at the tip of his tongue. I allow myself a tiny smirk.

Liar.