“Yeah, you do.” She claimed not to know him but Bart was having none of that. She could play her games, whatever they were, and he could play right back and beat her. It’s what he did. Beat people at their own games. He liked it. I came easily to him, a smooth, untamed thing that he could control and sometimes demand payment for, if the game had money involved or something expensive and in his line of interest.
What he didn’t know, was that she wasn’t playing a game. When there was no game, there was no winning.
Bart contemplated her reply to him. He scratched at his chin, tapped at his leg, scrunched up his nose in thought and decided something. “You don’t know me yet, do you? That’s it, isn’t it? How old are you?”