Fitz and I exchange a startled glance.

“I’m not fighting a girl,” Fitz says.

I cross my arms and throw his earlier words back at him. “That’s sexist.”

Jude groans. “This ain’t the Hunger Games, you boob. You won’t really be fighting to the death. That was for dramatic effect. We’ll keep it safe and legal. Well, except for the betting part, but no one ever gives no never mind about that. It’s gonna be a test of wills. A battle of the minds. Various challenges set up by yours truly. And Beast, we can take bets on who will win each competition. The rest of the babies will love this.” His eyes are gleaming as he rubs his bearded chin in thought. “I can come up with something extra special for Begonia Day. Are you writing this down?”

Sure enough, the giant that is Beast has a notebook in his hands, a normal eight by eleven spiral, but in his hands, it looks like it was made for a doll.

“This is genius,” Jude continues. “I’m going to make so much money.”

“Wait.” Fitz glances over at Beast and then back at Jude. “That’s all well and good for you, but I’m not sure I want to engage in any kind of illegal activity.”

“You won’t be doing anything of the sort. I will. And if you don’t like it, the door’s over yonder.” He gestures in the direction we came in with his pipe.

There’s a tense silence during which I hold my breath and hope Fitz decides to get up and leave.

But no such luck.

Instead, he sits back and crosses his arms over his chest. “Where would we sleep in the meantime? While all this . . . competition is going on?”

Jude sits back in the recliner with his hands behind his head, crossing his feet. Mr. Bojangles jumps up into his lap and settles. “You can take turns. One in the room, one out here on the couch.” He gestures to the rose-patterned sofa. “It’s not good. Kinda small. There’s some lumps. Plus people are always here late at night so you might not actually sleep much.” His eyes brighten with an idea. “Whoever wins the game of the day can get the room until the next competition. A little added incentive.”

I glance around the living room. This sounds like a terrible idea. A party house? Me? People? All the time?

But then Jude continues, “And if you both agree, I won’t even charge rent until the whole competition is over.” He grins around the pipe. “I’ll make so much money off you two, I won’t even need it. One week. Two challengers. Seven games. Endless possibilities.” His eyes are gleaming.

Beast clears his throat with a loud rumble and Jude nods, like he can interpret the sound.

“Right, right.” He tilts his head. “Two weeks. Every other day. I’ll need time to plan and execute each challenge.”

My mind, reeling from this whole conversation, picks up his words and thinks them through. “So . . . if I win the first four games, will the room be mine?” I ask slowly.