Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 63862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
My hand was alright. Not something I’d risk five-thousand-dollar chips on, but it was possible to get somewhere decent if the deck was friendly.
Near him, the cocktail waitress made her way to the table, standing there silently in her tight, short black dress and stiletto heels. Her feet must have been killing her. But I saw how these men tipped the waitresses; it was worth the blisters.
She said nothing, as was customary in this room.
But the men who wanted some asked for drinks.
I pointed to my coffee cup, getting a nod from her.
“You never have drinks with us,” one of the other players, Robert, one of the country’s most esteemed neurosurgeons (who, by best estimates, made about two million a year) said.
“And that’s why I keep whipping your ass, Rob,” I said with a friendly smirk that had him laughing.
Across from me, Harrison’s lips tipped up but didn’t quite smile.
When his drink came, he’d ordered…
“You’re drinking… milk?” The question burst out of me before I could stop it.
A slow smile tugged at his lips.
“I like to win too.”
Okay.
That was hot too.
Suddenly, I didn’t care so much about the cards. I was replaying a conversation I’d just had with my cousin in my head. Mostly about hookups and how they could be fun if you were in the mood for them.
Harrison?
He looked like he might be a lot of fun.
Maybe I could call it an early night despite being on a heater, get a few drinks with a sharply dressed businessman, and invite him back to my room.
Suits weren’t usually my type.
I’d grown up around rough-and-tumble bikers. I tended to like my guys cocky, straight-talking, and unpolished.
But something about this guy told me that once you got him unbuttoned, he would be just as wild as the kind of men I was used to.
“Call,” I said, tossing the chips toward the center of the table.
“So, Layna,” Robert said, shuffling his cards around. “Between tournaments?”
“I had one last night,” I told him.
“Did you win?”
“Leo was there,” I said, getting a grunt.
I was a great poker player. But the reigning champion, I was not. Still, I did just fine. Better. I was extremely comfortable.
“Did he take your shirt?” Robert asked.
“Stop trying to picture me with my top off, there, Rob,” I said, getting a snort from another player. “I was happy with my winnings,” I added. “Then decided to hang back and double it.”
I glanced down at my pile of chips. I had another just-as-big stack sitting in a boot in my hotel room, waiting to be cashed in.
That little act of control was how I managed to beat the accusations of gambling addiction. I didn’t have to spend it all. In fact, I rarely did. I would only let myself lose a few hands before I called it a night.
Poker was my job.
And once I was satisfied with what I’d earned, I headed back across the country to New Jersey to visit my large extended family for a while.
The conversation shifted to talk of other casinos, other poker rooms across the strip. And, eventually, devolved into discussions of strip clubs and escorts.
While I often wasn’t the only woman in a poker room, it was still a hobby dominated by men. And, well, this kind of thing was all too familiar. I comforted myself with the knowledge that all the sex workers in town were cleaning up from these men’s wallets and laughing about the clients who thought they were somehow getting one up on the women.
“Let’s see ‘em,” the dealer demanded.
I had Four of a Kind. All eights.
So did Harrison. All tens.
“Four tens wins,” the dealer said, looking at Harrison’s cards.
“Nice,” I said, nodding. I reached for my coffee, finishing it off.
It wasn’t my first loss of the night.
“Beginner’s luck,” he said, stacking his coins.
“Well, I’m out. Enjoy your heater, Harrison,” I said, scooping the chip bag provided by the casino. “Gentlemen,” I said, nodding to the table. “Take that grand baby of yours out to the arcade,” I said, tossing a chip toward the dealer, then making my way out.
Did I maybe put a little more swish in my walk as I exited the room? Sure. And all I could hope was that Harrison was watching.
I was only halfway down the hallway when I heard the soft footfalls on the carpet behind me.
It could have been anyone.
But the swooping in my belly told me exactly who it was.
I didn’t slow my pace, even as heat pooled and my heart fluttered.
I rounded the corner of the hallway toward the elevator bank. Still hearing the footfalls approaching, I stabbed my finger into the call button and listened as it immediately slid up.
My silent prayer was answered when the doors dinged open into an empty car.
I slipped inside and turned just in time to see a hand slip between the doors, making them slide back open.