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The cards are dealt, and I sit back, playing my hand, winning a few rounds. I notice the men’s eyes rise around me, and I wonder if someone plans on calling my bluff.
I’m a fucking straight shooter even when I play cards. I know how to win; how to keep my eyes on the prize. We keep drinking, they a hell of a lot more than me. I have no intention of walking away broke at the end of the night. If these fuckers are dumb enough to invite a stranger to their game, they are dumb enough to lose all their money to me too.
By the sixth round, the men know they are in trouble. Pussy Juice and Rimmed are out of dough and the pot keeps growing. I know I have the cards to win but Rizz is scared. I see it in his bloodshot eyes. He wants to walk away with three hundred bucks. But fuck, so do I.
“Hell, I need another drink for this,” Rizz groans, whistling for a waitress. He takes another look at his hand before pushing away from the table for a breather, his cards pressed to his chest. I want to finish the hand knowing mine is good enough to win the pot, but I set my cards down in front of me, going along with Rizz because I don’t know these guys well enough to argue. When the waitress doesn’t arrive straight away, everyone starts getting irritated. Why they don’t get off their asses and get their own damn drink is beyond me.
“Where the fuck’s your sister, Rizz?” Rimmed asks. “She can get us a round.”
“Probably reading some stupid ass book in the bar, avoiding eye contact,” Rizz grunts. “Hey, Sugar,” he shouts. “Get over here. We need a drink.”
The waitress from earlier doesn’t sashay around the corner to take our orders. Instead, a different woman enters the back room. Her hair is honey blonde and long, past her curvy waist, with hips that are hugged nicely by her black pants, and her eyes are drawn to the book in her hand—which has a half-naked man on the front of it. Her nails are painted red and green — for Christmas. Her thick eyelashes flutter against her full cheekbones. When she lifts her chin, my heart fucking stops.
She’s the prettiest woman I’ve seen in my life.
I swallow. My cock is instantly hard at the sight of her and I don’t want to fuck this up.
It’s what I’ve been waiting for all these years. An angel to appear, and here she is on Christmas Eve. A goddamn miracle.
“Where the hell have you been, Sugar? I gave you one job tonight. One. I told the other girls they could have the night off.”
She licks her lips. The pink tongue that pokes out makes me forget why I’m here. But the cards have been dealt and the game is still being played.
I try to focus, but it’s tough as nails.
“Sorry,” she says. Her voice soft, her finger dog-earing the page in her book, not even eyeing the table. “I was distracted.”
Rizz laughs. “Busy reading your porn?”
She rolls her eyes, not arguing, still not making eye contact. It’s like she knows these men well enough to know they don’t deserve her full attention. “I don’t see why they don’t serve you. They’re your girlfriends, aren’t they?” Her words are strong, but her gaze is on the floor like she is scared of meeting anyone’s eyes.
“Keep your mouth shut, Sugar. Do your damn job.”
Sugar blinks wildly, keeping what I can only assume are tears at bay. She doesn’t bite back. Instead, she swallows and tucks a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. And I sure as hell don’t like the way they are treating her.
Rimmed pushes his front lips together. “Who the hell do you think you are? You’re nothing but an extra mouth to feed. At least they put out.”
“Hey, that’s my sister,” Rizz growls.
“Right, and you really like this arrangement?” Pussy Juice asks.
“Family is family. Until tomorrow morning, when I give Sugar to Marco— “
She cuts him off, her words soft and pleading, “Can we not have this conversation tonight? It’s Christmas Eve. I’ll get your drinks. What do you guys want? Bud Light?”
They grunt in agreement and she starts to walk away. I have to speak to her.
“I’ll have a whiskey,” I tell her.
Sugar stops and turns to face me. Her eyes meet mine. They are deep blue pools of water, swimming with tears and I see she’s far more rattled than she let on with her brother. “Who are you?” she asks, looking at the guys, then at me, trying to place me.
“I’m Smith.”
“And you’re friends with my brother?” she asks, eyelashes fluttering. Making judgments on me as she takes in the room. Smoke in the air, empty beer glasses, a pile of chips. The other women enter the room, finding the laps of their men and I clench my jaw. Wishing I had never walked back here. This isn’t where I belong, not by a fucking long shot. I should have stayed put at the bar. I could have met this woman under different terms. Now she is just lumping me in with these other guys.
