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I get up from the couch and head to the kitchen.
I can’t keep my eyes from sneaking a peek at Rocco’s apartment.
He’s on his feet. His hands are shoved into the pockets of the pants he was wearing earlier at his office. His dress shirt is still as freshly pressed as it was then.
He’s standing by the window, but he’s not looking at me.
His gaze is cast to the sky.
The men seated behind him are laughing. Poker chips are being pushed to the center of the circular table and cards are being tossed aside.
Rocco doesn’t turn when a man with black hair places his hand on his shoulder.
The words he’s saying to Rocco don’t get any response out of him.
He studies Rocco’s profile for a few seconds before he pats his chest and walks away.
Once he’s gone, Rocco finally looks in my direction.
I raise my hand in a wave, but he doesn’t acknowledge it.
The sadness cast over his expression answers the unspoken question on my lips. He doesn’t see me.
Rocco may be staring right at me, but he’s looking straight through me.
Chapter 26
Rocco
I sit on one of the folding chairs next to the poker table. I store all of it in the second bedroom and drag it out for poker nights with my friend, Dylan Colt, and whoever else we can round up. Tonight it was two guys Dylan met through work.
“You’d think you could let me win one time, you selfish son-of-a-bitch.” Dylan slides into his suit jacket. “Would it be so damn hard to throw me a bone once in a while?”
I laugh at the expression on his face. It doesn’t match his words. He’s smiling through his faux anger filled rant.
“Fuck you, Dylan.”
“Nice.” He shoves a hand through his black hair. “I just handed over a thousand of my hard-earned dollars and this is how you treat me.”
I made bank tonight, coming out of the game three thousand ahead of when I went in. Everyone else left with an empty wallet.
“You need to spend more time practicing on that app on your phone.” I push on an empty glass tumbler. “Or you could quit the games.”
“And miss seeing your beautiful face?” He pats my shoulder. “We need to hang out more than once a month, Rocco.”
We do. Dylan is an old friend. Our stories date back to his law school days.
He’s a divorce attorney; some consider him the best in the city.
“You know where I live.” I sweep my hand in the air. “You’re always welcome here.”
He checks his phone before he pockets it. “We should head out of the city for a few days. Remember those trips to Vegas we used to take?”
How could I forget?
If Dylan had the time, he’d tag-along whenever I hit Sin City for a tournament. Those days are long gone.
“You want to go to Vegas?” I question with a lift of my brow. “Aren’t you the guy who never takes a weekend off? I’m surprised you even show up for these games.”
