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His eyes narrow. To this kid, a grand is probably chump change, but he obviously didn’t expect me to have it. Ordinarily, I might not, but Mr. Black paid us a stipend for moving expenses, and Mom and I did it on the cheap so we have some leftover.
He flicks his gaze back up to me, then finally shrugs. “Yeah, all right. If you can ante up, you can play. Let me get you chips.”
A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth. That was fucking easy. It’ll be harder if I want to come back again, or even if I try to find another game. After tonight, I have a feeling word will spread.
Once I get my chips from the guy, who mumbles something about his name being Carson, I sit down at one of the tables, smiling broadly at the others gathered around. It’s almost all guys, although there’s one girl with auburn hair and a sharp gaze. She’s the one I’ll have to watch out for, I decide immediately. All the rest of these dudes? Easy money.
The thing about learning poker from two heavily tattooed old men in the chemo center of Bayard Medical is that I didn’t just learn how to play the game. I learned how to win. Over the hours and hours we spent playing, I learned how to use every tool at my disposal to turn the odds in my favor.
The two old chips I got from them when they finished their treatments sit in my pocket now, and the one from Hunter is in my other pocket.
We start to play, and I throw the first few hands, making myself look new and inexperienced—just like I’m sure these guys expect the new girl from Arizona to be. By the next hand, I’m ready.
I’ve gotten decent at counting cards, so that helps. Plus, I’ve learned the tells of almost everyone around the table, which lets me know how to play against them.
When I rake in my first pile of chips, the auburn-haired girl narrows her eyes at me. But it takes two more hands for all the guys to catch on to what’s happening. Fortunately, by that point, I’m almost done.
I win the last game too, and the boy to my left tosses his hand down in irritation. “Who let the fucking ringer in here?”
“Max invited me,” I say with an easy grin. He’ll catch shit for that later, but I don’t really care.
People grumble as we all get up, but no one lost money they couldn’t afford to lose tonight. And when I cash in my chips, I’m up almost a thousand dollars.
I stuff it in my back pocket and make a quick getaway before any of the guys can come try to chat me up. Don’t ask me what it is about getting beaten at poker by a woman, but for some reason, it tends to make men horny. Maybe it’s just a last ditch effort to prove their masculinity, who knows.
None of the four kings were here tonight, thank fuck—but I do see another guy I’ve noticed hanging around with them a few times, Ethan, watching me with narrowed eyes as I slip out the door.
As I pull away from the warehouse, I crank up the music in the car and sing along, whipping my hair as I dance behind the wheel. It’s after one o’clock by now, but I’m wired and wide awake. Depositing the cash into the ATM makes a fierce pride swell in my chest, and one more little piece of the crushing guilt I carry chips away.
I’ve been doing this for a few years—only intermittently though, and not as often recently. I sneak the extra money I win into my mom’s account. It usually involves borrowing a substantial amount first, but I’ve rarely ended up losing it all.
Mom’s great at a lot of things, but keeping track of her money isn’t one of them. It got worse and worse after my treatments finally finished; I think it’s probably some kind of avoidance mechanism from when new bills were coming in every day and she couldn’t afford to pay any of them.
I took over managing our finances, paying bills and stuff, when I was thirteen—and it makes things like this way easier. My mom’s never noticed the money I take or the extra cash I manage to bring in.
On the drive back to the Black house, I turn the music off but roll down the windows, letting the chilly, slightly salty air infiltrate the car. Their house is a few miles from the waterfront, but I swear I can still taste the ocean in the air.
I switch off my lights before I punch in the code for the gate, and then I roll quietly into the second garage and hop out, crossing the short expanse from the garage to the house. As I reach the door to the service entrance, I catch the scent of coriander and musk a split second before a hand clamps around my wrist.
The tiny bit of advance warning isn’t enough to stop my heart from leaping into my throat, and I spin toward the large male body behind me, keys clenched in my fist.
“You gonna punch me, Pool Girl?”
Lincoln’s voice is wry, and I can’t make out much of his face in the darkness—just his light amber eyes.
I let out a gasping breath, yanking my hand out of his grasp and shoving him away with two palms to his chest. I’m too freaked out to realize I probably shouldn’t be touching my boss’s son and frequent tormentor so casually.
“Jesus Christ, Lincoln! You scared the shit out of me!” I hiss. “What are you doing out here?”
“Probably the same thing you are. Sneaking in.”
I blink. “You use the service entrance for that?”
“Sometimes, yeah. It’s easier than going in through the front. Less shit to trip over, and I don’t have to worry about running into my old man or mom.” He cocks his head at me, those insanely alluring eyes of his scanning my body like the answer will be written there. “Where were you? You’re not dressed to impress.”
Jesus. This fucking guy.
I take a step back, trying to put more distance between us so I can think better. I’m dressed just fine for kicking ass at poker, thank you very much.
