AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Sorry, bubblegum.” Douche number three reaches over to tousle my hair, and I jerk my head sideways. When his move is thwarted, he turns instead to high-five his buddies.
“Don’t fucking touch me. Yes, you are sorry.” I smile and nonchalantly brush my hair from my face before popping my lips. My heart is thumping as my mind races to figure out a way out of this. From the corner of my eye, I see the Walrus behind the desk, staring my way, waiting for me to leave the table.
We both know why. He’s the accountant, and I’ve got a debt to pay and no way to pay it.
Unless I dig my hole even deeper into my school fund.
There’s nowhere to run, either. No hiding from this. But I can’t stay at the table, so I hike up my panties and scoot back my chair. I’m a rat in a trap with a hungry tomcat staring me down.
With a glance toward Walrus, I watch his drooping eyelids blink—slowly, purposefully—as his lips manipulate the wet stub of the cigar that hangs between them.
Oxygen turns scarce as I forcibly lighten my steps under the menacing gaze of the Walrus.
I’m betting another “ku ku ka choo” is not apt to pass his lips this time.
“Listen. Walrus. Honey.” I lean my elbows on the desk, ass in the air, jutting out a hip.
From the black shark eyes staring back at me, my feminine wiles are going to have no effect, but it’s all I have left. What do I have to lose? “House spots me another five—I swear I’m good for it. Just a bad run. You know Cruzer, right? How ’bout just another five?”
A warmth begins to gather on the backs of my legs. It bolts upward and makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand upright.
By the time I turn around, Lincoln’s voice is already in my ears, and I feel like I’ve just thrown back a few shots of cheap tequila.
“I know Cruzer.” Lincoln Kirk’s voice could melt the habit off a nun.
He’s standing just to my right, right next my ridiculously upward placed hip. His deep-set chocolate and amber eyes take a shameless stroll up and down my body before he continues. “If you think his word is what spotted you your five G’s this evening, you’re wrong. Dropping his name now isn’t going to get you another ten. Or five. Or anything.”
“Then what will?” I force a hardness into each word, set my jaw, and muster all my defenses. I have to. Because this man is waging an all-out offensive on my senses, and I’m about to lose any control I’ve managed to salvage.
But there’s something else. It’s my sixth sense that’s piqued more than any other. It’s not necessarily danger that’s running his long, icy fingers up and down the indent of my spine. I think it’s opportunity, mixed with a healthy shot of once-in-a-lifetime chance.
“How old are you?”
Lincoln’s question catches me off guard, and I hesitate for a moment. Maybe, if I’m young enough, I’m not about to get slapped around to prove a point about not borrowing money you can’t pay back.
But I don’t think that’s what this is about. The way he’s looking at me...
Something like a grunt or a chuckle rumbles from Walrus. Involuntarily, my eyes flick to him, but it doesn’t take me long to right myself. Standing as tall as my stature will allow, I trade my hip jut for a new position with my ass sitting on the front of the desk and my arms crossed over my chest.
Which also helps to hide how hard my nipples are, stopping them from telling these seasoned people-readers exactly the effect this beefy drink of top-shelf bad boy is having on me.
I lick my lips, and against my better judgment, I go with the truth. “Twenty-one.” I wait for the usual incredulous response I get when I tell someone my age, but it doesn’t come.
I figure a couple decades or so down the road, I’ll be damn happy that I look so much younger than my chronological age. Pulling out my driver’s license to prove my age is fine if I’m buying alcohol, but just to get some asshole to shut the fuck up because he doesn’t believe me gets old fast.
Lincoln’s slow nod is knowing, confident, as if the answer somehow makes sense. “Follow me. I’ll make you a deal,” he orders, then moves closer.. His hands slip into the front pockets of his black trousers, and I swear I see him adjust.
Without any other course of action, I fall into step behind him. He’s bigger than I first thought. Broad, but not gym-rat thick. The suit that pulls across his back fits him in a way that has my breath coming in little-girl gasps. When my eyes fall to his ass, an audible squeak escapes me. I don’t miss the nearly indistinguishable twitch of his head at the noise.
The five players left at my table are back into the game as we stroll by. Just another night and I’m collateral damage. I’m not even sure if I could buy back in if they would let me. But Lincoln said we’d make a deal, and making deals is a particular skill I possess in abundance.
And I’m going to do whatever I can to get back in that game, because there are only two things I suck at.
One, relationships.
Any kind. Even friendships.
But most of all, romance.
I don’t know, there’s just something about relating to another human being on a deep, intimate level that I don’t seem to grasp. I can’t do it. I’m always calculating, seeing them as another player in the great poker game of life. Wondering what they are thinking. What they are trying to get from me and how I can bluff my way out or take them for what I need. Doesn’t make for much of a mutually satisfying interaction, especially long term.
Second — and this is the big one.
I suck at losing.
Thankfully, I don’t do it often.
Because, did I mention? I fucking hate it.
So the fact that I make my living hustling at a game that is predicated upon either winning or losing, you could say it is both my greatest strength and my Achilles’ heel.
