Page 22 of Player

“No, I didn’t,” I lie.

“Big money clients can open doors and provide opportunities that average clients do not.”

“Got it,” I say, turning the doorknob because I’m itching to get out of here and read his letter.

“Evelyn?”

“Yes, Madame?” I pause, grit my teeth and toss my ponytail over my shoulder so hard it thwacks against my back.

“If opportunities arise for advancement, please seize them.”

“Will do.” I escape the pretty prison and wait until the elevator door closes between me and Ma Maison before I rip open the envelope.

“Dress summer country club casual, Lucky Charm. Be your beautiful, funny self. The job will last sixteen to twenty-four hours. You will be compensated for the full twenty-four if the game ends early. Can’t wait to see you again, gorgeous.”

I don’t know what country club casual is, but I’m not going to make myself nuts picking the perfect dress. The dress isn’t the problem. I’m the problem.

I want to help Dylan and my brain spins, thinking about how best to do that. Knowing a little more about poker can’t hurt. I watch a few tournaments on YouTube and study up on terms and vocabulary. It’s like learning French or Italian with Berlitz. “How much does that cost?” but in poker language.

I need to master the emotions spinning around Dylan, especially those catching me in a tangled, sticky web. Are they his? Mine? Hopefully, I’m not picking up on someone else in the room, like the Fast Food King. Unlike french fries, I’m not on his menu. Ever.

“How’d the date with Dylan McAlister, go?” Amelia asks that night. We’re sitting around a polished high top table at a sports bar, TVs lining the walls, tipping back a few beers.

“Good. I’m seeing him again this week.”

“Get your cash tip up front. Word is Mr. Midas is losing his touch.” She dips into the plate of wings sitting on the table. “Chasing a nasty losing streak. Doesn’t seem to be able to pull out of it. Was he a weirdo when you went out with him? Did he make you nervous? I know how sensitive you are.”

I shake my head. “He was lovely. Kind. Funny.”

“Even funny guys can be weirdos.”

I nab a wing. “He’s not a weirdo.”

“Even funny guys can be losers.”

“He’s not a lose…” But my words take an unexpected hike because Victoria walks through the crowd toward our table. Yes – that Victoria – the escort that Madame Germaine pushed in Dylan’s direction. A scab tears off a wound that I didn’t even know was butterflied on top of my heart.

Amelia waves. “Victoria!”

“Hey!” She waves back and makes her way through the crowd toward us. She’s drop dead gorgeous with mocha skin and hazel eyes. Guys stop watching the game, gawking at her like she’s Moses parting the Red Sea.

“Did you invite her?”

“Yes,” Amelia says. “You need to get to know her better.”

“What if I don’t want to?” I wipe my mouth with a napkin, crumple it, and toss it on the table.

“What if I don’t care that you get everything that you want?” Amelia says. “You’ve gotta find more powerful friends than me. I’m not going to be around Ma Maison forever. I’m going to meet a good guy. Someone kind with money who worships me. In the meantime, Victoria’s head bitch. It won’t hurt to have her on your side.”

I grumble. Victoria makes her way toward us – all groomed, with perfect tits, posture, and body by Pilates.

“Be nice,” Amelia says, pinching my arm.

“I’m always nice.”

“Girlfriend.” Amelia smiles at Victoria and pulls out a stool. “Glad you could join us. You remember Evie?”

“Evelyn,” I say, and muster a smile.

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