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WESTON
Adrenaline surged through my veins, making my knee bounce underneath the poker table. Or the involuntary action could be happening because I was heads up in a poker hand with none other than Doyle fucking O’Brien.
Not only was his personality as appealing as a viper’s, his presence at our exclusive poker game was a monthly reminder about one of the rare times I’d ever lost a bet with an outsider. A fucking Ducati race, at that. Jesus, when he’d made the bet, I doubted a bike could even haul him uphill, let alone beat me by a fuckingcentimeter.
“You should bet the Raptors,” Doyle said, his beady eyes locking on mine from where he sat to Gareth’s left.
“Not a fucking chance,” I said, shaking my head as I scribbled another bet on a white chip. I’d connected with the flop, boasting two pair and a straight draw. I wasn’t going anywhere. Could it be because I wanted to bust Doyle any chance I got? Probably, but I still had a good hand.
Not good enough to put my NFL team on the table, though, not that I’d ever put it at risk. It was one of the only things my prick of a father left me after he died that I actually loved.
“You sure?” Doyle asked. “I could really turn that team around.”
“You couldn’t turn around shit even if you were wearing roller skates,” Crossland said, openly glaring at Doyle.
Cross never hesitated to get in a jab toward him, but in his defense, Doyle constantly berated not only us, our guests, and our companies, but also his daughter and any other female who happened to be within hearing distance.
Doyle was a bastard through and through. He once snapped at Brynn, my longtime friend and personal assistant, but she shut that shit down faster than I could blink. I’d been boiling over the situation, ready to finally hand Doyle his ass, but Brynn had handled it like she handled everything—with a level of grace I marveled at.
“You’re not in this hand, Crossland,” Doyle said. “Stay out of it.”
Cross flipped him off, returning his attention to the woman currently draped over his shoulder, smoothing her hands along his chest.
I threw in my bet to match his, and dealt the turn. The fourth card on the board missed me completely, but I kept my poker face rock solid.
Doyle shook his empty lowball glass, the half-melted ice clinking as he shoved it behind him, not even bothering to look at his daughter dutifully sitting there.
“Refill,” he demanded without a hint of pleasantry. Serenity hopped out of her chair and headed toward the bar across the room in a hurry. The response looked ingrained in her, as if in the past she’d hesitated a beat too long and there’d been repercussions.
“There are staff here for that, you know,” Gareth snapped, shifting his forearms on the table in a move that was more than intimidating. His white dress shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, the ink on his forearms on full display. It was always a competition between him and Crossland on who hated Doyle more, and right now, Gareth was in the lead.
Doyle ignored him, and I shifted in my seat, sparing a glance at Brynn. There wasn’t a trip I went on where she didn’t come along, not only because without her I’d be lost in a schedule I’m still not even sure how she managed for me, but because she was myconstant. I leaned on her after my father passed away and left me with an empire I barely had a clue how to run, and I’d never looked back.
She was relaxed on a little chaise lounge, her legs bare and outstretched, her sundress hugging her slight curves in the most delectable way. Fucking hell, did she have to look so enticing with her hair gathered up off her neck and secured in some sort of knot that begged to be let free?
She paid me no attention, her eyes intently locked on her e-reader as she scanned the pages of a book. It was most likely something written by Asher’s fiancé Daisy, who was currently writing away on a deadline in Asher’s room, but she’d at least been able to make the skydive with us this morning.
They’d been engaged for about eight months, and she’d become a welcomed stable to our tight-knit little group. Brynn got along with her great too, which was a bonus since the demands of being my assistant usually kept her surrounded in all things me. Daisy helped break up that monotony, not to mention she made Asher happier than I’d ever seen him before.
I’d read over Brynn’s shoulder a few times, and Daisy knew her shit, that was for sure. I could see why Brynn got lost in a book during every game, but I also knew if I asked her to sit in my stead and play a few hands, she’d take each of my friends to the cleaners. She was just that good at everything, or maybe I was simply her biggest fan. Not that she knew that.
It was safer not to acknowledge that shit out loud. I couldn’t lose her in any capacity, which put her strictly in theoff-limitscategory. Didn’t matter how many times I’d explained that to myself, I couldn’t stop the fantasies that included my hands on her thighs and my head between them.
A phone rang, and Ethan checked his cell before standing up from the table. “Savannah?” he answered. “What’s up?”
My ears perked up at the mention of his contract manager for the Hurricanes, who happened to be my best friend Hendrix Malone’s fiancé. “Tell her I said hi,” I said in Ethan’s direction.
Ethan flipped me off, his eyes focused and intent as he took in whatever Savannah was saying on the other end. I laughed, shaking my head.
“You assumed correctly,” Ethan said. “Tell that shithead Porter to take your word for it next time.” Ethan blew out a breath. “No, you’re not bothering me at all. It’s Porter’s incessant need to be a prick whenever he gets a chance.” He nodded. “Right. No more adjustments. We’re almost done with this season. If he wants to renegotiate then we can do it in November. Okay. You too.” Ethan hung up the call, returning to the table with a sigh. “Fucking baseball players.”
Asher cocked a brow at him. “You getting tired of that team you busted your ass to buy?”
I pressed my lips together to keep from adding to that. We all knew Ethan had almost killed himself to get where he was today—a self-made billionaire and owner of the Charleston Hurricanes—but it was a little less-known fact that he’d only bought the team to get revenge on his ex’s husband’s family. It was a twisted tale, filled with heartbreak and some real betrayal on his ex’s end, but fuck, it made for one hell of an origin story. Not that many people outside of this table knew about it.
“Never,” Ethan answered Asher. “Just a few of my players live to make my life hell. Maddox Porter being the ring leader. He’s all jokes most the time, but fuck, he’s driving Savannah nuts with outrageous contract inquires.”
“What was it this time?” I asked.
