Game of Hearts (Stacked Deck Book 3)

by Emilia Finn

  The goofy, crazy Mac? He doesn’t take many things seriously, so in another lifetime, I could ignore him and laugh about it. But this darker Mac, the man from the alleyway, the man whose main male influences now, apart from my family, are dangerous men – ex-military, security experts, explosive technicians. That version of Mac… I doubt he would let such disrespect go so easily. But where that should scare me, it actually sends bolts of electricity racing through my blood.

  How far can I push him until he cracks? How hard can I prod until he snaps?

  Unfortunately for him, I’m not scared of either version, so for as long as he says no to being with me, he is not entitled to answers. Until he acknowledges that we can be together, he’s not entitled to shit but a nasty case of blue balls.

  I wait until a quarter to five before I climb into my car and slam the door closed. The breeze is freezing today, like tiny shards of glass making their way down my throat and into my lungs. Switching the ignition on, I slowly back out of my driveway and wait for the estate gates to open, but my stomach jumps when my daddy pulls around the corner and slowly edges his way through before I can escape.

  A lump sits in my throat as I idle and wait for him to pass, but through my windshield and his, he stares at me. Narrowed eyes, furrowed brows, his fingers tap the steering wheel as he studies me.

  I pretend to fuss with my stereo, any excuse to free myself from his stare, but instead of passing, he slows beside my car, winds his window down, and when I pretend that I don’t notice, taps his knuckles against mine until I jump.

  My dad used to drive bigger cars – a Jeep when I was a baby, then various SUVs, all of which made him sit higher off the road as he’d drive – but at some point in the last two or three years, my parents went out and bought a sedan. Lower to the ground.

  Thank god, because had he been in the Jeep, he’d be able to look down into my car. He’d see my jeans, my legs… my shoes.

  Forgetting my stereo, I turn to him with my most convincing smile and wind my window down. My shoulders strain, since my car is about a hundred years old, and the window works on one of those crank handles. The seal breaks, and cool air slides through the gap to nip at my exposed skin.

  “Hey, Daddy.” I release the handle and finally peek into his eyes. Does he know I danced at Rhino’s? It’s been a constant, buzzing fear since the first time I stepped onto that stage. But now it’s almost paralyzing. Because Mac knows, and what’s to stop him from snitching? “You’re home early.”

  Jimmy Kincaid is the youngest of the Kincaid siblings. The goofiest, the wildest, in ways. Perhaps that explains my attraction to Mac – the humor. I’ve watched Daddy entertain my mom my whole life. Almost every childhood memory includes him being in the pillow fights with me and my brother. Daddy was right there with the nerf guns, the food fights, the silly pranks. He was the one creating the wild laughter, except for the odd occasions when my mom would come up with something crazy, in which case my dad became the pranked, instead of the pranker.

  And I think he enjoyed that role just as much.

  It was a relief being the daughter of the silly one, because that meant I was able to get away with more than Smalls ever did… Or perhaps that had nothing to do with my parents, and everything to do with my personality; I’m the quiet one, the trusted one to stay out of trouble.

  Smalls was guaranteed to get arrested a few dozen times before she was old enough to drink.

  “You’re heading out?” Daddy leans in his seat, almost like he wants to peek into my car. His studying gaze stops on my face, on my longer-than-usual lashes. “Going to the gym?”

  I shake my head and try as discreetly as I can to nibble on the gloss I smeared on my lips only ten minutes ago. “I was just going into town for a bit. I was thinking of rounding up the guys and getting ice cream.”

  He considers my words, and somewhere, deep in his soul, he rejects the fact that he’s looking for the lie. He’s never had reason to not trust me in the past, but the mascara is throwing him. “You didn’t get home until late last night…” His suspicious eyes continue to slide over what he can see. “I tried to wait up for you, but I conked out at some point around midnight.”

  My stomach cramps, literally, from guilt. “Daddy, I told you not to wait up for me. I said I would be out late.”

  “It’s my job.” Finally, he flashes that handsome smile of his, stretches his arm from his car to mine, and cupping my jaw, he slides a thumb over my bottom lip – no doubt to clean up the mess I made. “Got a little smudge,” he murmurs as he works.

  “Uh…” I swallow and hate the way my pulse literally pounds against my throat.

  Can my dad see that? Or how about the marks from Mac’s teeth? That single second of freedom Mac allowed himself last night, that split second where he snapped before reeling it in.

  I came home this morning, crawled into bed, slept like the dead, and when I woke a few hours later, nearly passed out again when I looked in the mirror and found the light grazing. His teeth. His stubble. His snapped control.

  “I… uh… better go.”

  “Tell Mac I said hey.” When I gasp, my daddy only winks and retracts his hand. “The Fearsome Foursome. Where one goes, the rest go. Tell Smalls to come to dinner soon, or I’ll kick her ass.”

  I nod. It’s jerky and speaks of guilt, but I still manage it as, laughing, Daddy pushes his car forward and moves into the driveway I rolled out of just minutes ago.

  “Shit.” My heart pounds in my chest as I look into my rearview mirror and do a double-take at the woman staring back.

  She’s more like the Rhino’s Club dancer than she is like Bean, and that right there explains my dad’s narrowed eyes.

  “Get it together,” I chastise myself. “Get your shit together.”

  I sit taller, ignore my dad when I spot him in my mirror and, pushing my sort-of-small chest forward, grab that bubble of bravado I left the house with and try to cloak myself in it.

  I have things to do, shoes to strut in, a shirt button to release, but I can’t do any of those things if I’m worrying about Jimmy Kincaid’s approval.

  Finally, I slide my little car into gear and roll through the estate gates. Winding my window up, my heart slows to a steadier rhythm the further from my home I move. I think through my plans, my strategic attack on the unsuspecting Mac Blair, and in another small pocket of my brain, I think about the recital coming up in six weeks.

  The recital that Mac knows about – something else he knows that no one else does.

  “Mac?” I stand on the side of the road, barely two hundred yards from the garage he works at, and hold the spark plugs – plural – that I stole from my engine in my left hand. In the right, I hold my phone as I dash around my car to toss the evidence of my crimes under the front seat. “Hey, Mac, you there?”

  “Lucy?” Music plays in the background, tools crash, and air compressors roar as someone uses that to clean dust from the floor. “Why’s it so loud there? What’s going on?”

  “It’s not loud here, dummy. It’s loud on your end.”

  “Okay…” He pulls away from the phone and speaks to someone else. “See ya tomorrow, Ang. Lucy?” The noise surrounding him lessens. He doesn’t know where I am, but I sure as hell know where he is. Sliding into my seat with oil on my fingers, I furiously wipe them on the gym towel in my backseat as he walks out of the garage and stands on the loose gravel out front. “You okay?”

  “My car broke down.” Ham it up, lady. It’s time to get serious. “It started sounding weird and clunky a couple minutes ago, so I turned toward the garage. I thought I would make it, but I came up about two blocks too short.”

  “You’re two blocks away?” I watch as he casts his eyes into the distance, then as they stop on my little car parked off to the side. “I see you. Hold on. Chuck.” The air compressor stops, and feet scuffle against gravel and concrete. “Come with me. It’s not starting, Luce?”

  “Um…”

  Two f
igures step out of the garage and head across the parking lot in my direction. Tall, broad, disgustingly handsome, they make their way to me, and leave the garage open and unattended.

  “Nope,” I squeak. “Won’t start.”

  “Is it seized up? Can we push it, or do we need the truck?”

  “Um…”

  “What’s the problem?” Chuck’s voice comes through the call as they clear half a block in twenty seconds. I’m not in danger, and it’s neither boiling hot or snowing; add in that there’s no smoke coming from my engine, and Mac figures he can walk instead of run.

  “Her car broke down. It’ll be quicker to push it here, rather than get the truck out.”

  “Chuck doesn’t have to help.” My voice comes out on a nervous squeak. “Uh… I can help you push.” Chuck was supposed to go home!

  “We got it,” Mac says. He’s closer now, close enough I can see the tear in his jeans right over his left knee. The grease stains on his thighs. The ripple of muscle beneath the shirt I’m certain he didn’t intend to be tight, but it’s become that way over the years. “Your car is small, so you can just sit and chill, we’ll push it back.”

  Heat burns my cheeks. So hot, so humiliating, as Chuck catches my eye and grins. It’s a friendly grin, a ‘Howdy, ma’am’ kind of grin that Mac is oblivious to as he studies my car.

  This isn’t how this was supposed to go. Mac was supposed to save me; everyone else was supposed to have left for the day. At some point while Mac’s eyes were turned, I would slip the spark plugs back into place, and voila, no harm, no foul.

  Instead, Mac goes straight to the engine, and lifts the already popped hood, so Chuck comes to my door, opening it with a chivalrous bow that makes me wonder why I’m so obsessed with getting Mac’s attention, when I know there are other single men in town.

  Story of my life, I suppose. There are perfect alternatives, but I want the one who won’t have me.

  “Thanks.” I accept his hand, and scrunch my eyes closed as he pulls me out to stand tall on my shoes.

  I’ve met Chuck a few times over the years; he knows what I normally look like, what kind of shoes I tend to wear.

  “Well…” He clears his throat, dragging my reluctant eyes open to find him taking a step back to get a look at me. “I see that maybe I’ve interrupted something.” He flashes a wicked grin.

  Long gone is the howdy ma’am, and in its place is something a lot filthier.

  He turns my hand over, studies my palm, murmurs, “Spark plugs?”

  My face hurts from the heat and blood that rushes to the surface. “Umm…”

  “There’s one on the floor there behind you.” He nods over my shoulder, but still, his words are almost silent while Mac pokes around under the hood. “But what a woman intends to do while wearing jeans like that…” He shakes his head. “Ain’t none of my business.”

  He winks – an actual, douche-y wink that isn’t douche-y at all. Then grabs his phone and, without unlocking the screen, brings it up to his ear.

  “Shake your ass,” he murmurs for my ears only. “He’s a little dense, so you gotta get the twerk going. Mom?” His tone changes and makes me jump. “You fell down the stairs? Shit, woman. How many times you gotta do that before you stop rubbing butter all over your skin and wearing roller skates around the house?” He turns away from me, smacks Mac on the shoulder as he passes. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon. Keep still. No, I don’t think you should buy a hoverboard. No, I don’t care if they’re all the rage now.”

  Slowly, Mac stands tall and turns to watch his friend walk away. He frowns for the longest minute while I stand by my side of the car, hidden by the steel door. He watches for what seems like an eternity, then with a shake of his head, he turns back to the hood and completely ignores me. “His mom isn’t around,” he murmurs for… well, himself, I suppose.

  “Huh?”

  “His mom,” he repeats. “He told me ages ago she’s not around.”

  My heart pounds as I close my car door, and the squeaking hinges announce my movements. “Uh… maybe she’s back. She just had to buy butter first.”

  He snorts, leaning all the way into the engine to get a look at what may have broken. If only he’d move the little rubber thingy that plugs into the end of the spark plugs, he’d know.

  “Now I’m thinking of his mom – who I’ve never met, by the way – lathering up in butter. Fuck knows why she’d do that. Won’t make her skate faster.”

  “Uh… yup.” That’s all I have as I bravely round the hood to stand beside him. Toughen up, Lucy! Shy and awkward isn’t going to get the job done.

  I stand so close that our hips touch. My shoe rests against his, and when he still doesn’t look up, I press my shoulder to his and lean forward – no doubt giving passersby a show of my ass. “Do you know what’s wrong with it?”

  “No…” His word is the vocal equivalent of a frown. “Oil seems fine. Nothing has blown. Air filter seems fine, but I’ll have to get the top off back at the shop. I didn’t bring any tools, so…” He sniffs. He sniffs a second time and pushes up so his shoulders sit high enough to almost touch his ears. He sniffs a third time, then finally, finally! his head snaps in my direction.

  His eyes widen when I stand so close that he could literally kiss me without leaning far. We’re so close that he doesn’t even see my jeans, but he sees my eyes, my lips. My height.

  “You smell.”

  “Oh?” My brows lift high. “Wow, okay. Thanks.”

  “Not bad,” he says thoughtfully. His brain sluggishly moves through what Chuck understood at first glance. “You smell like fruit. Like…” He takes another whiff, so deep, so drawn out, that it makes my knees weak. “Passionfruit?” he hedges. “Pomegranate? Strawberries, maybe?”

  “Um… new shower gel.” I shrug. “No big deal.”

  He flashes a grin that cements my reasons for pining after a man that won’t have me.

  Chuck’s smile is cute. It’s endearing, and makes me smile back. But Mac’s grin has the power to make my heart skip a beat.

  That’s medically impossible, of course, unless I wanted to dive into my own testing for an irregular heartbeat. But medical marvels aside, my heart sure feels like it’s skipping as those forest green eyes scour my face. His dimples pop, and that alone makes me fear for my future.

  A dimple on the chin, the devil lies within.

  He has two of them, and they both promise a lifetime of trouble.

  “I like it,” he says. “Smells nice.” He looks back to the engine. “We’re gonna have to get the car back to the garage.”

  “I’ll help you push it.”

  “Nah. You gotta steer, so you sit in the front, make sure we’re going the right way. I’ll push. It’s flat ground, so it won’t be hard. Once we get it back, I’ll get a better look and fix it for you.”

  A motorbike starts and revs from the garage, the deep roar sending my blood racing as it comes nearer. Despite the cold air and the waning sun, since we’re already into November and the days are shorter, the only protective clothing Chuck wears is a helmet – bright red and almost looks brand new.

  It’ll save his life if he falls, but the shirt he wears won’t protect his arms from being torn up on the road. His jeans won’t save his ass from the tar, and his shoes probably won’t do much by way of protection either. And yet, he slowly rolls toward us with a smug grin.

  “Help me push,” Mac says to his friend. “Lucy can steer.”

  “Sorry, bud. My mom slipped in the shower, so I gotta go help.”

  “The shower?” Mac, I swear, might be the most clueless person I’ve ever met. And he still hasn’t noticed what I’m wearing. “You said she fell down the stairs.”

  “Oh, she did…” Chuck waves us off, revs his bike. “She was skating down the stairs. Slid straight into the shower. She’s got butter everywhere. It’s a mess, really. Sorry I can’t stick around to watch.”

  Mac’s eyes flash with confusion. “Huh?”


  “To help!” Chucks amends with a laugh. “Geez, I meant to say help. I’d love to help, but, ya know… sometimes four hands are two too many. You know I always get the short straw on the fun stuff. You oughta get moving,” he gestures toward the garage, then to us, “It’s cold as reindeer balls out here. Your lady friend might catch a cold.”

  Still frowning, still clueless, Mac peers from his friend to me. Finally, his eyes stop on my legs. On my heels. Then on my chest where I’ve released the top few buttons to show off what I barely have.

  From standing near me with zero clue, to stepping in front of me, he shields me from the laughing eyes of his friend. “Yeah, you go on. I got this.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Chuck lifts a fist to the sky, shakes it for dramatic effect, “Damn my mother and her propensity to mix food and sport. Did she not learn her lesson that time she went surfing with a pineapple?”

  “Fuck off, Chuck. See you tomorrow.”

  Chest bouncing with laughter, Chuck revs his engine so loud that my breath catches and my shoulders lift in defense, then he’s off like a rocket, spitting up dirt and rocks as he speeds away to leave Mac shielding me from the world.

  Braced in front of me, shoulders pulsing with adrenaline, Mac’s chest swells and grows to the same rhythm that his jaw clenches and releases.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Slowly, he turns to me, takes a step back, and lets his eyes sweep along my legs. He tilts his head a little as he studies my shoes, then up, he pauses around my crotch and makes it so warmth pools in my belly. He slows around my unsecured shirt buttons, then again on my lips. Finally, his eyes come to mine and glare. “Heading to work your corner after the club?”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  Sneering, he turns back to the car and looks for whatever I broke. He’s not so stupid that he doesn’t understand that my broken car is my own fault. One second, two, three, he stops on the spark plugs – and the space where two others should be. “Where are they?”

  “Where are what?” I step in closer. So close that my thighs almost straddle his leg, and my chest nestles around his arm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”