by Emilia Finn
SEVEN CARD STUD
STACKED DECK BOOK SEVEN
EMILIA FINN
SEVEN CARD STUD
By: Emilia Finn
Copyright © 2020. Emilia Finn
Publisher: Beelieve Publishing, Pty Ltd.
Cover Design: Amy Queue
Editing: Bird’s Eye Books
Cover Photography: FuriousFotog
ISBN: 979 868 891 1077
This Book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This Book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy.
To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected]
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of Emilia Finn’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Also by EMILIA FINN
Looking To Connect?
SEVEN CARD STUD
Prologue
I. Jamie
1. Cam
2. Jamie
3. Cam
4. Jamie
5. Cam
6. Jamie
II. Cam
7. Jamie
8. Cam
9. Jamie
10. Cam
11. Jamie
12. Cam
13. Jamie
14. Cam
15. Jamie
16. Cam
17. Jamie
18. Jamie
Also by EMILIA FINN
This is the start of something brand new…
Also by EMILIA FINN
(in reading order)
The Rollin On Series
Finding Home
Finding Victory
Finding Forever
Finding Peace
Finding Redemption
Finding Hope
The Survivor Series
Because of You
Surviving You
Without You
Rewriting You
Always You
Take A Chance On Me
The Checkmate Series
Pawns In The Bishop’s Game
Till The Sun Dies
Castling The Rook
Playing For Keeps
Rise Of The King
Sacrifice The Knight
Winner Takes All
Checkmate
Stacked Deck - Rollin On Next Gen
Wildcard
Reshuffle
Game of Hearts
Full House
No Limits
Bluff
Seven Card Stud
Crazy Eights
Rollin On Novellas
(Do not read before finishing the Rollin On Series)
Begin Again – A Short Story
Written in the Stars – A Short Story
Full Circle – A Short Story
Worth Fighting For – A Bobby & Kit Novella
Looking To Connect?
Website: www.emiliafinn.com
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Email: [email protected]
The Crew: https://www.facebook.com/groups/therollincrew/
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SEVEN CARD STUD
STACKED DECK BOOK SEVEN
EMILIA FINN
Prologue
“Little Do You Know” plays through the speakers set on a blue milk crate in the corner of our living room. The speakers sit beside a heavy TV – it’s not heavy because it’s massive and fancy, but because it was manufactured in 1991, and thus has the box at the back for all of the cords and brains that developers of today somehow condensed into a screen thinner than a pancake.
Will and I live in the projects, which means that even if we could somehow afford to buy a fifty-inch flatscreen on his salary from the dock yard, or on my pittance from my twice-a-week shifts stacking shelves at the local supermarket, owning something worth stealing wouldn’t be a smart move anyway.
So we make do with what we have.
Alex and Sierra’s voices float through the living room, roll along the stained walls, and echo off the chipped and destroyed wooden floorboards. The acoustics in here are terrible, but I’ve lived with worse – I’ve lived with no music – so I use the system Will gifted me last Christmas, I smile while the singers serenade me with their sweet harmony, and with my eyes closed, I point my toes and spin.
Some girls dream of mansions, fast cars, and handsome husbands that adore them and kiss them on the way out the door every single morning. Some dream of becoming corporate goddesses with a billion pairs of sexy heels and a town car to chauffeur them through the streets of New York City from important meeting to important meeting.
I dream of ballet slippers. Of leotards. Of studios to practice in. Of barres to train with, rather than broomsticks, and mirrors to check my form in, rather than the reflection coming off the box TV. I dream of freedom, of the ability to feel safe in my home, to feel safe on a stage. I dream of making the world a kinder place for Will, because he deserves peace more than I do.
But I learned long ago that I shouldn’t spend my time obsessing over things I don’t have. That kind of thinking leads to bitterness. And bitterness tends to lead a person to the bottle.
Or worse.
Instead, I smile for the music Will made certain I would no longer have to go without. I appreciate the living room, void of almost all furniture — not because we have none, since we have a couch and the milk crate, but because when we push everything away, I can pretend the empty living room is my very own dance studio.
And hell, we don’t have much, but Will makes sure that whatever he can provide, he does.
Standing on my toes in the one possession I would kill for – my slippers – I smile while the music caresses me like a hug, as the final verse comes to an end, and then the song transitions to Anna Clendening. I let the symphony move me, I elongate my arms, my neck. I open my chest, hollow my stomach, and draw on the hundreds and thousands of hours spent self-teaching from tutorials on YouTube since I was twelve and decided that having a dream is better than wallowing and doing nothing.
I’ll never achieve my dream; it’s impossible, and I’m a realist. But rather than fixating on the end of my story, I remain in the now, the journey, and simply… be.
This is my world. My routine. I go to school five days a week, and stack shelves at the nearby supermarket two days a week. The other five, I dance in my living room between the hours of three and seven p.m.
Eventually, around seven, Will comes home from work, and I don’t have to be alone anymore.
Which means when the front door swings open so fast that it bounces off the wal
l, I drop to flat feet with my heart in my throat, and before the intruder makes their way into the living room, I dash to the kitchen and snatch up the biggest knife we own.
This isn’t the first time someone has tried to break into our home and steal the few things we have, but after the first, I learned to be fast and armor up.
“I’m not new to this neighborhood,” I shout to whoever thought they could help themselves to my home. It’s old, broken, leaking, rusted, bug-infested, and pest-overrun, but shit, it’s better than sleeping in the street, and I’ve done that too. “I will not back down, asshole. Leave now, or leave in a body bag.”
“It’s just me, Bubbles.” Will pops his handsome face into the kitchen and searches until he spots the serrated knife fisted in my hand. His eyes shutter with heartbreak. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”
My pulse slams in my throat, heavy, thick enough to slow my breathing. “It’s not time for you to be home yet.”
I mentally slow my heart. I breathe through the panic from the fact I thought I’d end up in a fight again. Not the hair-pulling, boyfriend-stealing fights so typical for the girls in my school, but the more dangerous kind. The kind that means the difference between having a home, or not. Having a life… or not.
“Dammit, Will.” I slam the knife to the damaged countertop, then grit my teeth when I squish my finger in the process. “I was practicing, and you damn near gave me a heart attack!”
“I’m sorry.”
Coming into the room, he moves around the counter, steps over the hole in the floor – a literal hole that means we can see the dirt beneath our home, which is a convenient way for vermin to enter, along with the stray cats that like to follow and hunt said vermin.
Will palms the knife when he’s close enough, tosses it into the sink as he moves, then pulls me into his embrace so I’m forced to bury my face against his muscular chest and finally breathe out that sigh of relief.
I act tough. I act like I’m willing to get into a knife fight to save a box TV — and I will, I’ll protect our home with my life. But damn, I don’t want to. Girls my age shouldn’t know that life.
“I’m sorry, Bubbles.” Will buries his face in my hair and holds on even when I try to end our hug and pull away. He squeezes me extra tight, forces our breathing to sync, and smiles when I stop fighting and instead allow him to demand my forgiveness. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just in a rush to get home.”
“You’re supposed to be on shift until seven.” I loop my hands around his back and snuggle in. He smells… not particularly appealing, but it’s him, and he’s my home, my family. My one and only ally in this war we call life. “I was going to cook dinner in a bit and have it ready for you.”
“We can cook together.” He releases me with a deep-in-his-chest rumble of satisfaction, holds me at arm’s length, and looks me up and down. He doesn’t particularly approve of my outfit choices when I dance – They’re too small, Bubbles. They’re too revealing – but he never actually stops me. He doesn’t control me. He only guides. And, well, I don’t always listen to his guiding advice. “Did you forget to get dressed?”
The final dregs of panic leave me with a loud “Ha!” as I spin away and move to the fridge for the steak I put in a marinade this morning.
I know steak sounds fancy for a couple of kids who live in a dump and have to fight off the cat-sized rats that try to move in, but we don’t have rump roast in there. No T-bones. No premium cuts. What I scored at my supermarket job last week were two-dollar offcuts, the kind of stuff that was headed to the mincer before I swiped it, wrapped it up, and brought it home for a feast.
“Bubbles?”
Pulling the lid open on the container, I peek over my shoulder and lift a brow. “Hmm?”
“You seem to have forgotten your pants.”
I snatch a pan from under the counter and toss it onto the rusted stove. “No, I have pants on.”
“Those are underwear,” he drawls. Home for the night, he tugs his coat off and, holding it on the end of his finger for a moment while he looks for somewhere to hang it, finally scoffs, then merely drops it to the floor and walks away. “I see butt cheek, little girl. Butt cheek means no pants.”
“Booty shorts means I was dancing, and dancing means none of your business. If you came home at the time you were supposed to, you wouldn’t see my butt cheek.”
“Pain in my ass.” He walks to the fridge and snatches out a jug of chilled tap water. Taking a cup from the shelf, he fills it to the brim and chugs it before the stove even has time to warm. Then he pours again, chugs again. “How was school?”
“It was shit. Miss Fuckface refused to accept my final paper on the government’s psychological conditioning and socialism. Bitch hates me, and since I was a day late, she says ‘too bad, so sad, go be a junkie like everyone else you know’.”
Will lowers his cup and studies me with shrewd eyes. “Why were you a day late submitting?”
I turn away and roll my eyes. “Of course you’d focus on that, and not the bit about how she’s a bitch. And it was late because I was working two nights ago.”
“You don’t write a paper the night before it’s due, Bubbles. You spend weeks on it, you edit it, you make sure it’s perfect, and then you collect your straight As and become super smart so you can get the fuck out of here.”
“I’m not leaving you.” I take potatoes from the fridge and start wrapping them in aluminum foil. “I don’t want to be a lawyer, Will, so if that was your business plan and ticket out of here, it ain’t gonna work.”
“Not my ticket,” he rumbles. “Yours.”
“I’ll make my millions some other way.” I toss the potatoes into the oven and grin. “Speaking of fortunes, why are you home? You’re a full hour early.”
“Oh!” He spins away from me and dashes into the living room. Switching off my music, and turning on the TV, he sits on the very edge of the couch and flips channels until he stops on an interview on the news.
The screen is split; on one side is a couple of hosts, man and woman, filthy rich, and snobby to boot. And on the other side, fighters. A woman with a six-pack, Medusa-like hair, but curls instead of snakes, platinum blonde so bright that it almost warrants a pair of sunglasses, and bright blue eyes that are almost the same shade as Will’s. Behind her stands another fighter – it’s easy to spot them, the telltale build, when the man you live with is also a fighter – and surrounding the fighter couple are other fighters.
“That’s a lot of muscle.” I rest against the doorway and cross my arms over my chest. “Chick has a six-pack.”
“Do you know who that chick is?” Will peeks over his shoulder for a single second while the camera’s attention is on the hosts and not the fighters. “That’s a Kincaid.” He says the name with reverence, and turns back to the screen. “Evelyn Kincaid is fucking goals, Bubbles.”
“She looks kinda taken.” I smile at the big fighter’s possessive hand on her hip. “She ain’t looking for a man. I mean, I assume. She doesn’t have a ring on her finger, though, so…”
“I don’t wanna date her.” He inches forward, forward, forward, until his legs hold ninety-nine percent of his weight, and not the sofa. “But I’m curious as hell about what she’s announcing.”
“How do you know she’s announcing something?”
“You mean apart from the banner at the bottom of the screen that says ‘upcoming announcement’?” His lips twitch with a smile as he looks to me, then back to the screen. He’s addicted. He’s obsessed. “The guys at work were talking about it yesterday. There’s a rumor she’s gonna drop some big news.”
“So?” My brows furrow with the information he’s not telling me. “What’s that got to do with you? We don’t know her. We don’t live anywhere near there.” I extend a hand toward the ‘location’ banner in the top right corner above the woman’s head. “We’re a long way from there, Toto.”
“Shush.” He shoots a finger in my direction when th
e interviewers ask Evelyn a question. “So…” The host looks like he’s in genuine shock at whatever she said while I was talking. “So that’s it? It’s all over? A Kincaid steps down because her friend isn’t allowed to play in the same sandbox?”
“No.” This chick who looks to be a few years older than me is pretty. Not Next Top Model beautiful. But something else. Something much cooler, because she looks real, and strong, and confident as she lifts her chin in defiance of the tone in the host’s voice. “A Kincaid steps up. And she creates a brand-new sandbox.”
“What?” Will explodes off the sofa. He stands at more than six and a half feet tall, and straightens all the way out as he races to the TV. “The fuck did she just say?” He fumbles buttons and knobs as tries to turn it up as the hosts fire question after question at the chick fighter.
Despite the demands for clarification, she speaks over them. “My name is Evelyn Kincaid, and this is my formal announcement that a new circuit has begun.”
I swear, I’ve never seen Will so… flustered. Star-struck. In luuurve.
“Stacked Deck is a legitimate enterprise,” Evelyn continues, “and we’re accepting submissions now. Fighters, go to my website, fill out the form, and show up with your medical certificates that show you’re healthy. We do not discriminate. Come fight for us, and we’ll do it up bigger and better than anything that currently exists. I will be fighting in December, Glen, but it will be in this town, in my sandbox, and it’ll be on the same night my friend fights.”