Inside Out: Behind Closed Doors

by Lisa Renee Jones

  A waitress stops beside him, and he winks at me before turning his attention to her, and I laugh when I realize he’s ordered a Red Bull. As if on cue, Mandy grabs my arm. “Do you know how the cycles work?”

  “Not really,” I say, and she proceeds to explain the tournament format while I’m randomly accosted by people who have somehow connected me to Jason, and want to nose around about who I am. After all kinds of dodged questions about myself, I’m also rewarded with stories about Jason and his “legendary play,” as more than one person has called it. Soon, though, the inevitable happens and Mandy decides to push for gossip herself.

  “So …” she says. “Everyone is dying to know about you, and they will ask me questions at the break. What do you want me to say about you and Jason?”

  She’s good. Playing it like she’s going to get cornered and she’s on my side. “Just call me a groupie.”

  She sighs. “Okay, fine. You don’t want to talk, but no one will buy that. Not when he’s never had a female guest who wasn’t his mother in all the years he’s been playing.”

  No woman? Ever? I’ve heard this before, but up until now the magnitude of that reality hasn’t quite hit me. I’m officially curious about the details of Jason’s love life, but I don’t even think about asking Mandy. I’ll just ask Jason. “Poker seems to rule his world,” I reply.

  “And winning,” she says. “The man is a beast at the tables.”

  There’s another announcement and the play begins, and thankfully Mandy is as absorbed as I am in the games, grabbing my arm at one point to motion to the table two down from Jason. “It’s down to my brother and that bastard Nick Crier.”

  “Why is Nick a bastard?” I note that Nick is wearing sunglasses with a hoodie pulled over his head, as many players do to hide their reactions to the hands.

  “Because he wins. And look at the way he covers himself to hide his reactions.”

  “If he’s a bastard, what does that make Jason?”

  “A bigger bastard,” she says, still squeezing my arm, her voice so intense that it takes me aback, but then she immediately looks at me and says, “Sorry. At the table and away from the table are two different worlds.” She seems to realize she’s holding me and lets go. “And sorry again. It’s just that you’re my enemy right now by default.” She motions to Jason. “He’s winning, of course. It’s down to him and Flex Rex.”

  “Is that the guy in the suit playing Jason?”

  “Yes, and he’s good.”

  “Is his name Rex or … ?”

  “Raymond. Flex is about how flexible he is under pressure, and Rex is about what a monster he is.”

  “Oookay,” I say, and before I even get the word out, she’s clapping, pushing to her feet, and standing at the barrier.

  There’s an announcement and Jason’s image is flashed on a big screen, along with Flex Rex’s, which sends a surge of adrenaline through me, and a rush of nerves with it. I stand and step between Mandy and another woman at the barrier. Right now, though, nothing seems to be happening, at least not for Jason, who is talking to a waitress.

  The woman next to me nudges me. “You’re the new ‘it’ girl for Jason, right?” She doesn’t wait for a reply. “Cowboy told me about you.” A redhead wearing a floral western shirt, who I guess to be in her thirties, she says, “I’m Sheila. Cowboy’s wife.”

  “Oh, hi,” I say. “Yes. I met him earlier.”

  “He told me. I was kind of blown away that Jason actually brought a woman with him. He never has guests who aren’t his parents.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me,” I say.

  She turns to look at me. “That’s why Cowboy and I were so intrigued.” She blinks. “Things between the two of you must be pretty hot and heavy if you’re here, but he’s let on to no one.”

  “Because I’m just another groupie,” I joke.

  She laughs. “That is so not true. But you know, I’m kind of loving this idea. Maybe now he’ll be distracted enough to screw up once in a while.” She snorts, adding a mumbled, “We can all only hope,” before facing forward again.

  My brow furrows in disbelief, and then I have the worst thought. Maybe fear of distraction is exactly why Jason’s stayed single. And while I worry that’s what I am right now, the fact that Sheila rejoiced in that idea really bothers me, and I don’t like it one little bit.

  I look toward Jason to find him staring at me, giving me a questioning look. Distracted, just as Sheila had hoped. Focus, I mouth vehemently. He laughs and returns his attention to the table. Fifteen minutes later, he’s won this cycle and I can breathe again.

  “Looks like both our men won,” Sheila comments as the buzzer goes off, moving away from the railing, as does pretty much everyone.

  Since Jason is quickly striding toward me, looking rushed, I stay put. In moments he’s in front of me, his hands next to mine on the divider wall. “You okay?”

  “I’m great,” I say, smiling. “You won.”

  That sexy mouth of his curves. “Yes, baby. I won.” He sobers quickly. “What did Sheila say to you?”

  “Like everyone else, she wants to know who I am to you.”

  “And you said?”

  “A groupie.”

  He chuckles. “That’s one way to answer, but you know they won’t believe that.”

  “Because you never bring a woman to these events.”

  “No,” he says, his voice softening, his eyes warming. “I don’t bring women to these events.”

  “Please tell me that my being here isn’t a distraction that will make you lose.”

  His brow furrows, and he laughs. “Why the hell would you think that?”

  “Sheila said she hopes that whoever I am to you, I distract you enough to make you lose.”

  “She did, did she?”

  “She did, which frankly pissed me off, and I’m really glad you won.”

  He leans around me, scans the bleachers, and calls out, “Sheila! That fantasy you had of me losing? In your dreams, honey.”

  “Every king must fall, Red Bull,” she shouts back.

  “Like I said,” he repeats. “In your dreams.” His attention returns to me. “Ignore her and anyone else trying to plant nonsense in your head. I would have warned you, but I wanted you to get the real picture.”

  “The real picture?”

  “Of who I am.”

  “I won’t get that from them, Jason. I can only get that from you, which is why I’m asking them no questions.”

  “None?”

  “None. I’d rather ask you my questions.”

  “What questions?”

  “Nothing appropriate for here.”

  “Try me.”

  “Why do you need control?”

  “That’s better answered naked,” he says, his voice now lower, rougher. “And you’ll have to decide if that’s where you want to go with me.”

  “It is,” I say, nerves fluttering in my belly, but I’m not backing away from this or him. Not this weekend, and not with this man.

  “Good answer, baby,” he approves. “Right now, I have to go film a segment that went wrong, but be cautious with Mandy. She’s Ricky D’s sister and manager. She’s known to play dirty and he’s on one of his notorious losing streaks, which always brings out the worst in her.”

  “His manager,” I say. “That’s interesting.” I open my mouth to tell him about Daniel, but his name is called over the intercom.

  “Gotta run, baby,” he says. “I’ll have more time after the next cycle.” He backs up and shakes his head, a smile on his face. “Groupie.”

  We both laugh and he walks away. I linger at the barrier, watching him depart, admiring the casual way he carries himself that somehow still manages to have an effortlessly commanding presence. As if he doesn’t have to demand that control he values, as other men I’ve known have. He simply embodies it. I’m about to turn away when Daniel suddenly appears on the floor, obviously with some sort of special pass, and most certa
inly about to butcher me, which doesn’t bother me. Jason is his own man and decision maker, but he has a game to play, and Daniel’s a real ass for doing this right now, when Jason has a tournament to win.

  Inhaling, I turn away to find an empty chair that sandwiches me between Sheila and Mandy. While part of me sees them as piranhas nipping at Jason’s heels, better avoided, I take his lead and go full frontal, charging forward and sitting down. I won’t let them think they got to me, and thus to him.

  “Big mouth,” Sheila snaps almost instantly, her tone sharp, but when I glance her way, she laughs and gives me a cat-who-ate-the-canary look before adding, “You proved my point. You’re no groupie. You worried about his play and told him so, too.”

  “That doesn’t make me more than a groupie,” I argue, and while I don’t want to be considered an actual groupie, calling myself a weekend gal feels a little too real for comfort. Instead, I declare what I think might have potential to be true. “I’m a friend. And friends look out for friends.”

  “Friend,” she repeats. “Well, yes. I guess you are a friend, then.” She laughs and I grind my teeth, turning away to watch Mandy stand up and hug some blond, muscular man in jeans, with two full-arm tattoo sleeves peeking from his T-shirt.

  “Skye, this is Davie,” she says. “My boyfriend and one of the TV show producers.” To Davie, she explains, “She’s with Jason.”

  He arches a brow. “Really? That’s different.”

  “So I hear,” I murmur. This is getting kind of old.

  “Well, I love the guy,” Davie says. “He’s great for ratings. The women love him and the men want to be him.” He glances at Mandy. “Not that your brother isn’t.”

  I can’t see Mandy’s face, but the next thing I know, they’re moving away, and I’m left with Sheila, who decides to be friendly. “They often get pulled in to film between cycles,” she says. “But about halfway into the event, they’ll have a little freedom at the breaks. They need to unwind, and the show wants them to win and be at that final table.” She then goes on to share all kinds of details about the game, the show, and various players, and I start to wonder if she’s really as bad as I first thought. Jason did joke around with her. I’m probably just not used to this world.

  Thirty minutes later Sheila and I are back at the wall, cheering for our chosen players. Mandy hasn’t returned, which doesn’t break my heart, but her brother, Cowboy, and Jason have now won their tables, and all three head toward the bleachers in an obvious break from filming. Jason motions me toward a walkway and I’m not sure what to expect, but he slides his arm around my shoulder again and focuses on me and no one else.

  “I need to walk and stretch my legs,” he says, the scent of him—all spice and man—assailing my senses. “You want that Starbucks you never got?” he asks, moving us toward the door.

  “How do you know that, if you were focused on your game?”

  “I can walk and chew gum at the same time,” he assures me. “I saw you were getting chummy with Sheila.”

  “I’m not chummy with anyone,” I say. “She was just there. Is she a problem?”

  “Not a problem,” he says. “She and Cowboy are just ridiculously competitive in an in-your-face kind of way.”

  “But aren’t you competitive?”

  “I compete with the cards and myself,” he says. “It’s part of what makes me good at this. I focus on what helps me win.”

  We exit to the hallway, where people are milling about, and he grabs a waitress. “Starbucks,” he says to the woman. “And there’s a good tip in it for you.” He looks at me and I give my order, leaning on the wall. “We’ll be right here,” he tells her, and the minute she’s gone, his shoulder settles on the wall next to me and I face him.

  “Let’s talk about Daniel,” he says. “I know he’s being difficult tonight. His methods are flawed at times, but he’s just trying to protect me.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Do you? Because I know he’s coming at you about being here, and I’m sure you know that he’s coming at me about you.”

  “I get it, Jason. He’s an asshole, but he cares about you. He’d be a bigger asshole if he wasn’t concerned, considering the circumstances.”

  He studies me several long beats. “His concerns are not mine. I make my own decisions.”

  “I understand,” I assure him, “and I’ll let you earn asshole status on your own merits. That said, him coming in here tonight and trashing me to you while you’re trying to play makes me feel like I shouldn’t be here.”

  “My game is not affected by Daniel. Ever.”

  “What about me? Do I affect your play?”

  “I told you—”

  “I know what you told me, but everyone keeps making such a big deal out of me being here. If you don’t bring guests because it’s a distraction—”

  “I brought you because I want you here.”

  “You brought me to earn my trust, and Jason, I’m going to help you. I don’t have to stay at the tournament to do that.”

  “I brought you because I want you here,” he repeats. “I have no way of convincing you it’s not about that damn storage unit at this point. But I want you here, Skye.”

  “You barely know me.”

  “And yet I find you more interesting than I’ve found anyone in a very long time.”

  I have no idea what possesses me, but I reach up and touch the light brown stubble on his jaw, and then realize what I’ve done. “Sorry,” I say, trying to pull back, but he catches my hand.

  “You can touch me, baby.”

  “We’re in public and it just … it happened.”

  “I hope it happens again.”

  “I’m very confused,” I say, voicing what I would normally only think.

  “About what?”

  “How we went from where we were to here.”

  “This was in the air from the night we met at the storage unit. At least for me. And it pissed me off at the time.”

  A male voice curses nearby, and Jason pushes off the wall and turns to stand next to me, which brings the good-looking man in jeans with longish dark hair into view. He curses again and ends his conversation. “Abel,” Jason calls out.

  The man looks in our direction, allowing me to note his high cheekbones and chiseled features as he heads our way. “I lost my fucking table,” he says, joining us. “And I got a low-as-hell offer for a client’s contract, which is probably why I lost my table.” He looks at me, looking reasonably appalled at himself. “Sorry. I’m Abel. My daddy brought me up better than that. My job sometimes filths up my mouth.”

  “I grew up around filthy mouths,” I say. “I’m not delicate. And I’m Skye, by the way.”

  Surprise lights his eyes. Everyone assesses me as sweet at first, except maybe Jason, who assessed me as capable of blackmail. “Is that right?” he asks.

  “It is,” Jason assures him, leaning a hand on the wall behind me, his body leaning into mine. “Abel’s from San Fran like us,” he explains to me. “He’s now living here in Vegas. He and I have been friends for years and we play the poker rooms in Cali together. He’s also a damn successful sports agent.”

  “And thank God for it,” Abel says. “Because no matter how Jason has tried to make me Red Bull number two, he’s failed. I damn sure won’t be making a living at this, but then, most of us can’t.”

  It’s then that Daniel exits the event room and immediately looks in our direction. “Fuck,” Jason murmurs softly.

  Abel turns to look behind him, and then back at Jason. “Since when does Daniel make these trips with you?”

  “He doesn’t, and he wasn’t supposed to this time,” Jason says. “Since he’s still here, despite my telling him to get the hell out of here, I need to go have a heart-to-heart with him.”

  Abel arches a brow at Jason. “Should I ask why, or leave it alone?”

  “Apparently he now assumes I think with my pants down,” Jason replies dryly.

&nbs
p; Abel looks at me and then at Jason, disbelief in his expression. “Wait. He’s losing his shit over Skye because somehow she’s connected to a crazy-ass bitch who’s stalking you? What drug is he smoking?”

  I have two thoughts. Abel has to be a very close friend of Jason’s to know about the crazy-ass bitch, and I sort of do have an attachment to said crazy-ass bitch. And then additionally, Daniel might be an ass, but if he weren’t worried, I’d think he sucked at his job.

  Abel looks over his shoulder again to where Daniel is hovering and then back at Jason. “You want me to get Skye out of here?”

  “She’ll meet you at the door,” Jason says, giving both men his back to face me, his hands on my waist. “It’s your call, but if you hang with Abel, he’ll keep the gossipmongers and Daniel at a distance.”

  “Jason—”

  “Don’t say what you’re going to say if it’s an offer to leave. It’s not what I want, and it damn sure better not be what you want.”

  “It’s not. I want to see you win.”

  He reaches up and slides a lock of hair behind my ear, his fingers caressing my cheek and sending a wave of heat through my body. And he knows. I see it in his eyes, no doubt after all I know about his play now, because he lets me see it. “I’ll see you after I claim the next table.” He starts to turn and I grab his wrist. “Wait.” And then I wait as he refocuses on me to begrudgingly offer my thoughts on Daniel. “Your manager’s an asshole, Jason, but if he wasn’t worried, he’d be a bigger asshole. I do have the storage unit of the woman making your life hell. Maybe it’s not a bad thing he showed up here.”

  His eyes narrow and darken. “You’re defending him?”

  “Yeah,” I reluctantly agree. “I guess I am.”

  “Starbucks has arrived,” the waitress says, appearing by our side.

  Jason stares at me for several unreadable seconds that leave me uncertain about how he’s feeling, before he turns to the woman and takes my coffee. “Put this and a fifty-dollar tip on my tab.”