Inside Out: Behind Closed Doors

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Promises, promises!” I tease.

  He turns around and walks backwards. “I do promise,” he says. “And I never make a promise I don’t keep.” He winks and turns around, his steps lighter, his spine more relaxed. He’s playing the game already, and doing it oh so well, and now it’s my turn. I have to play it just as well. I turn and face the bleachers, and everything in my gut screams with a warning: Whoever is blackmailing Jason is watching you, right this minute. The crowd remaining is no more than one hundred, and per Daniel and Abel, Stephanie isn’t here. Which means it’s logical to believe that someone close to Jason is behind all of this.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “SKYE!”

  Abel’s shout comes from the bleachers, where I find him motioning me to a seat a moment before the lights go out, the glow of the lights outside the event room my only guide as I move toward him. The one blessed part of the darkness is that there is no chance of Mandy and Sheila spotting me, and to my relief, no one steps in my path. Though truthfully, knowing what I know now, I’d like to try and read them again, but not now; watching Jason play this part of the tournament is more important.

  “Any luck?” I ask Abel.

  “The bitch is nowhere to be found,” he grumbles. “And all I can say is, Jason better fucking shove this bullshit down her throat with a win tonight.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I say. “Why are the lights out? How are we going to see the final cycle?”

  “The TV people must be screwing with things,” he says. “We’ll be lit up before the finale starts.”

  A man appears in the aisle next to me and I look up to find Daniel, of all people, motioning for us to scoot over. I don’t move at first; the idea of him sitting next to me has me wishing for Mandy and Sheila, to the point that I stand up. “I’ll move,” I say, but he stands his ground, blocking my path, his hand gently wrapping my upper arm.

  “You sit,” he orders, his hand on my arm as he leans in close, near my ear. “I might not trust you, but Jason won’t focus on his game if he doesn’t know you’re safely with me.”

  “You mean you don’t trust me and want to hold me captive,” I say, keeping my voice low. He triggers an uncomfortable emotion in me I can’t name, claustrophobia starting to rear its head.

  “He wants you safe,” he repeats, “but as a bonus, I keep you close. And since I don’t even trust the people we do know right now, that’s not a negative in my book.”

  Reality strikes me in those words, and I shake off the past interfering with the present. “Understood.”

  I move farther down the bleachers, where Abel waits.

  “Daniel doesn’t bite,” he says. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe he will.” He grins. “You are pretty.”

  “Not funny,” I scold, while Daniel sits so darn close, his leg brushes mine.

  I scoot closer to Abel while Daniel quickly sends a text message, and to my surprise he shows it to me: Abel and I are with Skye. Now win.

  “Thank you,” I say, for the confirmation that Jason did indeed ask him to stay with me. “I really hope he does win.”

  “Something we can agree on,” he replies, his phone beeping with a text he reads and then shows me: Command received. Daniel laughs without humor. “Like anyone commands that man to do anything. If he did, you damn sure wouldn’t be here.”

  Abel leans forward. “Holy fuck, Daniel. Can you stop being a prick for the next thirty minutes?”

  “This isn’t about me being a prick,” Daniel says, looking at me. “It’s about—”

  “Protecting Jason,” I supply. “I understand.” And before I can go on, the lights flicker back to life.

  “Let there be light,” Abel says. “And a finale.”

  Yes. Let there be light, but I listen to the announcer apologize for some sort of technical difficulty, which hits me all kinds of wrong ways, spurring me to lean toward Abel and whisper, “Does the timing of the lights going out seem odd?”

  “You’re being paranoid.”

  “I’m being cautious,” I rebut.

  “Take it from one who’s here often,” he replies. “This isn’t the first time this has happened filming the TV spots. It’s the TV crew screwing things up.” The lights flicker again to a controlled dim, while spotlights hit the center of the gaming area, focused on the one remaining table. “That’s what was supposed to happen,” Abel comments, while a massive screen fills the wall directly in front of us behind the play area.

  An announcement sounds: “The finalists will now take the floor.” “We Will Rock You” plays over the intercom as the six players remaining are called out one by one and take a seat, and I stand, clapping like crazy for Jason, pleased that Abel and Daniel do the same. When I sit, listening as the announcer reads off the rules, Daniel is staring at me, but I tune him out, gaping at the jackpot of an astounding $100,000.

  Daniel leans in close. “He wins jackpots like that all the time, yet you won’t take a few dollars for that storage unit. One might ask why?”

  I glance at him. “Because I don’t want his money.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  My eyes narrow and defiance comes in a hot and fiery wash. “His body.”

  Now his eyes narrow, and a beat passes and turns into three, before he shocks me by laughing, scrubbing a hand over his too perfectly chiseled jaw, and facing forward. I don’t know why this moment shifts the energy between us, but it does. From this point on, the tension fades, at least that between Daniel and me, and the three of us watch the match, cheering and cringing, until the table comes down to Cowboy and Jason, just as Abel predicted. With more formal lines drawn this time, no one is at the barrier, or standing, everyone staring at the big screen as it shifts from Jason, as he coolly studies his cards, to Cowboy, who is now wearing sunglasses.

  Jason shoves all of his chips forward, upping the ante in a huge way. This is it. In or out. All or nothing. Cowboy can fold and accept second, I think. I don’t know this game. Maybe he wins something then? Maybe he wins nothing? He must win something.

  Cowboy sits there. And sits there. Good grief, he seems to sit there forever, and then shoves his chips forward. Game on. Now we’re all standing, and I actually have my fist at my mouth, when I don’t think I’ve ever done such a thing. Even Daniel has his arms folded in front of him, his jaw set hard, while Abel settles his palms on his hips, shaking his head at the insanity of the moment.

  Jason flips his cards over, and I think they’re good since I see aces, and the crowd cheers. Cowboy grimaces, flips his cards, and his hands go to his face in an act of defeat. Jason has won, and I’m hopping up and down, hugging Abel, and then I’m facing Daniel, hugging myself before I hug him. His lips curve and he leans in to whisper, “You really are happy he won, aren’t you?”

  “Yes!” I say. “Oh my gosh, yes! It was amazing. He’s amazing!”

  He shocks me by grabbing my arms and leaning in close. “You’d better be the real deal.” He releases me, then leans back. “Let’s go to the press room.”

  I have no idea what he means, but a few minutes later I’m standing in the back of a room of about thirty people with Abel and Daniel on either side of me, and moments later Jason and Cowboy walk in and sit at a table in front of the crowd. I’m aware of the women who notice Daniel, and that isn’t unreasonable. He is a gorgeous man, but I am also aware of how absolutely unaffected I am by him. Which is interesting, considering he personifies my “type,” and every train wreck of my life in one way, shape, or form, since childhood.

  And as I watch the way Jason interacts with the crowd, the way he effortlessly owns the room without anyone even realizing it’s happening, I’m struck by something incredible. If this weekend serves no other purpose aside from pleasure, it drives home the point that drove me to leave LA for San Francisco. The same is not always better, nor is it always what we need. It’s simply a habit, and habits are often dangerous and bad for us.

  Suddenly eager to have a closer vi
ew of Jason, I break away from my new bodyguards and move closer, managing to find a spot where I can stand close to the front and him. And I know the minute he senses I’m there, his gaze colliding with mine, the awareness between us instant. Our lips curve in unison, and someone asks him a question. Reluctantly, he turns away and focuses on the crowd.

  I have this tingling, being-watched sensation again, and my gaze shifts to meet Davie’s, the muscle-bound producer who’s boyfriend to Mandy. He doesn’t look away. He just stares at me, unreadable, unblinking, and I’m not sure what to make of it. It’s getting kind of creepy, and I cut my stare away, focusing on Jason, thankful when Abel steps to my side, his big body buffering me from the other man.

  “I’m supposed to be watching out for you,” he says.

  “What’s Davie’s deal?” I ask, my voice low. “He was staring at me.”

  He snorts. “He’s probably trying to figure out how to turn you and Jason into television ratings. He’s known for pulling stunts.”

  “What kind of stunts?” I ask, putting Davie on my blackmail radar.

  “He once egged on an argument between two players that turned into a fistfight and was picked up by a hot gossip website. The next show they both played on had huge ratings. And if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, he’s not behind Jason’s situation.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because Jason’s winning streak makes for killer ratings. Fans either want him to keep winning or they want him to lose, and they watch to see both.”

  I take that in, refocusing on Jason, but Davie is still on my mind. He’s dating Mandy, who wants her brother to win, while he wants Jason to win. How does that work out? I’m still pondering that when the news conference is over fifteen minutes later. The crowd breaks apart, though one reporter corners Jason and Cowboy.

  As I wait eagerly for Jason, the group I’ve met today gathers around me: Mandy, Davie, Abel, and finally Sheila, who glowers at me.

  “I guess you aren’t as special to him as I’d hoped,” she snaps irritably. “You darn sure didn’t distract him.”

  “Way to be a bitch,” Abel replies. “We all know you’re just being you, but she doesn’t. And it’s damn sure not her problem: Cowboy fell for the same trap Jason set for him a month ago.”

  “The war between those two is making for damn good ratings,” Davie says, looking beyond pleased, and he’s not at all the creepy guy he seemed a few minutes ago. Did I imagine that?

  Mandy sighs, shoving blond hair from her eyes. “I guess it’s too much for me to ask my brother to actually get in the game.”

  “What the hell do you think I’m doing?” Ricky D asks, coming up behind her. “Sucking my thumb?”

  Ouch, I think, cringing, while Sheila touches my arm and says, “Sorry. I’m used to the regulars who take things on the chin. I hate losing. I admit it.”

  “I take things on the chin,” I say. “And I hate losing, too, so I get it.” I smile. “But don’t be a bitch.”

  She laughs. “I’ll try.”

  Jason breaks away from the reporter still holding Cowboy captive, only to have Daniel step in front of him, and I watch them, looking for any signs of trouble.

  “Earth to Skye,” Mandy says.

  I blink and look at her. “Yes. Sorry. Did you ask me something?”

  “Where are you from?”

  A simple question with a complicated answer. “I live in San Francisco, like Jason.”

  Luckily, that satisfies her. “How did you meet Jason?”

  “Random paths crossing,” I say. “Right time, right place, I guess.”

  Jason is suddenly standing beside me, his arm sliding around my shoulders. “Did I warn you about Sheila’s mouth?” he asks, his hips aligned with mine, instant heat shimmering through my body.

  “She did, actually,” I say, wondering how this man can feel so comfortably right when I’ve only just met him.

  “You’re a bastard, Jason,” Sheila spits. “You know that?”

  “So you tell me, every time I match up with Cowboy.”

  “A bigger one than ever tonight,” she adds.

  “Let’s go drink off this hellish night,” Cowboy says, appearing by Sheila’s side, his eyes meeting Jason’s. “You bastard, I need a tequila.”

  “Someone listening in would think my name was Bastard,” Jason says dryly. “I never thought you’d actually go balls to the wall again, man. I just pulled that shit on you last month. You beat you. I didn’t.”

  “Yeah,” Cowboy concedes. “I know.” He scrubs his jaw and shoves back his hat. “But you won. You buy my tequila.”

  “I’ll owe you,” Jason says. “Skye and I flew in today and it’s been a long day. We’re calling it a night.”

  “You whupped my ass after you flew in today,” Cowboy snaps. “So yes—go away and take the salt for my wounds with you.”

  Jason laughs and gives everyone a mock salute, turning us away from the group and setting us in motion toward the door.

  “I was starting to think your name was Bastard too,” I tease.

  “Cowboy’s a damn good player,” he says. “He wins against everyone but me, and I beat him because I have his number. I know his tell signs, even with his sunglasses.”

  He maneuvers us into a hallway and toward the casino. “Like what?” I ask, curious now—intrigued, even.

  “He presses two fingers to his temple when he’s got a bad hand.”

  We step into the main casino. “Every time?”

  “Every damn time. And I know this because he plays a hell of a lot more televised games than I do, which I watch. And I guarantee you the regulars are watching me and looking for my giveaways, too—but I don’t have any.”

  “Why is that? How is that possible?”

  “I don’t let the cards control me.”

  “You make that sound so easy, when playing under so much pressure is kind of like going a hundred on a wrong-way road for most people. Especially tonight. Any news on what’s happening?”

  “The private eye’s people just got here, and they’re working with Daniel and looking for answers, but so far, nothing.” He stops us at the elevator and punches the button. “I doubt we’ll find much, but they’re going to try to track down the waitress who gave me the note. Someone arranged for that to happen and I want to know who.”

  “I’m just glad you won. That was truly ‘fuck them’ poker.”

  The elevator door opens and he leads me inside, punching in our number before pressing me against the wall, his legs framing mine, his green eyes warm with amber, his hands at my waist. “Do you remember what I said I was going to do after I won the tournament?”

  For the first time in many years, I’m not thinking about the elevator I’m inside. “Very clearly,” I dare, and maybe it’s because this is Vegas, or one weekend that I’m not sure is just one weekend. I dare because there’s something about Jason that lets me be me.

  His eyes darken, approval in their depths. “And here I thought you’d be blushing.”

  “Aren’t I?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Well, I am the one who kissed you first.”

  “Also a good surprise.” He leans in and presses his cheek to mine. “How many ways can I fuck you, Skye?”

  My nipples tighten; my breasts feel heavy. “You tell me.”

  The elevator dings and he leans back to look at me. “How about I show you?”

  He doesn’t wait for an answer, lacing his fingers with mine and leading me into the hallway, and in an instant, his arm is back around me. It’s now a familiar gesture, a welcome one, and I try to figure out why I like it so very much—just as I do the easy way he touches me. I’d say that’s because I haven’t exactly been letting anyone touch me, but it’s not. It’s Jason. It’s the warm, wonderful, sexy, playful, erotic way every moment lights up when I’m with him, and I’m not going to overthink this. I’m just going to enjoy what could be one weekend with this man. I’
m going to enjoy the way he plays his cards. Wholly focused on him and nothing else.

  We reach the door, and the swipe of the key card seems to go in slow motion, my heart thundering in my chest. He opens the door but pauses with it cracked, and somehow I’m standing beside him and we’re staring at each other, a charge between us, worlds of questions with it. Will we, are we, could we?

  He pulls me in front of him, his big, hard body framing mine, his hands on my belly, his lips near my ear. “When you walk in that door, I’m going to lick, kiss, and touch every part of you possible. I’m also going to answer every question I just saw in your eyes.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I ALL BUT MELT at Jason’s erotic promises, and when he opens the door, I’m quick to enter the apartment. He is on my heels, the door shutting, locking, and the instant I’ve turned to face him, I’m against the wall—and while it is hard, his body, intimately aligned with mine, is harder. His fingers tangle in my hair, his mouth lingering above mine for several hot pulses before he is kissing me, passionately, deeply. Tasting me like I’m his next breath, his tongue licking into my mouth, caressing, seducing.

  Sensations roll through me, a moan with them, my fingers closing around his shirt, holding on to him, silently asking for more. But instead he tears his mouth from mine, gazing down at me, his expression unreadable. “You had me from the moment I met you,” he says. “That’s my answer to what you wanted to know in the hallway. And no one has ever done that to me.”

  “Of course they have. I know they have.”

  “Have I wanted to fuck a woman when I first met her? Of course. But fucking a woman isn’t something that requires a morning after. I made sure we had one. More than one.”

  More. That is the problem. He’s the kind of man who makes you want more, and that can easily become an emotional firecracker, better avoided. “You’re a weekend kind of guy, Jason.”

  “Yes,” he says. “I am.”

  “Then I don’t understand. What does that mean?”