High Card: A Billionaire Shifter Novel (Lions of Las Vegas Book 1)

by Ellis Daniels, May

  I smack his hand down.

  There’s an odd scent on the air. Acrid.

  Like metal superheated and burning.

  Violence.

  Summer wraps her hand over mine.

  “Let’s go, Landon,” she says in my ear.

  “Treat to see you again, brother,” Elliot says, almost sneering. “And hey? I meant to ask—do you mind of I spin some poi in the casino’s entrance lobby? The vibes are really good—”

  “Elliot,” I say,” my voice descending to a growl. “I’ll send for you.”

  Elliot’s eyes narrow. “Of course, big bro. I know she must be keeping you busy.”

  Summer turns me away before I have a chance to respond, which is a very good thing.

  ***

  “Your brothers are something else,” Summer says. “Blake and Elliot. I can’t decide who I like less.”

  She’s immersed in a hot eucalyptus bath. Cleansing mud on her face. A therapist giving her a pedicure. She keeps oohing and awwing in a way I find totally adorable.

  Me? I took a shower, rang for a change of clothes and called it good.

  I’m flipping through my phone, trying to find the number of one of the casino’s boutique women’s clothing stores, and when I don’t answer Summer says, “We can’t stay glued at the hip forever, Landon. You’re going to have to leave me alone at some point. Besides, the hovering is going to drive me nuts.”

  “Am I that intolerable?”

  “Even the sweetest candy can make you sick.”

  She’s right, but Elliot’s turned up here for a reason. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the opening gala; he thought the casino was a ridiculous enterprise to begin with. He’s here because his sources told him about Summer and what she might be. Elliot’s hippy guise is really only a crude way to throw people off guard. I wasn’t exaggerating when I called him a genius. Blue Line would’ve never got off the ground without him. Of course it would have died as a company the moment Elliot lost interest if I hadn’t done the hard work of building it into a successful international brand.

  Elliot owns nearly a one-third share of Blue Line. Hidden beneath the tie-dye and patchouli stink is a bank account nearly as rich as mine.

  I find the number of the boutique, excuse myself and head into the spa’s lobby. When the boutique manager answers I give him Summer’s approximate sizes and tell him I need to see his spring clothing line.

  “That’s…a lot of clothing, sir.”

  “We’re in the Oasis Spa. Bring everything.”

  “Certainly.”

  I hang up and am about to slip my phone into my pocket when it rings.

  Rachael.

  Shit.

  She must’ve heard about Summer—

  I think about flushing her call, then pick up.

  “Have you completely lost your mind?”

  “Hi, sis. What’s new?”

  Rachael harrumphs into the phone. “Get up here, Landon. I need to talk to you.”

  Anger hardens my voice. “I’m occupied. Book an appointment. I should be free…sometime near the end of time.”

  Rachael pauses. “All right. I’m sorry for my outburst. There’s…a lot at stake here, Landon. A lot. Do you see that?”

  “What is it now?” I say, thinking it has to be Summer.

  “The IPO? Of Blue Line?”

  “Yes. What? I signed the papers.”

  “You haven’t heard? Oh god. You haven’t—where have you been? Under a rock?”

  I settle into a seat in the spa’s lounge and run my fingers through my hair. Summer. Blake. Don Luca. The Council. Elliot. And now the business I devoted my life to. A chill drop of sweat runs down my neck.

  Something’s wrong. Very wrong.

  I feel it in my gut. A cold hollow of foreboding.

  “Tell me everything.”

  “On the phone?”

  “Yes…no. You’re right. I’ll be up in a second.”

  I’m about to go in and tell Summer I’ll be back shortly when I think better of it. Let her relax. I’ll send her a text. I get the spa manager’s attention and tell her Summer is to remain undisturbed until I return. Then I race out of the spa and into the blocks-long promenade that serves as the casino’s shopping district. In the distance I see the indoor safari and jungle, the zip-lines overhead, the glowing bank of glass. Nothing feels real. None of it matters. If I lose Blue Line I lose everything.

  ***

  “I thought it was just you and I,” I say to Rachael when I reach the boardroom, surprised to see Cole and Elliot are there as well. “It’s a regular reunion. Where’s Blake?”

  “Making sure the casino’s still standing,” Rachael says icily. “Since you can’t be bothered.”

  “You still ticked I made you pick the tablecloth fabric?”

  Rachael reaches to the chair beside her, lifts a box full of files and drops it on the table.

  “You’ve been busy,” I say, settling beside Rachael. Elliot’s sitting a few seats away. Cole’s standing, staring out the window and down to the casino floor below.

  “Busy doesn’t begin to describe it,” Rachael says, grabbing the first file and sliding it in front of me.

  I open it and take a look. It’s a transaction summary. “Someone named William Bartlett bought six hundred dollars of Blue Line stock? Good for him. A wise investment.”

  Elliot has a hacky sack on the table. He’s knocking it back and forth between his hands. I try not to let it piss me off.

  Rachael drops another file. I open it. Same thing. A transaction for a stock purchase. A few hundred bucks. Small potatoes. I rub my eyes. “You called me in a panic for this? First of all, Rachael…this is private financial information. How did you—”

  Rachael sighs. Nods at Cole.

  “Right. Nevermind. My point still stands. What’s the problem here, exactly? You counseled me to offer the IPO in the first place. I did. Our stock—correct me if I’m wrong here, Elliot—but our stock has soared in only twentyfour hours. Am I wrong?”

  Elliot bats the hacky sack.

  “Rachael?”

  “The stock is doing fine. For whoever owns it.”

  “For whoever—what? I fucking own it, that’s who. These are public shares. I own private shares, as well as a good portion of the public ones—”

  “Your public shares were sold to pay the casino’s debt,” Rachael says. “And the mom and pop purchases in these files…they aren’t what they seem.”

  A wave of nausea slams into me.

  Elliot’s picking his teeth with what looks to be a roach clip.

  Lion’s share.

  The words pound through my mind.

  “How much do I own in private shares?”

  “A hair under thirty-two percent,” Rachael says.

  “Good. Fine. And Elliot owns—what? Twenty percent? So that’s the fifty percent-plus we need to keep Blue Line in my control.”

  “Ah…y’know…I just started to feel…bogged down,” Elliot says.

  “Bogged down?” My voice is a near growl. “What the fuck are you talking about, Elliot?”

  “Like, oppressed. By that company we started. The direction it took. The fuel cells were supposed to be about…freedom, right? Remember the conversations we had back in the day? About ending the world’s reliance on fossil fuels? The end of the war economy required to keep the gas guzzlers guzzling? And look at what Blue Line is now. A luxury brand. Selling luxury products so the rich can add a sustainability feather in their wasteful, polluting, egotistical caps.”

  “Tell me you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”

  “Sorry, man. Couldn’t stomach it anymore. I got out.”

  I grip the edge of the table. “You should have talked to me, Elliot.”

  “It’s Bodhi, remember?”

  I have to try very hard not to pounce on the fucker and strangle him with his tongue. “You sold your shares.”

  “Every one of them,” Elliot says, fla
shing me a toothy grin. “And what a weight off. I really think…you look kind of stressed, Landon. Run ragged. Maybe you should sell too. We’ve had a good run. I tell you, all that cash in the bank is a lot more comforting than a few stock certificates—”

  I slam my hand on the table so hard the two-inch thick mahogany cracks. “What’s happening with these shares?” I say, pointing to Rachael’s box of files.

  Rachael purses her lips. Looks at her tightly folded hands. “They’re being hoarded, Landon. The mom and pop buyers are a ruse. Someone used dark web proxies to cover the purchases so we wouldn’t be alerted—”

  “How much?”

  “—and they’ve amassed a significant amount—”

  “How much?” I shout.

  Rachael raises her hands.

  “My best estimate puts ten percent of Blue Line in the hands of legitimate investors. You own thirty-two percent in private shares.”

  “Fifty-eight percent,” I whisper, the color draining from my face.

  “I’m sorry, Landon,” Rachael says, taking a step backward as my animal fights for freedom. “Whoever’s snatching up your stock…it’s a ruthless and orchestrated campaign. They found a target and they were aggressive in acquiring it. It was one of the most efficient hostile takeovers I’ve ever witnes—”

  “I’ve lost my fucking company,” I say, my heart bolting to my throat and my skin suddenly slick with cold sweat. “I’ve lost everything.”

  No one in the room says a word.

  Not everything, I remind myself as I leap from my chair and begin pacing the room. My lion’s prowling in me, threatening to break free. My claws slip from my fingers and I fight to hold him down, keep him caged—

  Summer.

  The thought makes me freeze. Horror creeps over me, making my skin tingle and my breath quicken. I should’ve seen it. Fucking hell. How could I be so blind? That feeling in my gut that someone’s been conspiring against me. I thought it was the stress of the casino opening. But no. My animal sensed danger. And I ignored his warnings—

  I’ve blundered right into his trap.

  The sharp, drilling pain in my head returns.

  It’s the kind of pain that could drive a man—or an animal—mad for a kill.

  “Blake,” I snarl. “The traitorous son-of-a-bitch. This is him.”

  Rachael, who was putting the files back in the file box, lifts her head to meet my eyes. She looks distraught. Her brow furrowed. Her lips a tense line across her jaw. “I’m not sure what you mean—”

  “This was Blake!” I yell, motioning at the file box. “All of this! The hostile takeover. He’s…I don’t know how he did it. But he did. The fucker’s always despised me. Envied me. He wants to claim his place as pride alpha. He was always physically weaker. But that’s changed. If he has Summer, she’ll strengthen him—”

  “Summer?” Elliot says, his eyes lighting up. “You mean your…new acquaintance? The Whisperer girl?”

  I turn to face down my brother. “You stay the fuck away from her, Elliot. You touch her…I swear on my name I’ll rip out your throat—”

  Elliot raises his hands in mock surrender. “Not everyone is your enemy, Landon. Unless you make it so.”

  I blink.

  Not everyone is your enemy.

  There’s a part of me, buried and nearly forgotten, that hears those words and wonders if I’ve lost all control. Is Elliot right? Have I become something ugly and brutal and bloodthirsty? But as quick as it surfaces the thought vanishes.

  This was Blake. It had to be.

  No one stands to benefit so much from my fall—

  “This was him,” I say. “I scent it. Now. Where the fuck is he?”

  Elliot flicks me a thin smile, returns to batting the hacky sack between his hands. He seems…different somehow. Changed in a way I can’t quite put my finger on. Stronger. Elliot’s always been capable. But he lacked ambition. If that’s changed—

  “No,” Rachael says, shaking her head firmly. “This was you, Landon. You have no one to blame but yourself for losing Blue Line.”

  I swallow a vicious curse. “Where is Blake?”

  “We need to discuss a counter strategy, Landon,” Elliot says. “You still own a substantial portion—”

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  Then I know where Blake is.

  The motherfucker.

  Before I can stop myself I smash my clawed fists on the boardroom table, cracking it in two, completely overcome with rage. Elliot shouts a warning and leaps from his chair. Rachael flinches back. The file box goes flying, hits the far wall, explodes open. Files flutter through the air. A terrible pain, as quick and sharp as a bone snapping, hits me in my lower back.

  My animal’s arrived for the hunt.

  I loose a roar that makes the floor-to-ceiling pane of glass Cole’s peering through tremble and threaten to burst. My lion senses prey, the heady scent of a fresh kill.

  My brother.

  I know where he is.

  What he’s doing.

  Making a play for pride alpha.

  He destroyed my life’s work. Schemed to ruin me.

  Now…he’s after my lifemate.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  SUMMER

  I’M TRYING TO relax.

  Really I am.

  I mean, I’m in a spa. Everything about the place is designed to help me relax. It’s quite. Peaceful. I’ve got avocado and some sort of mashed tropical tuber smeared on my skin. What could be more relaxing, right?

  That’s the thing.

  The harder you try to relax the less you can.

  The trying becomes another source of stress.

  Bodhi. Enlightenment.

  As much as I dislike the condescending twit, maybe Elliot’s on to something about the whole release your attachment to the physical world thing. I’ve never had…belief in my life. Faith in something bigger than what I can see or touch. Never had anywhere to turn other than myself. That’s made me strong, in some ways.

  But also vulnerable.

  I hear people talk about inner strength. A wellspring they draw from. Some immutable core that keeps them going when life grinds you down.

  I’ve never felt that.

  Most of it’s bullshit, of course. Another sales job from some shyster pimping the latest self-help trend on daytime television. Improve yourself! Be a better person! Make more! Spend more!

  Then you’ll be happy

  Hey. I was born in Vegas. Conning marks into parting with their money is what I do. I learned to tune that junk out long ago.

  But still. I have this…need.

  A sense of being unfulfilled that manifests in my mind as a question.

  I’m only in my early twenties and already I can feel it, a question nagging at me when I’m half asleep, drifting between the dream world and this one, like I am now.

  Is this all there is?

  The hustle. Day after day.

  Trying to make a living. Put food in the fridge.

  Trying to get by.

  And then we’re dead.

  There’s exhaustion and despair in that question.

  It haunts me.

  Won’t let me rest or relax.

  It’s a demon whispering: you might live another sixty years. Will this be the sum total of your life? And if so…is it worth living?

  The thought is disturbing enough to make me remove the sliced cucumbers from my eyes. I hear some muffled conversations from the hall. The private room I’m in is paneled in some kind of exotic hardwood that gives off a rich, almost citrus scent. The floors are polished black slate. There’s a single round window in the corner of the room. The stars are out. Framed by the round window. It’s like I’m peering through a porthole on a ship adrift in space—

  I reach up and wipe a bit of expensive muck from my cheek.

  As much as I hate to admit it, the mud bath and steam room and massage and essential oils have left me feeling damned good, in body if not in spirit. There
are no clocks in the room and I left my cell phone in my backpack, which the spa attendant tried to have me put in a locker.

  I said thanks but no thanks.

  My backpack’s there, on a European-looking wooden bench beside a cactus with tiny pink flowers and a few art and fashion magazines.

  A hundred grand. A gun.

  All a girl needs.

  That’s what I used to think.

  Shit, I took pride in it.

  It’s rich people who say money can’t make you happy.

  People who’ve never known what it means to be hungry.

  I’ve never believed in anything but getting mine.

  But now?

  I think…I’m beginning to believe in love.

  The thought terrifies me.

  I close my eyes and sink deeper into the lightly scented bathwater, pretending—just for a second—that what I feel for Landon is enough to save me from myself.

  ***

  A polite rapping on the door and someone calling “Miss? Miss?” inspires me to wash the cleansing mud off my face, drag myself out of the bath, wrap a towel around my waist open the door.

  “Yes?” I say to the massage therapist, a slight woman with wide eyes and an easy smile.

  “Landon Stone has arranged a gift.”

  “A gift?”

  For a moment I thought she said: Landon Stone is a gift.

  The therapist nods to someone around the corner. An elegantly dressed, mustachioed man emerges, pushing a chrome clothes rack heavy with gorgeous clothing. I step aside while the man wheels the rack into the room, then introduces himself as the owner of Lush Boutique, one of the casino’s higher-end clothing stores.

  “What am I supposed to do with those?” I ask, slightly irritated by the interruption.

  “Mr. Stone urges you to select an outfit,” the clothing store owner says, pausing to look at my figure with a discerning eye. “If you’d like I can help—”

  “No. I’m good. I’ll take a look. Thanks.”

  I close the door on the therapist and the store owner, lean into it and sigh. I’m not used to all the attention. Being waited on hand and foot…in some ways it’s a dream come true. In others…it’s just a hassle.