by Marni Mann
“We’ll talk about it when I get back. Now, I want you to go to bed.”
“I want to, but I don’t know if I can.” We didn’t have an easy job. She knew that better than I did. “Those screams, Trapper…shit. It’s the kind of hollering and wailing and clawing that you just don’t ever forget.”
I moved to the other side of the room and pressed my forehead against the window. My eyes shut, and I tried to keep it all back there—the place in my mind where I stored the memories and wouldn’t let them the fuck out. She was right; you didn’t forget those sounds, not when you heard them and not when they were coming out of your own mouth.
“You did good tonight, Adrianna. Do whatever you’ve got to do to quiet the screams.”
I heard the click of a lighter and knew she hadn’t responded because she was hitting a joint. That was her silencer. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” she said finally.
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
As I hung up, the screen of my phone changed from Adrianna’s number to a deck of cards. I’d turned the same photo into my first tattoo. It was inked on the left side of my chest.
Those cards were the constant in my life, my escape. They were my silencer. Besides scraps of the necessities, only enough for me to survive on, that deck was the first thing anyone had ever given me. I kept one of the cards in my wallet. Some carried around pictures of their dog or their girl. I carried around the ace of hearts.
I turned my back to the window, fiending for some fast play. If I didn’t get my mind off those screams—and the memories of my own—they’d haunt me for the rest of the night. There were plenty of cash games waiting for me downstairs, and that was where I’d be headed soon.
But there was something I had to do first.
Brea
“Those pictures you sent…” Trapper said, hardly giving me enough time to put the phone to my ear. “Jesus, Brea. Your body is fucking killing me.”
It was the middle of the night. I’d made it home from the bar less than an hour ago. I hadn’t been in a deep sleep, but I was on my way. He didn’t even ask if I was sleeping, and he hadn’t even said hello. He just got straight to the point…and the point was my body.
God, didn’t I like that.
“So you likey?” I’d sent him a few more photos since the ones with the red lace and wet fingers. They were all body shots, different colors and styles of lingerie, holding the camera at certain angles to show him a little more, without revealing my face or ways to identify me.
“It’s all I’ve thought about all day.”
“So, I’m distracting you from your work?”
He laughed. It was the most delicious sound. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Tell me about Vegas. I want to picture myself there with you.”
“It’s cold. Loud. Colorful. It smells like smoke and defeat. And it’s missing something pretty significant.”
“What’s that?”
“You.”
I wiggled in bed from his response.
“Did you play a hard-ass today, or were you easy on everyone…but me?” he asked.
“I’m a hard-ass every day. That’s what my clients are paying me for. You’re just fortunate enough to actually get to see my ass.”
“And damn…that ass.”
Now, I was smiling and wiggling. “Is it your favorite part of me?”
“No,” he answered so quickly and sounded so honest. “Your eyes are my favorite.”
“Why is that?”
“I’m an expert at reading eyes, so when I looked at yours, I knew what you were feeling and what you wanted from me.”
“And that was?”
“My mouth.”
I laughed, feeling heat spread over my cheeks. “Are you sure that’s all I wanted from you?”
“Your body might have wanted more, but the reason your eyes were urging me to stay was because you wanted to get to know me.”
“Interesting. So, what would my eyes be telling you right now?”
“How much you want me to touch you.” His voice deepened. “So, touch yourself for me, Brea.”
I quivered from the sound of his demand. “Where, Trapper?” The feel of his name in my throat only fed the sparks.
“Your pussy. Touch it gently. And tell me everything you’re doing to it…”
Oh, it was on. “My legs are spreading…slowly…and I’m sliding my fingers inside my panties.” The lace let my fingers easily dip in. “Now, I’m rubbing up and down my clit…up…and down…up…and down.” The ups came with a gasp; the downs came with a moan.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his voice becoming raspy. “How does it feel?”
“Good. So good.” I imagined that making him hard. “But it would feel so much better if it were you plunging into all this wetness.” There was no background noise in the phone this time, just the rush of movement.
“Check your texts,” he told me.
“Okay.” I rested the phone on my chest and clicked on his text box.
He had sent me a picture of his hand, his broad palm, and his strong long fingers. His wrist was wrapped in several leather straps, and hints of his dark tattoos peeked out from beneath them.
I wanted to lick that fucking ink.
“Now, you don’t have to imagine it,” he said. “You know exactly what I’d be touching you with, what would be sliding in and out of your soft, wet pussy if I were with you right now.”
Good God, this man was perfect. A picture of his cock might have been a tad sexier, but that would have killed the surprise of finding out what was really beneath that zipper once we finally reached that point. And that was one surprise I didn’t mind waiting for.
I stared at his hand while I rubbed, imagining that was what was touching me. “Even your fingers are hot, Trapper.”
“Close your eyes, and press against the top of your clit. Then slowly swipe to the very bottom. And while you’re doing that, picture my mouth above your nipples, blowing on them…my tongue licking them…”
I could actually feel it.
“Making them so fucking hard before I suck them between my teeth.”
“I’m even wetter now,” I moaned, feeling the build within my little bud. “And I’m so close.”
“Now, push two fingers inside you. I want them deep.”
I did as he said.
“I want your other hand on your nipple, tugging it until you’re on the verge of screaming.”
My legs were shaking from how close I was to coming.
“Are your fingers where I want them, Brea?”
“They’re on their way.”
“Good. Now, fuck yourself…with my fingers.”
I moaned.
“Don’t stop, and don’t you dare lighten your movements.”
The phone was now resting on the pillow, close enough to hear him perfectly. My hands were where he wanted them—pulling on my nipple, thrusting in and out of my wetness. “Oh my God…”
“Fuck yourself faster.”
My eyes closed, and my breath got caught in my throat. “This feels…you feel…so amazing.”
“Add a third finger.”
He would be this thick, I thought. This wide…
“I…can’t stop…”
“Then don’t.” His breath was heavier now. “Press your palm against your clit, and put a third finger inside you. Do it like I would…push them in deep, and pull out slow.”
I was gasping.
“Work through that tightness, so you know how my cock will feel when it’s filling you.”
“That’s what I want…”
“Then that’s what you’ll get. First, my tongue, in gradual long sweeps…”
My fingers slid out and pumped right back in.
“Licking that fucking clit, so I can swap every bit of your wetness with my spit.”
“Oh God.” The moaning and grunting completely took over then.
“That’s it, Brea. Show me how much you want my cock.”
/>
I forgot that I was on the phone. That he was listening. That I was on my bed, and it was my hand doing all the work. In my mind, he was here. It was his rough long fingers rubbing, plunging, swiveling inside me. His mouth tearing at my flesh. His hips pounding against me as I thrust upward to seal the gap between us.
“Now, let me hear how sexy it sounds when you come.”
I tried to hold it off, to allow the pleasure to spread a little more before it fully took over my body. But hearing what he wanted made it erupt even faster.
“Trapper…”
“Come for me, Brea.”
I took a breath, my hips grinding against the bed, matching the speed of my strokes. “Oh God…Trapper!” It came to a shuddering peak and rippled through me.
I screamed once, twice, three times.
Then I lay still, catching my breath, as the quivers subsided.
There was silence on the phone, nothing but the sound of my breathing…and his. His breathing was actually matching mine.
Had he come, too? Was he keeping that as much of a mystery as the rest of him?
“That sounded so fucking good,” he said.
I pulled my fingers out, my slick, glossy hand falling flat against the bed. I closed my eyes, no longer having the energy to keep them open. “How many more nights before you’re back?”
He laughed, and I trembled at the sound. “Two more if you count tonight. Then you’re mine.”
I sighed. “If you let me go to sleep, it’ll only be one more when I wake up.”
“Good night then, Brea. Sleep…tight.”
We hung up at the same time, but I held the phone as I drifted off. A picture of his hand was in there now. Until he returned, it was all I had of him.
I knew it was too soon, but I didn’t want to let go of it yet.
And I wanted it to be the first thing I saw when I woke up.
Trapper
Hundreds had entered the tournament. Over the last few days, I’d single-handedly knocked out several tables’ worth—outplayed, outsmarted, and just plain outlasted.
Now, it was down to the final two, and Baylor was sitting across from me, the motherfucker who had bought his way here, the same one Roman had schooled me on before I’d left for this tournament. Baylor must have thought his sunglasses were dark enough to hide his eyes, but the tint was just light enough that I could see through. They darted from my cards to my face—back and forth, again and again—and not in a smooth pattern. This was erratic, spastic even. It was freezing in here, yet there were beads of sweat running across his hairline.
He was nervous.
I wasn’t, especially not with the pair of red kings I was holding in my hand.
Baylor’s eyes moved up my face and stayed there while he slowly pushed out a short stack of chips. It totaled less than ten thousand. If I were sitting on a shitty hand, his bet would have been high enough to make me fold. But I wasn’t sitting on shit; I had the cards to back up a solid bet.
I pushed a double stack of chips into the middle of the table and listened to the dealer count them. Baylor was ten thousand short; he matched my bet. The dealer laid down the flop, and now, there were two clubs on the felt.
If Baylor were holding two clubs in his hand, he was on a flush draw where my kings were fucking bleeding.
He wiped his forehead. “Check.”
Either he was testing me, or he was hoping for a free card. The highest card showing was a jack, and only one pair could beat me. His eyes told me he didn’t have pocket aces. Jacks maybe, but I didn’t think he had it, and I definitely didn’t think he had the flush draw.
“Twenty thousand,” I said. I pushed two more stacks toward the middle and waited for him to react. Leaving the cards on the table, I dropped my hands onto my lap and twisted the leather straps around my wrist. It wasn’t because of nerves; it was out of boredom.
The waiting was the worst part of poker. Analyze, calculate, analyze—same shit every hand. At least with online poker, there was a time limit. This asshole could sit here and drip sweat as long as he wanted.
His eyes followed my arms to the edge of the table even though he wasn’t able to see what I was doing underneath it. What he could see was my shoulders shifting as I circled the straps around and around. Bluffers often fidgeted—or at least, the weak ones did. Baylor’s grin told me what he was thinking. And it was exactly what I wanted him to think.
I had him.
He was going to start playing cocky because he thought he had me.
“I’ll raise another twenty.” He pushed his stacks next to mine.
Twenty? I laughed in my head, but the expression on my face showed defeat and weakness.
I sighed for effect. “I’ll call.”
The dealer dropped the turn card. It was the king of clubs. I now had three of a kind, but if Baylor were holding two clubs, he would have a flush. He stood his cards upright on the table and tapped them against the felt. It wasn’t a check. His hands were shaking like hell, and he was doing a shitty job of trying to hide it. He was going to try to out bet me. Scare me. Make me think he had the higher flush.
But there was a reason I didn’t have to buy my way into tournaments and I always made it to the final table. When Baylor was twelve, he was probably hanging with his buddies, playing a neighborhood game of flashlight tag or lost in some video game. When I was twelve, I was hanging out at Aced, studying eyes, learning expressions, mastering the ability to read opponents.
I read him perfectly.
“One hundred,” he said, pushing the bulk of his chips toward the middle.
He wouldn’t back down at this point. He was pot-committed, so whatever I bet, he would call. Since he only had about thirty thousand left, I wouldn’t re-raise him. I wanted him to think he had the winning hand and that he was going to double up. And then I wanted the satisfaction of seeing his face when I flipped over my cards and he realized who the real winner was.
“I’ll call.”
The dealer set down the river card. A red deuce. It didn’t help either of us.
Analyze, calculate, analyze—there was none of that coming from him. Just sweat and more cockiness. His hands stopped shaking as he placed his sunglasses on the table. “All in,” he said.
My favorite fucking words.
“I’ll call,” I said.
“Flip ’em over, boys,” the dealer said.
Baylor threw his cards down. They skipped across the felt and halted in front of the dealer. It was a nice trick…asshole. Pockets twos. He’d caught the three of a kind on the river. He just didn’t have the higher one.
He stood and moved behind his chair, holding the back of it and smiling at me. So fucking smug. It was going to make this win feel even better.
I didn’t smile. I didn’t wipe the look of defeat off my face. I wanted him to think he’d won for a few more seconds. I even let him celebrate a little with the friends who had gathered behind him, groupies who probably thought they’d be upgraded to first-class flights on their way home now that Baylor’s winnings would be over a million. It would be the highest payout of his career, and the win would score him a seat in the next tournament.
Second place didn’t sound as good.
But that was his title.
I dropped my cards on the table. They landed flat. They didn’t slide, didn’t do anything flashy or showy. They didn’t need to.
“Three kings,” the dealer said, moving them next to Baylor’s hand. “Kings beat twos. Trapper Montgomery is the winner.”
“What the…” Baylor’s voice faded off. His face became a mixture of shock and anger.
His friends stopped cheering.
“Oh, damn,” I said.
My gaze locked on the sexy spread on the table. Three beautiful kings. Tonight couldn’t have gone better if I had planned it.
Cheers erupted behind me. None of my friends had flown to Vegas to watch the tournament. I always traveled alone, mostly because I didn’t want the dis
traction. The people who were cheering for me here were fans. And women. Tournaments were usually packed with any flavor pussy you could want. I’d tasted some in the past. I liked celebrations that didn’t give me a hangover.
But there wouldn’t be any pussy tonight. Or tomorrow morning.
Brea was the only celebration I wanted right now.
I shook the dealer’s hand and walked up to Baylor’s camp. His friends parted, giving me a path directly to him.
“Good game,” I said, extending my hand for him to shake.
“Yeah.” He gripped it harder than he needed to. He might have been stronger than me, but I was the one with the brains, and that was what poker was all about. “Lucky break—that’s all it was.”
I expected that. He was a twenty-two-year-old punk who had just gotten schooled. The calluses he felt on my hand weren’t from clicking a mouse. They were from years of shuffling cards, rubbing my fingers across their edges, playing with stacks of chips while I read my opponent. I put in the fucking time to study my craft.
Instead of giving him the satisfaction of a response, I turned and walked over to the table where Jameson was waiting for me.
“Congrats, Trapper,” he said. “Hell of a lay-down, my man. Can’t say I was surprised though. We all knew you were holding a monster.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
“You ready to talk contracts?” He led me away from the table and toward the back of the casino where we’d take the elevator up to the administrative offices. That was where Garin and his team of assistants would be waiting to discuss the details of the payout.
“Contracts?” I shook hands with one of the announcers as we passed him. “I think we should discuss a raise first.”
He laughed. “I had a feeling that was coming.”
“Good. Then you’ve had plenty of time to think about what number you’re going to offer me. I’m thinking it should have another zero at the end of it.”