Dirty Dealer: A Hero Club Novel

by Kacey Shea

  I know what he’s doing, and yet my blood boils a little at his dare. Me, back down from a challenge? Who the hell does he think I am? I shove the deck of cards across the table. Right into his hands. “Deal.”

  The pleased-as-pie smirk that spreads across his lips should fill me with concern, but instead I’m entranced by his beauty. Yeah, if a man can be considered truly beautiful, it’s Jude Lawrence. I am quickly growing addicted.

  “Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet?”

  My gaze snaps to his. I meet his stare and raise my brows. His question is loaded with implication beyond a simple card game. “Never.” Maybe I should guard my heart better, but I’m all in. Because this right here will change everything. Seeing Jude Lawrence naked isn’t something I can ignore. There are stronger women, I’m sure, but after the week we’ve had together and this tension binding us together, coiling with pressure every second we spend alone, it’s bound to snap. Even though I know what comes after—that sleeping with Jude will eventually bring nothing but heartache—I can’t help but salivate at the idea.

  Am I really doing this? Am I getting naked with Jude Lawrence? The soft swish of the cards as he shuffles them in his capable hands compounds the anticipation. Yeah. Maybe this will be my downfall, but I don’t back down from a challenge, and I’m ready to call this man’s bluff.

  32

  Jude

  This isn’t how I saw this going.

  “Cold?” Her brow lifts as she awaits my next move.

  “Hustler,” I mutter under my breath. If my friends could see me now, they’d laugh. I’m sitting in only my boxer briefs, with another losing hand, and I’d find it funny too, if it wasn’t me in the hot seat.

  “What’s that?” Rachel leans closer and it takes all my willpower to not drop my gaze to the valley between her breasts. The deep V neckline of her blouse is almost enough to distract me from my losing streak. She picks up a few of her chips and drops them back into her pile. “I can’t hear you over all my winnings.”

  “You.” My gaze narrows, but my lips pull wide with a smile. “You little hustler.”

  She leans back into her chair, a satisfied smirk in place as she crosses her legs. “I don’t know what you’re implying. I won these rounds fair and square.”

  She did. I can’t figure it out. It’s as if she made a deal with the devil. It’s the only explanation I can come up with. Why else would I be down to my underwear while she’s only lost a shoe. Fuck, I’ve lost my game. The universe has never done me so wrong. Strip poker is always good for at least a glimpse of a bra. Nip slip. Something. Instead, I adjust myself and resist the urge to shiver, because fuck, why do I run my AC so low?

  “You wanna quit?” Rachel hums from her side of the table. “I’d understand. It’s okay; we all lose sometimes.”

  I am not a quitter or a loser. “One more round.”

  “You really want me to see your dick that badly?” She means it as a joke. She’s only poking fun at my run of bad luck. But she has no clue exactly how accurate she is. I want her to see me, all of me. In fact, it’s all I’ve been dreaming of. But not like this. In my fantasies, she’s also naked. Her hands on me. That mouth too. Fuck . . . now, instead of worrying about shrinkage, I have the opposite problem. I hope she’s not offended if my dick pops out to greet her at her next win.

  I shuffle the cards one last time, cut the deck, and deal.

  She picks up her cards, holding them in front of her face so I can’t see the grin on those full lips. Instead, I focus on her eyes. They’re playful. Bright in spite of the late hour. Lit with desire, and looking directly at me. “Don’t try to sneak a glimpse at my cards.” Her threat is full of mirth. She discards one card and I deal her another.

  But her cards are the last thing in this room I want a peek of. Placing my hand on the table—a pair of three’s, which is not all that great—I let loose a sigh. I hate losing, but there’s something thrilling in the anticipation of Rachel’s reaction when I drop my boxers. I discard and pick up three more cards, setting them face down without looking. “Call.”

  “You’re not even gonna look first?”

  I pick up my beer bottle to take a long pull. “I like risks.”

  Her smile fills all the broken and jagged spaces in my heart. One by one she drops her cards to the table in wicked satisfaction. I expect a flush, maybe a full house, but what I don’t see coming is the trash hand after she’s won so many rounds. Her deep laughter bounces around the room.

  “I won.” A twinge of disappointment rushes through my mind. Then shock and jubilation fill my chest as my eyes dart from her cards to mine. I can’t believe my eyes. “I won!”

  “You did.” She bites her lower lip, and her gaze roves my body. “I guess you get to keep your undies. Pity.”

  Wait, what? Is that disappointment I see in her eyes. “Oh, I could be persuaded.”

  “What should I take off?” She completely ignores my comment.

  I try for another tactic, loving the blaze in her eyes when I challenge her. “Don’t be a chicken shit, Rachel. No more shoes. Go big.”

  “Oh?”

  “Shirt or pants. Come on. I dare you.”

  “Hmm,” she presses her lips together as if she’s actually considering. But this temptress has a mean poker face. I can’t tell if she’s toying with me. “Since you’ve already seen me with no pants . . .” She tilts her head, a sultry smile tugging at her lips. The chair legs groan against the floor as she stands.

  Fuck. This is happening. Really happening. I’m finally going to get a glimpse of the perfect, full breasts I’ve been fantasizing about every night this week. I know she doesn’t always wear a bra. I’ve seen her nipples pressed against her shirts. Fuck me. Thank you, universe. Thank you, strip poker. All the losses tonight will have been worth this one moment.

  Her fingers grip the hem of her blouse. They tease the fabric, and I’m certain if I looked, I’d find a playful glint in her stare, but my gaze is glued to that hemline. Waiting. Wanting. Practically salivating for a glimpse of smooth tan skin.

  Her shirt lifts—painfully slow—or is that hard? Fuck, it’s my dick. I adjust myself again, attempting in vain to tuck my semi-hard state in the confines of my boxer briefs. Then my attention is stolen. Completely captured, because Rachel’s shirt is moving. One inch. Two. Three. My eyes drink up her perfect skin as the fabric lifts closer and closer to what I want most.

  Ding dong.

  Walter bounds from his spot in the corner. Yapping and barking as if he’s a two-hundred-pound guard dog and not a ten-pound Chihuahua mutt.

  “Expecting more company?” Rachel asks, her shirt back in place, abdomen covered by the offending fabric.

  “No,” I grit out, still not able to move from my spot at the table. My dreams dashed, in one bloody moment. My losing streak back to bite me in the ass. And I never even got to see the promised land.

  “Did you need me to . . ?” Her question trails off as her gaze takes in my mostly naked form, then to the door. Maybe if her eyes were full of something other than restrained humor, I’d appreciate this moment, but instead it only further increases my frustration.

  She thinks this is funny.

  She doesn’t want to see my dick.

  The universe is having a good laugh. “I’ve got it.” I cover my crotch and stand, almost knocking the chair to its back in the process, then stomp toward the door.

  Walter races forward, his yaps increasing the closer we get to the door. He goes apeshit when the bell rings again.

  “Coming. Damn it,” I grumble to no one other than myself. I don’t know who could be at the door at this hour, but it better be fucking important.

  I yank open the door to find one of the building’s night security guards waiting. “Mr. Lawrence. So sorry.”

  I glance down the hall, then back at him.

  “We tried phoning you, and I wouldn’t have disturbed you given the late hour, but . . .”

  “
Good God, what is it?”

  “There’s a man downstairs demanding to see you. He’s causing a scene, and we’d call the police to take care of it, it’s just—” He clears his throat and shifts his weight to his other foot. “He claims he’s your father.”

  My stomach dips with disappointment. Dread. Understanding as I remember today’s date. Damn it. I should have expected this. Seen it coming. Fuck. I can’t believe I forgot. I’ve never forgotten, not since— My eyes clench tight with pain. “Right. Yes. I’ll be down. Just give me a second to—” Put on pants. Get dressed. Did I really answer the door in my boxers? Thank God it’s just the security team, but what if it were a client. Worse, a journalist.

  “Of course, Mr. Lawrence. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  I don’t bother with formalities and close the door to retrieve my clothes.

  “Jude?” Rachel’s gaze is on my every move, but I can’t bring myself to meet her stare. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, fine.” But it’s not. It never is. Doesn’t matter how much of a fortune I amass, or that I have my own condo to hide away, my past always catches up with me. Fuck. I can’t believe I forgot. “I might be a little while. Don’t wait up.”

  “Oh.” She backs up, the openness of her features closing at my gruff words. She swallows hard and almost appears sad. Hurt. “Sure. Yeah.”

  Fuck. I hate that I ruined our good night by putting that look on her gorgeous face. I want to explain. I should. But I don’t have the time. Without another word, I shove my arms through my shirt and grab my phone before heading out the door. I don’t look back to see the disappointment on her face, but I know it’s there all the same. That alone guts me more than it should.

  33

  Jude

  “You tell that piece of shit I’m not leaving until I speak with him! You hear me, you overpaid antpiss?” He’s drunk off his ass. Not the first time, and certainly not the last, but it’s been awhile since I’ve seen my dear old dad, and old hurts resurface instantly at the sight.

  “I’m here. You can stop abusing the staff.”

  My father turns toward my voice, his features twisting with disgust. “Aren’t you the important one now. Finally decide to grace me with your presence?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I disrupt your night?”

  Of course he did. More than he knows, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing so. “What do you want?” We both know it’s not love.

  “You know.” He scoffs, and the sound is full of malice.

  I start to shake my head, because I don’t want to remember everything from before, not when I can’t get the images of her final days out of my head. Mom. The only reason he’s drunk and in my building on a Friday night. It’s her birthday. A sour taste hits my mouth, along with an urge to strike out at my father. But I can’t. As much as I hate him. As much as I never want to be like him, I can’t bring myself to punish him. I don’t need to; he’s already doing it to himself.

  Guilt. Shame. Regret. They age his features more than time ever will.

  “Let’s get you home.”

  “I loved her. I always did.”

  I swallow, not wanting to hear his confession. I already know his sins, but I’m unable to offer him absolution. “Samuel.” I turn to the security guard. “Get us a car? I’ll wait outside.”

  “Yes, Mr. Lawrence.”

  “You got it all. Yeah. Everything I had and more.” My father’s arms open wide and he attempts to take a few steps without stumbling. “Think I don’t see? You got it all. All on your own. Proved me wrong. Made yourself a man all on your own. That a ‘fuck you’ for me? ’Cause it don’t bring her back.”

  “This isn’t about you.” I hate how he sees. How his words hit so close to the truth.

  “Isn’t it, though?” He laughs to himself, and the sound grates on my patience. He steps forward and trips, but I catch him before he falls. The stench of alcohol hits my face with his next breath. “No matter. All that money, your fancy cars, everyone’s respect, it won’t bring you peace.”

  “And you’d know that how, exactly?” My words are defensive, and instantly I regret that I’ve shown him how much he’s gotten to me. I reach back for the only insult that’ll steer his focus elsewhere. “You drink too much, old man.”

  “Fuck off.” He shoves away from me, teetering for balance before he rights himself.

  A black town car pulls to the curb. The driver gets out and comes around to open the back door. “Mr. Lawrence, where to this evening?”

  “Return him safely to his home, please.”

  “I don’t have a home,” my father grumbles, but slides into the back seat without argument.

  “Don’t take him anywhere else. Make sure he gets inside. Discreetly.” I pull out my phone to retrieve the address. “I’ll make sure you’re appropriately compensated for your time.”

  The driver nods, entering the location onto his navigation.

  I glance in the back of the car to find my father already passed out. I should hate him. I shouldn’t care what happens—how much he drinks, or where he goes, but despite everything that’s transpired, I can’t seem to stop. My entire adult life I’ve fought to prove him wrong. To make my mother proud. As much as I don’t want to be like the bastard, in some ways we’re exactly the same. We’re both searching for affirmation and forgiveness we’ll never receive. Impossible, because she’s dead.

  I shut the car door and slam my eyes on the memories that threaten to assault me. I can’t believe I forgot her birthday. I’ve never done that before. I was so wrapped up in Rachel. In our flirting, the fun, the pursuit, that I completely forgot about the only woman who ever truly loved me. Guilt, thick and toxic, seeps into my veins and slows my steps as I turn back inside the building. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I whisper to myself, not caring if the building staff sees a few tears fall.

  Shame, for not being able to save her, for not being much different than my father, worse, for moving on from her memory. My mouth salivates, and I know exactly what I’ll be reaching for the moment I’m back on my floor. The urge to drink it all away makes me as pathetic as my father. Fitting. What if my father is right? I’ve been a fool to think I could outrun my past. That I could right old wrongs.

  Inside my condo, I walk straight to the kitchen and produce my most expensive bottle of Scotch. I take out a solitary glass, a sad, empty thing. Will I always be sad and alone on this day? Only, I’m not alone tonight. Rachel is here. Though, not in the way I want her to be. God, I’d give my soul to get lost in her tonight. She’d make me forget better than any bottle. But she deserves better, and I won’t use her or her body to comfort my pain. I wonder what she’d think of me if she knew what a fuck up I truly am. That all this is just a ruse, a mask to cover the brokenness that can’t be mended.

  I don’t have to wonder long, though. Because before I drink my first glass, her sweet voice interrupts my inner tirade of self-hate.

  34

  Rachel

  Heavy footfalls along with the slam of the door is the only indication of Jude’s return. He doesn’t call my name, or play with Walter. The place is silent but for a few sounds from the kitchen.

  I wasn’t sure when he’d return, so I busied myself clearing a few of the empty bottles and wiping down the counters in the kitchen before going back to my room. I shut off all the lights but for the entryway, anticipating he’d be gone awhile. There was a desperation to the way he quickly dressed, a coldness to his hasty retreat. Something was wrong. Gone was the flirting, happy-go-lucky man from this evening.

  As I pad to the kitchen and find him pouring a tumbler of hard liquor in the near dark, my gut turns with an ominous feeling. Whatever this is, it’s bad.

  “Jude?” I don’t know how to help him, but I want to.

  “Go.” His command is hard, unfeeling, and his gaze doesn’t lift to mine.

  I walk around the kitchen island. Anger rolls off his body in waves. My gaze
roves his body to make sure he’s not hurt, but his clothes are in place, and the only thing visibly wrong is the scowl etched on his face. Someone or something did this to him.

  “Rachel. Go away.” Mean Jude is persistent.

  So am I. “No.”

  He lifts his gaze, surprise in the lift of his brows. “No?”

  “You were holding out on me.” I close the space between us and reach over his shoulder to retrieve a glass tumbler. The bare skin of my forearm brushes his and a shiver of lust runs down my spine, but I push the desire away. By the look in his eyes, something big has shifted, something dark has stolen the lightness in his soul. He’s fragile, masquerading as tough. I force a teasing softness into my next words in an effort to calm the brewing storm of his mood. “Tell me why we’ve been drinking cheap beer all night when you’ve been hiding the good Scotch.”

  When he doesn’t say anything, I pull up the barstool at his right and sit, pushing my empty glass toward his bottle. That’s right. I’m staying.

  “I won’t be nice,” he says, but fills my glass anyway.

  “Okay.” I shrug with nonchalance, when inside I’m not sure I know what I’m doing. There’s something unhinged in his stare. A forceful energy waiting to let loose. I could be playing with danger.

  He lifts his glass. “I’m sorry.” He clinks the Scotch against mine, and then lifts the liquor to his lips for a long sip.

  I do the same. It burns. Oh, fuck does it burn, but soon the warm feeling will wrap around me and further loosen my inhibitions. Maybe that’s why I’m still here. I want to see Jude without pretense. Without his mask of armor. “What are you apologizing for?”

  “Anything I say or do from here on out.” He scoffs, and the pain in his eyes as they train on the glass of Scotch should be enough to make me look away. But I don’t. “Don’t hold it against me. Normally . . . I’m stronger.”