Wild Card (Advantage Play Book 1)

by Kelsie Rae

  I’m here. This is the moment. What if I lose? What if he recognizes me? What if I break down crying and curl into a ball on the center of the casino floor? With how nauseated I’m feeling, I’m going to say it’s a definite possibility. I’ve done everything in my power to prepare for this moment, but am I ready? I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous in my entire life. Maybe I should visit the bathroom first and go puke. I mean, better there than all over the poker table, right? And what if I have to sit by him. God, I don’t think I could handle—

  “Ma’am? I haven’t got all day. Take this and go.” The concierge waves the voucher in the air, and I grab it with sweaty palms then move to search for my seat when Jack stops me with his hand on my arm.

  “Hey.”

  Gaze narrowed, I bite out, “Jack? What are you doing here?”

  “What? I can’t show my support?”

  My nostrils flare as I shake out of his grasp. “I can’t do this with you right now. I need to focus.”

  “Look, you can focus in a minute. Right now, I need to talk to you about your boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I object.

  “Fine. Call it whatever you want, but messing with Kingston Romano in any form is still a bad idea—”

  “Will you shut up?” I hiss, looking around the casino. My pulse spikes when I see multiple sets of eyes watching our argument, including a particularly interested guy that I’m afraid to place, but the tiny diamond tattoo under his left eye is enough to make me shiver. Shit.

  “Don’t talk private shit in public, Jack. It’s common sense.”

  He pushes me to a darkened corner a few feet away. “Is this better?”

  “Not really,” I counter, folding my arms across my chest.

  I don’t have time for this.

  “Well, then maybe you’ll take me up on it the next time I offer to go somewhere private instead of letting one of Kingston’s big goons come to the rescue.” Jack leans forward, getting in my face as his arms vibrate with frustration.

  People are still looking in our direction, making my skin tingle with awareness, but I don’t know how to get out of this.

  “Look,” I spit out quietly. “I didn’t know Diece would be stepping in like that. But you should be glad it was him and not Kingston. You might think I’m the one who doesn’t know who she’s dealing with, but I think it’s you, Jack. You need to back off, or you’re going to get hurt.”

  With a scoff, Jack scrubs his hands over his face. “You’re probably right about that, Ace. I’m risking my neck for you, and you aren’t even grateful. From the shit I’ve heard about Kingston,”—he shakes his head—“you’re gonna end up in a body bag.”

  I take a second to consider the likelihood of his comment coming to fruition. Is it possible? Would Kingston hurt me? Looking back on every individual interaction we’ve had, I almost want to laugh at the possibility. No. I don’t see that happening. He might put on a facade with everyone else, but I know him. The real him. The one who wouldn’t hurt a fly if it wasn’t warranted. Sure, he can be scary, and I have no doubt he could hurt someone if the situation arose, but I don’t think I have anything to be afraid of. I’m sure of it.

  “Kingston wouldn’t hurt me,” I state as Jack studies me carefully.

  “Well, if it isn’t him, then it’ll be one of his enemies, Ace. The guy has a rap sheet a mile long, and don’t even get me started on the people he’s connected to. You have no idea what you stepped in.”

  I’m so sick of this. Standing on my toes for an extra inch of height, I get in his face that’s red with anger. “And you do?”

  “Yeah, Ace. I—”

  “The Sin Poker Tournament is about to begin. Remember, there is no flash photography, and all cellular devices must be turned off. Thank you.” The announcement echoes through the open floor plan of the casino, interrupting whatever Jack was going to say.

  But it doesn’t matter anyway.

  “Look, Jack. I gotta go. Thanks for your concern, but I trust Kingston.”

  Stepping toward the crowd near the poker table, Jack’s voice calls out, “Yeah, but are you sure you’re trusting the right guy?”

  I hesitate for the briefest of seconds before shaking off his comment and focusing on the tournament that I’ve been preparing for since I was a little girl. I can’t worry about my future right now because I’m too busy avenging my past.

  Jack and Kingston can wait.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ace

  The place is buzzing. As I look around, all I see are a bunch of little worker bees with their cameras or cell phones or beer bottles, humming around the black felt-top table with their eyes glued to me as I take one of the last available seats. With a sigh of relief, I notice I won’t be sitting next to Burlone.

  I’ve never played in a tournament, but I’ve watched plenty. I know the drill, but it doesn’t stop the anxiety from nearly swallowing me whole as I shift in my seat. The man to my left is wearing a fancy brown cowboy hat with a flannel button-up shirt. All he’s missing is a piece of straw hanging from his mouth, and he’d be straight out of a Western. I’ve never seen him play, but I doubt he’ll be an issue.

  Turning to my right, I study a man named Patrick “The Pat Down” Madden. He’s a well-renowned poker champion. He’s been on the circuit for years, and I’ve seen this guy play. He’s good, but I’ve been able to pinpoint a few of his tells first-hand, so while I should be shaking in my proverbial boots, he’s not the one who terrifies me. I’ll leave that to Burlone.

  Patrick must feel me staring at him because he casually turns in his seat and slides his sunglasses down an inch on his nose to get a better look at me.

  “You in the right place?”

  With a gulp, I shrug one shoulder as my nerves get the better of me. “I sure hope so.”

  Patrick laughs, offering his hand for me to shake. I take it with a shy smile.

  “Me too. I’d hate for a pretty girl like you to be thrown to the sharks. I’m Patrick.”

  “M-Macey. Nice to meet you.”

  “So, Macey, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

  Again, I give him another casual shrug but let my cheeks heat for good measure. If I’m going to look nervous, I might as well play it up for all the spectators.

  “Here to play a game of poker,” I admit. “You?”

  With a narrowed gaze, an intrigued Patrick takes his time inspecting me. “I haven’t seen you around, and I feel like I’d remember you. Like I said, a pretty girl like you is hard to forget. Have you played professionally before?”

  “Nope.” I make sure to pop the ‘P’ at the end. “So, go easy on me, okay?”

  I’d thought long and hard about what persona I was going to play for the evening, and innocent little poker novice seemed like a good route. Having a vagina means I’m instantly underestimated in everyone’s eyes. Instead of trying to prove them wrong, why not embrace it and use it against them?

  “Sure thing, Macey. Sure thing. Just watch and learn.” With a wink, he turns to the front of the table as the dealer approaches and starts making small talk with him like a good little soldier.

  Patrick is charismatic; I’ll give him that much.

  Unsure what to do with myself, I start to pick at my trimmed fingernails when the cameras start flashing. Looking up, I’m given a glimpse as to why. Burlone Allegretti swaggers up to the table. My stomach tightens, and a hefty dose of regret hits me with the fact that I forgot to run to the bathroom and puke my guts out before taking my seat. He’s right there. Within five feet of me. I think I’m going to be sick. Placing my sweaty palms on my lap, I wring them anxiously beneath the table, grateful he can’t see me fidgeting. The urge to run is so overwhelming that my feet start to tap against the ground, my knee bouncing a mile a minute until Patrick looks over at me curiously. Giving him another shy smile, I force myself to stop while recounting the plan.

  Beat Burlone. Wound his pride. T
ake his money. You can do this, Ace. You’re not the little girl he hurt. You’re stronger than him. Smarter. You’ve been preparing for this moment since your mom disappeared. Now, don’t screw it up. After you win? You can disappear without a trace, and he’ll never be able to hurt you again.

  I swallow as my mind conjures up an image of Kingston before leaving a stone in my stomach. If I beat Burlone…then what?

  Do I still disappear? Do I leave Gigi? Dottie? What about Kingston? Would he even care if I left?

  The questions assault me from all sides until all I’m left with is a heavy dose of unease until Burlone raises his hands to quiet the humming audience, and a hush falls over the crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you all for coming out tonight. It’s going to be a great game filled with entertainment and finesse. As you all know, I enjoy dabbling in the art of poker from time to time, and I’m so excited you could join my fellow players and me as we participate in a little wager of wits. Let’s get started, shall we?”

  My nose wrinkles in distaste before I remember the importance of Rule #6 in this very moment. Don’t get personal. He might act like a big buffoon, but as I watch him scan his opponents, I know he’s sharp as a tack, picking apart each of our weaknesses before the game has even begun.

  When his assessing stare lands on me as he takes his seat, he pauses, tilting his head to the side for a second longer while I pray to everything that’s holy that Kingston’s meddling was enough to solidify my fake identity from his scrutiny. His eyes almost seem to spark with recognition, but I tell myself it’s just my imagination playing tricks on me. Like Gigi had mentioned, the guy’s an ass. It’s definitely possible I was nothing more than a blip on his radar all those years ago, and he doesn’t even remember me. Regardless, my breathing stops before I cover it with a dopey grin that I hope throws him off his scent.

  Turning to Patrick, I whisper, “Why is he staring at me?”

  Patrick follows my line of sight to see Burlone’s inquisitive expression.

  Leaning closer to me, Patrick whispers in my ear, “Seems he’s distracted by that pretty face just as much as I am. It’s a good thing I’m sitting next to you and not across from you like that poor sap, or I’m pretty sure I’d get my ass handed to me within the first hand.”

  With a breathy laugh, I shake my head then send a quick glance in Burlone’s direction only to see he’s moved on with his inspection. I sigh in relief, grateful my impromptu flirting with Patrick was enough to distract Burlone from placing me.

  I think, anyway.

  Shuffling a fresh deck of cards, the dealer’s quiet voice commands the room. “Hello, everyone. As you can see, my name is Chance.” He drops his chin to point out his name tag before continuing. “We’re going to play some Texas Hold’em tonight with the standard rules. The player to my left,”—he motions to some hotshot in a designer suit—“will start with the small blind. Let’s begin.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Ace

  With a flick of his wrist, Chance deals the cards around the table until there are two in front of every player. Casually, I lift the corners of the cards I’ve been dealt and take a quick peek before my eyes dart around the table. Glancing back at my cards, my vision goes blurry, and I give myself a mental pep talk.

  Okay, Ace. This is it. Stop freaking out about the asshat across the table and focus. If you want to put him in his place, then you need to win, which means you need to clear your head. Slowly, I let out the breath I’ve been holding and conceal my smile. I’ve got this.

  After taking another look at my cards, I consider my game plan. I should fold, but I want to solidify my opponents’ initial impression of me. I need to look like I don’t really know what I’m doing. At least, not to play at this level, and this is a great opportunity to prove it.

  Everyone places their ante in the center of the table, signifying they want to play the hand. When it’s my turn, I toss a chip in. Chance then places three community cards face up––also known as the flop––in the center of the black felt table.

  Watching the players around me, I search for their tells. Anything that will help me read them and give me an idea of what their hand is like. A twitch of the mouth, a touch of their shirt. A twist of their fingers. Anything. I don’t notice that I’m avoiding Burlone’s presence until I catch him smirking at me. Digging my fingers into the palm of my hand that rests against my leg beneath the table and hidden from his view, I let the bite of pain ground me while waiting for him to break our little staring contest. Seconds later, he turns his attention back to Chance, and I unclench my fist.

  Mr. Suit is asked if he wants to bid, and he obliges by tossing a small stack of chips onto the table. Everyone follows suit, including me, even though it pains me to waste money when I know I’m not going to win.

  Remember the big picture, Ace.

  The hand continues when Chance adds another card to the community set. Now there are four in the center and two in our hands. We can use a total of five to create the best hand possible. Unfortunately for me, I still have shit to work with.

  Again, the players are asked if they’d like to bet or fold. Anticipation rolls through me as I ignore Burlone and watch Mr. Suit throw his cards onto the table, folding, followed by Cowboy #1 and Cowboy #2. Oh, yes, there are two cowboys. Both from the South, and both with southern accents that remind me of Dottie, only more sophisticated.

  Patrick, Burlone, and I are the only players who haven’t folded yet when Patrick tosses another chip worth five thousand dollars into the center. Tucking my hair behind my ear, I smile nervously then follow suit, throwing a chip into the pot.

  I can feel Burlone watching me as he does the same thing, playing right into my hands, though I could do without his attention. Once everyone has placed their bets, Chance flips over the last card onto the table, giving us five community cards. Patrick checks by brushing his knuckles against the felt, and I follow suit, silently telling everyone at the table that I don’t want to add anything to the pot.

  Again, Burlone calculates my move and counters it by mirroring my action. Once we’ve all checked, we begin showing our cards. Patrick has a pair of tens, I have shit, and Burlone ends with a pair of jacks. With a triumphant smile, he leans forward and sweeps the chips in the center of the table toward him.

  The hand cost me thirty thousand dollars, but I’m going to end up winning because of it. I can tell because as soon as the hand is played, Burlone writes me off as a formidable opponent. Exactly the way I wanted him to.

  Game. Set. Match.

  An hour later, we’ve weeded out out the losers, and the only players left are Patrick, Burlone, me, and Texas. Glancing to my right, I offer him a friendly smile before noting his dwindling pile of chips.

  After Chance deals the next hand, Burlone tosses down his cards immediately, followed by Patrick seconds later. I, on the other hand, have a pair of sixes. Texas gives me the side-eye as I throw in my ante, showing I want to play the rest of the hand. With a subtle mouth twitch, he does the same.

  Chance lays down three community cards in the center of the table, displaying another six along with a two and a king.

  Perfect.

  I don’t want to scare off Texas by betting big, so I decide to toss in two chips, praying he’ll follow suit.

  He does.

  Another card is placed in the center, face up. It doesn’t matter what it is. I’ve got this. Three of a kind is hard to beat, and unless he has a pair of kings in his hand and plans to use the king on the table, then I’ve got this hand in the bag.

  However, with another twitch of his lips, I know he doesn’t.

  If I want to cut him out of the game, then I need to guide him like a baby deer. Slowly. Patiently.

  Licking his lips, he waits for me to raise the bet, call it, or fold. I take a long second to chew my lower lip before throwing a couple more chips into the pot before shifting my gaze to him and smiling tightly. My heart is
racing like a jackhammer, but I keep my expression tense, as though I’m worried about what the outcome of the hand is going to be when I’ve already played the odds in my head and know my chances of walking away the victor are insanely high.

  The combination is enough to convince him to stay in, and he meets my bet, raising me the rest of his money.

  I’m so close, I can almost taste it, yet I try to stay calm. Instead of putting all of my chips in right away, I pretend to weigh my options before hesitantly following suit.

  “Nervous, Macey?” Texas mutters under his breath. His entire body oozes confidence as he leans back in his chair and watches Chance flip the final card. Unless it’s a king, I’m solid.

  Come on, come on, come on, come on, I chant in my head.

  It’s a three.

  I won! But he doesn’t know that yet.

  Chance has us show our hands, and his jaw nearly drops when he sees my pair of sixes combined with the six on the table.

  With gritted teeth, a frustrated Texas throws his cards onto the black felt before shoving away from the table and storming off as an ever-professional Chance reaches for them and turns his hand over to reveal that Texas had a pair of kings.

  My grin nearly splits my face in two as I stare at his losing hand while a round of applause echoes throughout the casino.

  After soaking up the win for a few seconds, I drag my prize from the center of the table and start to stack the chips in front of me.

  “Not bad,” Patrick adds with an impressed smirk.

  “Why, thank you,” I quip, my pulse spiking with a fresh wave of adrenaline.

  Another one bites the dust.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Ace

  Poker can be draining. Really draining. A low throb at the base of my skull is making itself known as I continue tossing my antes into the pile, winning some hands and losing others. Patrick lost about thirty minutes ago in a brutal hand with Burlone. I was actually a little sad to see him go. He was pretty funny with his offhand comments and made this feel more like a game instead of a risky revenge strategy. He had a way of settling my nerves and distracting me from the man across from me, and I’ll miss his interference. As he got up from the table after losing, he gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before whispering, “Kick his ass, Mace. I’ll be rooting for ya.”