by Ashley Jade
In a casino, after you win a substantial sum, you’re lucky to be allowed in again. They’ll either accuse you of counting cards the next time around or refuse to pay you for breaking some bullshit policy that didn’t exist until moments before.
There’s a reason lightning never strikes twice.
It’s something Salvatore Campanelli, the new head of the Campanelli crime family knows all too well.
Rumor has it he used to be a big-time gambler—but that all ended after he lost his baby brother over a debt he couldn’t pay to some Russians when he was in his early twenties. Long story short, the Campanellis got their revenge and Salvatore never gambled again.
However, the guy has one hell of a grudge against any and all Russian mobsters. And now that he’s the head of his own mob, he makes it his mission to stick it to the Russians whenever he can. Only instead of killing them like a normal mob boss—his favorite weapon is a player who can keep siphoning money from them.
Which is why I’m currently sitting here. The plan is simple. One of Campanelli’s informants gives him the info about the monthly underground poker game and secures me a spot. Campanelli, in turn, gives me the money for the buy-ins and blinds, and I spin it into gold.
Or rather, I did.
Everything changed last month when I lost my first game. You’d think the fucker would have cut me some slack seeing as he gets ninety-fucking-nine percent of all my winnings—but he didn’t take it so well.
I tried pointing out that me losing a game worked in our favor, because the Russians were starting to become suspicious about my three-month winning streak, and that if I hadn’t lost, my next game would be a rigged game of Russian roulette.
But it turns out that Salvatore, much like myself, is a man who gives a fuck about very little.
He accused me of turning on him and working for the Russians. When I opened my mouth to tell him he was fucking crazy, he calmly informed me that he would kill me and every member of my family if I didn’t win the next game.
There’s no reasoning with an Italian psychopath who’s convinced you’re siding with the enemy.
Needless to say—I got the memo loud and clear. Winning this game isn’t an option.
The current hand plays out—and the mutterer whose name I now know is Niko, mutters some more shit in Russian after he loses.
I’m about to ask him to repeat what he said in English when there’s a shift in the air. They all sit up straight like the good little soldiers they are when their commander in chief Vladimir Pavlovich walks in.
A chick named—fuck if I can remember, but she gives decent head, immediately runs over and hands him a glass of vodka.
He appraises the table before his eyes rest on me. “Ah, the pretty boy.”
The men snicker like it’s the funniest shit they’ve ever heard.
Inside I’m chomping at the bit to tell them all to go fuck themselves, but I know better than to let them see me sweat or give Vladimir any reason to throw me out.
I pick up my beer and give them all a shit-eating grin. “Come on, fellas. Don’t let me be good looking and rich. Not fair for one man to have it all.” I point to my chips. “Are we playing poker or what?”
My statement amuses Vladimir who laughs a hearty chuckle, finishes his vodka, and leaves.
Back to business as usual.
Or not, because Niko, the mutterer, gives me a hard look. “He’s not even Russian. How come he’s allowed to play with us?”
A couple of the guys stop looking at their cards and look at me, no doubt pondering the same thing.
Fuck, I don’t need this tonight. “Money is money, right? Besides, who says I’m not Russian?”
I’m not, but this guy is pissing me off and I need to shut this shit down before it escalates.
He swirls the liquid around in his glass. “That American accent says otherwise.” He spits the word American out like it’s rancid.
I hitch a shoulder up. “Well, your babushka had no complaints about my American dick last night.”
He leaps up from the table, sputtering a slew of what I’m sure are sweet Russian pleasantries, but a few of the guys pull him back and tell him to settle down.
I raise my hands. “Look, man. I’m here to play, not draw you a diagram of my family tree. Russian or not, Vladimir has no problem with me being here, so you shouldn’t either.”
That makes the other men relax, but not this guy. It only makes him angrier. He spews something else in Russian before he sucks his teeth at me and picks up his cards. “Let’s play.”
A little over three hours later, two out of the seven players have left after losing everything they came here with, and the pot is finally up to one million.
It’s now or never. A couple of the men are talking about going home after this, so if I don’t act now, I’ll miss my only opportunity.
Unfortunately, my cards aren’t cooperative. I have a pair of twos and a three after the flop.
Normally, I would fold in this situation. If I don’t have face cards right off the bat, I reject the hand quicker than a hooker with a venereal disease.
But not this time.
This time—I raise. I’m going all the way.
Since I’ve been notorious for folding on the flop and rarely making it past a turn, it sparks some interest around the table.
“His balls have finally dropped,” Niko declares, but I don’t miss the look of uneasiness on his and everyone else’s face.
Which is exactly what I want.
The key to making people fold is by tricking them into thinking they know how you play. If they think I’m a careful player like folding on the flop or turn suggests—then it’s safe to assume when I do bet, I’ve got a damn good hand.
My stomach pinches after the turn gives me a five, but I remain stoic like the rest of them. Aside from the language barrier, another disadvantage of playing poker with Russians is that they all have their poker faces down pat.
I have no choice but to bluff big or go home, so I go in for the kill.
I raise again, pushing a little over half my chips in front of me.
Apprehension is practically coming off them in waves.
Except for Niko who rises to the challenge and re-raises.
It’s an aggressive move and it causes three men to fold immediately. The last man looks at Niko who rubs his nose, and then me, and then at his cards again before he pushes his stack of chips forward. Fortunately, that nanosecond of trepidation tells me he doesn’t have a great hand himself; he just wants to impress Niko who was undoubtedly giving him a signal.
Not the ideal situation for me to be in. Another man might start goading the two men to fold, but not me. Actions speak louder than words, and I want them to listen to that little voice inside their head telling them to fold.
The river gives me another three. Not bad, but sure as fuck not good either.
Not enough to win. Not unless Niko and his buttbuddy are both bluffing. I’ll find out by the end of the showdown.
Niko cracks his knuckles before he pushes his entire stack forward. “All in.”
I don’t look at my cards as I do the same. “Me too.”
For a fraction of a second, Niko’s composure wavers before his face goes back to an impassive mask.
His friend, on the other hand, runs a hand over his head, teetering on the edge. Niko rubs his nose again, no doubt telling him to calm the fuck down before he ruins their little side deal. But that only makes sweat trickle down his forehead. “He’s not the type to bluff, Niko.”
He’s wrong. I’m the type to bluff, lie, cheat, and steal to keep my head off the chopping block, but I’m flattered he thinks so highly of me.
He stands up, paces back and forth for a bit, and pours himself another glass of vodka.
I’ve never seen a Russian experience tilt before, but I can’t say I blame him, there is a million dollars on the line.
Niko’s eyes become tiny slits. It’s clear his friend
has blown his end of the silent agreement and he’s not going to call like he was supposed to. Smart move.
As predicted, he shakes his head and flips his cards over. I inwardly wince when I see a straight. Much better than my measly two pair. Dude should have called.
Niko looks at me. “I’d reconsider if I were you.”
His vodka must be spiked with absinthe if he thinks I’m going to fall for that.
“I’m good.” I smile and gesture to his cards. “After you.”
My heart pounds and my blood runs cold when the first cards he flips over are two aces. Bile rises up my esophagus as memories of the only other time I’ve been so nervous during a showdown clobber me.
No, fuck that. I won’t go to that place. Not here, not now. Not in front of them. I beat that son-of-a-bitch when I was twelve and I’ll beat this one too. I don’t have much, but there must be something of mine this guy wants. Something I can barter for another round. I can’t lose. I refuse to.
I’m so busy thinking of ways to negotiate, I almost don’t realize until it’s too late that his other cards are a five, four, and a two.
Those pair of aces are the only good thing in his hand.
My smile grows as I flip my hand over—revealing two pair.
I want to ask him if he wants some cream for that burn, but I’m already filling up a duffle bag. I just want to leave, give Salvatore his money, and go back home to my crappy motel room.
“How does he keep winning?” Niko exclaims as I situate the money in the bag.
I look him right in the eyes. “Because you guys are gambling.” I tug the zipper. “And I’m playing poker.”
With that, I pull the strap over my shoulder and walk out.
Chapter 6
“Close your eyes.”
I barely hear the command over the frantic pounding of my heart.
The blindfold dangling from her finger swings like a pendulum and I try to wrap my head around what she’s asking. Everything is starting to feel a bit disjointed and it’s taking a little longer for my brain to process things than usual.
Not in a bad way though. Far from it. I feel like I’m floating in a balloon of helium that’s sailing through a sky made of cotton candy.
A laugh bubbles out of me, because that doesn’t even make any sense.
Get a grip, Kit. Or you will ruin everything.
Nodding, I do what she says and the silk material is placed over my eyes. After Jess secures it in place, I rest the back of my head against the hotel room door we managed to fumble our way through only moments earlier.
My heart knocks against my chest like a jackhammer and I place my hand over it, hoping the action will prevent it from jumping out of my body.
An image of a cartoon heart with wings permeates my mind and I laugh again.
It’s not funny, but it expels some of my anxiety and helps me ride out the waves of nerves that keep rippling through me. I want her and I want this, but I’m so scared I’m going to do something to mess it all up. Or worse—she’ll come to her senses and realize what a dork I am and my feelings about being way out of her league will be confirmed.
“Sounds like someone’s enjoying themselves. Mind if I join the party?”
I open my mouth to respond that she is the party, but then Jess lifts my dress up and her mouth finds the fluttering spot between my legs.
Warmth spreads through me and I gasp when she tugs my panties down with her teeth. I eagerly kick them to the side, not wanting to waste another second. I’m so ready for this. I’ve been so ready for this.
Her breath hits my bare skin, and I feel the sensation all the way down to my toes. She licks a hot line along my slit, and my balloon floats higher and higher. I got her off in the hallway before, but I wasn’t sure if she was going to reciprocate, and I’m not the kind of girl to ask or beg someone to; no matter how much I’m aching for it.
But as it turns out, I didn’t have to with Jess, because she knows what I need without me having to tell her. She repeats the movement and I moan as the balloon I’m in escalates and my knees start shaking. Or maybe it’s the earth beneath my feet that’s quivering. God, it’s been so long since I’ve been touched like this, and thanks to the alcohol and the ecstasy in my system making me even more sensitive, along with the blindfold heightening my senses; I’m liable to come apart with the next soft brush of her tongue.
“You ready to have even more fun?”
I lick my lips and nod, hating that I’m being deprived of the visual of her pleasuring me, but not wanting to be a buzz kill. “Yes.” My voice is a thick rasp laced with need. I need to come so badly I can’t see straight. Actually, I can’t see because of the blindfold, but that’s beside the point. I’m dying for Jess to have her naughty way with me.
The tip of her finger circles my clit and I swear I see stars.
“Look how wet she is.”
I’m so far gone, drifting aimlessly like a feather in the wind, I’m not even bothered that she’s talking about my pussy like it’s a separate entity. Without warning, the soft feminine touch between my thighs is replaced with sharp, scraping stubble and a muffled masculine voice groans, “You were right, Jessica. She is perfect.”
Like the flip of a switch my stomach lurches, my blissful balloon pops, and I start freefalling.
On instinct, I kick the man who has no right to be so close to such an intimate part of my body as hard as I can and rip my blindfold off.
My eyes dart around the room, adjusting to the dim light. I look at Jess first and then at the man hunched over, howling in pain. A man I’ve never seen in my life.
Blood drips from his nose onto his crisp white shirt. “What the fuck?”
What the fuck is right. I can’t fathom how the hell I ended up in this messed up position. Jess never once mentioned a guy joining us. Heck, I wasn’t aware she swung that way. I never would have pursued things with her in the first place if she did. I learned my lesson about dating bi-curious girls a long time ago, thanks to Becca.
“Oh my God,” Jess says, rushing over to him. “Are you okay, Jared?”
My mind reverts back to last Friday at the office when she was on the phone, but I don’t have time to scrutinize the thought because Jess screams, “Shit. I think you broke his nose. Go get some ice, Kit.”
Is she seriously asking me to provide aid to the jerk who stuck his face between my legs without my permission?
I swallow back bile as everything hits me like a Mack truck.
Seven minutes ago, I was handing this girl my mangled and maimed heart in the middle of a hotel hallway and begging her not to hurt me.
Two minutes ago, I was soaring while offering her a part of me I don’t give to just anyone. Not anymore.
And one minute ago, she was granting permission on my behalf for some guy to use me as his plaything. After she…after I…
My hand flies to my stomach. God, I feel sick. Sick and betrayed. And so goddamn stupid.
“What are you waiting for? Get the fucking ice!” Jess barks like I’m nothing more than an employee she can boss around.
Because that’s all I am to her.
If her actions didn’t already make that blatantly obvious to me, the fact that she’s cradling some old dude’s head in her hands and tending to him instead of the girl she hurt does.
I refuse to spend another second in this room, so I snatch my purse and run out the door.
Tears prickle my eyes as it slams shut behind me, but it isn’t until I’m halfway down the hall that I allow the first one to break free.
Curling my arms around myself, I take the elevator down to my floor, ignoring the looks I get from strangers.
I feel so dirty and used. I want to peel my skin off and soak it in bleach. But the icky feeling pales in comparison to the way my heart stings or how my soul blisters with sorrow.
I'm so bad at love I should be court ordered to have the statement tattooed on my forehead in capital letters.
I t
hought Jess was different from all the others and we had something special. Turns out she was just another delusion. I blink up at the ceiling. If I keep dishing out parts of my heart to the wrong people, pretty soon I won’t have one left.
I rummage through my purse for my key card when I reach my room. Maybe Juan will forgive me, and he’ll lend me a shoulder to cry on tonight.
The sound of skin slapping together and male grunts assault my ears the second I turn the handle.
“Yes, Ronald. Harder, Daddy,” a voice that’s unmistakably Juan’s wails and I quickly close the door.
Christ on a cracker, I could have happily gone my whole life without hearing that. Same can be said regarding the knowledge that Juan’s a bottom.
I shake my head and make my descent down the staircase. Since staying in my room for the time being is out of the question, I’ll do the next best thing. I’ll go for a walk and clear my head. Or cry. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. I just need to breathe before the weight of what Jess did combined with the scab that’s been ripped off my old agonizing wound sends me spiraling down another rabbit hole.
My black four-inch lace-up heels clack against the concrete and I curse myself for not wearing a jacket. It’s Vegas so it’s not like the late January weather here comes close to how brutal it can be in Connecticut, but it’s still chilly.
Then again maybe the cold is good for my anger, because right now it’s rising like a tidal wave. The nerve of Jess. Where does she get off doing that to me? For fuck’s sake, I’m a lesbian. Did she really think I’d be okay with a guy—one I’ve never even met before—performing oral sex on me and God only knows what else? Boss or not—correction, bosses or not, that is not okay.
Freaking porn industry, it’s filled with nothing but drug users, douchebags, and manipulators.
Perhaps that’s a tad judgmental of me, but I’m exasperated and upset.
And sad…because I loved my job.
The realization is a punch to the gut. Not only did I love being the social media manager for Pretty Kitties, but I was damn good at it. It gave me a sense of accomplishment and pride.