Infidelity: Suspicion (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Donya Lynne

  More importantly, whatever happened to Charli?

  I saw her a few more times with that man in the days that followed, and then she was gone. So was he. I haven’t seen either of them since, but the memory still haunts me.

  “I knew it,” Shaun said. “You went and fucked everything up over a pair of tits and a sweet little ass.”

  I frowned at him. “That’s not it, and you know it.”

  “Don’t I? I’ve known you since you were eight, Max. You’ve always been the one who gets too personally involved with the mark. You’ve always been the one with a conscience.”

  “One of us had to have one.”

  Shaun scowled at me then shook his head, dismissing me with a shrug as he turned back to his drink. “You’ll get over this like you’ve gotten over everything else. Give it a month, and you’ll come back to your senses. In a few weeks, you won’t even be thinking about her, anymore.”

  “Time isn’t going to change my mind, Shaun.”

  I wanted to tell him this wasn’t about Charli, but, in a way, it was. She’d made me see myself—really see myself and who I’d become—for the first time in years. She had reminded me of what life had been like before my parents died, when my future was wide open and full of hope. Before doors started closing on me.

  I wanted those doors to open again.

  Shaun slid off his barstool and dropped a couple of bills on the bar then turned and paid me a cursory glance. “If you walk away from our partnership, Max, you’ll regret it.”

  Without waiting for me to respond, he gave me a stern, disappointed look then left me sitting there, alone.

  I’m still not sure if he was threatening me or if he was only stating his version of the facts. Like he didn’t have faith I could survive on my own after the two of us had relied on each other for almost two decades.

  If he was trying to intimidate me, it won’t work. I’m not the kind of man who will be cowed by a petty threat, and Shaun knows it. Now, it’s time to make him see I wasn’t merely blowing smoke or having some kind of mental breakdown two weeks ago. If he’s not prepared to take me seriously, that’s his problem, because, one way or another, by tomorrow, I’ll be free. Or as free as I can be, because I’ll never be completely free of my past. But I can write a different future. One where grifting doesn’t play a role.

  With a resigned sigh, I thank the dealer, tuck my cash voucher into my wallet, and start for the bar.

  The slot machines beep, buzz, and ring, their bells and whistles drowning out the murmur and laughter from the gamblers hoping to strike it rich. I feel like I’m in a massive video arcade. The kind that went out of business in malls everywhere when I was a kid. Only this arcade is for adults and can make you wealthier than you ever imagined or drain all hope from your heart. More than one gambler has leaped to his death after a bad night at the slots.

  The problem with slot machines is that they take no skill. Unlike poker, they’re all luck. When luck closes the door on a slot machine, there is no window to skill your way back through. With poker, that window will always be open when luck runs out.

  I find Shaun inside iBar, sitting at the curving stretch of speckled granite that wraps around the center of the room. He already has a martini in his hand.

  The interior of iBar is dark with neon blue and pink lights accenting the shadows. Like everyplace else in Vegas, there’s an overly glamorized feel to the décor that hints at the mafia roots that gave birth to the city. It’s like a gregarious mafia housewife who talks with a loud Jersey accent vomited animal print and contrasting colors everywhere, only with a touch of class.

  “Johnnie Walker,” I say to the bartender as I plant myself in one of the white rounded bar chairs beside Shaun. “Blue label.” I nod at the tall bottle of scotch on the top shelf, behind rows of the cheaper stuff.

  Shaun lifts his martini for a sip. “Nice haul back there.” He nods in the direction of the poker room.

  “Thanks.” I refuse to rub my success into what I can sense is still an open wound, especially since I’m about to let the guillotine fall.

  Shaun has always sucked at poker. He’s too emotional. Terrible at bluffing. He does better at blackjack, which requires a different strategy than poker.

  But he’s not good enough to go pro.

  Shaun’s more of a computer guy. A hacker. That’s always been his end of our partnership.

  But pulling scams through black hat operations isn’t the only way we’ve made money. For Shaun, there’s not enough risk and excitement in emptying out some poor schlep’s bank account by online infiltration alone. He needs to supplement his hacking scams with ones that are more personal. Ones that require more risk. Especially those that allow him to get close to pretty women.

  With our good looks and charm, we’ve been able to con women to buy our drinks, pay for our hotel rooms, loan us money—which they never get back, by the way—and a whole lot more.

  And don’t even get me started on what we’ve been able to accomplish by getting a woman into bed. It’s ridiculous the shit we’ve been able to obtain from women who don’t seem the least bit suspicious of a man they’ve only known a few hours. Bank account numbers, credit card information, social security numbers, addresses. All while she’s sleeping or in the shower.

  I could make a fortune teaching women—rich and poor alike—how to protect themselves from getting conned. If poker doesn’t work out for me, maybe I’ll consider it. Wouldn’t Shaun love that?

  But as easy as it’s been to get women into our beds, Shaun and I have different ideas about relationships. He’s perfectly content to fuck his way through the female population for the rest of his life. For him, the goal is money, not love.

  That’s not my goal. I actually want to find someone special. I’ve always wanted that, even when I was playing the field. I’d like to settle down, buy a house, have kids, and then bring them up right. The way my parents would have done with me had they not died.

  The bartender sets my drink in front of me.

  Shaun raises his half-empty glass. “Salute.”

  “Cheers.” I clink my glass to his.

  We both drink, and then an uncomfortable silence engulfs us.

  In the past two weeks, the dynamic between us has morphed into something toxic. Like octopus ink, it’s clouded the waters and made it hard for us to find each other. We’re no longer partners. Maybe we’re not even friends, anymore. Perhaps the distance between us has grown so great we’ve become more like mere acquaintances.

  Shaun takes another long swig of his martini, draining his glass. He sets it on the bar and signals for the bartender to bring him another.

  “I guess you are good enough to play professionally,” he says quietly.

  I hear a mix of resentment, anger, and reluctance in his voice.

  “Yeah, I am.” For some reason, I feel the need to tread carefully here.

  Shaun sighs, but the sound comes off more like disappointment than resignation. “We had a good run while it lasted.”

  I nod and sip my whiskey, my hackles up. I feel like there’s a but coming. A big one. He’s too restrained. Too quiet. Too cocked, locked, and loaded.

  “But you owe me, Max.”

  And there it is, spoken in a tone more corrosive than battery acid.

  My throat constricts. “Owe you?”

  He turns to me. “That’s right.”

  The dark gleam shadowing his eyes stiffens my spine, bristling my skin. “What makes you think that?”

  He takes his fresh martini from the bartender and sets it in front of him. “Don’t forget, Max, I know a lot about you. I could make your life hell.”

  So this is how he’s going to play. By threatening to blackmail me.

  “Are you telling me you’re willing to throw away seventeen years of friendship, all because I want out?”

  He pays me a cursory sidelong glance then lifts his martini to his lips. “You’re the one walking out on us, so I’d saying you�
��re throwing away our friendship.”

  As a surge of rage blasts through me, I sling back the rest of my Johnnie Walker then slam the stout glass back on the bar. With the fiery burn of the whiskey fanning out through my body, I spin on my barstool, facing Shaun head-on. “I never said I wanted our friendship to end. Can’t you just accept this has gone on long enough? I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m done.”

  “You’re done when I say you’re done.”

  I ricochet backward. Is this really the same Shaun I’ve been friends with since I was eight years old? The same person who gave me an identity and a purpose? The same guy who said he’d always have my back?

  I never knew his friendship came with a stipulation: We’re only friends if you do what I want.

  “What are you saying?”

  He slowly turns his glass on the bar, rotating the base with his fingertips as he glances across the room. “See her?” He lifts his chin.

  I follow his gaze to an ebony-haired beauty surrounded by bodyguards and an entourage worthy of Taylor Swift.

  “Yes. So?”

  “See that ring on her left hand?”

  Who doesn’t see it? The diamond is the size of a quarter. And I don’t need a jeweler to confirm it’s worth an insane number of millions, either. The truly wealthy put off an aura that feels completely different from that of someone who’s only pretending to be rich. You can almost see the dollar signs evaporating off their skin, floating around them like tiny ghosts. They even smell like millionaires. And I can pick up the stench of crazy-insane cash flow coming off this diva from all the way across the room.

  “What about it?”

  Shaun’s eyelids slide over his eyes as he drops his gaze to the bar. Then he turns and looks at me. A challenging glance. One that says he thinks he owns me. Like I’m his bitch or some shit.

  “I want you to steal it for me.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Consider it insurance.”

  “Insurance for what?”

  “That I won’t reveal to the authorities what I know about you.” He flicks his hand dismissively in front of him then shrugs. “Or, if you’d rather, you can call it a down payment on your buyout clause.”

  “Buyout clause?”

  “To get out of our partnership.”

  “A down payment implies you’re going to want more.”

  “See, you are a smart guy.” He lifts his glass.

  Yes, I’m smart. I’m also not a pushover. Not since I was a kid. I’ve never responded well to threats and ultimatums, and I won’t start now.

  “I know about you, too, Shaun.” I hug my empty shot glass between the fingers of both hands. “You’ve got as much to lose as I do if I start talking to the authorities.”

  “Yes, but I’m the hacker. I have more access than you do. I can create crimes where there are none. I can manufacture evidence that would put you away for life.” He shrugs and takes a sip of his fresh martini. “Or I can make it all go away.” He says it like he’s granting me a favor. “For a price. And right now, the price is that ring.” He flicks his gaze toward the diva.

  I study him as he slowly sets down his glass. Is he bluffing? He knows as well as I do that law enforcement has their own hackers these days. White hat hackers who can ferret out the truth from his lies. The question is, would the government want to spend that resource on defending me? Or would they simply be grateful to have me in custody, where I couldn’t harm anybody else?

  “I may not be as good a hacker as you are, Shaun, but I’m not running blind, either. I know my way around a computer. I’ve picked up a thing or two watching you, listening to you talk. I’ve pulled my own cyber jobs. Are you sure you want to push me on this?”

  The skin around his eyes tightens as he takes a drink, but he doesn’t look at me. “Get the ring, and I’ll consider calling it even.”

  “What if I refuse?”

  The muscles in his jaw clench. “Then you can forget about having a career in poker, unless they allow you to gamble in prison.” He casts me a sidelong glance then downs the rest of his martini before setting the empty glass on the bar with a firm clink. He pushes off the seat and meets my gaze. “Well?”

  “Well, what?” In less than five minutes, I’ve gone from thinking we could maintain our friendship and look back on this someday with a laugh, to hating him.

  “What’ll it be, Max? The ring? Or prison?”

  I focus on his face. On the lines that form around his eyes and mouth. The way his jaw continues to work like he’s grinding his molars. My gut tells me he’s bluffing, but I can’t be sure.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Don’t think too long.” He signals to the bartender then points to me and says, “He’s paying for my drinks.” To me he says, “I’m sure you don’t mind.”

  I scowl, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of making a scene. Not over a couple of stupid drinks. “Not at all. What are friends for?”

  For a moment, Shaun says nothing. He doesn’t move. He almost appears stunned, as if hearing me call him a friend briefly reminded him of how close we used to be, and now he has to face the truth that that time in our lives is over. Then he squares his shoulders, reclaiming his power position, and nods once. “Good.” As he turns away, I catch the way his eye flinches. “Bring me the ring in the morning,” he tosses over his shoulder.

  With that, he saunters out of iBar. A cocky air wafts after him, leaving me to fume over his edict.

  I never agreed to court the diva with the ring, nor did I agree to steal her bling, yet Shaun is betting I’ll do what he wants. He thinks his threats about going to the authorities scare me.

  Should I be scared? Maybe, maybe not. Shaun has to know that if I go down, he goes down, too. As do a whole lot of dirty politicians, thanks to my real insurance policy.

  I absently stroke my locket between my thumb and fingers then pull the deck of skull-and-crossbones playing cards from my pocket. I flip open the narrow lid on the box and tip it into my palm. The cards slide out, landing on my hand with a comfort that feels like family. The soft-touch card stock is smooth under the pad of my thumb as I caress it the way I would a lover’s pliant, plump lips.

  As I begin to shuffle, I weigh my options.

  I can do as Shaun wants and seduce the ebony-haired beauty in the corner. I could send her a drink to help me get past her bodyguards. Or, like James Bond, I could simply approach her table with the swagger of a secret agent and ask her if she’d care to join me for dinner.

  No, that won’t work.

  Only one thing gets through to a woman like her. A woman whiffing of entitlement and the kind of snobbery reserved only for the most gluttonous of gold diggers. This is a woman who was born into money, raised by money, and loves money. If I don’t show her I can fund her expensive tastes and lavish lifestyle, she’ll sniff and turn up her nose like I smell of bad dog food, not giving me another glance. But if I walk up to her table waving a stack of hundreds, I could have her on her back by midnight.

  I could tell her anything I want. I have a dozen aliases I can throw at her. Aliases she’ll never be able track back to me when she tries to find the handsome man in the black silk shirt who stole her disgustingly gigantic ring. That is, if she can pinpoint me as the thief. I’m good at making it look like someone else committed the crimes I’m responsible for.

  I flip the bottom card of my deck to reveal the joker.

  Slipping the card back into the stack, I continue shuffling, hardly thinking about the way I split the deck and riffle the cards together with the deftness of a professional dealer. The motions are second nature. As reflexive as breathing.

  Shuffle-shuffle.

  The biggest problem with my off-the-cuff plan to steal the diva’s ring is that Vegas has cameras everywhere. The authorities would be able to find me fairly easily to question me about the ring, and while I have ways to throw off the police and turn their attention elsewhere, I would rather not take
the risk. Especially since this will affect my mindset for the tournament I came here to play in two days.

  Which is the second biggest problem with trying to steal the ring. I didn’t come here to pull a con. I came here to play poker. If I steal that ring, I’ll have to withdraw from the tournament. I wouldn’t be able to risk being seen by the diva’s people.

  Then Shaun wins.

  I split the deck and flip over the half in my right hand. The joker stares up at me.

  I turn the cards facedown again and riffle them together. A quick shuffle later, I tap the top card and flip it over. The joker again.

  What are the odds Shaun is bluffing about everything? Not just his ability to hack me into a crime, but that he’ll go to the authorities if I don’t give him what he wants? The slight hesitation at the end of our discussion, as well as the way the muscles around his eye ticked as he turned away, leads me to believe stealing the ring is a ruse. I don’t think he really wants the ring. I think he’s after something else. Or maybe he just wants to prove he still holds influence over me. If I’m able to procure the ring, so much the better, but my gut says the ring is a secondary objective here.

  What game is Shaun really playing?

  More importantly, do I want to play it?

  Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just get up, go to Shaun’s room, and tell him to fuck off. I’m not going to allow my one shot at freedom to be held for ransom. This is my life, and Shaun can just—

  “Are you a magician?”

  I stop midshuffle and turn to my left.

  And immediately stop breathing.

  Blond hair, black dress, long legs.

  It’s the woman who flashed through my peripheral vision earlier.

  The one who broke my concentration long enough to entice me to glance across the room when I should have been focusing on playing poker.

  I’ve seen beautiful women. I’ve slept with plenty of them. But this work of art in the little black dress who just slid into the seat next to mine is so far beyond beautiful I’m not sure there’s an adjective adequate to describe her.

  “Uh . . .” I glance down at my cards, which are poised on the counter with half the deck still split between my thumbs. I release them, and they make a riffling sound as they fall into divided stacks. I gather them in one hand. “No. I’m not a magician. I mean, I am . . . I could be . . . but I don’t . . . uh . . .” Fuck me, but could I be any more tongue-tied? I need to get my shit together before she thinks I’m some kind of Rain Man protégé who’s come to Vegas to count cards.