by Tracey Ward
“Not the compliment you think it is,” I told the girl by way of apology, following Kellen slowly.
He waited for me, holding the door to the elevator until I got inside. We let it close, leaving us alone before either of us spoke, though by the time the mirrored surface of the doors went still the occupancy of the elevator had doubled. Throw in the heavy presence of his dad inside that thick, black envelope and we were at capacity.
“What’s our room number?” I asked quietly.
He handed me the envelope. “It’s probably in there.”
“How much of this am I reading?”
“As much or as little as you want.”
“Why are you so mad about him paying for our room? He’s been throwing money at you every month of your entire life. A couple hundred dollars on a hotel room shouldn’t mean much.”
“It’s not the room.”
“It’s what the girls said?”
He grunted, rubbing his hand over his face. “What’s the note say?”
Inside the envelope were two black card keys and a small, stark white piece of notecard no bigger than a business card. All it said was:
“Enjoy.”
Kellen scowled at me, then the note in my hand. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. Handwritten though.”
He didn’t reply. He stood staring at the card in my hand in the reflection on the doors and he didn’t move. Neither did the elevator.
“So…” I began slowly, “what room are we in?”
Kellen chuckled softly. “I don’t know.”
“I bet the receptionist knew.”
“Do you want to call her?”
“You could call your dad. I bet he knows.”
Kellen pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it to me. “Go for it.”
I took it hesitantly. “Are you serious?”
“We gotta find our room, right?”
I pulled up his contacts, hesitating. “I’m scared to ask what his number is labeled.”
“Thorpe, Barkley.”
I shook my head, scrolling down to the Ts. “That’s creepily mild compared to what I expected.”
“What’d you expect?”
“Honestly? I expected you not to keep his number at all.”
The phone rang two times before it was picked up. I anticipated the sound of a casino in the background – digital bells and whistles, men grousing over a bad hand of poker or a shit roll in craps. What I got and what I was ultimately startled by was Bach, soft and low.
“Hello?”
“Hi. Is this Mr. Thorpe?”
“This is Barkley. Who is this?”
“Jenna. Uh, Jenna Monroe. You don’t know me, but—“
“Dan’s daughter,” he said warmly, his voice low and thick like honey. “The tattoo artist.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“It’s good to hear from you, sweetheart. Are you with him? Is he here?”
“Is my dad here? No, he’s in—Oh,” I looked sideways at the towering ball of nerves and anxious energy standing next to me. “You mean Kellen. Yeah, Kellen is here. We’re in the hotel. We actually just got your note. Thank you for the room. That was nice of you.”
“No problem. No problem. I get ‘em for a song. Let me know if there are any problems with it. We can probably get you upgraded if you want.”
“No, we’ll be fine. Thanks.”
“Are you done for the night? Do you want to meet at the bar and have a drink? Or maybe you’re hungry. There’s a great restaurant on the grounds. Incredible prime rib, I promise you.”
I grinned at his enthusiasm. “No, I think we’re more tired than anything. We were in such a rush at the front desk we didn’t get our room number. I didn’t know if maybe you knew?”
“Eight-oh-eight,” he supplied instantly. “Why don’t we do breakfast in the morning? What time do the two of you get up?”
Kellen could hear his dad through the phone’s speaker pressed to my ear, the deep tenor of his voice so like his own that it must have been disorienting. He met my eyes in the mirror and shook his head slightly.
“Early, but we have to be to a sign in for the match Kellen is here to fight so we won’t have time. I’m sorry.”
“That’s alright. I understand. I have an engagement in the afternoon that could last into the evening so I’m sorry I can’t commit to lunch or dinner. You and Kellen should come by. I’ll have passes sent to your room in the morning. You’ll enjoy it.”
“What is it?”
“The Raise The River Celebrity Poker Tournament. Yeah, I’m playing with a couple other Poker World Series winners and celebrities. Tom Hardy, Judd Apatow, one of the One Direction kids, Rihanna.”
“What’s it benefitting?”
He paused, and that one hesitation gave me a great insight into the intelligence and sensitivity of Barkley Thorpe. He knew in some way Kellen was listening. He knew what his answer would mean to him.
“Cancer research,” he replied solemnly. “It’s the only cause I donate to.”
Kellen’s eyes met mine in the mirror and I saw the mask go up. I saw him shut down, shut me out, shut the world away, and I had to make the call on my own.
“Thank you, Mr. Thorpe. We wouldn’t miss it.”
“No, thank you, Jenna. I know I have you to thank for this and I do. From the bottom of my heart.”
“Word of advice?” I suggested mildly.
“Of course.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You can lead a horse to water but you can’t keep him from pissing upstream, if you know what I mean.”
He chuckled. “I know exactly what you mean and I’m grateful just the same. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“We’ll see you then.”
I ended the call and handed Kellen back his phone. He silently slid it into his pocket.
“You heard everything?” I asked.
He nodded. “Everything but the room number.”
“Eight-oh-eight.”
Kellen’s responding laugh was enigmatic and dark as he punched the number eight with his knuckle. He used his right hand.
“Superstitious son of a bitch,” he muttered.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Kellen
Signing in for the match took ten minutes. It was a joke. I weighed in, signed a paper saying I wouldn’t sue the venue for damages to my anything and everything, presented my amateur boxers card, and that was it. We were sent on our way. See you tomorrow. Have a nice day.
It all went down at a nice enough gym. Big space, newer equipment. The place was pretty deserted though and I got the impression they were hosting the championship as a publicity stunt. Bring people in to see a fight, check out the space, maybe get some new members on fight night. I didn’t care. I’d fight wherever they told me to against anyone they put in front of me.
Two years ago when my hand and head were solid I’d have said I’d win, but these days I didn’t know. It was like my life had flipped; everything in the ring going out of focus while the rest of my life was snapping neatly into place. It was an odd shift, one I didn’t quite know how to handle, but as I walked down The Strip in the early afternoon sun with Jenna under my arm and the ring on her finger catching the light, I decided I didn’t need to know.
Everything around me was changing and boxing would have to change with it. I was getting older, my body had definitely taken its share of beatings, and I didn’t need the fight the way I used to. The itch in my palms could be soothed in the cool silk of Jenna’s hair, the long curve of her back, and the anger I used to live in just wasn’t there anymore. Not all consuming the way it used to be. I was happy more often than not for the first time in my life and whether it was Jenna or therapy or both, it was good. I was good, and win or lose tomorrow I decided that this fight would be my last.
“It’s what?!” Jenna nearly shrieked.
“It’s my last fight,” I repeated.
She shook her head in disbelief. “Y
ou’re fucking with me.”
“No, I’m not. I’m done.”
“Why?”
“I don’t need it anymore. I’m happy without it.”
“So you’ll just give it up? All of it? Walk away from your life’s passion?”
“No, not exactly,” I admitted. “I’ll still go to the gym and I’ll spar. I’ll train, but I’ll do it for the workout. I won’t enter any more fights like this. No more competitions.”
Jenna looked worried. Troubled in a tender way that made me want to hug her and tell her it would be alright. She thought I was making a huge mistake and I understood that. When I’d been engaged to Laney she’d demanded I give up boxing and I had. And I’d been miserable. But I’d been unhappy with everything back then, my entire life a long list of things I wanted nothing to do with from my job to my fiancé, and taking away the one thing that was still mine was the last straw that broke my back. It broke my spirit. Jenna didn’t want me to go back to that.
I stopped walking, turning her to face me. “I want this,” I told her seriously. “I want a break from it. My hand is murder to fight with and it’s just not worth it anymore. I still love the sport and I want to train. Hell, I might even like to teach. I’m finally in a good place in my life, but boxing got me through hell and if I could give that to someone else that’d mean more to me than any titles or wins ever have.”
Jenna grinned sadly. “You’d be a great teacher.”
“I think I’d like doing it. I’ve been teaching Callum to box and when he’s not busting my balls about switching to MMA, it’s fun. It’s more fun than breaking my hand on a stranger’s jaw every other week.”
“Okay,” she whispered, stepping up and hugging me hard. “If that’s what you’re sure you want to do, then I’m with you.”
I wrapped my arms around her, resting my cheek against her head. “You’ll still want me when I’m not a champion anymore?”
“You’re not a champion now.”
I pinched her side, making her squeal and pull away with a laugh. “I’m kidding! I know you’ve got trophies coming out your ass.”
“One more wouldn’t hurt.”
“Then you better make this match count.”
I took her hand in mine, urging her forward. “I don’t know any other way to fight.”
We took our time meandering around some of the hotels, checking out the facilities, the nearly vacant restaurants, and the swimming pools hidden in the back. I wanted to lay out with Jenna, see her in her bikini with her tattoos displayed to the world but set off limits by the ring on her finger, but she had other plans. In her purse were the passes Barkley had sent to our room this morning and when two o’clock rolled around and she steered me toward The Luxor hotel where the game was being played. I didn’t protest. I didn’t see the point.
We were early, the celebrities not in place to play the game yet, and we took up seats far in the back where the lighting was low and I could pull my dark baseball hat down low over my eyes.
“If this is for charity,” Jenna whispered to me as we sat down, “then how does that work? Do they buy in and play for nothing? Does everyone go into it knowing they won’t win anything?”
“Is this your first time?” a boisterous voice boomed from her left.
Jenna glanced hesitantly at the big man next to her. He was wearing a Hard Rock café shirt, a Luxor lanyard with a card carefully tucked inside a plastic sleeve at the end, and a sun visor advertising a Britney Spears show from three years ago. The guy had to live around here. He was only in his mid-thirties, though tell it to his arteries. By the looks of him they were going on seventy.
“It is,” Jenna answered warmly, her tone belying her wary eyes. “You’ve been to one before.”
The guy laughed. “Try all of them! I never miss it. Different ones all the time. All year. Celebrities in and out of the casinos constantly. I have a wall of autographs and pictures with the players. It’s phenomenal, really. You should see more of them.”
“It sounds amazing.”
“You’ll love it. Just love it. But you were asking how the tournament works?”
“Yeah. How do the buy-ins work and what are they playing for, besides charity? Do they win anything?”
“Only a pile of cash!” he explained excitedly. “You can’t get people like Chet Misner and Barkley Thorpe out of bed without a purse.”
“Where the hell do they get these names?” I mumbled.
Jenna’s friend either didn’t hear me or he ignored me.
He shuffled in his seat, turning toward Jenna excitedly. “Everyone buys in, right? Sometimes as much as twenty thousand dollars, but that doesn’t mean anything to these guys. They’re loaded. So they pay their twenty, they play the game, and if they win they walk away with a set amount. Depending on the charity it might be twenty percent to twenty-five percent of the pot. Between ten players buying in at twenty thousand dollars you’re talking about… let’s see, if you had ten and—“
“Forty to fifty thousand dollars,” I rattled off, barely paying attention.
People were filing into the room, one by one. I watched for one with brown hair and broad shoulders. A square jaw. Straight unbroken nose.
“Yeah, yeah,” the guy said, sounding annoyed by my help. “That sounds right. So yeah, they can double their money. The rest goes to the charity.”
“Why doesn’t the charity just hit them all up for twenty thousand dollars?” Jenna asked curiously.
The guy laughed condescendingly. “Because where’s the fun in that?”
Jenna smiled and turned away from him, acting suddenly interested in the people coming into the room. She laced her arm through mine and leaned her chin against my shoulder.
“Trade me seats,” she whispered.
I snorted. “Not a chance.”
“He was looking at my chest half the time he was talking to me.”
“Maybe he likes your tattoos.”
“Maybe you’d like to take this seriously. I’m in hell over here.”
“Networking.”
“I do not want anything to do with this guy’s nets.”
“No,” I chuckled. “I was answering your question. The reason the charities don’t just hit up celebrities for flat donations is because of the networking they do by bringing these people out and making them faces for their cause. Their friends see them playing, friends with equally deep pockets, and suddenly they want to donate too. If Sam was doing a Run For the Cure, would you sponsor her?”
“Of course.”
“Same deal. Except instead of a hundred dollars they’re probably getting five to ten thousand a head. Then there’s the ticket sales.” I nodded to the TV cameras set up all around the table in the center of the stage we were facing. “Broadcasting rights. Merchandising. Exposure.”
Jenna nodded against my shoulder, her body leaning heavily into mine.
I wasn’t complaining.
We watched silently as people milled around the stage. A dealer came in, taking up camp in the dip at the center of the table. Another similarly dressed Luxor employee rolled in a heavy cart, presumably full of chips. Other people moved in and out of the shadows surrounding the small stage where the table sat. Most were probably people from the film crew. Only a couple looked like they could actually be players, none of them people I recognized. Not until the crowd started clapping.
“Holy shit,” I muttered under my breath, watching a tall, blond man walk into the room and wave absently at the crowd. “That’s Kurtis Matthews.”
“Who?”
“Kurtis Matthews. He’s a tight end for the Montana Miners.”
“He’s a football player? A famous one?”
“Yeah. I heard he’s a gambler. Guess we’ll see how good of one.”
Kurtis ignored everyone, even the girls who swarmed at the edge of the seating area and called his name. His eyes were cast down, his collar tipped high around his neck. He sat in his seat and folded his hands patiently,
statue still.
“Montana Miners,” Jenna grumbled to herself. “Is Montana even known for mining?”
“No, but Minnesota is.”
“What does Minnesota have to do with it?”
“That’s where the team originally is from. The owner sold them forever ago and they relocated to Montana with the new owner.”
“Why not change the name?”
“Because they were a franchise at that point. It’d be like Applebee’s changing their name to Orangeblossom. It would only confuse people. It happens in every sport. The Lakers started in Minnesota too. The Jazz started in New Orleans, not Utah.”
A rush of people suddenly poured into the entrance. A few took their seats but most hovered in a group, moving slowly forward toward the center table. They were laughing together and I recognized a couple of the celebrities. The mass stopped just shy of the stage and an eruption of cheers suddenly filled the auditorium. A guy with his back to us in jeans and a white V neck waved to the crowd, riling them up.
I watched as Kurtis Matthews sat back in his chair at the table, pulled a black baseball hat from his jacket pocket, and pulled it down low over his eyes in response.
I lifted my hand to adjust my hat, carefully doing the same.
“That’s him, isn’t it?” Jenna whispered.
I nodded, though I didn’t know how I knew. I just did. I knew it was him the way you know when someone is standing behind you. You can feel their presence pushing against yours, edging you out and making you uneven. I felt that way in that moment – off-kilter. Rough and raw on the inside, rigid as stone on the out.
The swarm of women surged at him. They pushed the limits set by the guards stationed at intervals around the perimeter and called out his name when they were denied access to the stage. He lifted his head, pushed black sunglasses up into his thick, brown hair, and waved at them.
“Oh, this is familiar,” Jenna mumbled dryly.
“It was never this bad with me at the gym,” I protested, not taking my eyes off the show.
She laughed incredulously. “Who are you kidding? It’s always been like this.”
Suddenly he turned around, scanning the crowd and giving me my first glimpse of his face. I sucked in a sharp breath, holding it as it froze in my chest.