by Police
I shiver and avert my eyes before he can say anything else to rile me up. Because I've heard of that kind of thing. And I can't face it.
"Yeah, that shut you up." He breathes along my neck, and I barely restrain myself from snarling. He smells of beer and cigarettes. "You're doing fine. This way."
I have no choice but to go where he leads me. I'm wearing an old sweater and a pair of jeans—after Gary saw I’d been wearing my flannel for several days straight, he changed me into something else. I don't know where the hell he got these clothes, but I blend in with the crowd at the casino. This is no James Bond kind of tournament with thousand-dollar suits and martinis that are shaken, not stirred. There are people from all walks of life here.
And I'm certainly not a Bond Girl.
"Ah." Gary jerks me to a halt, and when I see why, my heart jumps to my throat. "Here we are."
Callum only has eyes for me as he approaches us. His gaze flicks to my head, then my face and the rest of my body in a gesture that’s more protective than sexual. Still, though, I heat up at that—that he’s concerned for my well-being. It makes me feel like I’m more to him than some scared woman who needs protection.
"Are you all right?" he asks. His voice is soft like it's only meant for me, except that Gary is here with us.
I manage a nod, unsure how much I should tell him. Everything is so precarious right now; I could say the wrong thing, and that would set Gary off. Or Callum. And in the casino, that could be very bad.
After my nightmares in that basement, I can’t believe that I’m seeing him again. Alive. His right arm—the side that got shot—is in a sling and he has dark circles under his eyes, but he looks mostly fine.
I want to close the distance between us and hold him. Every bone in my body wants him to hold me. To tell me that everything truly is going to be all right.
“So,” Gary says, stepping into the conversation, “you can see that she’s fine. Proof of life and all.”
Callum says nothing as he continues to look at me. Our eyes meet, and his gaze is questioning, unsure of my answer. I swallow thickly and give another nod. I’m fine, Callum. Really.
Especially now that I know for sure that he's alive.
“Get rid of the gun on her.” Cal turns a sneer onto Gary. “It’s not needed.”
“Obviously, you don’t know how much of a firecracker she really is.” And just to prove a point, Gary jabs the gun harder into my side. I let out a yelp, but it could have been far worse if I didn’t hold back some of it.
"Careful." Callum takes a step forward in a warning. "Or else—”
"Or else what?" The gun goes farther into my side, but I'm ready for it now, and I'm able to keep from crying out again. I elbow Gary and glare up at him. He crookedly grins at me. "Ah, she's a feisty one, isn't she? No wonder you're risking everything to save her, Callum."
"You have some balls doing that in a casino," I snarl, speaking up again. "I could easily scream, and—"
"Oh, I think you know exactly what I'm capable of doing at a casino." Gary turns his gaze back onto Callum and smiles broadly. "Best of luck today. You can be sure that Ashleigh and I will be close by. Watching."
Cal reaches forward like he wants to touch me, and I would give anything for that touch right now. "I'm glad you're all right."
I swallow and nod, just as Gary takes me and shoves me away. I nearly trip, but I right myself and manage to stay on my two feet, mainly because I think Gary would shoot me if I fell to the ground, regardless of the crowds. "Keep up." Gary's grip tightens on my upper arm. "We're going to meet a buddy of mine, who's going to watch the cameras to make sure that Callum doesn't try any funny business."
I remember Cal talking about a friend of Gary's, the guy who works all the security cameras. A part of me hopes that this guy may be a cop undercover, helping Gary under a ruse, but then I realize that stuff like that only happens in romance novels. Not in real life.
Callum and I are on our own right now.
"Whoops, pardon me!" A guy bumps into us and spills his drink all over Gary. He sways a little bit as if he's drunk, and he looks at Gary with unfocused eyes. "Whoa, dude. Sorry." He starts to wipe at Gary's shirt, and I freeze because he's remarkably close to the gun at my side.
"You fucking idiot!" Gary growls, looking down at the mess.
"I'm sorry, man."
Gary sidesteps and pulls me along with him. "Just fuck off. Before I shoot you."
The man giggles. "Big words from a big, scary guy." He even waggles his hand to demonstrate.
I silently plead with him not to say anymore, and that seems to do the trick because the man stumbles away and disappears into the crowd.
"Well," Gary says at length, "he's lucky I didn't murder him. Come on."
I don't think that guy knows who he nearly tangled with here on the casino floor.
Callum
Tracker is on our target.
I let out a sigh of relief at the text message that just popped up on my phone. I know that Quint was putting his life on the line by taking part in our plan to get Ashleigh back safe and sound, so to see that he succeeded warms my heart. I couldn't care less about the money, I just want Ashleigh safe—but if this all goes the wrong way, I want to be sure that we have means of tracking down the asshole in case he decides to run.
I type a text back to him and send it, although it’s hard to do it with my nondominant hand as the other hand is in the sling. Thanks. Keep an eye out on the parking lot in case he runs.
I get a reply back a few seconds later. You get all the fun.
I wouldn't necessarily call it fun—after all, I'm basically gambling for Ashleigh's life, and the pressure is on to make sure that I win.
Quint is my insurance that if Gary tries to run, I can find him later. We also have a GPS tracker on his truck, but I'm not taking any chances in case there are some other plans that he has, like a different getaway car or if he gets desperate and takes another escape route. Also, it was a good excuse to dump rum and Coke all over that asshole. Quint's great at acting like a drunk. I hope it annoyed the shit out of Gary.
I look back down at my phone and type in one last message to Quint. Thank you. For everything.
Quint sends back a winky face, and before I burst out laughing, I pocket my phone. With Gary having an eye on every camera at the casino, it would be wrong if he saw me interacting too much with Quint. So that will be my last communication with him until this is all over.
Which will be at least twelve hours from now, if all goes according to plan. I haven't slept very well since Gary took Ashleigh, but I feel alert and on edge. Perfect for a game of poker. From here on out, it will be a game of stamina between the other players and myself.
Ashleigh's counting on me. I hope I'm up to the task.
No, I know I will be. I won't fail her.
"Everyone, can I have your attention please?" There's an overweight man in a suit up on the stage with a duo of exotic dancers at his side. He's one of those showman-types, who can command a crowd with his exuberant, excited voice. It's enough to get all the chatter to die down for him to speak over us. He takes the mic from the stand and walks across the stage. "I hope everyone is ready for the Lone Star Texas Hold 'Em Tournament." He raises his hands to get a whoop out of the crowd. Seriously, this guy should get into televangelism. "We have over two hundred registered participants who have paid the entry fee to play."
Yeah, that was a hard ten-thousand-dollar buy-in to get ahold of. I both dipped into the money I have left from Samantha's life insurance, and I reached out to her parents for the cash. Thankfully, they didn't ask too many questions, and I wish I spent more time with them after Samantha's death—they genuinely are good people.
I make a mental note to call them more after this. And, perhaps, visit them more often. That is, if they're all right with seeing my face again.
I focus my attention back on the announcer as he goes through the different rounds of the tournament and
the rules. The crowd whoops and cheers at specific points, and when he mentions that anyone present in the casino could win a Tesla just before the final round, everyone goes wild. They're really pushing this tournament with incentives to keep spectators here through alcohol, food, and prizes, but then again, they are making bank on it. Understandably, they would want to push it as much as possible.
I cross my arms and wait for the announcements to finish up. I already know which table I'm at and the ten other players who will be my competition. Eleven players are a lot for one table, but the woman at the Concierge desk told me that they had more entrants than expected. Apparently, more people than anticipated have ten-thousand dollars lying around to enter a tournament.
Regardless of how many entrants there are, I'm in my element here. I may be shit at blackjack, but Texas Hold 'Em is my bread and butter.
I can win this. I know I will win.
"All right!" The announcer is nearing a shout now with excitement, and the dancers giggle at him. "Can all the players make their way toward their tables? The tournament will start in approximately ten minutes."
Ten minutes before this all starts. Ten minutes before I earn the million to save Ashleigh's life.
I make my way over to the table, where there are already four of the players sitting there, and the dealer is shoving stacks of ten-thousand dollars' worth of poker chips toward them. One of the players, an older man with one of those stereotypical green visors, takes his chips and grins at me.
"Not the best use of my Social Security checks," he tells me as I awkwardly shake his hand with my left. "But I figure that I only have one life to live."
That's a similar sentiment to what I had after Samantha died and I picked up gambling. I give him a small smile and a nod. "Just watch out that you don't run out of money. The loan sharks will do anything to get in your pocket," I mutter to him as I flash my ticket to the dealer. He nods and scoots a stack my way.
I've only ever gambled with this much money when I first started out, and I pick up a hundred-dollar poker chip, feeling it between my thumb and forefinger. This makes it all too real now.
The older man cocks his head curiously. I almost feel bad for how innocent he seems. "What do you mean?"
"What I mean," I say, "is don't lose yourself with the tournament."
He frowns, but our conversation is cut off as the rest of the players join the table. The table feels tighter than usual, and it's not just the higher-than-normal number of players here—the crowd gathers around us to watch. The dealer doesn't seem fazed one bit as he finishes counting out the poker chips.
Behind me, the announcer picks up the microphone. "All right, and the tournament starts in three...two... one... Let's play!"
The dealer grins brilliantly at us. "Who's in for a game of poker?"
Hours go by both too quickly and not fast enough. As expected, I feel the weight of every hand, and it adds up over time to make me tired and more anxious about the game and every bet that I make. Am I doing the right thing, am I making the right judgments, have I read my opponents correctly—all these go through my mind as I play. Every hand I win is a little celebration, and every hand I lose feels like it's the beginning of my bad luck.
It's the worst fucking emotional roller coaster in the world.
To make matters worse, I have to make do with my arm in the sling. Betting and looking at my cards take longer than they should, but it at least gives me time to consider my strategy with every hand.
The players on my table drop off one by one as they burn through their money. The elderly man with the green visor is the first to leave my table, and I feel bad for him as he does—ten thousand dollars gone, just like that. But I can't spend too much energy on my pity for him. I have to keep winning and keep moving to make it through all this.
"I fucking fold," the last player at my table says as he shoves back from his seat. He casts me a glance. "Good luck, man."
I nod and swallow thickly. "Thanks."
"Congratulations, sir," the dealers says, clapping his hands. "You are moving on to the next round."
I give him a grateful nod. "Yippee."
What's left of the crowd gives an excited whoop, although they're already tired by this point. Now that excitement of the beginning of the tournament has worn off, I imagine that everyone will thin out for the next round before they come back for the finals, just to see how it all goes down.
I'm stuck here for all of it.
"You can wait at the bar," the dealer says, handing me a pass. "I'll take your winnings to the next table."
It feels weird letting him take all the money, but I don't want to spend the next hour or so watching my chips like a dragon hoarding his gold. A quick glance tells me that there are still about three tables that need to finish up. And I am damn hungry.
I go to the bar and order water and a basket of fries. Not the healthiest choice, but whatever. I need something that will keep me going. Now that I have the adrenaline from the start of the tournament wearing off, I just feel damn tired. I pull out my phone and manager to type a quick message to Quint. Through the first round.
It's a few minutes before he replies. Nice one. Did you win yet?
I roll my eyes. Not yet. I owe you tickets to the Spurs.
Like NBA Finals tickets.
"Who would have thought you'd get through the first round?"
Shit. I slap my phone face down on the table and look up to see Gary hovering nearby, that disgusting shit-eating grin still on his face. But most alarmingly, I don't see Ashleigh with him.
He waves his hand dismissively. "Nah, don't worry about her. She's in good hands with Chuck."
I've only met Chuck a few times, and I've never gotten a good vibe from the son of a bitch. Not for the first time, I wonder if the casino knows that he's working for assholes like Gary. Or if they even care.
"Nothing had better happen to her." I grit my teeth. "Because if you—"
"You're so quick to judge." Gary picks up a fry and takes a bite before double-dipping in my ketchup. Asshole. "She's fine."
That's not what I saw earlier, based on her disheveled hair, black circles under her eyes, and the fear in her expression, but I keep my mouth shut, because it's a moot point. From here, I just want to win, get Ashleigh back, and pretend like this never happened.
"Just wanted to stop by and say keep up the good work." Gary pats me on my good shoulder, getting too close for my liking, and moves past me. "Just don't get any funny ideas, all right?"
"I wouldn't dream of it," I tell him blithely.
He snickers and walks away, back to wherever he's staying to watch the tournament. I cast a quick glance around the casino, trying to see if I can spot Ashleigh somewhere. Of course I don't, and I scowl back at my fries. I clench my hands into fists.
I'm lost in my own world as I mentally prepare myself for the next round of the competition. It's here that time finally goes by quickly, and I look up as the announcer gets back on stage.
"If the players moving into the next round can go to their next tables, then we can get the second round started."
I'm starting to really hate how cheery he sounds. Because I just don't have the energy for it.
I put on my poker face, push my fries away from me, get up, and head to my table.
Let's see if I can get to the finals.
Ashleigh
I hate the way Chuck Rynder looks at me. It's like he's trying to undress me with his gaze, but he doesn't have the imagination to do a very good job at it, so he just watches me with narrowed eyes, and that's it. I scoff and turn away from him, but I can't move too much. Gary tied me to the chair before he left, and I've been stuck with Chuck in the room with the security cameras.
Away from the crowds.
And stuck with this creep.
"Shouldn't you be watching the cameras?" I ask, curling my lip. "Someone could be slipping cards to cheat the tournament, and you're busy looking at me."
"The dealers are trained to look out for cheaters," Chuck says nonchalantly. "They'll be fine."
Right. I suppress a shudder just as the door opens and Gary comes in with a drink for Chuck and himself. Nothing for me. Inconsiderate prick. I consider driving my foot so hard into his crotch, he coughs up his balls. But he's smart enough to stay out of my reach. Unlike Chuck.
"That man of yours is determined to win," Gary tells me. "But he has terrible taste in fries." He clucks his tongue and shakes his head. "Didn't get them with the truffle oil."
I only glare at him as he pulls up a chair and sits down, watching the screens.
"Anything happen while I'm gone?" he asks Chuck.
Chuck shakes his head. "Nope."
I look back at the screens and watch the one where Callum is sitting at the bar by himself. The camera is far away and pixelated, so I can’t get a good look at him. But I want to reach out and touch him. To tell him that I’m all right. That I miss him. That I wish we had met under different circumstances.
The next round of the tournament starts, and I watch the screens that have Callum front and center. His poker face is spot on as he plays, and he moves stiffly when he forgets that his shoulder is hurt, and he quickly uses his left hand. This has to be hard. I wonder what he's thinking, if he's stressed about everything or if he's entirely focused on the task at hand.
I admittedly don’t know much about Texas Hold ‘Em. Whenever it was on TV in the past, I’d skip right over it because it would just be too-serious people glaring at each over their hands of cards. I had zero interest in it and would go to another channel.
Funny then, how everything comes down to a poker tournament. With everything that's on the line right now, I try to pay attention and figure out the game. Except it is still dull, especially without sound.