Chapter 13 The Gambler
THE GAMBLER
QUINTON
The Player's Room is a battlefield tonight. Cards shuffle. Glasses clink. Music plays. And I stare at the bright green felt of the poker table, readying myself for war.
From a young age, my father instilled the idea of competition in William and me. He’d give us challenges, missions, ways to outsmart one another. I outgrew William rather quickly. I became taller, stronger, and more clever. By the time I was fifteen, we were in different weight classes.
But tonight, my father has sanctioned a fair fight. He found me a worthy adversary—Damon. Tonight we do not fight with fists, but with cards.
A poker match.
Since the Cavanaughs came into our lives many years ago, my father’s tried to pit me against Damon. Perhaps because Father could never win against Jonathan, so he made me fight against his son. My father thinks we’re at war in business. But he’s wrong. The stakes are much higher.
I sit at one end of the table, with Emery beside me. On my right, Sophie twists a martini around as Father sips on a scotch. Damon grins at me, arrogant as always, from the other side of the felt, Maya cozy on his arm.
As the cards are dealt and the game begins, I steal a glance at Emery. Important. She said I’m important. I clutch onto that word like it’s a fucking life vest. The only thing keeping me afloat.
My father breaks the uncomfortable silence as he checks the flop. "I take it you’ve both received the invitation to Vincent Wentz’s funeral?" he asks, addressing Damon and me. “Will you be attending?”
Damon leans back in his chair, oozing smugness as he checks as well. "Vincent and I were never close." His eyes lock onto Emery, and he gives her a greasy smirk. “I never did appreciate his unethical practices.”
Bastard.
"It’s a shame you two weren’t friends. You’d have so much in common.
” I meet his gaze as I throw three black chips into the pot.
My father grumbles and tosses away his cards.
“Unfortunately, Damon only associates with those who serve his own agenda. Vincent’s industry was never appealing to him.
Perhaps because he was scared of the competition. ”
Damon snorts, peeking at his two cards. With a flat expression, he calls and raises. “I don’t mind competition, Quinton. But I prefer an opponent that poses a significant challenge. There’s no joy in beating the weak.”
Emery looks between Damon and me, attempting to decipher the meaning in our words. I can tell she has something to say about our not-so-covert metaphors, but she chooses to change the subject, a wise move for a supposed neutral party.
“Vincent Wentz? The Diazenix guy?” she asks. “You knew him?”
"Quinton did. Very well, actually,” Damon says with a wolfish grin. “I believe if you Google their names, you’ll discover just how close they truly were.”
My shoulders tense. “There are no friends in business, Cavanaugh. Your father taught me that.”
Damon’s teeth clench. I’ve struck a nerve.
But it’s the truth. Jonathan was never one for small talk.
Every time we’d be forced to attend a dinner party, he talked shop all the time.
If it weren’t for him, I’d probably have never secured my current position.
He might’ve never had friends. But he had allies in high places.
Sophie sighs, clearly feeling uncomfortable being a part of this conversation.
She chirps in, her voice calm yet laced with veiled contempt.
"Can we please focus on the game?” She double-taps her cards and slides them forward.
“Fold.” With a sip of her drink, she leans back into her seat and says, “Heads up. This should be fun.”
Emery nervously fidgets with her straw as she stares at a quarter of a million dollars in the pot.
My gaze flits across the four cards on the felt: the queen of hearts, the eight of clubs, the jack of spades, and the six of diamonds.
Damon and I exchange one last sharp glance, a mutual understanding passing through us.
This isn’t cards. This is war.
I call Damon’s raise, unwilling to yield.
As the river is flipped, I inwardly sigh with relief.
The seven of hearts. Only a fool would play the hand I’ve been dealt: a four of spades and a five of hearts.
It’s an instant fold. But something told me to play it.
Something instinctual. Damon grins as he raises another fifty thousand, and I immediately call.
“Well?” my father hums, eyeing the both of us. “Show us what you’ve got.” Damon smirks, flipping over his cards—two queens. Father grimaces. “Three of a kind. Better luck next time, Quinton.”
“Is that so?” With a flick of the wrist, I reveal my cards, one by one, and Damon’s smirk twists into a glower of disbelief. “Straight.”
“You’re an idiot,” Damon sneers. “Who the fuck plays a four-five unsuited?”
I shrug, collecting the pot as the dealer slides it in my direction. “Sometimes it pays off not playing by the rules.”
Damon’s lip twitches. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
As the game carries on, each hand becomes more charged than the last. We both refuse to fold, to surrender.
Sometimes that stubbornness works in our favor, other times it leads to utter disaster.
But no matter how many hands we play, the stacks of chips before us remain equal, no man more victorious than the other. It’s fucking infuriating.
When my father has had enough of the back and forth, he stops the game, calling an end to the evening.
Damon slings his arm around Maya’s waist, and he shoots Emery a loaded grin. “Sweet dreams, Miss Jones,” he purrs. “I hope you sleep so very soundly tonight.”
She doesn’t.
I wake up to the soft whisper of her voice. Rogue streams of yellow moonlight find their way through the cracks in the blinds, illuminating Emery’s weary face as she stands on the threshold between our two rooms.
“I’m sorry,” she says, shoulders hitched with light embarrassment as I prop myself up against the headboard. She tugs on the lace hem of her silk nightgown. “Were you sleeping?”
“It’s fine.” I swallow, the sight of her almost taking my breath away. “Is everything alright?”
She glances back into her room, her posture stiff and tense. “Can I…” She sighs, clearing her throat. “Can I sleep in here tonight? Damon and Maya are…” Her jaw ticks. “They’re loud.”
Sophie was goddamn diabolical, rooming Maya and Damon in a suite right beside Emery.
She’s here to hide. I don’t let the disappointment reach my eyes, but it stirs inside me.
I thought perhaps she’d finally decided to spend the night in my bed.
That it was a decision purely based on her feelings for me, my feelings for her, the undeniable energy that bounces between us.
But again, I’m just a distraction. I can’t be upset.
I did offer myself to her. I did tell her to use me.
“Of course,” I say, shifting toward the right side of the bed and lifting the covers.
Emery hesitates for a second before she closes the adjoining room door and strides toward the bed. Gingerly, she climbs under the sheets. Her chest rises and falls as she lets out a long, heavy sigh, her gaze fixed on the ceiling fan above the canopy.
“I’m sorry, Quinton.”
“It’s fine, darling,” I say, turning on my side, my gaze tracing the delicate outline of her profile. “I had just fallen asleep.”
“No,” she breathes, gently fisting the comforter. “I’m sorry about…everything.”
I frown. “I don’t understand…”
She sighs, her voice raspy and wavering. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me, Quin, and I… I’ve been horrible to you. I-I’m not stupid, Quinton. I know how you feel about me. I think I’ve known for a while, and… And I’m sorry.”
My gut turns, anxiety flooding my system. “You have not been horrible to me, Emery. You’ve been…honest. I don't… I don’t expect anything from you other than honesty.”
She turns her head against the pillow, eyes glossy, and it almost breaks my heart. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Quin. I don’t…” She places a hand over the scar in the middle of her chest, expression pained and defeated. “I feel so confused. It’s like… It’s like I’m trapped.”
She doesn’t need to elaborate. I know exactly where she’s trapped. Between me and him. Just like before.
“It’s okay to be confused, darling,” I whisper. “You’ll figure it out. Deep inside, you know what you want. It’s just a matter of waiting for the decision to float to the surface. It can take time.”
Her teeth clench as a tear rolls down her cheek. “What I want? How could I possibly know what I want? I…” She grips her chest. “I’ve never allowed myself to want anything before, not ever. I-I couldn’t. Want indicates time, Quin. It means in the future. I… God, why is this happening?”
“Shh…” With the pad of my thumb, I wipe away her tears. “It’s okay, darling.”
“No,” she cries. “It’s not okay. I’ve never wanted more. I’ve trained myself to not need anything. Not people. Not connections. Not luxury. Nothing. And now? Now, I feel it. The longing and aching for more, and I-I can’t go there, Quin. I can’t.” She sobs. “Not when I know my time is limited.”
The reality of her condition stabs me in the chest. I force my tone to remain secure, confident, almost professional. “You could live for another thirty years, Emery. You could—”
“Stop it,” she cries, clipped. “We both know that’s the exception to the rule. Ten years, Quinton. That’s the average. That’s all I’ve got.”
“You could always get another transplant, Emery,” I say solemnly. “If anything ever happened, you could get another.”
Her green eyes float toward me, and she shakes her head. “The chance of another matching donor is low, Quin. I was already lucky once. A second time? That would be impossible.”
The truth gnaws at me, tearing my heart to pieces. Time can often be taken for granted; simply hours on a clock. But time is a precious, fleeting commodity. And for Emery, time has always been the enemy, the thief of joy.
"Darling, ten years is a long time. A lot can happen in that span. Medical advancements are made everyday. You're strong, and you've already beaten the odds once. You never know what the future holds."
Her gaze remains locked with mine, sad and uncertain. She takes a shaky breath, her fingers fidgeting with the comforter.
"I don’t want to hurt anyone,” she admits. “And because of this…” She covers her scar. “Someone will get hurt.”
“Pain is a part of life, darling.” I reach out to caress her cheek.
"No one’s life comes with guarantees.” I pause.
“And yes, while it might be utterly frightening to think of the future, of possibilities, when you know there’s an end, it’s even scarier to remain static because then you’re dead far sooner than when you actually die. ”
Tears glisten in her eyes as she leans into my touch, her vulnerability fucking glorious. "You deserve better than me, Quin,” she whispers. “You really do."
A soft smile touches my lips, and I hold her hand gently. "I get to decide what I deserve, darling. What I want. And I want you. Any part that you can give me."
Emery nods slowly, her face inches from mine. The room crackles with historic pain and revolutionary longing. Her breath mingles with mine, and I tighten my grip on her, reaching for an uncertain but beautiful future.
“I hope that changes,” she whispers, eyelids fluttering shut, her body melting into my arms as she drifts off to sleep. “I really do.”
And I believe her. With my whole heart and soul, I believe her.
Which makes me love her even more.