Chapter 6 #2
“Either you’re disobedient, stubborn, or stupid.” The gruff voice startled me out of my thoughts.
I looked up—and up and up—and spotted the bouncer from last night glowering down at me with thick, tattooed arms crossed over his chest.
“And I don’t think you’re stupid,” he clipped. “Just a pain in my ass.”
“Well,” I said, putting on a smile. “I’ll do my best to stay out of your way, then.”
“Good.” He stepped forward, backing me away from the casino. “Now turn around, walk to your car, drive away, and don’t come back.”
Oh wow.
I hadn’t gotten a good look at him the first time. He was always standing in the shadows. Fragments of him were alluring, but the whole picture was breathtaking.
And panty-melting.
He had to be over six feet tall and was built like a big-boned lumberjack. He had a thick beard the color of walnuts and long hair tied on top of his head in a neat bun. Strands had fallen out, framing thick eyebrows and the most perfect nose I had ever seen.
Tattoos covered every inch of his hands and arms. I could see the edges of more ink on his chest, where his black Four Horsemen polo was unbuttoned.
He was not my type. But on second glance, I was fairly certain I had been wrong about my type until now. There was something about his scowl that made me feel like a schoolgirl rather than Dr. Amelia Hawthorne.
But now was not the time to get distracted by a hot guy who smelled like—dammit. Of course he smelled like cedar.
“I’m a paying customer just like everyone else,” I said with a huff that was one degree removed from stomping my foot.
He bent at the waist, putting us eye to eye in the most patronizing way. “Go home.”
I rolled my eyes. “Does being a killjoy make you happy?”
“Yes,” he deadpanned.
I groaned and tried a different angle. “Please?” I cooed, clasping my hands together as I batted my lashes.
He grimaced. “Does that usually work for you?”
“It did when I was five.”
“Nice try,” he said as he straightened to his full height. “But I’m not your parent.”
I checked him out, up and down, in the most obvious way, then looked him straight in the eyes. “I’ll call you ‘daddy’ if you want.”
That left him stunned and slack-jawed just long enough for me to slip by him and get through the doors. Jackpot.
A group of drunken middle-aged men filed in behind me, blocking the bouncer from dragging me out. I’d call them “the divorced dads.”
They seemed like the type to listen to a lot of Nickelback.
Instead of immediately heading for the cashier, I took a seat at the bar and ordered a drink.
“Whiskey on the rocks,” I said to the bartender.
He looked me up and down. Suddenly, I felt bad for doing that to the bouncer. It was creepy.
“Starting a tab?” he asked.
I nodded.
Truthfully, I didn’t even plan on finishing the one drink I had ordered.
I hated whiskey. But it was what John had ordered at the table, and I wanted to fit in.
Ordering a lemon drop at a seedy casino was a sure way to stick out like a sore thumb.
Besides, I needed to stay mostly sober. Whiskey was a surefire way to get me to not drink.
I grabbed the glass of brown liquor he slid my way, tipped him appropriately, then turned and surveyed the room as I pretended to sip my drink.
From the research I had done, most card counters played in teams. One person was the counter, and the other was the spotter.
The spotter would watch the tables while placing mediocre bets on a completely forgettable game.
Their goal was to break even while watching the other dealers to see which tables were hot and which tables were trouble.
Since I was playing solo, I was already at a disadvantage. But my disadvantage still meant I was slightly better than the average player.
The divorced dads left the cashier, chips in hand, and split between two tables—one of which had just added two decks of cards to the stack, stretching the count.
The other table was one round into a fresh game, playing out of three decks. Three divorced dads had taken seats at that table, leaving one empty.
That was my table.
I made a mad dash for the cashier and traded five hundred dollars for a stack of chips. I needed to play more aggressively tonight, but I couldn’t get in over my head.
I thanked the cashier and turned to head to the table that held the New Balance 740 fan club when a brick wall stepped into my path.
“Ugh. Are you for real?” I groaned.
He glowered at me. “Yes. I am, in fact, for real.”
“Don’t you have anything better to do? You know, like keeping the real estate agents from downing all the gin in this place?
” I pointed at the table of women who sported matching name tags from a local agency and looked like they were, collectively, one showing away from setting a few houses on fire.
“Don’t you have a cheating fiancé and a backstabbing best friend to deal with?”
Huh?
Mr. Lumberjack lifted a thick brow. “That was your sob story last time, Angela.”
Shit. Right.
I wiggled my tray of chips. “I have a honeymoon fund to burn through.”
The bouncer mentally counted my chips and grimaced. “Where was he taking you? An abandoned Burger Palace off the turnpike?”
I stepped left to try to get around him, but he blocked my path.
I stepped right and groaned when he did the same thing.
“Does your manager know you’re bad for business? Aren’t casinos supposed to want people to come in and gamble?”
The bouncer opened his mouth to retort, but another voice cut in. “If you keep harassing the poor girl, she might start to think you have a crush on her, Jude.”
I cringed at the old theory that boys harassed girls because they had a “crush.” I had spent more than a few office hours coaching my students out of that ideology. Peddling the old saying only set women up to tolerate abusive behavior.
But the banter between us didn’t feel like unwanted teasing and taunting.
It felt like flirting.
I offered the bouncer—Jude—a cheeky smile. “Nice to officially meet you, Jude.”
He closed his eyes, pinched his nose, and let out a slow breath, like he was trying to stave off a migraine.
Little did he know, I wasn’t a migraine. I was an aneurysm. Especially if he kept me from protecting my brother.
If protective mothers were mama bears, then eldest daughters were honey badgers.
Jude muttered something under his breath and sulked off, leaving me with the old man who played with me the first night.
“I’m glad to see you’re back, doll,” he said with a grin. “Why don’t you come play at my table tonight?”