Chapter 33 Ace
Ace
Poker can be draining. Really draining. A low throb at the base of my skull is making itself known as I continue tossing my antes into the pile, winning some hands and losing others.
Patrick lost about thirty minutes ago in a brutal hand with Burlone.
I was actually a little sad to see him go.
He was pretty funny with his offhand comments and made this feel more like a game instead of a risky revenge strategy.
He had a way of settling my nerves and distracting me from the man across from me, and I’ll miss his interference.
As he got up from the table after losing, he gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before whispering, “Kick his ass, Mace. I’ll be rooting for ya. ”
With a sympathetic smile, I replied, “I’ll try.”
And boy, am I trying.
Rolling my shoulders, I let out a brief yawn when Chance deals another hand.
It feels like the thousandth one for the night.
I’ve decided the adrenaline has worn off, and I need to recover from the rollercoaster of emotions I’ve been through this evening, but it’s not over yet.
In fact, it feels like it’ll never be over.
“Getting tired, Ms. Johnson?” Burlone rumbles from his side of the table. I flinch when he addresses me, but cover it with another yawn to hide my fear. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being so close to him, and I’m itching to run in the opposite direction.
But first, I need to win.
“Sure am.” I take a look at my cards, ignoring Burlone’s heavy stare.
“Care to make it interesting?”
With a sigh, I force myself to give him my attention while adding my ante to the pot. Over the last few hands, the ante has been raised to help end the tournament more quickly, but he and I seem to keep tugging the chips back and forth, depending on the cards that are dealt.
“And playing with hundreds of thousands of dollars isn’t interesting?” I quip, maintaining my persona.
The crowd laughs while Burlone only looks mildly amused.
“In a different game, I’d suggest playing with something other than money on the line, Ms. Johnson.
In fact, I think I could have a great deal of fun with a different set of rules.
” His gaze slides over me, leaving a filmy residue on my skin that makes me desperate for a shower.
“But in this particular instance, I meant something much more appropriate for the public eye.”
My mouth floods with bitter acid, but I swallow it back. I think I’m going to be sick.
A hushed silence replaces the earlier lightness in the crowd. It’s as if they can feel the same commanding presence as I can.
With another thick swallow, I force myself to stay calm. I’ve seen this side of Burlone. The charismatic, egotistical prick with double meanings woven into every syllable. The thought is almost enough to make me pause, but I press forward.
“What do you have in mind?” The smile I give him feels like plastic, but I think he’s too self-absorbed to notice.
“Five hands. That’s how many we have left to play.
You can still bet or fold or whatever the hell you want, but we only play for five more rounds.
That way, you won’t miss your bedtime.” He adds a wink for good measure, lightening the mood all over again.
The crowd chuckles around me as he waits for my response.
“Sir,” Chance interrupts. “That’s against the rules.”
“Not really, though. I mean, if we both agree to it, then what’s the harm?”
Chance attempts to explain, “Well—”
“I’ll do it,” I say, surprising myself.
Both sets of eyes, along with every single one in the room, turn to me.
“Are you sure, miss?” Chance prods.
“Yup. Five hands. Winner takes all.”
Burlone’s arrogance is almost palpable as he zeroes in on me. “Perfect. Shall we start with this one, since we’ve already seen our cards or…?” His voice trails off, keeping his expression blank in hopes of preventing me from reading him.
It’s interesting to be on this end. He thinks he’s won, yet he’s giving me exactly what I want.
I knew I could make him bleed his chips slowly if I had no choice.
But getting the opportunity to cut to the chase is exactly how I would play this if I had the chance.
And he’s giving me exactly that. The knowledge that I’m so close to getting what I want seems to supersede the anxiety that normally weighs around my shoulders whenever he’s near.
I savor the lightness that’s been absent since the first time I found him sitting at our tiny kitchen table with a cigar in his hand.
I’m so close. I can almost taste it.
“Yup,” I reply, reminding myself that I’m not that little girl anymore. “I think this hand sounds great. Since I don’t want to miss my bedtime and all.”
With a syrupy sweet grin, I push a thick stack of chips into the pot and wait for him to fold. Like a puppet, he does exactly that.
“Then I think I’ll sit this one out.” With a flick of his wrist, he tosses his two cards into the center table, then adds, “Four hands left, Ms. Johnson.”
“Yup. I’m glad you can count.”