CHAPTER 4
ACE
I look at the cards which were just dealt to me and find a pair of queens, but I don’t let anything show on my face.
Keeping my reactions under control was one of the hardest things to get a handle on when I was young and learning the game.
Now, it’s second nature which has come with hours of playing and learning how to beat the people I’m up against instead of the cards.
It’s a skill, one I’ve honed and has served me well.
While I look around the table, I watch the faces of the other players. They don’t give anything away and I can’t help but smile. One of them is working way too hard to keep their feelings off their face which is causing his jaw to clench.
The door to the room opens and as much as I want to immediately look over to see who has walked in, since I’m waiting to see if Donald manages to get Quincy Wells here, I hold myself back.
My eyes dart toward the entrance and see Donald walking in with a swagger he doesn’t normally have.
I don’t need him to say a damn thing; it’s obvious he thinks Quincy showing up is a done deal.
A shiver works its way down my spine, but I sit perfectly still as the flop is dealt out and a third queen makes an appearance. I glance at the other players at the table while keeping part of my focus on Donald as he makes his way around the room.
The betting goes around the table, and I force myself to stay in the hand.
I’ll win it, but folding would mean I could listen in to whatever story Donald is regaling his patrons with.
I know it’s a good one because of the way his hands are waving around.
When he points toward the entrance, my stomach twists with something between anticipation and worry.
When the turn is dealt, it doesn’t help my hand, but as I look around the table, it’s obvious it doesn’t help anyone. While the betting goes around again, I keep one eye on Donald. I know the moment he spots me because he doesn’t even try to keep the surprise off his face.
Yeah, I’m sure he is surprised. I’ve never shown up to one of his games. Why would I when I have a casino at my disposal complete with private poker rooms? It would be much more advantageous for me to play a few hands at Elysium.
Yet here I am.
After the river card is dealt, I focus back on the game and watch the people I’m playing against. I feel someone sit on one side of me and shoot Donald a glare when I see it’s him. I’ve been keeping the chairs on either side of me empty with vibes and epic manspreading.
Of course, Donald wouldn’t take note of any social cues. He’s never been good at picking up on them. It could also be possible he simply doesn’t care. My gut is telling me that’s the most likely possibility.
I’ve known guys like him all my life. They don’t care about how they impact other people and their selfishness and self-centeredness show in every aspect of their lives.
His hand is heavy when it lands on my shoulder. “Ace,” his voice is magnanimous, as if his greeting is a gift that I should be excited to have slipped into my hands, “I’m surprised to see you at my game.”
I smirk in his direction while forcing myself to not rip his hand off my shoulder and punch him in the throat. That would ruin my plans for the night.
“I like playing a hand or two from time to time,” I tell him easily as I look around the table right before flipping over my cards. “Trip queens,” I announce and pull the pot in my direction.
“Nice hand,” Donald’s voice is filled with a glee which has nothing to do with my victory.
It’s obvious from the way his eyes are sparkling while barely being able to sit still. How the fuck does this man play poker? He’s a walking tell.
“Just playing what was dealt to me,” I tell him, my voice cocky as fuck.
Because it’s what he expects from me. A Steel Sinner.
“We’ll have to see if your luck holds out since you’re on my turf now,” he crows the words and I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes.
“We’ll see, you never know with Lady Luck,” I concede, unwilling to go toe-to-toe with the man.
He’s not entirely wrong even though I want to scoff at his use of turf. This is his room; it is his game. Even if it leaves a lot to be desired and he thinks far too highly of it.
Bruno walks over from the bar and nods at Donald who practically scrambles to his feet to give his friend a seat.
Donald stands behind our chairs and uses his forearms to brace against the back of them.
His cologne is too fucking much. I can practically taste it, but he’s none the wiser as I lean slightly away from him and fold the hole cards in my hand.
“You’ll never guess who is coming tonight,” Donald leans closer to me, his voice dropping into something intimate in texture but not in volume.
“I saw Quincy Wells earlier and dropped her my card. It’s just a matter of time before she walks through the door.
You know women like her need a little excitement.
She’s used to red carpet treatment, but I just know there’s a hellcat underneath her nice girl front. ”
His words make my skin crawl and I clench my hand into a fist under the table before I force my fingers to relax and reach for my drink.
Bruno doesn’t sound convinced, his voice gruff as he gives me a chin lift in greeting, “You really think she’ll show up?”
I have my doubts too. He passed her his card? What does that even mean? I try to picture it in my head, but the image is hilarious and now is not the time to bust a gut. Later.
Donald sliding a business card toward a bona fide movie star? She must have been shocked.
I glance at the hole cards for the next hand, already knowing I’ll be folding the hand unless the flop surprises the fuck out of me. And I don’t think it will.
“She’ll be here,” Donald insists, but I can hear the uncertainty underneath the words.
The man has made it his mission to power the world through bravado alone. If only it worked that way.
As someone approaches the table, I throw a glare at him and he slinks away. I don’t follow him with my gaze. I’m glad he didn’t think his balls were big enough to take the only other empty seat at the table, the one next to me.
The one meant for Quincy Wells. If she does show up.
Honestly, I didn’t expect him to even be able to talk to her. Of course, that’s only if I believe his story.
Would I be surprised if it’s complete bullshit? Fuck no. Is he the type of guy to go up to an actress and shoot his shot? Yup, the man knows no shame and he thinks far too highly of himself.
“I’m going to grab a drink,” Donald doesn’t seem at all deterred by the lack of response from me or Bruno.
I don’t watch him walk away, but when Bruno meets my gaze, I can’t help but smirk. His face remains stoic, but I don’t give a fuck. The man must know the kind of man his friend is.
Over the next few hands, I test the water now that Bruno is sitting at the table. Another player always changes the dynamic and where the cards land.
As the minutes pass, I wonder if I made a mistake coming here.
Sure, my concerns were valid; the last person I would hate to walk in here without anyone watching her back is Quincy.
Still, the longer I sit in this room, the more convinced I become that this is the last place she’ll end up at tonight.
There are so many more options for her. Why the fuck would she accept Donald’s invitation to an underground game? It’s almost laughable.
I’m organizing my chips from raking in the last pot and contemplating heading back to my room on the clubhouse floor of Elysium when the door opens. I don’t react or look over to see who has walked in. Then Bruno grunts and a sensation I’ve only had a few times in my life washes over me—a knowing.
My head snaps up far too fast and I’m met with the sight of Quincy Wells surveying the room like she owns the fucking place. I watch her closely as she looks around, only mildly surprised when her mask stays firmly in place. Then her eyes sweep over and lock with mine.
She’s not quick enough to stop the flare of surprise in her eyes and that little crack feels like a fucking triumphant victory. My chest puffs up with pride, but then Donald is rushing toward her and her shoulders tense slightly like she’s bracing for impact.
I desperately want to stand between her and anything that might be coming her way.
Wait.
What?
Have I ever had that kind of reaction to a woman before? I search my mind, but I come up with nothing.
Women have been fun and I’ve certainly appreciated any woman willing to give me some of her time while allowing me to indulge in her body. But that’s all it has ever been. I’ve been more than okay with it.
Thinking about more than that usually makes me feel itchy and like my skin is too tight.
But that’s not what I’m feeling right now.
“Quincy Wells,” Donald’s voice booms and the smile that graces my woman’s lips is forced as fuck.
Wait.
What?
My woman?
My heart starts to pound in my chest like my body is already very aware of something my mind has barely begun to grasp. Mine? She can’t be mine.
It’s ridiculous.
What would a woman like her want with me anyway? She’s not some patch chaser. Sure, maybe she’d want a roll in the sheets with a bad boy, but it couldn’t be more than that. Right?
“Well,” Quincy shrugs one of her shoulders, the motion casual, “you invited me to your game, and I figured getting a few hands in before tomorrow wouldn’t hurt.”
Her voice is polite, practiced and careful. I don’t like it.
I desperately want to hear what she would sound like moaning my name. Or how it would shake with a plea for more. Or the breathy sound of her falling apart underneath me.
Bruno mutters, “I can’t believe she actually showed.” I swear I hear a hint of disappointment in his voice and when he catches my gaze, he grunts under his breath.
If he’s thinking he’ll never hear the end of it now, he’s probably right. Poor guy. But you are your friends, so there’s that.
“Of course,” Donald’s arms become a flourish of movement as he leads Quincy in my direction.
To the middle table in the room. And the only seat still open because I made sure it was. Just in case.
Seems my plan has worked out for me. This time. It doesn’t always.
“This is the best seat in the house,” Donald’s voice oozes gold-plated charm.
Quincy’s eyes flick back to me and then down to my cut. When our gazes lock again, her brown eyes are filled with curiosity.
Not fear.
Donald’s voice is a far away buzz as she settles into the seat next to me. “Just club soda,” she tells him.
I blink a few times, surprised I didn’t even hear him ask her about a drink. If she thinks she’s drinking that club soda, she’s fucking wrong. I won’t let her drink a fucking drop of anything he hands to her.
He scurries away and before my brain and mouth can synch up, I blurt out, “You’re more pretty in person than in your movies.”
Quincy’s eyes widen and I contemplate making a run for it just as blush starts to slink up her neck toward her cheeks. It’s shocking, honestly. She must be told how good she looks all the time.
But I made her blush?
Fuck.
“Thanks,” her eyes flick down to my cut again, “Ace.”
I want to correct her and tell her to call me Hawkins, but I bite my tongue. What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Quincy Wells,” she offers me her hand, “nice to meet you.”
The moment I slide my hand into hers, something happens to me that makes no fucking sense. Everything beyond the way her small, smooth hand feels in mine disappears. The only thing remaining is her.
All of her.
Tingles flow over my skin starting from where we’re touching. My lips part slightly and my breath hitches. Something rattles in my chest and roars.
Mine.
Fuck. I feel dizzy.
And I’m sitting down.
This isn’t good.
Am I sick? Is this what a stroke feels like? Or maybe a heart attack?
My breathing deepens and my senses sharpen, but everything in me remains focused on the woman sitting next to me and her delicate hand engulfed in my calloused palm.
“Normally,” I lean toward her slightly, my voice dropping an octave, “I’m smoother than that.”
A genuine smile lights up her features as she allows her gaze to take another perusal of me. I like it when she looks at me the way she is right now. There’s a hunger in her eyes which has my cock thickening behind the fly of my jeans.
“I have no doubt that you are,” her voice is gentle with a lilt that makes me want to close my eyes and soak in her proximity.
Donald sets Quincy’s drink down with a gleam in his eyes I don’t trust even as he glances between us like he has some sort of ownership over my woman. He’s fucking wrong.
And I’ll be more than happy to prove it to him.
“I’ll let you play,” Donald says it like he’s doing her a favor, “but I expect us to chat later.”
“Thank you for the hospitality,” her words are sweet, but there’s an edge to them I already know our host is going to ignore.
From the way he lights up like she just promised he can father her first-born; he’s done exactly that. The thought of him touching her, of him even fantasizing about her, has me seeing red.
I don’t know how I’ll manage it, but I try to get the possessiveness thrumming through me under control. This woman is mine. I have no idea how I know, or how I’ll prove it to her, but I’ll figure it out.
I have to.