22. Griffin
GRIFFIN
T he poker table blurs around me as my mind drifts back to last night’s elevator encounter. Her lips on mine. Her taste, her touch, the way she pressed against me. The soft sounds she made when I kissed her neck. Then abruptly shoving me out into the hallway, leaving me aching and confused.
The climb up six more flights of stairs afterward hadn’t been my idea of a romantic ending. Neither was getting jumped by one of Malcolm Chase’s goons on the twenty-first floor landing.
I’m still puzzling over the whole situation when Chase clears his throat. “Your bet, McGregor. Unless you’re folding?”
I snap back to reality, where four grim-faced players watch me like hawks circling prey.
My chip stack sits pathetically small compared to the mountains in front of Chase and the Korean player, Mr. Song.
There are only five of us left in the game, down from ten players.
Me, Chase, Mr. Song, the Texan, and that smug-faced Brit, Durand. If that’s even his real name.
“Counting your losses already?” Chase smirks, tapping the table near my dwindling chips.
“Counting the ways I’ll spend your money,” I reply, forcing a confident smile despite the dire odds.
Victor, the professional poker player in my ear keeps assuring me I can still win this, but I’m starting to wonder if he’s been day-drinking.
“I raise,” announces Mr. Song, his shiny manicured fingers pushing forward a small mountain of chips. His social media followers would eat this moment up.
“Rough night, McGregor?” Malcolm smirks across the table. “That’s quite a cut you’ve got there. Stairs can be treacherous, no?”
I touch the fresh gash above my eyebrow, courtesy of his stairwell goon. “Walked into a door.”
Malcolm’s eyes glitter with cold amusement. He knows. Of course he knows. His henchman probably called him right after I left the guy half-unconscious sprawled across the emergency exit landing.
“Must’ve been quite a door,” Malcolm murmurs, turning a chip over and over again at his fingertips.
I force a smile. The memory flashes vivid. Stumbling up the stairs, still dizzy from Anika’s kiss. When a shadow detached from the wall. The glint of steel. My hockey reflexes kicking in as I ducked, the knife missing my eye by millimeters.
“A straight draw,” whispers Victor in my ear. “Play it cool.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not sitting across from his boss, who sent an assassin to attack his star goalie.
Chase leans back, his expensive suit jacket unbuttoning to reveal a tacky green silk vest underneath. The man dresses like a cartoon villain, complete with a pocket square matching his tie. How have I not noticed that before?
He catches me looking and smiles like that shark in Finding Nemo . “Are we playing cards or having a staring contest, McGregor?”
Fish are friends. Not food.
I stare at my cards. Not spectacular, but not terrible either.
The flop reveals a Queen of Spades, Ten of Hearts, and King of Spades. My pulse quickens. I might actually have something here.
“What’s it gonna be, boy?” The Texan taps his thick fingers on the felt. “We don’t have all night.”
My earpiece crackles. “Stay in. Song is bluffing. He’s got nothing but air and overconfidence.”
I glance at Mr. Song, who’s busy taking selfies.
“I’ll see your bet,” I tell Song, pushing forward a matching stack of chips. “And raise you another fifty thousand.”
I glance across at Elodie, who gives me an almost imperceptible nod.
“You want to dance, Canadian?” Song asks, peeking over his phone. “Let’s dance.” He actually dances in his chair, singing a K-pop song to himself, and shoves forward his remaining chips.
Durand studies his chips, his face unreadable. His eyes flick toward the bar where Anika stands. My stomach clenches. Why does he keep looking at her? Something’s off about that guy. He’s not who he says he is.
“Mr. Durand?” the dealer prompts.
Durand sighs dramatically. “I believe discretion serves me better tonight.” He tosses his cards face-down on the table.
The Texan grunts something unintelligible and raises.
Chase leans back in his chair, observing me with the calculating stare of a predator.
“I’ll call,” he says smoothly, matching the bet.
Now it’s my turn again. Victor whispers urgently, “Go all in. Trust me. The Texan’s bluffing with garbage.”
“All in,” I announce, shoving my entire stack forward.
A ripple of excitement passes through the spectators lining the walls of the private gaming room. Among them, I spot Anika by the bar, stunning in a silver cocktail dress. Our eyes lock for half a second before she turns away, pretending I don’t exist.
Women. One minute they’re kissing you senseless in an elevator, the next they’re conspiring with mysterious British Pierce Brosnan wannabes.
“Bold move, McGregor,” Malcolm says with a sly grin. What a tool. He really thinks he’s going to win this thing.
“Like my grandma always says,” I reply with a wink. “Go big or go home.”
If the man paid any attention to the Titans games, he’d know I play to win.
“Show your cards, gentlemen,” the dealer announces.
We reveal our cards. My flush beats Chase’s two pair, but Mr. Song turns over pocket aces, giving him a set of three.
But the Ace of Spades on the river completed my flush while improving his hand to three of a kind. Not enough.
“Flush beats three of a kind,” the dealer announces. “Mr. McGregor wins this hand.”
The Texan slams his fist on the table hard enough to make the chips jump.
“Sorry, boys,” I say, “The ice isn’t the only place I can win.”
Mr. Song stands, adjusting his glasses and designer jacket.
“This has been most illuminating,” he says, his thick Korean accent clipped. “My followers will find my misfortune quite amusing.”
He pulls out his phone, positions it for a selfie with the poker table behind him, and begins recording…in perfect unaccented English.”
“Omigosh, you guys! I can’t believe what happened! Poker vibes were not on point today! Hashtag poker fail. Hashtag High Roller Problems. Hashtag Win Some You Lose Some. Hashtag Still Richer Than You.”
He flashes a peace sign, captures his sad face for posterity, and continues his performance. “Make sure to swipe up for my Patreon! Love you all! Hashtag Poker Life.”
“We will take a fifteen-minute break,” the dealer announces.
The Texan pushes back from the table, his face red as a watermelon.
Chase maintains his composure, but his knuckles whiten as he grips the edge of the table.
He narrows his eyes at me. “Luck favors the bold. Or perhaps…the assisted?”
My stomach drops. Does he suspect the earpiece? He doesn’t wait for my answer before he gets up to go for a smoke.
As the players disperse, Song continues his theatrical social media meltdown, now filming himself walking backward out of the private room. “Remember to like and subscribe! Even when you lose ten million euros! Hashtag Real Life. Hashtag Transparency Matters.”
With a small bow to the remaining players in the room, he exits, followed by his entourage of women.
Rising from my chair, I feel the room spin slightly. Four hours of intense concentration plus whatever happened in that stairwell has my head pounding.
I glance toward the bar. Anika is gone. So is Durand. A cold feeling settles in my gut. I’m about to run outside when Elodie materializes at my elbow.
“Quite the comeback,” she says. “Your luck seems to have turned.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” I hiss. “And you know it.”
Elodie’s nails dig into my arm like a bird of prey.
“I need some air,” I announce, peeling her fingers off my arm one by one. “And possibly a tetanus shot.”
“Don’t wander too far,” she singsongs. “You have a game to win.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say with a grin guaranteed to annoy. “Beating Malcolm Chase is rapidly becoming my favorite hobby.”
I make my escape, weaving through the casino’s labyrinth of slot machines and blackjack tables, scanning faces in the crowd.
No sign of Anika or her mysterious British companion.
My earpiece crackles with static, someone speaking too far from their microphone, maybe.
I yank it out and stuff it in my pants pocket.
The casino’s oppressive luxury is beginning to suffocate me.
Outside on the terrace, the crisp air slaps my face. Stars pepper the night sky above St. Moritz, impossibly bright and breathtakingly beautiful. My breath clouds in front of me, reminding me I left my jacket inside.
A figure stands alone, silver dress shimmering in the moonlight. Anika. She’s hugging herself against the cold, her bare shoulders pebbled with goosebumps.
My heart does a stupid little flip. So much for my legendary calm under pressure.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, approaching slowly like she might bolt. “Come here often?”
She turns, moonlight catching the planes of her face. “Griffin.”
The way she says my name sends warmth coursing through me despite the cold.
“Where’s your British bodyguard?” I ask, scanning the terrace.
“He’s not my bodyguard.” She wraps her arms around herself, fighting off the chill.
Without thinking, I sweep a stray hair from her cheek. She doesn’t pull away.
“You’re bleeding again,” she murmurs, studying the cut above my eyebrow. Her fingers hover near the wound without touching. “I heard you got attacked last night. In the stairwell.”
My hand automatically rises to the cut above my eyebrow. “News travels fast.”
“Are you okay?”
“Never better. My face broke his fist, poor guy.”
She rolls her eyes but can’t quite suppress her smile.
“How did you know about the stairwell?”
“Wil…er, I mean the British man told me.” She turns toward the mountains, moonlight catching her profile.
“The British man? Durand? Did he orchestrate the attack?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
Anika stares at me, eyes narrowing. “Why would you think that?”