Chapter 2
VAUGHN
Twenty thousand dollars. Just left on the gambling table like it’s worthless scrap paper. Other men would lie or kill for that kind of money. To me, it’s boring. Ink on paper is a primitive tool, nothing more.
Richard Blackstone clings to these bills; he builds his deceptive empire on them, and that’s exactly why I’m going to tear it away from him. Down to the last cent. And tonight, I’m knocking over the first domino.
I track that exact domino in the wall mirror behind the bar.
Riley Blackstone is plowing through the crowd, heading straight for me. She actually thinks she’s the one holding the reins. She fancies herself the smart analyst unmasking the cunning card counter. I swirl the glass in my hand, suppressing a sarcastic smirk.
She reaches the bar and rests her forearms on the wood.
“Whiskey isn't exactly the right drink for a mathematical discussion,” she says.
I smile without showing my teeth. she radiates a forced confidence, but her fingers are gripping the edge of the bar way too tight.
“Luckily, the selection here is vast,” I reply, raising a hand toward the bartender. “Tequila for the lady. A double.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Ordering for me without asking?”
“The martini you just had was barely a warm-up. You need something that actually burns. Something to loosen you up.”
“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you look like someone who hasn't had any real fun in a long time.”
“And you’re the one people have fun with, are you?”
“Find out,” I answer, my voice thick with implication, “if you’re brave enough.”
The bartender sets the glass in front of her, and I see her hesitate. Normally, Riley Blackstone doesn't touch the hard stuff.
Then she lifts the glass. “To having fun.”
She knocks the shot back, winces, exhales sharply through her nose, and slides the empty glass across the bar.
“Respect,” I smile, offering her the stool next to me.
I push my empty glass forward and nod to the bartender, who immediately brings two fresh rounds of tequila.
“So, Riley, tell me about yourself. How old are you?”
“Thirty-one.”
A lie. She’s twenty-seven.
“And what’s the deal with your boring office job?”
“Nothing spectacular. I work in the back office for an accountant.”
The next lie. She’s the IT security expert for this entire casino.
“I can see why you’d need a little distraction then.”
“Enough questions about me,” she says finally. “What about you, Jack? How old are you, where are you from, and where did you learn to play cards so damn well?”
I shake my head slowly before answering. “I’m not making it that easy for you, Riley. To find all that out, you have to win a game.”
“A game?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don't play with strangers.”
“We take turns asking questions,” I state, ignoring her weak protest. “Whoever lies, drinks. Whoever refuses to answer, drinks double. Very simple math, Riley.”
She presses her lips together. Her gaze darts to the dome cameras on the ceiling, because she knows exactly that her own people are watching her right now. And she decides to give zero shits about it.
“Start,” she challenges me.
I lean my elbow on the bar and move closer to her. She doesn't back away a single millimeter.
“Why aren't you sitting in your air-conditioned office staring at monitors?” I ask.
She doesn't even blink. “Because a cheating player is manipulating my system, and I’m going to kick him out personally.”
“Truth,” I confirm. “Your turn.”
She tilts her head slightly. A stray red strand of hair falls across her face. “How did you manipulate that incredible winning streak at Blackjack?”
“Good memory,” I reply instantly. “I remember every single card played. No tricks.”
She snorts, amused. “You count cards. That’s forbidden here.”
“I break stupid rules all the time,” I counter, unfazed. “Do you like coffee?”
“Black,” she says.
“Truth.”
“What’s your real name?” she fires back.
I reach for my tequila. I drain the liquid down my throat. The alcohol spreads through my stomach.
A victorious smile lights up her face. “I knew it. Jack is a ridiculous alias.”
“It serves its purpose,” I say, waving the bartender over again. The next two glasses land on the wood. “Are you happy, Riley?”
The question catches her completely off guard. Her smile vanishes. She stares at the grain of the bar top. Her shoulders sag ever so slightly. I’ve touched a raw nerve she hides even from herself. She reaches for the glass and downs the tequila in one go.
“Lie by silence,” I remark. “You’re up.”
The alcohol is starting to hit her bloodstream. Her cheeks flush. The stiff posture gives way to a fluid ease. She turns completely toward me. Her knee brushes my thigh, and she doesn't pull it away. The unexpected contact sends a jolt through my muscles that I immediately crush.
“What do you want from me?” she asks softly.
“Your phone,” I answer truthfully. I look straight into her green eyes.
She bursts into a loud laugh. She thinks I’m making a cheesy pass at her. If she only knew.
“You’re damn direct,” she pants. “Normally guys ask for my number, not the whole device.”
“I’m not normal, Riley.” I move even closer. The heat of her body radiates through the thin fabric of her dress. “Have you ever broken one of your father’s rules?”
She laughs and reaches for the next tequila. She drinks.
We play this game for a full hour. The empty glasses stack up in front of us, and with every round, she loses another layer of inhibition. She debates probabilities with me, insults my taste in music, and makes faces that actually make me chuckle.
“You’re cheating,” she slurs eventually. She props her head in her hand. A crooked smile curls her lips. “You’re drinking much less than I am.”
“I lie less often than you do,” I retort. I lay my hand flat on the bar. Millimeters from hers.
“That’s bullshit,” she says. She taps my hand with her index finger. “You’re a walking mystery. You wear this expensive suit to hide your true intentions. You play the elite winner, but in reality, you’re looking for something else.”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“Drink,” she commands.
I take the glass and knock it back.
She grins triumphantly, shifting on the barstool. The music in the casino shifts to a much faster tempo.
“I’m so hot,” she mumbles, fanning herself with her free hand.
“That’s because of the cameras monitoring your every move,” I reply. “Your father is probably watching you get drunk in real-time.”
Her smile freezes instantly. The mere thought of Blackstone’s total control pulls her back to reality. I see the pure resentment on her face. She doesn't want to go back into that cage.
“We should change locations,” I suggest, standing up.
“Where to?” she asks, blinking up at me.
“We’re going outside,” I decide. I offer her my hand. “We’re leaving this suffocating place behind. We’ll hit the Strip. No cameras. No rules. Just probabilities.”
She stares at my outstretched hand. The tequila has washed away every rational objection and logical doubt. The pent-up rebellion takes over.
Riley places her delicate hand in mine. I close my fingers firmly around hers and pull her off the stool.
She stumbles slightly, but I catch her.
“Okay,” she whispers, looking up at me. “Let’s go, Jack.”
We weave our way through the slot machines to the exit. I play my role to absolute perfection. I am the dominant stranger, her ticket to freedom. I push back the guilt. By tomorrow morning, I’ll be the biggest mistake of her sheltered life.
Don’t stop now!
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