Chapter Twelve
“Seriously?” I grumbled when I walked out of my hotel to see the driver, John, leaning against his SUV. “You’re here?”
John’s lips twitched.
“It’s my job,” he reminded me.
“I’ve been holed up in the hotel for three days.”
“You have,” he agreed, nodding.
“You’ve been sitting out here for three days?”
“Not the whole time, no.”
Oh, good.
“I had a room to catch some sleep.”
“You had a room? In this hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you go home?”
“In case you needed me.”
“You… you haven’t been back to your life in three days? That’s insane.”
“That’s the job.”
“God, I hope he pays you insanely well for this.”
“It’s worth the time put in,” he said.
“So, what would you do if I just… took off on foot?”
“I guess I would need to follow you in case you need me.”
“What? Would he be pissed at you if you didn’t follow me?” Was he giving Harrison a blow-by-blow of everything I did?
“No. But this is my job.”
“Does he contact you?”
“He gives me his calendar in case you ask.”
“Do you know I’m trying to divorce him?”
“That’s not really my business.”
“He won’t sign the papers.”
John sat with that a second before nodding. “I think he is hoping you will come around.”
“I won’t.”
“That’s your business,” he said, shrugging.
“You’ll be out of a job when the divorce is final.”
“I’ll be reallocated.” His smile was a little playful then. “So there’s no reason to make your life more difficult. Just accept the ride.”
“Fine,” I grumbled, making my way to the car.
“Where are we heading?” he asked.
“The airport.”
“The airport?” he asked, brows raised.
“Yes.”
He recovered from the surprise quickly. “JFK?” he asked after closing my door and slipping into the driver’s seat.
“Newark. With a quick stop at whatever box store we pass.”
I had to pick up some clothes for the trip. Normally, I would have gone back to my hometown to trade out clothes, get my duffle bag. But I didn’t really want to run into my family if the news of my ‘marriage’ had started to spread.
I’d been holed up at a hotel in the city, living out of my purse and ordering takeout and delivery of basic essentials.
I’d originally gotten a room because I was just too tired from overthinking about the whole hooking-up thing and didn’t want to go back to my cousin’s house and have to talk about it yet.
Then I’d just stayed while trying to figure out what my next move might be.
I talked to my lawyer.
I did research online.
I got bummed when everything said the same thing: if I didn’t get him to sign, I would just have to wait for court.
Then, because I wanted a distraction from my mood, I put feelers out about any big games going on.
There weren’t any tournaments going on right then, but after some calling and texting around, I found a solid underground game that sounded worth a trip. If for no other reason than just as a distraction from my mind that was going places I really didn’t want it to go.
“Do you need me to arrange a driver for where you are going?”
“I’ll probably just get a ride-share from LAX,” I said.
Los Angeles was a somewhat walkable area once I got from the airport to my hotel. Though I didn’t have details for the location of the game yet, just a contact who would send them to me closer to the time.
That probably would set a lot of people’s hair on edge, but I was used to these weird backroom, secret society, hush-hush type events.
I’d only ever been to two or three that involved actual criminals.
Normally, it was just the wealthy and famous people who insisted on this strict kind of protocol. And since it was LA, I imagined it was a few actors, directors, or influencers that would be there.
I preferred to play against actual pros, but maybe people who took it less seriously would be better for my needs right then. More casual conversation, more invitations for other fun things to do to keep my mind busy for a few days.
Then I could move forward with the possible court date and facing my family and all that unpleasantness.
The ride to the store then to the airport was mostly silent, but the noise on the flight was so overwhelming that it made it impossible to think straight for the next six and a half hours.
As I walked through the airport, the thought on my mind was that it kind of sucked not to have a first-class upgrade.
But determined not to think of anything associated with Harrison, I tamped down that line of thinking, got my ride-share, got lunch, checked into my hotel, and located a local shop to buy something to wear to the poker game the next night.
Typically, backroom games didn’t demand suits or dresses like special rooms in towns like Vegas.
I’d been to many tables with some people in full-on gowns like they’d just come from an awards show sitting across from someone in food-and sweat-stained tees.
The appeal of the games was usually more about doing something that no one else knew about, that wasn’t content on their socials, or where they’d be papped.
It was fun for people of means and celebrity to be able to feel like they were ‘getting away with’ something or having secrets that no one else knew about.
The games were less challenging than with other pros, but also more light and fun.
Which was exactly what I was hoping for the next day as I slipped into a pair of black jeans and a black tee, since there was too much of a nip in the spring night air to wear the dress I’d originally planned on.
To balance it out, I slipped my feet into heels, fluffed my hair, and put a little more makeup on than usual.
I stuffed the cash at the bottom of my bag and made my way down to the lobby to wait for my ride-share.
I felt decent.
Good, even.
I’d gone without thinking about Harrison for a whole hour.
Dammit.
I guess I had to reset that clock again.
My initial directions were vague.
Downtown LA - east of Alameda.
It wasn’t until I texted my contact that I was getting close that more instructions came in.
“Are you sure?” my driver, a middle-aged woman who didn’t seem to like the look of the area, asked.
And, yeah, it was a little on the creepy side.
During the day and early evenings, the Arts District was pretty bustling. But it was late. Security gates were down. People drifted around, but not many.
“Yeah,” I said, forcing some pep into my voice so she didn’t worry. “It’s an after-hours gallery show,” I said, nodding toward the gallery in question.
It was a quiet, unassuming brick building with one plate glass window.
But the curtain was drawn and it seemed dark from the outside.
“Do you want me to wait to make sure?”
Maybe a part of me did.
I felt a little chill slide down my arms.
But I gave her a smile and a nice tip on the app. “Nope! I’m good. Thanks!”
I slid out of the car and reminded myself not to clutch my purse too tightly, to look like I was trying to protect my goods.
So, shoulders back, gait quick but not scared, I made my way to the gallery front door and knocked.
“Yeah?”
“Onomatopoeia,” I said, glancing back over my shoulder when I heard voices drifting closer. I saw no one, though, just long shadows that could hide just about anyone.
But the door unlocked and pulled open.
Light spilled out onto the sidewalk.
Music drifted into the air.
And the tension slid from my shoulders.
Then there he was.
One of the most famous actors in the country. His brown hair tousled, wearing a hideous Hawaiian shirt, yellow shorts, and flip-flops. It was a far cry from the action-movie-hero look everyone associated him with.
“Are you the pro?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“If by ‘pro’ you mean a sex worker or professional poker player.”
That got a little chuckle out of him as he moved aside to let me into the gallery.
So.
It isn’t actually a back-room game.
The whole gallery was to be our playground, likely thanks to a nice chunk of money handed off to one of the employees, if not the owner himself.
The walls were lined with canvases. To the left, the modern splashy style I wasn’t smart or cool enough to understand.
To the right were darker, almost macabre canvases featuring glossy beautiful people with dark, subhuman creatures acting as their shadows.
Surely something to do with the ugly side of some of the most beautiful people.
Directly in the center of the room sat a hilariously normal set of tan-colored folding tables.
That was probably one of my favorite things about these back-room games. There was almost no effort put into them. Folding chairs and tables were the norm. Not like the fancy poker tables and cigar-puffing men in suits like you saw in movies.
I recognized a woman at the table, but I couldn’t place her. Maybe a singer? A reality TV star? I wasn’t sure.
The other men around the table were strangers to me, but two of them had that air to them that you only found in very wealthy individuals, and the third was hilariously and effortlessly funny.
The dealer seemed like he might be a retired pro from Vegas or Atlantic City—quiet, efficient, uninterested in anything but setting up the game.
It seemed like a good table.
I was offered champagne and cheap chain restaurant pizza as everyone lingered around.
“Are we waiting for someone?” I asked as I took a seat facing the door, taking a bite of my pizza.
“I think we’re waiting for one more,” the movie star said, turning his wrist to check his smart watch for the time.
“Anyone know who?” the woman asked.
“Buddy of mine who was in town,” one of the suits said, shrugging. “He’s a good player.”
And I, stupidly, thought nothing of it.
Not until I was fiddling with my chips.
Then the front door opened.
There was our final player.
My goddamn husband.
“You can’t be serious.”