Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
“She’s wasted. How the hell did she get a seat at the table?” the asshole with the hair quiff sitting opposite me, bitches. He walked in late, knocked a tray of drinks over, and sat down with us like he owned the place about an hour ago. Matt, who I met at a different card game about six months ago, is hosting today and looked tense when the newcomer entered the penthouse. Matt’s family is new money. His mother is in tech and made some nano chip device that repairs skin cells or something cool like that.
The skittish blond to my right squirms and fidgets with his chips, making a light clacking sound.
“All in,” I say confidently, his attitude sobering me a little, shoving my chips to the middle of the table. Six sets of eyes land on me, accessing. Some are still in the game, but most already folded.
“I’m out,” the lovely black man to my left declares, throwing his hand down. Mark, I think he said his name was. He bought me a drink earlier and pulled out my chair for me to sit. I feel a slight twinge of guilt taking his money and a flicker of irritation that I didn’t make him add the diamond encrusted Rolex on his wrist to the pile.
“Your move.” I grin at the quiff eyeballing me from across the table. Sipping my drink, I give nothing away as the tension builds. His eye twitches, telling me he has a shit hand. It’s been his tell since his first hand was dealt. Tension leaks from Matt, his knee bouncing, his thick fingers curling into a fist at the edge of the table.
Gritting his teeth, the asshole throws his cards down and shoves his chair back, making it screech against the tiled floor as he stands. “What did you have?” he demands, jerking his head to the cards balanced between my fingers and thumb.
“Nicolas, let’s get you another drink.” Matt gets to his feet, patting the sore loser on the back, then signals for the cute bartender he hired for the game to bring another round. Her hair is the color of burning embers. Freckles scatter along the bridge of her nose and cheeks like constellations in the prettiest of skies.
“Fuck off, Mick. I want to see what she has,” the quiff fumes, placing his hands on the table as he leans forward. Is that supposed to be intimidating? I think I could take him even while being half cut.
“It’s Matt.” Matt exhales, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Fucking hell, Carnell, we went to school together for six years.” I giggle into my glass, and the blond beside me hurries to scoop up his remaining chips before getting to his feet and skating around the table, putting space between himself and this shit show.
“Is that supposed to mean something?” Quiff scoffs, sneering at poor Matt. What a douchebag. Wait—did he call him Carnell? Carnell…I know that name.
Where do I know it from…?
Sighing, I flick my wrist, sending my cards skittering across the green felt. “Two pair.” I throw my hands out like a magician at the end of a trick. Ta-da, asshole.
“Aces and kings,” someone else pipes up.
Pocket-rockets, motherfucker.
“Cash me out, Matt,” I say, standing, having to lean on Rolex guy’s shoulder. “Oops, sorry.” I snigger when I wobble on my feet. Lights suddenly switch on, bathing the open space in bright white, making me squint. The orange ball in the sky is setting, streaking the sky in rays of red. The view from the floor-to-ceiling windows is amazing, like you can reach out and touch the heavens. It would hurt on the way down if you did, though. Easily twenty floors, maybe more. Splat.
“Let’s play again,” Carnell barks, his voice dousing my buzz.
“Sorry,” I say, shrugging a shoulder. “I have an appointment.” And you’re a sore loser with anger issues.
Michael Carnell! That’s where I know that name.
“Where the fuck do you need to be?”
Wow, this asshole really doesn’t like to lose. I bet it’s because I’m a woman. All the brothers get butt hurt losing their money to me. Sexist pigs. Makes it even more fun taking their cash.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m getting a tattoo.” Cutter always says my body is his when he’s not throwing me away like a dirty secret. Well, it’s not. It’s mine, and I’ve always wanted a tattoo.
“You shouldn’t really drink before getting a tattoo. Alcohol thins the blood.” The deep baritone sends a warm tremble up my spine. I smile with my teeth at the Rolex doctor Mark guy.
“Good to know, doc.”
“You need a ride somewhere?” Matt asks me, bringing an iPad over, frowning as he watches Carnell watching me. The screen shows the completed bank transfer made to my account. Nice.