Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
The one section of Aces that I haven’t really checked out is the Clubs section. It’s the area where patrons smoke cigars, cigarettes, hookah, and occasionally weed. I’m not much of a smoker, so it’s never been my scene. But it’s outfitted with green leather chairs, which happen to be the closest seating to the Hearts section. I take a seat.
“Cigarette, sir?”
I crane my neck around to the scraggly voice. An old man—very old, at least ninety—sporting long white hair, a crooked nose, and a battered tux with tails is holding out a silver tray with an array of cigarettes of varying brands splayed across its surface.
I hold up a hand. “Sorry, sir. I’m not much of a smoker.”
The old man cocks his head. “I’m afraid you have to be smoking if you’d like to stay in the Clubs section, sir. Aces rules.”
I raise an eyebrow. “By whose authority?”
He grins. “Rouge’s, of course.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course.”
“The rules are the same in the other sections. You can’t be in Spades without a drink, nor can you stay in Diamonds if you’re not playing or watching a game.”
“But I’m a doctor. A cardiothoracic surgeon who oversees a lot of lung transplants. Those things”—I gesture to the cigarettes—“are behind half the issues my patients face.”
The old man bows his head. “Of course, sir. Perhaps a cigar then? You need not inhale.”
I open my mouth to tell him that cigars contain the exact same cancer-causing ingredients as cigarettes when I realize something.
I’m healthy. I eat well, hit the gym five times a week. Take lots of walks.
And it’s been ages since I treated myself to a cigar. Even longer since I had a cigarette.
I rarely treat myself. I know they’re addictive, that they cause all kinds of health problems.
I can’t remember my last cigarette, but I’ll always remember my first.
That terrible day at the Dimpsey house.
That, more than the health risks, is why I so rarely smoke.
But tonight is different.
And if what this old man is saying is true, I’ll have to smoke something if I want to sit here and listen to Bianca’s set.
Might as well make a good memory.
“What brands of cigars do you have, Mister…”
He twitches his eyebrows. “Night, sir. Mr. Night.”
“With a K?”
He shakes his head. “Night as in nighttime.”
That’s a fake name if I ever heard it. But it fits the club.
Mr. Night turns around, grabs another tray from the counter at the center of the Clubs section, and returns. “Our most popular brands that we carry include Arturo Fuente, Cohiba, Montecristo, and Padron. Any of those strike your fancy?”
“Cohibas are from Cuba, correct?”
“Yes sir. We get them imported weekly.” He lowers his voice. “Smuggled over since the embargo went into effect.”
“I’ll take one of those, then.”
Mr. Night places the tray on a table next to my chair. He extends his long, bony fingers and wraps them around the Cohiba cigar. He produces a cutter from the inner pocket of his jacket. “How would you like it cut?”
“Straight, thanks.”
“Very well.” He cuts the end off the cigar and hands it to me. “Light?”
“If you have one.”
“I always have a light, Dr. O’Rourke.” Quick as a flash for a man of his advanced years, he snaps a lighter emblazoned with a club symbol out of his pants pocket. He flips the lid open, triggers the igniting mechanism, and a small green flame erupts.
I stare at the tiny flame. “How do you make it green?”
“Rouge made the lighter herself. It contains small traces of copper to match the color of the Clubs section.”
Of fucking course. I chose the green section. I can’t escape that damned color for the life of me.
I place the Cohiba in my mouth and Mr. Night brings the lighter to its foot. I take a few puffs—wow, I forgot how delicious Cuban tobacco is—and my cigar is lit.
“That Cohiba there should keep you entertained for several hours, Doctor,” Mr. Night says.
“Thank you.”
He turns and attends to another Aces patron. I take a few more drags from the cigar, relishing the taste.
And I realize.
How the hell did Mr. Night know my name?
6
BIANCA
All these years later, I still get a little stage fright before I start performing.
It’s a good thing. I had a teacher at OCU tell me that if I’m not experiencing a little anxiety before going onstage, then I don’t care enough about the performance. If I don’t care enough, I won’t be focused. If I’m not focused, I’ll make careless mistakes.
Of course, I still make mistakes all the time onstage. They’re usually not noticeable.
Just imagine the amount of flubs I’d make if I didn’t have stage fright.
My pianist, Ewan, bows his head to me as he walks in and takes his seat at his pink baby grand.
Just like the waitstaff and the bartenders, he’s not allowed to talk while on Aces property. None of the musicians in my band are.