Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 63862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
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.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Gazes moved from Harrison to me, curiosity piqued, brows raised.
“You two know each other?” the woman asked.
“He’s—”
“Her husband,” Harrison finished when I hesitated.
“Husband?” the woman asked, her gaze going pointedly to my left hand.
“Yeah, about that,” Harrison said, smooth charm oozing from his pores as he reached into his pocket. “You left these in the kitchen.”
He set the rings down toward the center of the table as he sat down across from me.
“Because I want a divorce,” I said, lifting my chin. And refusing to admit even to myself that I was happy to see those rings again.
One of the men at the table whistled. The movie star mumbled “drama” under his breath in a tone that suggested he was delighted about it.
“They’re yours regardless,” Harrison said, unbothered by my airing our dirty laundry out in public.
The woman took the rings and moved them close to me. “When a man says to keep expensive jewelry, you keep it,” she said, her voice only for the two of us.
I snatched them off the table and shoved them on my finger, annoyed with how relieved I felt with the weight of them there again.
“Let’s just play,” I said, glancing over at the dealer.