Page 48 of Going All In

She passes her phone to me, the three profiles lined up on the screen. I click on the first one.

Peter, age twenty-eight. Software engineer. Loves cats.

I exit out. Nope. Cats are a red flag for me. There’s no way I’d be able to pretend to be into him, even for a day.

I click on the next one.

Kyle, twenty-three.

I look at JJ. “Really? Twenty-three?” Like that’s going to play well in front of my family.

She shrugs.

I delete him as an option. I’m sure he’s a very nice person, just like Mr. Cat Lover. But we’re on a mission here.

Option three looks cute in his picture thumbnail. I click on it to zoom in. Zachary, age thirty. Perfect. I read through his profile. There’s a photo of him with a dog.Ding.A photo of him out in nature, hiking.Ding.A list of things he loves—among them, true crime podcasts and crime TV shows.

Ding, ding, ding.We have a winner, folks. Great on paper and might just be willing to help me out.

I look at JJ. “Set it up.”

16

MADDOX

The best and worst part of road tripping to Atlantic City for a poker tournament with your friends is, in fact, your friends. At least if they’re like my crew.

The tournament starts Wednesday. Because of the mid-week start, we’re not expecting a big turnout, and we’re all hoping that will work out in our favor. Cam is driving his Subaru, and I’m praying to any god that will listen that the commercials are true.

The snow is falling in flurries, but Cam is driving as though it’s a summer day in Miami. No regard for the icy roads or for the fact that everyone else on the road has slowed down considerably. He’s pushing the speed limit and passing cars that dare to slow him down.

The commercials swear that this car is both good in snow and solid in a collision. I’m praying for the first and hoping we don’t have to test out the second.

Next time, I’m driving.

“How are things with your chick?” Cam asks as he cuts off a Jeep.

“Jesus! You’re going to give me a heart attack. Things are fine, same as they’ve been. Slow the fuck down.” I cling to the little handle above the window.

I’m pretty sure the factories install them for this exact scenario, or for parents teaching their kids to drive. I remember my dad holding onto it when he was teaching me to drive around cones in the high school parking lot.

Cam laughs, moving into the left lane to pass a semi-truck. “So, you’re not getting laid.”

Blake and Miller chuckle from the backseat. I send them withering glares, and their laughter fades. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m taking it slow with Holly. I’m respecting her boundaries. Good things take time.”

Miller snorts behind me. I reach back to smack him but catch Blake’s side instead.

“Ow! That wasn’t even me, asshole,” he protests.

“Pass it on. Anyway, the point is, we’re fine. Things are fine. Holly and I are fine.” I realize too late that I saidfineone too many times.

“So, it’s fine?” Cam slams on the brakes as the car in front of us slows. Thank god for anti-lock brakes and snow tires. “I wasn’t sure from your description.”

My dad always trained me to never hit the driver, because you didn’t want to distract them. I think he told me it was illegal, like turning on the dome light when someone is driving at night. I curl my hands into fists. Thirty more miles to Atlantic City, then this joker is getting a black eye.

Blake, ever the peacemaker, cuts in. “So. Cam. How are things with Ellie?”

“We broke up,” he grunts.

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