Page 61 of Take Me, Sir

Kyndall

This was all my fault, and I knew it wasn't unjustified guilt I was feeling. Stanley Maverick had kidnapped my one-year-old nephew in partial retaliation, and partial blackmail, because I'd kicked his ass in poker twice. And the worst part of it was that I hadn't even had a good excuse to be gambling in the first place, and definitely not to clean him out. It wasn't like I'd been desperate for money for something important, or even something unimportant.

If I hadn't been screwing around with my life instead of finding a real job, instead of being a responsible adult, then I wouldn't have received a picture of my nephew four hours ago. A picture that showed him playing with today's newspaper and laughing at the masked man who held him. Before my brain had been able to fully process what I'd seen, I'd gotten another text with simple instructions and an address.

When I'd arrived here, Stanley Maverick had been waiting. He'd at least been clear about what was expected of me, and what the consequences would be should I decline or fail. Simply put, I was the one playing for the house today, and if I didn't take everything from everyone, my nephew would be the one to pay.

But I couldn't think about any of that right now. I'd been playing for three hours straight, and even a brain like mine needed a break now and then, especially with outside stressors. I couldn't ask for one though. Maverick had guys watching my every move, and I'd had to stay at the table when others had gone off so no one would notice that I had a little entourage.

Maverick was technically playing for the house so no one else could know that I was too. While Stanley had money and power, he was hardly the only one at the table with it. I might not have recognized the other faces or names, but I knew expensive suits and watches.

And I knew how to spot a man who was used to scaring, buying, or bullying his way into whatever he wanted.

Every man at this table had that look.

The knot in my stomach tightened even more, and I was thankful – not for the first time – that I hadn't had much to eat today. I shot a sideways glance toward the heavy-set Puerto Rican to my right. He'd taken two cards and was now scratching his eyebrow.

A tell.

Which meant I'd counted correctly and he had three of a kind. Fives.

Good.

I flicked my gaze toward Stanley who was working overtime to try to keep his expression blank, but that was another tell. Some people thought that no reaction at all was the best sort of poker face, but I'd learned that most people leaned toward that with one extreme or the other, when they were either going to attempt a bluff or if they had a great hand. If their hand was mediocre, they'd relax a bit more.

According to the count I'd been keeping – including the dealer swapping out the deck once already – Maverick was holding a straight flush in hearts, from a six up. Tough to beat.

The quiet, dark-haired man on my left took three cards, then scowled. A pair of sixes.

I looked down at the cards in my hand. A ten and a Jack of diamonds. Three of a kind in clubs. I couldn't beat Stanley with what I had, so I could either keep it and bluff, fold and cut my losses for this hand, or I could trust that nothing had distracted me and ask for three cards.

I thought of Anthony and looked at the pile of chips on the table. If I took the risk, I was only a couple of hands away from ending the game and getting my nephew back. If I folded or if I was wrong, Stanley would win the current pot, but the game would keep going even longer.

I handed over three cards and tucked some hair behind my ear. I usually swapped around my style, and since I knew that the stress of the situation would hurt my ability to maintain the same expression for hours on end, I'd decided to go to the other extreme with excess tells. I played with my hair whether the hand was good or bad. Chewed my bottom lip. Smiled at four of a kind one time, and then at a pair the next. Frowned when I had a straight and when I had a flush.

As I accepted my new cards, I braced myself for something unexpected, but they were exactly what I needed to make a straight flush with a nine, ten, Joker, Queen, and King of diamonds.

The insults the Puerto Rican sent my way weren't anything I hadn't heard before and were easy to ignore. The quiet guy, however, leaned over and grabbed my wrist, squeezing hard enough to make the bones grind together.

I gritted my teeth against the pain and glared at him. I had enough shit to deal with; I wasn't interested in whatever this guy's problem was.

“No one's as lucky as you've been,” he said, a dangerous edge to his words. “I heard you walked out of two other games this month with big wins, and the only way that happens is if you cheated.”

I kept my gaze steady. “You think I'm hiding cards? Take a good look at what I'm wearing. No sleeves. No collar. And my hands have been on the table the whole time. You want to roll up your sleeves so we can see if you've got something up them?”

“I'm no cheat,” he said coldly.

“Neither am I.” At least about that, I was telling the truth. Casinos might've thought of counting cards as cheating, but I never had. Using one's natural intelligence and talents to keep track of an entire fifty-two card deck was no more cheating than someone who had a knack for deceit and used it to bluff. That was my opinion anyway, though I doubted he'd share it.

“This is my game,” Stanley cut in. “And I'm losing to the bitch too, but if I don't say she's cheating, then she ain't.”

The quiet man kept staring at me for half a minute more, then released my wrist, giving Stanley a bored glance before settling back in his chair.

I pulled the chips toward me, pretending that my wrist wasn't throbbing. The man's fingers had left marks on my skin that I was sure would end up being bruises, but I wasn't worried about that. My own safety only mattered as it connected to Anthony. As long as he was okay, nothing else mattered.

As I watched the cards being dealt yet again, I made a promise to myself, and to whoever or whatever force was listening, that I would never put my family in danger again. When this was over, I would do whatever it took to make amends, even if it meant my brother never speaking to me again, never being able to be around my family. I deserved whatever consequences came as a result of my actions.

I'd go back to Cambridge, start an honest life back there. Or maybe someplace new on the East Coast. Boston or Philadelphia maybe. I'd take whatever job I could find. Throw myself into doing some good with the gifts I'd been given.

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