Page 16 of Dead Man's Hand

“Watch your back,” James said. “You’re in the Grandvilles’ sandbox and we already know that they don’t play nice.”

SADIETOLDHERSELFthat she was ready. In the days since she’d arrived here, she hadn’t seen DJ. She’d missed him. Knowing that this might be their last poker game together had her feeling melancholy. She’d known from the beginning that one day it would end. DJ would have paid off his uncle’s debt. They would have no reason to see each other.

Her future felt hollow. She really hadn’t realized how much she was going to miss that arrogant grin of his. Or the way she often found him looking at her. Every time, she saw that gleam in his eyes, it warmed her clear to her toes. She kept telling herself that she’d never fall for his charm. She didn’t want to be one of his women. But now she could admit that the thought of never seeing him again made her ache with longing.

She was looking forward to tonight’s game just to see him. Although she was nervous. She felt as if too much was riding on tonight. She’d taken an Uber part of the ride down the mountain and walked the rest of the way through the falling snow to get a feel for where she was. It appeared to be an even older part of the city, the area more industrial than residential or commercial. Even under a heavy blanket of the pristine new snow still falling, it looked as if this place hadn’t seen better days in a very long time.

She didn’t need to question why DJ might have agreed to this site. It was the kind of neighborhood where no one would hear a gunshot. But that was a double-edged sword when dealing with people you didn’t know or trust.

As she stepped down the alley, she saw the door he’d described and the sign over it. It appeared to be the back entrance to a Chinese food restaurant—if still operational. She didn’t see anyone else around, but knew she had the right place. DJ had been explicit in his directions.

The metal door was heavy as she pulled it open and looked down a long, dimly lit hallway. Time to get into character, she thought as she stepped in and let the door close loudly behind her. Swearing just loud enough to let the men know she was coming, she brushed snow from her coat and yelled, “Could you have found a darker place?”

The hall was long with several closed doors. She kept going, following the acrid scent of cheap cigars and the murmur of voices. At the end of the hall, she turned to the right toward another hallway. One of the doors was open a few yards farther. She could hear the men’s voices more clearly along with the scrape of chair legs on a wood floor and the rattle of ice being dropped into a glass.

She stepped into the open doorway and, leaning against the jamb, she took in the men already starting to gather around the table.

“Why am I craving pot stickers?” she demanded, and laughed as they all turned toward her. As she entered the room, she removed her coat, sweeping in as if the place wasn’t a dump. She’d worn designer jeans and a lightweight sweater that accentuated her curves but modestly. She wore a scarf loosely tied around her neck and diamond earrings that glittered every time she tucked a lock of her long blond hair back behind an ear. Her coat was a classic expensive wool. Nothing too flashy.

“Anyone save me a spot at the table?” she asked.

One of the men jumped up to pull out an empty chair for her. She wouldn’t be sitting directly across from DJ, but she wouldn’t be sitting next to him, either. “This should work,” she said, and looked at each of the players as she sat down. “Good evening, gentlemen.” She held her large leather bag in her lap.

“Buy-in is ten thousand dollars,” said a florid-faced, heavyset man with the offending cigar in one hand and a drink in the other. He motioned to a makeshift bar set up over by a sad-looking couch. She saw a tray of mismatched glasses, a bucket of ice, several bottles of booze, a container with a dollar sign on the side, and a cooler on the floor with beer iced down. “Booze? Put your money in the kitty. I’m Bob. We’re using cash, no chips. We’re the Old West here. I’ll need to see your money.”

“I’m Whitney,” she said as she met the man’s gaze through the smoke, smiled and reached into her bag to pull out an envelope full of cash. She gave a tilt of her head. “Ten thousand. I’m betting you want to count it.” She slid it over to him.

He thumbed through the hundreds, then passed it back with a lopsided grin.

Sadie took a thousand dollars from the envelope and laid it on the table in front of her. She wondered which players DJ had gotten into the game other than her and Bob. One of the men at this table was the real mark. Bob was the kind to have invited at least one of his buddies as well. The trick was figuring out who was who.

She’d never been more aware of DJ. Having him so close was like a separate pulse beating under her skin. She felt the heat of him and wanted more than anything to see that arrogant grin of his, to feel his eyes on her, to connect with the man who’d gambled his way into her thoughts and her heart.

Bob introduced everyone only by first name starting with the man to his right as he went around the table. Max, the large truck driver in the Kenworth jacket and T-shirt that read I Drop Big Loads. Her, then Lloyd in the canvas jacket and fishing shirt. Next to him was Keith, the youngest in a hoody, jeans and untied trainers. Then Frank, the oldest of the bunch with short gray hair and the air of an ex-military man or retired cop. He gave her a nod. She watched him line up his bills perfectly in front of him. And last but not least, DJ, sitting next to Bob.

Sadie tried to still the unease she felt as she looked around the table. It was an odd gathering. She noticed that only two of them were drinking, Bob and Lloyd, the fisherman. She had no idea who was the true mark. As she started to hook her purse over the back of the chair, it slipped and fell to the floor.

Lloyd started to reach down to pick it up.

“I have it,” she said, and grabbed it before he could. He moved his chair over a little to make room.

“Sorry,” he said, avoiding her gaze.

“Let’s play some poker,” Frank said impatiently. “I don’t have all night.”

“I agree with Frank. Let’s play.” Sadie bent down to retrieve her purse. As she did, she glanced under the table and saw Frank shift in his chair, his slacks riding up to expose the gun in his ankle holster—and froze.

Chapter Eight

Sadie tried to stay calm, but her heart was pounding as she straightened. She could feel DJ’s gaze on her and wasn’t surprised when he spoke.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Does anyone else have a new deck of cards? No offense, Bob.” He looked around the table, his gaze lingering on her for just a few seconds longer than the others.

She pulled her purse up on her lap, reached inside, but instead of pulling out a deck of the marked cards, she took out her lipstick and applied a fresh coat before putting it away. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Bob roll his eyes. Frank said something rude under his breath.

But it was DJ’s reaction to her “abort” signal that she was most interested in. He stared at her for a moment before shaking his head ever so slightly. He wasn’t going to walk away.

“We’re going old-school tonight,” Bob said, opening one of the packs of cards he’d brought. “Five-card stud, jacks or better to open, minimum bid ten bucks, no pot limit.” Bob grinned. “That ain’t too rich for your blood, is it, cowboy?” he said to DJ. He began shuffling with practiced expertise. After a few more elaborate shuffles, he set down the deck and Trucker Max cut them.

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