Page 25 of Inflame

I turn my attention to him. “What do you believe in then?”

“Statistics. Math. Playing games with some sort of skill level.”

“Like poker,” I suggest.

“Sure, like poker. Where I can control some of my wins and losses.”

“You still need some luck.”

He shakes his head. “No, not really. Even with horrible cards, you can still get an opponent to fold or make a mistake. It is all about reading people and taking risks.”

“How about you give slots a chance and maybe you’ll learn to have some fun again in your life?” I suggest. He is right though. I really do not have money to spare. If I want to strike it rich, I better pick games with better odds.

“How about we turn this into a little game? Let’s find two neighboring machines and play ten rounds each to see who has the most earnings in the end.”

“What does the winner get?” I ask, wanting to know the stakes. I can see Nic’s brain churning, and I wonder what nonsense he will come up with when given no parameters.

“Winner gets to plan out what we are doing tomorrow.”

“Deal,” I say, knowing that I have better ideas when it comes to fun.

More importantly, however, I really want to stick it to him and shove his “I don’t believe in luck” statement back in his face.

7

NIC

I watch as a bright smile forms on Claire’s lips, and I vow to myself to make it last as long as possible. My thoughts race with all the things I want to do to her. With her. But yet I know she is trouble. While she possesses the one quality I look for in a woman, she is also my future sister-in-law’s best friend—which makes her basically off-limits. I can piss with a lot of people, but Graham would kill me if he knew the deviance of my lustful thoughts.

Graham and Angie head over to the roulette table, while Claire is scoping out the machines that she wants us to use for the challenge. If I were here alone, I would never be caught dead at the slots. They are money whores, require zero skill, and have the worst odds of winning.

I like to win.

I cover my chuckle with a hand rubbing at my chin. She is reading the side of each machine for the probability listing, while trying to find machines on the end of rows that are not already taken.

“You know these machines are going to take all of our money if we play long enough, right? It’s great revenue for the Bellagio.”

“Hush. I’m working.”

I continue watching her “work” and am in awe of her focus on the task.

“I have watched a ton of documentaries on the art of finding the best slot machine in the casino,” she rambles, glancing around the area.

“Seems counterproductive if everyone here also watched the same documentaries,” I explain, trying to keep the humor out of my tone. It is hard though.

She stops and glances up at me, propping her hands on her hips. “Now, what are the odds of that actually happening?”

“Better odds than either of us actually winning on these damn things.”

“Quit kicking my pet unicorn,” she snaps.

I laugh and then quickly stop at the glare she shoots me. I’m definitely pushing my luck—that I don’t even believe in.

“I thought you were the laid-back brother,” she huffs.

“It’s just a facade.”

“Apparently so.” She continues mumbling to herself and analyzing the machines. “Here. I found the perfect pair.”

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