Page 27 of Kings Against the World

“Boone probably wouldn’t mind you joining him,” he says. “You and him made some kind of deal, ain’t you? Something about the winnings.”

I give a careless shrug, glancing around the dimly lit, blue-tinted lounge. “That stays between me and Boone. I’m sure you get it. You probably have a few deals cut with him… and others too, right?”

The gleam goes out on Benz’s face. He hacks again to cover up for the fact that he got shot down trying to poke for info and then mumbles something about checking on his girls.

I watch him walk away, reminded that I’m in a den of wolves. It’s the kind of environment where one word could cost you yourlife. The second your loyalty’s questioned, the second you make a wrong move, you could be in big trouble.

Benz was fishing for intel. He took one look at me and figured he could pull a fast one. Though the question is, why would he bother?

I file away the thought for later and do what’s expected of me as a player in this tournament—I stroll over to the table where Boone’s situated with Jay Chmura and Carlito Estrada. The three men are smoking cigars, in the middle of a bottle of Don Miguel 1948.

Boone spots me first. Half his face hidden by his usual dark shades, he cracks a wide grin, cigar smoke wafting in the air between us. “If it ain’t Oswald Gallagher, the man who’s gonna bring me the gold! Grab a seat, you fucking rockstar.”

He’s never been happier to see me. The other two guys chuckle as I claim the only empty spot in the leather sectional.

“We were just talking about you,” Boone explains, gesturing to Carlito Estrada. “I was telling Carlito that you might be my ticket to victory this year.”

“It would be a nice recovery from the last two years,” Carlito replies with a polite smile. Compared to Boone and Chmura, he’s relatively normal. He has jet-black hair with thick streaks of gray and he’s dressed in business casual to Boone and Chmura’s worn denim and boots. “But I look forward to whatever players you’re sponsoring this year, Boone. Let’s hope this is the first of many tournaments to be held at my establishment.”

The men toast to Estrada’s declaration, though I notice Boone’s grin falters a little. His lips pull tighter to cover it up and he guzzles down more tequila.

It’s no wonder there might be some tension. If Boone believes there’s still some insider, then that’s got to have a domino effect on the rest of the tournament. That’s causing strain on his business relationship with men like Carlito Estrada.

The men both profit from these underground rings, but each would sell the other out fast if they believed it would save their own hides.

It’s true that there’s no fucking honor among thieves. Everybody’s just playing a role ’til their hand’s forced and they have to make the best decision to save themselves.

“Tomorrow night’s the real party?” I ask.

Boone nods as if to nonexistent music playing. “That’s right—the official kickoff to the tournament. Hope you don’t mind that I invited you and the girlfriend out tonight. Figured you’d want a chance to scope out the lounge. She’ll be working here often.”

He’s turned his direction across the room, where Strauss is serving another table. I recognize both men from past tournaments. One of them, named Sebu Agassi, won the whole thing last year. Both men slip her a twenty dollar tip that she sticks down her shirt.

Chmura whistles from my side. “That’s one sexy piece of ass.”

An instant heat rushes over me, making my body temperature rise. I listen to the chuckles bounce around the table and try to breathe through the sudden hot flame. If I’m not careful, it’ll consume me and raze down everything else in its path.

I’ve never thought of myself as a jealous guy. I’ve had girlfriends who were strippers and cam girls and never gave a shit if other guys found them attractive.

But there’s something different hearing it said about Strauss. Something I don’t like.

“Now, cool it, Jay,” Boone cackles. “Look at Oz’s face. The poor guy’s in love!”

“And you’re one lucky man. I’d like to tap that just once. You know she was flirting with me at Déjà Vu?”

“You dumb ass, that was for a tip!”

Chmura’s pudgy face goes red. “Maybe so. But she looked so damn good strutting away in that tiny skirt. It barely covers her ass.”

“Keep going and you’ll make Oz pop a blood vessel. Why don’t you call your girl over?” Boone asks, nudging my arm. “We need some more drinks to go around.”

“Right… yeah… okay…” I half turn in my seat and lift my hand in the air to wave her down. “Babe… baby!”

It takes a third call for Strauss to finally catch on that it’s me calling for her. She glances uncertainly over at our table, putting on a smile as an afterthought before she finishes up the patrons she’s waiting on and starts over.

Her walk is sexy as hell.

Nah, it’s not a walk. It’s a fuckingstrut.

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