Page 1 of Seduction in Spades

CHAPTER ONE

Idrape my arm acrossthe back of the black leather seat and watch as Trey Baxter, the grumpy son-of-a-bitch and one of my closest friends, strides across the VIP lounge of The Club as if he owns the place. Well, he does. His serious countenance doesn’t fit his role as the owner of a dance club, but they say opposites attract. His lack of interest in dancing, partying, and wooing the ladies has his attention focused on keeping The Club in the black.

One of my other best friends sits across from me, but his attention hasn’t left the window that looks down to the dance floor. I’m not offended in the least.

Nora stole his heart a few months ago, and she’s made Drake a better man. His PhD in math earned him the nicknameDoctor,one of many nicknames, I should say. They’re good for each other, even if it means Trey, Ryder, and I get cast aside so he can get laid. Can’t blame him, really.

“Gotta bail.” As soon as Trey pockets his cell, it rings again. “Jose’s wife went into labor an hour ago, so I’m down my head bouncer. Adam has the flu, so I’m shutting down the back bar and moving Kara up front.”

“You should ask Nora to tend bar for a few hours. I bet she could make bank with the guys who are getting the cold shoulder from the ladies on the dance floor.” I kick Drake in the shins, who isn’t paying any attention to us or Trey’s problems. By the laser focus of his eyes and the drool forming at the corner of his mouth, ten bucks says he’ll be ditching me on our first guy's night out in months.

“Not helping, Sealy,” Trey growls as he taps away on his phone.

“The doctor’s pussy-whipped, you’re club-whipped, and Ryder ditched us for two blondes, last I heard. Am I the only loyal one left in our group?”

“I’m not pussy whipped.” Drake peels his eyes off his fiancé and finishes his whiskey. “But on that note, my dick got a better offer than hanging out with you dickheads.” He pushes his chair back and picks up Nora’s purse.

“Come on, man. I love Nora like a soon-to-be sister-in-law, but you live with her. We never get guys’ night. When was the last time the four of us hung out?”

We’re the four aces. Drake has the Ace of Diamonds status since he’s the math geek and the brain power behind our casino, Four Aces. Fitting to his place of employment, we donned Trey the Ace of Clubs. Ryder, being the heartbreaker and smooth talker he is, naturally owns the Ace of Hearts. When he can’t win a woman over with his charm, he does so in the kitchen.Red, his restaurant in the casino, is a five-star love fest among those familiar with Boston.

Which leaves me as the Ace of Spades. My time as a Navy SEAL gave me all the background training I need to run security at Four Aces. While I’d rather not advertise myself, and Trey is as tight-lipped as a clam about his personal life, we decided on being silent partners.

There’s nothing silent about Ryder. He loves to boast about his restaurant, but it’s not well-known that he owns a one-quarter claim to our Boston casino.

We complement each other well, minus the actual compliments.

“Don’t be a whiny bitch.” Drake pinches my cheeks. “One day, a girl will fall for your homely looks and skinny arms, and then you’ll realize being pussy whipped ain’t so bad.” He taps my cheek and turns to greet Nora at the top of the stairs.

Because she’s perfect and sweet and probably too good for Drake, she waves over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, guys. I told him we don’t have to leave.”

“Yeah, we do.” Drake puts his hand on her hip.

I hear her giggle before Drake carts her off. No doubt they won’t make it up to their penthouse before clothing is shed.

“Fuck.” Trey tugs at the hair on the back of his head. “Fucking shit.” He doesn’t even say bye before storming off.

“Nice hangin’ with you, guys,” I say to my empty booth.

Since the dance club scene isn’t really my thing, I drop some bills on the table and make my way downstairs. The ladies bring in quite the crowd on Tuesday nights even though they don’t bring in as many people as on the weekends.

A decade ago, my fresh out of high school and ready to sign up for the Navy self would have thrived in this scene. Ryder and I spent a lot of time at bars and clubs whenever I was home on leave. Ry-dog hasn’t outgrown any of it. I, on the other hand, am tired of the bar scene.

Our friendship started when we were in preschool together, and not even my deployments and minimal communication while working as a SEAL could put a damper on our friendship. He partnered with Drake and Trey while I was away, and I’m thankful to have been included as part of the group.

Even if the only time the four of us can make our crazy schedules work is our weekly late morning meetings in Drake’s office. When emergencies arise, we meet more frequently. Like a few months ago when Micky Donahue, Boston’s notorious Irish mob boss, and his fuckface son, Eddie, killed Nora’s best friend.

I should have been the target. I was the one who kicked him and his cocaine-addicted rejects out of our casino. Eddie, being strung out and brain-dead since he was a toddler, I’m guessing, got pissy at Drake for allowing his security team to throw his ass out.

For revenge, he killed Nora’s friend, thinking she was Drake’s girlfriend. I’m sad and pissed as hell about the gruesome murder, but I’m also thankful he didn’t get to Nora.

My connections run deep, and I was able to take care of the problem. Eddie doesn’t walk the earth anymore, thanks to some tainted coke he snorted in the back of some seedy bar.

Since then, there haven’t been any major hiccups with security, hence my newfound boredom. I went from being on twenty-four-seven to now only working five or six days a week. I put in long, twelve-hour days, but Ryder and Trey work more night detail. Since Drake is busy shacking up with Nora as soon as the sun sets, I find myself annoyed at having nothing to do on my off nights.

My apartment in the Back Bay is my refuge. A decent brownstone on a quiet road—for Boston—that could use some repairs and restoration. I should be home fixing the toilet in my downstairs bathroom instead of pushing my way through a thwart of twenty-somethings wearing skirts that barely cover their asses.

The only way out is across the dance floor. I try not to make eye contact with anyone and stride across the edge of the mob of women. I can almost see the exit when an elbow nearly hits my face. I instinctively shoot up my hand and grip the arm, stopping it from making contact.

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