Page 8 of Choices

Pulling onto the highway, I keep my eyes glued to Grease’s truck as we eat up the miles. We finally pull off and creep closer to home, up the private tree-lined road bordering the compound.

Pulling into the gates alleviates the tension in my shoulders. Escorting that much money in one ride is always a risk, but the Kings pay generously to keep the red and blue lights well the fuck away from us.

I follow Grease into the garage and park my bike in its usual spot, searching the parked cars for Kitty’s SUV. It wasn’t there when I left, but it is now. Swinging my leg over the matte black and chrome horse, I tug off my helmet and place it on the seat. She’s home.

“I’ll meet you in the bar in twenty,” Callan calls out to Grease, dismounting his bike. Grease jerks his chin and heads inside with the suitcase. The soft thud of music pours through the door when he opens it. “What’s eating you?” Callan asks, frowning over at me.

I jerk in response, surprised by his question.Am I that obvious? How the hell have I gotten away with this shit for so long?

“Nothing. Why?”

“I’ve been your friend for more years than I can remember. I know when somethings bothering you. Is it the punk from last night?”

Fuck no. That scumbag left my thoughts the moment I exited the torture room. “You know me better than that,” I scoff.

“So, what is it?”

“I don’t like Michael’s old man.” It’s not a lie.

Smirking, Callan places his helmet down. “You don’t need to like him, just tolerate him while the cash flows.”

“He’s a prick,” I grunt, walking beside him as we head inside.

“Why do you think my old man sent us?”

“Really? He doesn’t like him either?”

“Powerful men rarely like each other. They have god complexes and want everyone worshipping at their feet, not the other way around.”

Makes sense.

Voices carry through the hallway from the bar, the music getting louder. “Looks like they decided to party tonight as well.”

It’s nothing new. We rarely have a quiet night at the clubhouse. Entering the bar, my legs fill with lead.

“What the fuck?” Callan seethes.

“Is that…?”

“Nicolas Carnell,” he finishes.

CHAPTER 4

ACES

KITTY

Alcohol burns in my veins. The buzz intensifies, diluting rational thought and patching over the ache in my chest as I down another shot. It’s only temporary. As soon as the poison leaves my system, the overwhelming misery will return and the wounds will reopen, but for now, we drink, we forget, we heal. The harsh liquor coats my throat and drips into my empty stomach, sloshing around with the bottle of wine and three beers I drank earlier.“Focus,”I demand myself, the black smudges on the cards blurring.

“She’s wasted. How the hell did she get a seat at the table?” the asshole with the hair quiff sitting opposite me, bitches. He walked in late, knocked a tray of drinks over, and sat down with us like he owned the place about an hour ago. Matt, who I met at a different card game about six months ago, is hosting today and looked tense when the newcomer entered the penthouse. Matt’s family is new money. His mother is in tech and made some nano chip device that repairs skin cells or something cool like that.

The skittish blond to my right squirms and fidgets with his chips, making a light clacking sound.

“All in,” I say confidently, his attitude sobering me a little, shoving my chips to the middle of the table. Six sets of eyes land on me, accessing. Some are still in the game, but most already folded.

“I’m out,” the lovely black man to my left declares, throwing his hand down. Mark, I think he said his name was. He bought me a drink earlier and pulled out my chair for me to sit. I feel a slight twinge of guilt taking his money and a flicker of irritation that I didn’t make him add the diamond encrusted Rolex on his wrist to the pile.

“Your move.” I grin at the quiff eyeballing me from across the table. Sipping my drink, I give nothing away as the tension builds. His eye twitches, telling me he has a shit hand. It’s been his tell since his first hand was dealt. Tension leaks from Matt, his knee bouncing, his thick fingers curling into a fist at the edge of the table.

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