Page 10 of Wild Card
“But Angel is your artist.”
“Yeah, but I had Emory draw a design for me, and it’s much more suited to your style.”
I tugged up my shirt to show him the open spot over my ribs. Fox’s gaze heated as he stared at my abs and lats—or maybe it was the ink covering damn near every inch that turned him on.
“Damn, no wonder I caught Angel sucking your dick on her table at work.”
I snorted with amusement. I’d forgotten about that. The endorphin rush had gotten me hard as fuck, and Angel had decided to give in to the obvious attraction between us.
“She couldn’t resist testing out my Prince Albert,” I said.
“Fuck,” Fox whispered, biting down on his bottom lip. “You just had to wait until I was unavailable to offer.”
I dropped my shirt with a chuckle. “Sorry, man. What do you think? Ink for cash? It’s basically just an advance.”
He blew out a breath. “Yeah. Angel’s likely to kick my ass for poaching you, but I’m desperate.”
“She knows she’ll always be my favorite.” I pulled out a wad of cash from the bar till and handed him two hundreds. “Don’t lose this.”
He shifted, gaze drifting over to the table where Jett was cleaning up. “How do I guarantee that?”
“I’m going to do you another favor,” I said, winking. “You know, just in case you ever break up with that man of yours.”
He groaned. “He better suck my dick so good tonight.”
“He damn sure better.” I nodded toward the far table. “Ryan always over-bets. If he hits the pot big, he never has shit.”
Fox’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yeah, and Clay folds every time someone raises him on a bet. You should push him to folding, wait for Ryan to go big, and you’ll be golden.”
“What about the other two?”
“They can’t play for shit. You’ll be fine.”
His lips quirked in a half smile. “Guess if this works out, I’ll owe you.”
“Just don’t tell anyone about this. Jett will kick my ass.”
“You got it. Thanks, man.”
I gave him a push, sending him on his way.
Jett caught my eye with a smirk. “Make a round of shots for these losers, huh? My treat.”
The players at his table glowered, and I noticed a new guy, a big-ass dude with a bad haircut, clenching his fist at his side.
Introducing more liquor to this situation might not help frayed tempers. I picked up the liquor bottle and started pouring with a feral grin.
A good fight was almost as good as a fuck.
And no one came here for nice, orderly gambling. They could drive to a casino and join the old folks for that.
I delivered the drinks. Despite their glares, each player drank up. He ordered another round.
They kept drinking, and Jett kept cleaning up.
Finally, the big guy had had enough.
