Page 3 of Restless Hawke
I didn’t come to Atlantic City to walk away with anything but the win.
Calling, I shove in the rest of my chips, while fighting the smirk that wants to pull at my lips…and lay down my cards.
A collective gasp goes up around me from those watching the game.
My opponent flinches, then sets his cards on the felt with a scowl.
Those two aces in his hand, the one in the flop, and the final the dealer pulled as the river probably made him very comfortable, but it can’t beat my king-high straight flush.
Fuck yes.
I needed this win badly.
Some days, the cards just aren’t in your favor—something “The Snake” is feeling right now, and a lesson I learned the hard way.
The losing streak that got me to this point almost destroyed everything.
And it still might…
A flash of green catches the corner of my eye, and, for the first time since the opening hand was dealt, I glance toward the crowd gathered around to watch the end of the game.
The casino lights reflect off the iridescent fabric of the slinky, curve-hugging emerald dress, but the woman wearing it has already turned away, a long cascade of dark hair falling down her exposed back.
She disappears into the throng so quickly that I almost wonder if I imagined her perfect ass and wide hips…
“Sir?”
Shit.
I shake my head to clear it and refocus on the table and what’s mine.
My biggest win since I fled New Orleans.
After weeks of chasing down private games in backrooms and casino tournaments with spots open, winning some and losing others, this finally feels like that little glimmer of hope I’ve been searching for—a chance that I might be able to pay back what I owe Satriano and save the Hawkes.
The casino host inclines his head at the chips as Jake shoves away from the table in a huff. “Congratulations, sir.”
I release a long, steady breath and sit back in my chair, finally allowing some of the tension I’ve been hiding to uncoil from my body. “Thank you.”
“Your winnings will be deposited into your account via wire transfer, as per the usual process.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Bobby.” Inclining my head in thanks, I toss a few $1,000 chips to the dealer. “Thanks for the good cards.”
Some people are superstitious.
They won’t play with certain dealers.
Won’t even approach a table if someone they don’t like is sitting behind the deck.
I’ve never believed in superstitions like that.
You win because you’re good and because the cards are in your favor. You lose because the cards aren’t or because you fucked something up and didn’t follow Dad’s rules.
But what happened over the last six months to put me in this position in the first place wasn’tthat.
It was bad luck, pure and simple.
Different dealers, different casinos, different poker tournaments, different private games held in dark rooms, each time a loss. Loss after loss after loss, like repeated stabs to the heart, compounding the pain and damage.
