Page 2 of Playing Dirty
Sawyer grinned around his cigar. “Thinking bigger. What if we start our own bourbon label? We’ve got land, water rights, and money. Hell, call it Lucky Barrel.”
Easton snorted. “Next thing I know, you’ll want a billboard on the highway with your face on it.”
“Not a bad idea,” Sawyer said, pointing at him with the cigar. “You can be the quiet, mysterious type. Good for brand image.”
“You’re all idiots,” I said mildly, tipping my whiskey toward my mouth.
They were. Loud, ridiculous, sharp-edged idiots. And for all that, they were the best friends anyone could ask for.
I glanced around the table—Colt with his twins and wife, Sawyer dreaming up the next scheme, Easton sitting there like he saw things the rest of us didn’t say out loud.
Me?
I had my guns polished, my cars lined up in the garage, and not a damn soul who’d notice if I didn’t show up.
After we hit the Powerball, I’d spent months throwing cash at anything that looked shiny. Gun shows in Nevada. Car auctions in Houston.
I’d roll in, drop a stupid amount of money on something fast or loud or rare, charm some woman in stilettos who liked the sound of the word “millionaire,” and head home to Lovelace with a new toy in the back trailer and the night’s company already forgotten.
My garage’s got heated floors, hydraulic lifts, and a row of muscle cars I used to polish like they could make me feel something.
Same with the gun safe—custom-built, biometric lock, enough firepower to secure Fort Knox if it ever got dragged to Montana.
But now?
The chrome didn’t glint quite the same. The engines didn’t roar as loudly in my chest. Lately, I just walked past all of it on my way to the garage’s fridge to grab a beer, wondering what the hell I was doing with all that horsepower and nobody to ride shotgun.
And for the first time in a while, the whiskey in the glass I held didn’t go down smoothly.
The door to the back room blew open with a gust that howled like it had unfinished business. Joe Miller stepped inside,bundled up in his usual waxed canvas coat, cheeks red from the cold, and a grin already planted under that bristly mustache.
“Well, hell,” Colt muttered. “I thought we were keepin’ this exclusive.”
Joe gave him a pointed look. “Poker don’t count unless I’m takin’ at least one of y’all’s money.”
Sawyer rolled his eyes. “You take so long playin’ your hand, we forget what the pot even was.”
“Wisdom takes time,” Joe said, settling into the empty chair like he’d been born there. He slapped a twenty on the table. “Besides, someone’s gotta keep the conversation interestin’.”
The fire popped, the cards shuffled, and no one said anything for a beat—just five men who’d known each other too long to rush the silence.
Then Sawyer leaned forward and turned to Rhett. “You get those trail cams set up yet?”
Rhett shook his head. “Was waitin’ on some volunteers.”
“I’m in,” Sawyer said. “Just say when.”
Colt raised a brow. “You talkin’ about that spot near the old creek bend?”
“Yup. That’s one of them,” I said. “Elk’ve been moving through early. Figure we check the signs as soon as we can get everything ready.”
Joe grunted. “You want me to order cameras?”
I nodded. “Sawyer and I will stop by to take a look at what you have.”
Easton dealt him in, and Joe barely had his cards before he started in. “Heard from Darlene over at the courthouse that property taxes are goin’ up.”
Colt groaned. “Again?”
