Page 11 of Wild Card (Advantage Play 1)

With a gulp, I push the rest of my chips forward.

The dealer quirks his brow but doesn’t comment.

“Feeling lucky, Ace?” Jack teases by my side.

I toss a look his way before shrugging innocently. “Go big or go home, right? Plus, it’s getting late. I need to get going.”

Throwing his head back, he laughs. “I like your thinking.” With a casual flick of his wrist, he puts the rest of his chips onto the table.

The dealer ignores our banter as he starts placing the cards around the table. First, he puts a card face down in front of himself, then deals to his left, which is Jack’s card. Ironically, a jack of diamonds is shown. My turn. Nine of clubs.

Not bad. Not great. But not bad. It’ll calm my nerves when I see the dealer’s second card. A ten. In the blink of an eye, I’m running the probability of me coming out ahead, but it doesn’t look great.

Next, another ten for Jack. He’s in the clear. Now it’s my turn. Again. A queen. I can work with a queen. I’m at nineteen, and as long as the dealer doesn’t show a face card or a ten, then I should be good. My head bobs up and down on its own accord as the dealer flips over his bottom card to reveal an eight of clubs. With a fishy face, I release the gust of air I’d been holding in my lungs.

“Damn, Ace. If that’s not luck, I don’t know what is.” Jack winks for good measure as I laugh off his lame joke, relief pulsing through my veins.

“Thanks. I’m just glad the cards were in my favor tonight.”

The dealer collects the rest of the deck then pushes a separate stack of chips each for Jack and me. Tossing one back to the dealer as a tip, I collect the rest and stand from my chair before the pit boss catches on to me.

“Calling it a night?” Jack follows my lead, stacking his chips before rising to his feet.

“Yup.”

“Want me to walk you out or anything?”

Placing my hands, and subsequently the chips, into the front pocket of my hoodie, I shake my head. “Nah. Boyfriend is waiting for me so….”

“Boyfriend?” With a quirked brow, a knowing Jack smirks down at me.

“Yup. Boyfriend.”

“Does boyfriend have a name?” he teases.

Of course, it’s at this moment that my brain short-circuits, and I can’t come up with a masculine name for the life of me.

After a chorus of crickets, my voice squeaks, “Yup. Bye!” I turn on my heel to make my escape from a guy who’s becoming way too familiar with me then rush toward the cashier to exchange my chips for bills. Thankfully, only Jack’s laughter follows me.

After I collect my cash and intending to head to Dottie’s, I freeze when the sound of a voice that’s haunted my dreams since I was a little girl floats through the smoky air.

“I’ll be here with a thousand witnesses as I play in the tournament. It’s foolproof.”

My breath catches in my throat, making me feel like I’m choking as I glance over my shoulder.

It’s him.

He always did have a big mouth. After all, I learned the importance of Rule #8 from him in the first place.

Rule #8: Don’t discuss private shit in public. It’s bound to screw you over.

Idiots.

Swallowing thickly, I let Rule #1 and #2 flash like a neon sign in my mind as I pull out my phone and pretend to text someone. Keep your head down and your eyes up. It makes you invisible. But not stupid. And always be aware of your surroundings.

I listen closer while hiding in plain sight.

Again, I peek up to see the man whom I hate more than anyone else in the world. He looks older than I remember, but I guess that makes sense since it’s been almost ten years. His hair is thinner and tinted with gray. His once muscular build has turned into a few layers of extra fat that hang over his polished belt buckle. But his hands are the same. Decorated with gold embellishments. Strong. Able to break things with a lazily clenched fist. Like my mom’s nose. Or our family picture that once hung on our wall. Or a twelve-year-old’s arm.

---