Page 30 of Wild Card (Advantage Play 1)

I nod but don’t move another muscle as I watch him go. Once the window is securely closed behind him, I whisper, “Okay.”

What the hell was that?

Chapter Seventeen

Ace

“Hi,” I squeak. My voice is high and mousy as I address the hotel concierge, who also happens to be the one handling the tournament registration.

“Hello.” His voice is a stark contrast to mine. Low and monotone that would put me to sleep in minutes. “How can I help you?”

Wiping my sweaty palms on my skinny jeans, I clear my throat in hopes of keeping it from cracking. “I’d like to sign up for the tournament, please.” I probably look like I’m about to pee my pants as I catch myself shifting from foot to foot in front of him, but I can’t stop the need to bounce up and down in excitement that this is actually happening. I’m registering for the tournament. The tournament.

With furrowed brows, the concierge gives me a look of disinterest. “Which tournament, exactly?” His tone is dull, bordering on annoyed.

Pulling my shoulders back, I stand to my full height and look him straight in the eye. I’m not going to let some stranger push me around just because he’s standing in the way of me fulfilling my dreams. I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m stronger than that.

“The high-stakes poker tournament. I’d like to register,” I state clearly.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,”—he’s not sorry—“I think you’re confused. The buy-in is fifty thousand dollars.”

“Yes, I understand that.” Without meaning to, I catch myself mimicking his tone as if I’m speaking with a toddler. By the way his eyes narrow, I don’t think he appreciates it.

“We don’t take credit card payments.”

In an attempt to keep my patience, I pinch the bridge of my nose then I grit out, “I understand that.”

“Then how, exactly, do you plan on paying the registration fee?”

Pulling out a thick envelope that’s nearly bursting from my backpack, I put it on the counter and push it a few inches toward him and his polished fingers. “In cash.” The sweetest smile I can muster nearly splits my face in two as I secretly pray he chokes on the sugar I’m throwing at him.

With pursed lips, a very disapproving concierge named Phillip reaches for the envelope and takes his time counting the hundred dollar bills. To be fair, it is a lot of cash, so I don’t blame him for double-checking the amount. My sneaker-clad feet tap against the tile as I push my hands into my back pockets and look around the premises. When my eyes land on a very intrigued Jack, they narrow in suspicion.

What the hell are you doing here, Jack?

“Seems we have everything accounted for.” Phillip breaks my little staring contest with my fellow card counter, and my head whips back around. “And what name would you like to play under? Aliases are accepted. However, if you end up winning,” he says the word as if it leaves a sour taste in his mouth, pursing his lips before continuing, “then we’ll need you to fill out a few forms.”

“Can I fill them out right now?”

Again, there are those pursed lips. “Of course.”

Turning around, he sorts through a stack of papers before handing me the necessary ones.

“Why, thank you, Phillip.”

His mouth goes from puckered to a flat line that vaguely looks like a smile if I squint my eyes and tilt my head to the side.

“Of course,” he offers.

I fill out the forms in record time, triple-checking I’ve written the information that matches my fake ID before handing them back over to Phillip. There’s not a chance in hell I’d write my real name on this thing. Gigi might be right about Burlone not remembering my mom, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to put a spotlight on the fact we’re related––or that my participation in the tournament is not a complete coincidence.

Taking the completed papers from my sweaty palms, Phillip does a quick scan to confirm my competency at filling out a few forms before giving me his back, clearly dismissing me.

Wow.

I turn around and take a step toward the exit when I’m stopped by a familiar voice.

“Hey, you.”

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