Page 37 of Wild Card (Advantage Play 1)

I let the silence hang on my end for a second, wondering if his tone will soften like it did the last time we spoke on the phone when he found out I was on the other end.

“Hey.” My tone is far breathier than I’d been hoping for, but I can’t change it.

“Hey, Ace.” A soft smile graces my lips as I hear my name roll off his tongue.

Releasing a sigh, I get to the point of why I called. And no, it wasn’t in a desperate attempt to see if he’s still thinking about what happened last night the same way I am. Or maybe it is, but I refuse to admit the unsettling truth to myself.

“I have a weird question.”

His throaty laugh echoes through the speakers, making me smile even wider.

“Yes, I did jack off to you in the shower. No need to be shy.”

“Kingston!” I squeal, my cheeks heating to epic proportions. “That’s not what I was going to ask!”

“Hey, don’t feel bad for being curious. You were great, by the way. In my head, it was crazy hot.”

“Kingston!” My eyes nearly pop out of my head as I look around the diner. I want to kick myself for giving into temptation and calling him under the guise that I need a favor from him when, in reality, I just miss the guy. Sure, I’m anxious about Gigi, and when I’m anxious, I use counting to clear my head, but I shouldn’t try to fool myself that my reason for calling him is completely innocent. I wanted to hear his voice. His laugh.

Gah! Gigi was right. I like the guy. This is ridiculous.

With a laugh, an unapologetic Kingston continues, “Alright, alright. What can I do for you, Wild Card?”

Wild card?

“Um…” I can’t believe I’m actually asking this right now. “I was just wondering if I could possibly swing by the Charlette for a game of blackjack?” Grimacing, I rush on, “I know that sounds terrible, but I’m feeling anxious about some stuff right now, and the best way for me to calm down is to count cards. That probably sounds ridiculous, or like I’m using it as an excuse to see you after what happened, but it really does help—”

“Ace,” he interrupts.

I stop to catch my breath from all my rambling. “Yeah?”

“I’ll see you in a little bit.”

A big, dopey grin spreads across my face. “Okay.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Kingston

I’ve been going through the motions since my dad died a few months ago from liver failure that threw my entire world from its axis. I guess all that alcohol finally did him in. After he passed, I stopped caring about life in general, let alone the family. But as I left a satisfied Ace last night, her pheromones still lingering in the air, I found the potential for a new reason to get up in the morning. And it’s scary as hell.

With my knuckles taped, I pummel the punching bag as visions of Burlone filter through my mind. In the basement of my father’s estate––my estate––there’s an in-home gym where I can usually be found when I need to work off a little steam. And after my time at Ace’s, I need to work off a little more than that.

Diece and I are dripping in sweat as he holds the bag and yells at me for another cross, jab, hook combination. Finishing the move, my chest inflates for some much-needed oxygen while my knuckles flex and release to ease the tension in them.

“Not bad,” D notes. “You seem awfully chipper today.”

I quirk my brow but refuse to admit it’s because of my conversation with Ace on the phone an hour or so ago. “Chipper?”

“You get laid?” he continues, ignoring my ribbing.

D doesn’t give a shit that I’m the boss. That I could have him in the ground with a snap of my fingers if he ever offended me.

But as I roll my sore shoulders up and down, I shake my head.

“No?” he pushes. “Did Burlone fall into a vat of acid?”

A dry laugh escapes me. “Wrong again, D. You going soft on me? Losing your edge?”

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