Inside Out: Behind Closed Doors

by Lisa Renee Jones

  He considers me for several beats. “If you’d let me help you, it’s the least I can do—”

  “No.” I jerk my hand from the armrest and he covers it, holding it in place.

  “Skye—”

  “My trust is not for sale, Jason.”

  “I wasn’t trying to buy your trust.”

  “You offered me ten thousand dollars for the unit. What do you call that?”

  “I didn’t care about trust then. I just wanted the unit.”

  “You still do.” I swallow the knot that’s formed in my throat. “And when I didn’t give it to you, you inherited me for a weekend.”

  “No.” He unbuckles his seat belt and goes down on one knee beside me. “Skye—”

  “It is what it is. I knew that when I said yes. I’m just not sure how you made it feel better than it does right now, in this moment. I do need that room and you have to stop touching me.”

  “If you mean that I will, but I hope like hell you don’t. I know you aren’t going to believe this, but there is no way I would have invited you on this trip if my interest didn’t go beyond that storage unit.”

  “Interest? I’m a woman and you—”

  “Are headed to Vegas, where there is always a woman to be found. There are so many ways I could have dealt with this situation that didn’t include you here with me.”

  “But you would have worried about me causing trouble.”

  “I could have let Daniel deal with it.”

  “I barely know you, but I know you would never have left this to Daniel to handle.”

  “You’re wrong. Think about it: if I believed you were involved with Stephanie, do you really think I’d invite you into my inner circle, to find something else to use against me?”

  “You can’t truly trust me yet, any more than I can you.”

  “I played my gut, just like I do at the tables. I think you did yours, too. Considering your legal field, I assume that’s a guide for you, as it is for me.”

  “Yes,” I whisper. “I did and it is.”

  “Then we’re in the same place, and we’re here together.”

  “I guess we are.”

  “I won’t offer you money again.”

  “Thank you.”

  He grins. “I don’t think a woman has ever thanked me for not spending money on her.”

  I ghost a smile back. “At least I’ll leave a lasting impression.”

  “If I let you go.”

  I blanch. “What?”

  “Coffee is here,” JJ announces from the doorway.

  Jason kisses my hand and winks, then reclaims his seat, his warm, spicy scent lingering, while his words “if I let you go” stir unfamiliar emotions.

  “Here you go,” JJ says, stopping in front of us and offering us our cups, which we accept.

  “Thank you, JJ,” I say.

  “My pleasure,” he replies, already walking back as he adds, “and I’m off to grab the pizza right now.”

  Jason motions to my cup. “Try it.”

  Eager to get away from whatever I’m feeling right now, I welcome the distraction, sipping the hot, sweet beverage. “That’s so good. What is it?”

  “White chocolate with coconut and homemade whipped cream.”

  “Five hundred calories of heaven I’ll need to work off later,” I say, “but so worth it.”

  “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” he promises. “Including the calories.”

  “Only we aren’t in Vegas yet.”

  “No, but”—he glances at his watch—“we should make it with an hour to spare before I need to be at the tables.”

  “How long’s the flight?”

  “An hour and a half. We should land by three, and by the time we get to the hotel it’ll be going on four.”

  “And you have to be at the table at five. That’s pushing it. You should sleep on the flight.”

  “Food and sleep are exactly what I need,” he says, sipping his coffee.

  “And you drink coffee before you sleep?”

  “I drink coffee around the clock, which is why it takes the jolt of Red Bull to give me a buzz. Maybe you shouldn’t drink your coffee, though, if it keeps you awake. If you sleep too, the flight will be over before you know it.”

  “Sleep would be good, considering I didn’t sleep last night. I’d hate to doze off during your game and embarrass myself.”

  He gives me a curious look. “Why didn’t you sleep well?”

  “I spent hours digging around the storage unit before you showed up. And there’s nothing worth the money I invested.”

  “You carried a box out.”

  “Paperwork that I’m legally obliged to hand over to the office.”

  “Did you?”

  I sip my coffee, the sweetness doing nothing to steal the bitterness of a moment that could too easily become one of the lies I despise. “They were closed.”

  “I need to see what’s in that box. Maybe I can figure out where Stephanie would hide the chips if she took them.”

  It hits me then that Stephanie not only let her personal items be auctioned off, she let most of her blackmail material be as well. Unless she just planned to get another key at the bus station. Shit. Maybe I don’t have the right to that bus station locker, and I stole the contents.

  “Skye,” Jason presses.

  I shake off my worries, reminding myself that I found proof of a crime; I didn’t knowingly commit one. “I understand,” I say, refocusing on Jason. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to help.”

  “The pizza has arrived,” JJ announces, pausing by the table to open an overhead bin and stuff an insulated bag inside.

  “Thanks as always,” Jason says, his voice steady, but I can almost feel the tension crackling off him. “We’ll see you tomorrow when we return.”

  JJ offers Jason a mock salute. “Good luck tonight,” he says. “And try to enjoy the flight, Skye.”

  “Thanks for making it sound like a coffin,” I say, depositing my coffee in the far left drink holder.

  He chuckles and shakes his head, disappearing around the corner, and I stare after him, waiting for the slam of the doors shutting and the engines roaring to life.

  “Skye,” Jason says again, his hand finding mine where it’s now gripping the armrest. “We really will be okay.”

  “I hate this,” I whisper, looking at him, and he is close, both our heads resting on the seats, a small space between us. The jet starts to move. “I don’t suppose I can ask to get off?”

  “Too late, and I don’t want you to get off. I’m glad you’re here—and not because of that storage unit.”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls.” I try to laugh, but it sounds like I’m choking.

  “I don’t.”

  “I bet you say that, too.”

  “I’m not going to win this battle of words, so I’ll divert your attention. There are more accidents on the highway—”

  “Don’t give me logic and facts. There’s always the one percent, and that’s all my mind can think about right now.”

  “Okay, then,” he says, lacing his fingers with mine. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Like what? And don’t say the storage unit. Not now.”

  “What’s your favorite food?”

  “You’re serious? My favorite food?”

  “Yes. Your favorite food. We’re distracting you and getting to know each other. So—”

  “Macaroni and cheese.”

  “Hmm. Good choice. What about dessert? Do you like dessert?”

  “Too much,” I confess, squeezing his hand as we start to speed up.

  “Chocolate?”

  “What else is there?”

  “Ice cream.”

  “Good point. I like that, too, which is why I run five days a week.”

  “Do you run the hills?”

  “Yes. They’re killer.” We speed up and metal seems to quake all around us. “Why are we shaking?”

&
nbsp; “It’s normal to shake as we speed up for takeoff.”

  The engines roar, cold air pouring from the vents. “I can’t do this right now.”

  “Baby, at this point you have to do this.”

  I yelp as the wheels churn and I can feel the liftoff, jerking my hand from his to kick off my shoes, pull my legs to my chest, and hug my knees. Jason lifts the armrest between us and shifts my legs in his direction, his arm sliding around my calves. “I’ve got you, baby. You’re okay. We’re okay.”

  Right here, right now, he does have me. And therein lies the problem. I should have thought of me traveling with him linking me to trouble, the real kind, but the truth is his green eyes and hot kisses were the bait, and I was hooked before I ever dared to get on this plane.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JASON AND I huddle together, the plane shifting and swaying around us, and he is warm, and strong, and scarily right in ways I don’t understand. Or maybe I do. He’s holding me when I’m afraid. No one holds me when I’m afraid, and I don’t even like the idea of leaning on someone and liking how it feels. And yet I do. Right here, right now, I do, but this is a moment, not a lifetime, and it means nothing.

  “You okay?” he asks as the plane levels off.

  I inhale and let it out. “I am. I just … I hate this flying thing so much.”

  He laughs, caressing a lock of hair behind my ear, the intimate act meaning nothing despite the funny things it does to my stomach. “This flying thing?”

  “Yeah,” I confirm. “This flying thing.”

  “How many times have you been on a plane?”

  “Three or four times, mostly when I was a teen.” The plane jerks and I grab his shirt.

  “Easy, baby. It’s just a little air pocket. The closer we get to Vegas, the more likely there’ll be bumps. The heat creates turbulence.”

  “Oh, great. I can’t wait.”

  “One good thing about flying often is that you learn how much a plane can take and be just fine.”

  “I won’t be flying often enough to find that out.”

  “What about when you’re a lawyer and a client wants you to travel?”

  I dismiss that idea. “That won’t happen.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I have years before I have to worry about that, if at all.” He studies me for several long moments, his expression unreadable, but I try to put words in his mouth. “You think I’m a coward.”

  “I do not think you’re a coward.”

  “Yes, you do,” I accuse.

  He cups my head. “You stood up to me and Daniel. You’re fierce.” He kisses me. “And we’d better eat before I put you on the menu and defeat the purpose of getting you your own hotel room.” He unhooks his seat belt, then reaches over and unhooks mine.

  I grab it and try to reconnect it. “What are you doing?”

  He pulls me to my feet. “Feeding you.”

  My heart sputters. “Shouldn’t we stay buckled in?”

  “The table seats have belts, if it makes you feel better.” He backs up and leads me to a booth, the plane shaking right before I’m ready to sit down, and I wrap my arms around his waist.

  He holds me, flattening his hand on my back. “I told you. I got you.”

  “You seem confident,” I accuse, and I’m not talking about him keeping me from falling.

  “I am,” he says, clearly understanding my meaning as he continues with, “because I know I’m telling the truth. But you need to know, I get grumpy when I’m hungry, which means I’m about to live up to your claim that I’m an asshole.”

  “That’s pretty grumpy.”

  “Exactly.” He turns me and sits me on the cushion of the booth. “Which is why I need to eat and since I’ve heard your stomach growl no less than three times, I’d say you do as well.” He reaches overhead to remove the pizzas from the compartment above, setting the insulated bag on the table and pulling out the boxes before discarding it.

  Then he bends down to open a small fridge and offers me a bottle of water. “I forgot to ask what you like. This is all I have in stock.”

  “This is great,” I say, accepting it.

  He sets a couple of plates next to the boxes, then scoots in next to me, and the second his leg touches mine I can’t think straight. Which is a problem, since I really need to climb out of this lust cloud and get to know him. I slide all the way around to the opposite side of the table and manage to have my gaze collide with his, and the connection jolts me to the core.

  He arches a brow. “Running?”

  Considering every time he touches me I melt like the cheese on the pizza, I say, “Yes. I can’t think when you keep touching me.”

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “Briefly.”

  “Very briefly,” he agrees, lifting the box lids and propping them up. “Looks good, right?”

  “Yes,” I say, inhaling the scent of spicy tomato and bread. “And it smells heavenly.”

  “It is. Dig in.”

  I lift a slice of cheese pizza and put it on my plate, while he grabs one of each for his. “You said this is your usual order. Is it a good luck ritual before a tournament?”

  “I don’t believe in luck. It’s just damn good pizza.”

  “But still a ritual.”

  “Yes.”

  “Rituals are all about luck.”

  “Rituals are about a certain groove you get into. A state of mind. And for me, that includes pizza.”

  I want so badly to ask if he normally has an entourage, but I resist and take a bite of one of the best pizzas I’ve ever had. “Mmmm. Wow. It’s amazing.”

  “I told you,” he says, finishing off a bite himself. “I always order two large, and eat the leftovers after I play and for breakfast the next morning.”

  “You don’t go out to eat or get room service?”

  “Been there, done that,” he says, as I take another bite and open my water. “I like my pizza.”

  And his rituals. “Do you get nervous before a game?”

  “I shut everything out.”

  “Everything?”

  He opens his water. “If you’re asking if Stephanie is going to get to me, hell no. And I plan to win tonight to make sure she knows it.”

  I admire his strength more than he can imagine. “You think that’s what she, or they, want? To rattle you?”

  “Why else would she taunt me for months?”

  “Yeah. She’s trying to rattle you, but to what end?”

  “My willingness to do whatever I have to just to make this stop.”

  “Or to fill in as many zeroes as she wants.”

  “Exactly.” His lips tighten.

  I want to ask questions I’m not sure I should.

  “Ask me,” he urges, reading my mind.

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll try and read your mind. You want to know about Stephanie.”

  “Yes.”

  “Recapping what I’ve said numerous times now and wish I could change, I slept with her three or four times over the course of a year. It was nothing to me. I told her that up front. I didn’t give her my phone number, but somehow she ended up with it. And she kept calling. I didn’t take her calls and she showed up at my door. It got very stalker-like way too fast. What else do you want to know?”

  I want to know him. I want to believe in him. “How’d you become a professional poker player?”

  He doesn’t blink at the change of subject. “I was a military brat and my father’s buddies always had poker nights. I was probably thirteen when I started playing with his buddies and winning.” He downs a bite of pizza and I do the same.

  “That’s still a long stretch from playing professionally.”

  He takes a slug of water. “While I was in college at UCLA, I started going to these underground poker matches. I was good, and I won money that I needed for my tuition.”

  “Underground? That sounds very … off the record?”

  “I didn
’t care at the time; it just felt like a different version of my father’s parties. But looking back and knowing what I know now, it wasn’t smart.” He reaches into the pepperoni pizza box and we each take another slice. “I started entering some professional tournaments during my junior year and graduated with a degree in math, because I’m good at it, and I just needed to be done.”

  “Math is easy for you?”

  “Yes, and I could have used that in any number of careers, but I had only one thing on my mind.”

  “Poker.”

  He gives a quick nod. “And making money to change my family’s life.”

  Admiration fills me. “And you did.”

  “Not at first. I was paying the bills by playing, but not scoring anything major.”

  “What changed?”

  “I got over the intimidation of playing with people who were better than me and decided to just have fun. I love playing, but it’s a mental game and I had to get my head in it the right way.”

  “So you won’t let Stephanie see you rattled,” I repeat.

  “That’s right, baby. Never let them see you sweat.”

  It’s a gutsy way of thinking, and I envy him that strength. “You said you made some sort of finals?”

  His lips curve. “You’re failing miserably at the whole groupie thing, just so you know.”

  My cheeks flush. “Sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry for failing at the groupie thing, but for my ignorance about poker.”

  “It’s the World Series,” he says, which reminds me of what was printed on the chip I found. “It ends in July,” he continues, “and the final nine finalists play live on ESPN for the big win.”

  “Oh, wow. That’s big. And have you won this before?”

  “I’ve made the finals four years in a row, and won two of those.”

  “Won millions.”

  “Yes. Millions.”

  “And you had no money when you started.”

  “Correct.” He points at the pizza, offering me another slice, as if making millions is nothing.

  I shake my head. “No more for me. I ate two slices.”

  “I’ve had five. That’ll do me for now.”

  “When did you eat five slices? You must have inhaled them.”

  “More time to sleep.” He seals the boxes. “Dinner at midnight, and breakfast, too.”

  “Ritual?”