Juliette had come up to me the Wednesday after the great tabloid debacle, and she’d apologized quietly. After that, she’s stayed away from us, merely showing up, playing without saying a word and leaving. I feel a little sorry for her, to be honest, and I’m tempted to tell Daniel and Sebastian that it’s time we all buried the hatchet.
Trevor’s team walks over. These guys - and they are all men, there’s not a single woman among them - have a definite swagger as they approach. Trevor gives me a snide look. “I’m surprised your team got this far, Bailey,” he calls over, his voice cutting through the noise. “But it ends here.”
His team fist-bumps each other and exchanges high-fives, while I exchange a dry glance with Daniel and Sebastian. It ends here. Seriously, who talks like that? Do they think they are in a Quentin Tarantino movie? We are in Yonkers, for crying out aloud, in a sports bar located in a strip mall. Glamorous, this isn’t.
I would normally be a bundle of nerves by this point, but Daniel and Sebastian have taken steps to prevent it. And by steps, I mean a butt plug buried in my ass, and a vibrator nestled against my clitoris. Then there’s the red lace bra and panties they’ve made me wear under my black dress. The sexy lingerie and the toys, not to mention the multiple orgasms I had in the car on my way over here, have all left me too blissed out to be nervous. Tense? Not me. I’m a deep pool of relaxation.
Clark goes up first, and Trevor puts up Peter, the only guy on their team who isn’t a complete jerk. Even though I should be rooting for my own team, I’m secretly not too heartbroken when Peter beats Clark. Clark’s a jerk. I’m never going to want him to win.
Next up is a player from Trevor’s team called Frankie. He’s listed as a five, but that’s a garbage rank. I’ve seen Frankie play, and he’s almost as good as Trevor. I whisper my disbelief to Daniel and Sebastian, and Daniel nods, unsurprised. “I’ve heard Trevor’s team does this,” he says. “They win as many games as it takes to qualify for the tournament, and then they start throwing games to lower their rank.”
“That’s cheating,” I say indignantly.
He doesn’t look concerned. “We can take them, Bailey. I have complete confidence in you.”
Juliette is selected to play against Frankie. She’s a four. Sebastian walks up to her to warn her about Frankie’s true skill level, and I turn to Daniel. “Are they talking again?” I ask him, indicating Sebastian and Juliette.
He shakes his head. “Not really.”
“Well, they should. His cookbook is still a New York Times bestseller. That was all Juliette’s doing.”
“She involved you,” he responds with a half-smile. “Neither Sebastian nor I find forgiveness easy.”
I think both of them are wrong, and it’s time to let this go, but for the moment, I hold my peace and watch Juliette play. She’s on fire today. She’s hitting the ball cleanly, she’s making smart, strategic decisions, and best of all, she’s in Frankie’s head. He thought he was playing against a girl, and it would be an easy win. Juliette’s proving him wrong.
I cheer loudly as she wins her first game. “Go Juliette,” I yell, drawing a glare from Trevor. I refrain with difficulty from flipping him off, and instead do a fist-bump of solidarity with Juliette. She looks surprised, but grateful. “Thanks, Bailey,” she says. “One game down, three to go, right?”
“You’ve got this. Frankie’s spooked, and he gets worse when threatened, not better.”
Sure enough, Frankie’s level of play drops off in the second game, much to Trevor’s disgust, and Juliette wins again. Frankie manages to hold on in the third game, but then he drops the next two. Juliette’s won her match.
One-one.
I’m somewhat relieved and somewhat disappointed. Both Daniel and Sebastian rarely lose, and they will win their games. It won’t matter whether I win or lose after that. It’ll matter to Clark, obviously, because of the bet, but it won’t matter in the scheme of the tournament.
Sure enough, Daniel makes quick work of his opponent. And then something unexpected happens.
Sebastian loses his match by a hair.
It’s all up to me now. And the butterflies in my stomach are back in full flutter.
The theme song from ‘Chariots of Fire’ plays in my head as I walk to the center of the room, under the spotlight. Trevor walks forward, almost in slow motion. The coin toss to determine who breaks seems to take an eternity, then the quarter lands face up on the felt. Heads. I’m breaking.
“You’ve got this.” Sebastian’s voice is low and certain next to me.
“Did you throw your game?” I demand. “Did you set this up?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he says blandly, watching Daniel rack the balls for me. “Why does Trevor look so pleased about the coin toss?”
“He thinks I can’t break,” I chuckle. “He’s about to find out he’s wrong.”
The vibrator buzzes against my clitoris right then, and I almost drop the chalk I’m holding in my hand. I glare around, trying to decide which one of them is the culprit. One of them has the remote. When I find out which one…
The buzzing stops. “Go on,” Sebastian smiles wickedly. “It’s time to show Trevor what you can do.”
Can a girl who just started playing pool a few months back beat an expert? Not every day. Not even most days. Some days, however, the planets line up just so.
Trevor underestimates me. I can see him laughing with Frankie, rolling his eyes as I bend down to break. At the right angle, you can see my bra. From the way Trevor suddenly swallows, I know he’s caught a glimpse of red lace.
You called my breasts cow-like, asshole, I think, and the resulting surge of anger powers my break. I hit the cue ball with a resounding thwack, and it speeds toward the rack. Balls scatter everywhere, and two balls roll into two pockets. “I’m playing solid,” I call out calmly as I walk around the table, chalking my cue. Trevor gapes at me, and behind him, his team falls silent. They’ve seen me play before. They thought the tournament was theirs.
Not just yet. Not if I have anything to do with it.
My best chance is to win quickly. I have to be careful not to give Trevor an open shot, because then he’s capable of running the table. My shot selection needs to be strategic. If I’m not sure I’m going to sink a ball, I need to position the cue ball in such a way that Trevor can’t, either.
I’ve been practicing. Interspersed with hot sex and even hotter spankings, I’ve been working hard on improving my game. I’ve never been as good as I am in this moment. I’ve never felt as confident.
“Go on Bailey,” a familiar voice yells out. “You show them, girl.”
I turn around, and a huge grin covers my face. Not only do I have Daniel and Sebastian rooting for me to succeed, but I also have my own personal cheering squad. The Thursday Night Drinking Pack - or the four of them that live in New York - Katie, Gabby, Piper and Wendy - have all made the trek to Yonkers to watch me play. “Miki sends her apologies,” Wendy tells me. “She was going to try for a flight, but bad weather derailed her plans.”
“She was going to fly out to New York for this?”
“What could be more important than watching you win?” Gabby asks matter-of-factly.
Tears form in my eyes. I’m about to answer and thank them all for their constant, unwavering support, when Trevor interrupts with an impatient look on his face. “If the peanut gallery is done, Bailey, perhaps you can get on with it.”
You want to get on with it, you jackass? Let’s get on with it.
I’m on fire as I play. My focus is completely on the table. I’m seeing the balls more clearly. It feels like time has slowed down and my awareness has tunneled to this game. Even the feel of the butt plug and the vibrator can’t distract me from my mission.
Today, I’m going to win on the behalf of all long-suffering women who put up with men that don’t treat them right. Today, I’m going to pay Clark back for his disdain by making sure he loses his bet. I’m going t
o reward Daniel and Sebastian for their steadfast faith in me.
It takes five games. I win the first. Trevor fights back and wins the next three, but by the time the fifth game begins, he’s become cocky and complacent, and he makes a mistake.
And I pounce. I run the table. I win the match.
There’s noise in the background. Wendy, Gabby, Katie and Piper are throwing back shots and cheering loudly in celebration. Clark’s looking ashen at the thought of paying Daniel fifty grand. Trevor is stunned, and his palm, when he shakes my hand, is cold and clammy. Behind him, his team looks disappointed, and Frankie’s just punched his fist into the table. Ouch. That looks painful.
That’s the background. In the foreground, Daniel and Sebastian are beaming, and I can tell how proud they are of me. I walk up to them and draw them in for a hug. “Tell me,” I whisper so that only they can hear me. “What kind of games should we play next?”
Sebastian’s hand runs over my butt in a possessive gesture. Daniel’s eyes twinkle. “I don’t know,” he says. “Let’s go home and find out.”
BONUS CONTENT ALERT: Not ready to say goodbye to Bailey, Daniel & Sebastian? I wrote a companion story called Meet the Parents, in which, as the title suggests, Bailey meets Daniel’s mother. Meet the Parents is available for FREE to subscribers of my newsletter. Click here to sign up!
The Gamble
The Gamble
I’m a gambler. I can’t resist the draw of a good game. But I never, ever, risk my heart.
Seven months ago, I had an unforgettable one-night stand with Dominic and Carter. The two of them were tempting—so tempting—but in the middle of the night, I panicked. Before the fantasy could give way to cold reality, I ran away, never to hear from them again.
Or so I thought.
Seven months later, I’m a hundred thousand dollars in debt, the result of one night of poker going disastrously wrong. I arrive in Atlantic City, desperate to win it all back.
And when I get there, there they are. Dominic and Carter. The men that got away. The men that haunt my dreams.
Still impossibly gorgeous.
Still wickedly tempting.
And they still want me.
The stakes have never been higher.
This time, I can’t run away.
This time, I have to gamble with my heart.
1
Gabriella
New York is filled with glamorous spots, but this bare room in a basement in Chinatown, illuminated by cheap fluorescent lighting and furnished with scratched particleboard tables and metal folding chairs, isn’t one of them. Underground poker rooms rarely are. I’ve been playing for a long time—first in London, and now in Manhattan—and I’ve learned the decor, or lack thereof, is deliberate. When your business faces the constant risk of being raided by the cops, ambiance is the last thing you invest in.
Sammy, the guy who runs the place, is in his usual spot at a corner of the room, his goons on either side of him. He’s a big guy, Sammy. He used to be a boxer in his youth. He’s fanning himself with a magazine, his face red. His bald head shines with sweat that all the fans in the room haven’t been able to wick away.
It’s not just Sammy who’s sweating; we all are. New York is in the middle of a heat wave, and it has to be a hundred degrees here. I take a long drink of my water, lean back in my chair, and survey the room. As these things go, this is a small club. There are just two tables, which means a maximum of twenty people can play at any given time. Three dealers work the tables, Chris, Paula, and Tony, and they work in thirty-minute shifts.
Most weekends, this place is bustling. Not so tonight. It’s hot enough that many of the regulars are missing. My table only has six players, and I don’t recognize any of them. The two guys who flank the dealer are dressed like investment bankers. The unsmiling young woman to my right wears black from head to toe. Her clothes are nondescript, but she’s wearing a thirty-thousand-dollar Cartier watch on her wrist. Despite her mirrored sunglasses, she’s not much of a poker player, and I wonder how she found her way here. The couple to my left are obviously tourists. The guy’s wearing a Statue of Liberty t-shirt and shorts, and the woman has been clutching her purse as if she’s afraid someone’s going to run off with it.
Paula ends her shift, and Chris takes her place. He’s typically the chattiest of the three dealers, but not tonight. He sets up silently, and then, he deals the cards. I watch his hands move, and the movement is so hypnotic that the room seems to swim around me. I take another sip of my water and pick up my cards. The air is thick and humid, and it’s hard to breathe. A storm is coming; I can feel it in my bones.
I examine my cards. I’m holding a Jack of Hearts and a two of clubs. It’s not a great hand, but it’s also not terrible. One of the bankers gets going, putting a hundred-dollar chip on the table. The girl with the fancy watch doubles it. This is Texas Hold’Em, so these bets are compulsory, a way to seed the pot.
Then it’s my turn. Call, fold, or raise. The cards swim in front of me, and I blink rapidly to clear my vision. My head is starting to ache. I should go home, but even as that thought materializes to the forefront, I push it back down.
I’m here for a reason.
I’m a PR rep. I’ve been working for Karpis & Associates for the last five years. My official title is Senior Consultant, but the fancy title doesn’t come with more money. New York is expensive, and my salary is barely large enough to cover my expenses.
Three years ago, I realized that no matter how hard I worked, no matter how good my annual evaluations were, I’d never get promoted to Account Manager, much less be eligible for partnership. Viktor Karpis—the guy who owns the firm—is a good friend of my father’s. I got the job because of family connections. I’ve worked my ass off since then, but Francisco Suarez, the guy who heads up the New York office of Karpis & Associates, will never see me as anything more than a rich socialite.
Two years ago, I’d decided that the way forward was to quit my job and start my own PR firm. Twelve months ago, I’d gone into the bank to inquire about start-up business loans. That’s when I’d learned that nobody would lend me money. I’m a British citizen, I rent my studio apartment, and I don’t have any assets.
“If your parents would co-sign the loan?” the bank manager had suggested.
They would do more than that. If I ask them for it, they’d give me all the seed money I need and more.
But I don’t want to. Call it stupid pride, call it an obstinate desire to do this one thing on my own. Maybe I’ve internalized Francisco’s contempt more than I’m willing to admit. Whatever it is, I’m determined to succeed on my own merit.
Nine months ago, I realized that something I considered a hobby could actually be a lucrative side hustle. That’s when I joined Sammy’s underground poker room and started playing the high-stakes tables. Some days, I win big. Other days, not so much. But the winnings are slowly adding up. Soon—maybe as soon as six months—I’ll be ready to branch off on my own.
Or even sooner. If Lady Luck smiles on me, I could get there tonight.
The thought almost takes my breath away. I call, adding my chips to the pot. The tourists call as well, as does the second banker.
I take another big gulp of my water. The woman tourist catches my eye and clutches her purse again. Does she think I’m going to run away with it? Good grief. I turn back to the table, and Chris deals the flop.
I’ve got nothing. I should fold. Hell, what I should do is go home and do the dishes piling up in my sink. But it’s been a hell of a week at work, and I’m feeling a little down. None of my girlfriends are free to hang out tonight, and I don’t want to go to a bar by myself. The last time I did that, I’d done something monumentally stupid. I’d met two funny, good-looking guys, Dominic and Carter. I’d spent the entire evening flirting with them, and then, I’d slept with them. Both of them.
It had been the hottest night of my life.
Clearly, I’m not to be trusted on my own.
>
The two players before me check, adding no new money to the pot. I do the same, but unfortunately, the tourists raise. The woman bets five hundred dollars, and her husband matches. The investment banker to the left looks at his cards again, and at the flop, and wisely folds. His buddy calls, as does the girl.
It’s my turn to make a move. Chris turns to me, his eyebrow raised.
Call, fold, or raise. Those are my choices.
I should fold. That would be a smart thing to do. But the tourists are smirking already, the woman still clutching her purse. My temper rises, and I shove a five-hundred-dollar chip in the center. “Call.”
Four hours later, I stare at the devastation I’ve wrought.
Ninety-eight thousand, five hundred dollars, lost in one night of poker.
Despite the warmth of the room, my skin is covered with goosebumps, and I can’t seem to stop shivering. The adrenaline has finally caught up with me.
One bad hand after the other. A sense of hubris that made me repeatedly ignore the warning voices in my head. I should have bailed, and I didn’t, and now I’ve wiped out all my savings and worse. I’ve undone months of work in a few short hours.
I know I can be reckless, but until tonight, I would have argued till I was blue in the face that my risks were calculated. How could I let this happen?
My knees tremble as I get to my feet to settle up. Sammy knows me well. He’ll give me credit, he has to. He’ll let me play off my debt, won’t he?
“Gabriella,” he wheezes. “Rough night.”
Sammy’s two enforcers stand on either side of the door. One of them looks like a low rent version of Elvis, with sideburns and slicked-back black hair. The other is bald, like Sammy. Standing the way he is, with his arms folded across his broad chest, he reminds me of Mr. Clean.
Ménage in Manhattan: The Complete 5-Book Ménage Romance Collection Page 24
