Ooh. I like the sound of that. Nicky hasn’t released a new solo album in five years, just collaborations and remixes. “You have new material?”
“That’s just between you and me,” she warns. “No announcements. No coy hints. But yes, once I’m done here, I’m going into the studio. Fernando and I discussed it last night.”
I was here pretty late last night. I’d calmed her down, taken the phone out of her hands before she could post something cutting in response to Jorge’s latest passive-aggressive jab. Fernando must have visited even later. Good for Nicky.
She gives me a serious look. “I was in talks to do a stint in Vegas,” she says. “I talked to Anna about coming to work for me, but she’s going to Miami. We’ve only worked together a couple of days, but I like you. I would have made the same offer to you. But…”
The dreaded but. “You won’t be touring,” I say out loud. “You don’t need full-time PR help when you’re recording.”
She nods. “I’m sorry.”
With a mental sigh, I strike Nicky’s name off my imaginary client roster and try not to feel too dispirited. I lost my seed money, I don’t have a financial cushion, and my dreams of starting my own agency feel further away than they ever have. I know other people have it worse but knowing that’s true doesn’t do anything to cheer me up.
Dominic offered to make phone calls on your behalf, my conscience reminds me. You could take him up on it.
I push away that tempting, insidious thought. I’ve had a helping hand all my life. The road just got bumpier, but I’m determined to do this on my own.
Nicky’s in the middle of a high-energy dance number when my phone rings. It’s Piper, which is strange. It’s eight in the evening on a Thursday, and Piper is a chef in Hell’s Kitchen. She should be in the middle of a dinner rush.
I pick it up immediately. “What’s wrong?” I demand.
“Six people stopped by for dinner all evening,” she says with a sigh. “Two tables. Small orders. No apps, no drinks. I made a hundred bucks all night. Tell me about Atlantic City, Gabby. I could use the distraction.”
A hundred bucks on a Thursday. Piper is an incredibly talented chef. If life were fair, all her tables would be booked months in advance. But when her aunt left her this restaurant, it came with a bunch of insane restrictions that have hamstrung her attempts to make it a flourishing business.
“You don’t want to contest the will?”
“With what money?” she asks bitterly. “No. Even if the trust that oversaw Aunt Vera’s estate were amenable to changes, my parents would oppose it. What’s the noise in the background?”
Wendy would represent Piper in a heartbeat, and she certainly wouldn’t charge her. But I’d be a hypocrite if I give Piper a lecture about letting her friends help her—I’m hardly a poster child for that message. I haven’t even told my friends about my gambling debt. “I’m backstage at Nicky’s concert.” I hold up the phone so Piper can listen to the music, and then retreat to Nicky’s dressing room and shut the door. Quiet washes over the space. “Atlantic City is surprisingly nice.” I hesitate, my natural tendency to be secretive warring with my desire to cheer Piper up. “Remember the guys I ran into at the bar? Carter and Dominic? They’re here.”
She squeals in excitement. “They are? How? Where? Why? Tell me everything.”
Achievement unlocked. I bite back my grin. “Nicky’s performing at the Grand River,” I tell her. “Dominic owns the place, and Carter works here.”
“And?” she prompts.
“And I made out with them last night,” I blurt out. “Both of them. I mean, we got interrupted, but things still got pretty hot.” I take a deep breath. “I’m going to sleep with them. As long as I’m here, I mean.”
“What happened to all guys are assholes?” she teases. “What was it you said? Let me see if I remember. Normal guys turn into jerks when they start dating me.”
“I didn’t say anything about dating,” I protest immediately. It’s a reflexive response. If I’m being perfectly honest with myself, the thought of dating Dominic and Carter is not horrible. “And no, they’re not jerks.” At all.
I tell Piper about the flowers, the upgraded room, and the ice cream that Carter had sent up yesterday, and she sighs again. “That’s so romantic,” she says. “I love it. That settles it, Gabby. You have to date them. Guys that pay attention to the details don’t come along every day.”
“I can’t date them. My life is in the city.”
“If you say so,” she says, sounding skeptical. “I mean, you hate your job and your apartment flooded three months ago when the tenant upstairs left their water running, and your landlord took forever to fix the damage, but yeah, the city is amazing.”
I laugh. “So much sarcasm.” I open my mouth to make a comment about how her parents would be horrified, but my phone beeps before I can talk. I glance at my screen and see a text from Sammy. ‘Your name is on a list. Tonight.’ He follows it with an address, presumably of the underground poker venue. ‘Be careful, Gabriella.’
Looks like I’m in.
Time to spy on Carter’s brother-in-law, while playing another evening of high-stakes poker. This time, without going a hundred grand into debt.
17
Carter
I’m catching up on my emails when my phone pings. It’s a text from Gabby, one she’s sent to both Dominic and me.
‘Heard from Sammy. There’s a poker game tonight. I’m in! Just realized I have no clue what Ed looks like. Do you have a picture?’
My heart leaps. She’s in. She’ll be playing poker with Ed Wagner tonight. She’ll be able to tell if he’s drinking. If he seems high. She might even be able to talk to him and bring the topic around to Noah, and how Ed’s managing to take care of his son after so many years of indifference.
I should be ecstatic.
Instead, there’s a hollow pit in my stomach.
I pull up Ed’s booking photo, the one taken when he’d been arrested, and send that to Gabby. Then I stare at my screen, trying to work through my emotions.
On Tuesday—just two days ago—I’d been the one to broach the idea of Gabby spying on Ed Wagner. I’d been prepared to send her into the underground poker room that Denton Mitchell runs. Even though Mitchell loathes Dominic and me.
I’d assured myself that Gabby would be in no danger. Nobody knew that Gabby was connected to Dominic and me, and even if Mitchell somehow happened to find out, he wasn’t a total fool. Hurting Gabby would bring a world of trouble on his head.
I’d told myself that the risk was worth it. I had to do something to tip the custody battle in my favor. This was my best chance of catching Ed Wagner fucking up. Sure, Judge Bass seemed favorably disposed toward Ed at the moment, but would she take the same view if he were drinking again?
That was Tuesday. Today, my nerves prickle with unease, and all my justifications seem hollow. And I know what’s different. It’s Gabriella.
The last few months have been tough. Really tough. Custody hearings, family court, the constant ever-present dread of losing Noah. For years after Chloe’s death, I would have nightmares about walking into her house and finding her body. I thought I’d dealt with them, but when Ed had reentered my life, he’d brought those horrific dreams back with him. I’ve woken up far too many times, drenched with sweat, the image of Noah’s dead body overlaid on Chloe’s, both victims of Ed’s neglect. The dreams have been far too vivid, far too real.
And so, while I’ve thought about Gabby often this year, I thought I was using the memories of our one-night stand as a bulwark. A pleasant fantasy, and little else. I guess, on some level, I’d thought that my memories of her couldn’t be real. No one could be that unforgettable.
But then, last night happened.
It was hot. So ridiculously, impossibly hot. But it had also felt like more than just sex. I’d wanted to be with Gabriella. I hadn’t liked sneaking around, and I certainly hadn’t liked the idea of pretending no
t to know her. When Dominic had suggested introducing her to his fellow casino-owners, I’d inwardly cheered. The logical part of my brain knows she’s only here for a few weeks, but that hadn’t changed the way I felt.
You can’t let your resolve waver. You can’t afford to get attached. You know that.
The game is on. Gabriella needs money. I send her another text, telling her I’ll meet her just before she heads out. Dominic calls me an instant later. “I don’t like this,” he says without preamble.
Neither do I. Not that I can tell him that. My best friend has made his feelings clear; he wants me to set aside this feud with Ed and hammer out a joint custody arrangement.
“Do you think Gabriella is in danger?”
He hesitates for an instant. “No,” he admits reluctantly. “If Mitchell finds out Gabriella is with us, he’ll kick her out.” He takes in a deep breath. “It still doesn’t sit well with me. Not after last night…” His voice trails off.
Yeah. I know. It feels like I’m using Gabriella to advance my own agenda, and even though I’ve been upfront with her, I still don’t like it. Everything felt clear on Tuesday, and now, I feel waist-deep in a swamp of doubt, struggling to know the right thing to do.
There’s a long pause, and neither of us says anything. Finally, he clears his throat. “Did you have a chance to talk to the mediator Megan recommended?”
I’d crumpled up her business card and thrown it in the trash. “To what end?” I demand. “Ed’s winning, Dominic. He’s got sole custody of Noah. I’m allowed one phone call with my nephew every day, and that’s it. Why the fuck would Ed want to pursue joint custody?”
“For the same reason you should,” he replies evenly. “Because it’s in Noah’s best interests for his surviving family to get along.”
Shame envelops me. Would Ed be interested in negotiating? I don’t know. If I were in his shoes, after the roadblocks I’ve thrown his way, I don’t think I’d be able to. “If Gabriella finds something for me to use, maybe it’ll give me leverage in a custody battle.”
“Maybe you should stop seeing it as a battle,” he snaps, and then he hangs up on me.
I’ve made Dominic, who typically has the patience of a saint, lose his temper.
Fucking perfect.
Gabriella opens the envelope I hand her in the elevator. Inside, there’s a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills. “How much money is here?”
“Ten grand,” I reply. “Should be enough to keep you in the game for a few hours. The winnings are yours, of course.”
She frowns at that. “We’ll discuss that later,” she murmurs. She stares at the money in her hands. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to do something stupid. This time, the money will last all night.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “This time?”
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing. I’ll tell you later.”
From her expression, I don’t think it’s nothing, but I drop it. “Thank you for doing this.” A sudden need to touch her courses through me, and I graze her cheek with my fingertips. “If anything feels off, get out of there and call me. I’ll be there in two minutes.”
She tilts her head and surveys me with her dark eyes. “Are you expecting trouble?”
“No. Doesn’t mean I’m not prepared for it.”
Her lips tilt up in a grin. “Is it wrong that I find that hot?” She gives me a hug. Her scent washes over me. For a few seconds, my worries recede and all that remains is the feel of her body in my arms. “Don’t worry, Carter. I’ve played in underground poker rooms all my life. I’m a veteran. I’ve got this.”
Think about Noah, I tell myself fiercely. Think about tucking him back in his own bed, safe and sound, with his teddy bear Graham at his side, and the floor of his room covered in little sharp Lego pieces.
The elevator stops at the third floor. The doors slide open. I need to get out so that Gabby can continue down to the lobby, the cloak-and-dagger routine necessary so no one can connect us.
It’s painfully hard to make myself step out.
The doors are sliding shut when her voice stops me. “Hey, Carter?”
I stick my hand between the doors to stop them from closing. “Yeah?”
Her expression is serious, but her eyes are kind. “I asked both you and Dominic for a photo of Ed,” she says softly. “You sent me a mugshot.” She hands me her phone. “Dominic sent me this.”
I stare at the screen. The picture was taken on Noah’s birthday, two months ago. Ed and I had called a temporary truce, for Noah’s sake. I’d thrown a party at the local arcade, and Noah had invited all his classmates.
Noah is holding Ed’s hand in the photo. He’s standing in front of his birthday cake, and he’s beaming at the camera, a giant smile on his face. He looks happy. Thrilled. I stare at the picture, and it feels like someone’s squeezing my heart.
She bites her lower lip. “It’s none of my business, I know. You can tell me to butt out. But when I look at this photo, I see a kid surrounded by people who love him.” She takes the phone from me, her warm fingers grazing mine. “I’ll spy on Ed for you. But Carter, what’s the end game here? If I catch him drinking, then what? You go to the judge, she gives you sole custody, and your nephew is left once again without a father. Is that what you really want?”
I’m not ready to answer her questions, any more than I’m ready to answer Dominic’s. I withdraw my hand from between the elevator doors. “I’ll be close by,” I repeat. “If you need anything, call me. I’m here for you. Anything at all.”
18
Gabriella
The underground poker halls in Atlantic City look very much like the ones in New York. Same cheap furniture, same too-bright lighting. This room is in the back room of a nondescript Italian restaurant. Every time someone opens the door, I smell pizza.
The bouncer at the door is huge. His bushy eyebrows come together in a frown as his gaze rests on me. “You’re Gabriella?” he asks suspiciously. “Sammy’s girl?”
I nod. His eyes fall on my handbag and he bristles. “No personal effects,” he says. “No phones, no cameras. There’s a closet you can put it all in.”
If shit were to hit the fan, I won’t be able to call Carter. I’ll be on my own. I look around as discreetly as I can. There’s about twenty people in the room. Mostly guys, but reassuringly, there are other women here; I’m not the only one. One of them, a well-dressed woman in her fifties, notices me looking around and walks over. “Bulldog,” she teasingly scolds the bouncer. “Are you frightening her?” She gives me a friendly smile. “I’m Vittoria Vitale. And you’re new.”
“Gabriella,” I reply, omitting my last name.
“You’re Spanish? You don’t sound Spanish.”
I’ve been asked this question a thousand times. “My father is Brazilian,” I reply. “I grew up in London.”
“Ah, that explains the accent.” She nods, content that she has me sorted into a neat category. “What are you doing in Atlantic City?”
If it comes up, be open, Carter had told me earlier. If you act cagey, people will assume you have something to hide.
“I’m here for work,” I reply. “You know Nicky Z? She’s doing a series of shows at the Grand River. I’m her publicist.” I definitely sound like I’m bragging. “I’m going to be here through her run, and I used to play a lot in New York, and so…” I shrug my shoulders.
Vittoria’s eyes narrow when I mention the Grand River, but as I continue to speak, she seems to relax. “Have you caught the show?” I continue, pretending to be an eager, slightly pushy PR rep. “It’s really spectacular.”
Her lips thin into a barely-there smile. “My husband is in the process of buying the Grand River. I’ll watch the show when he’s done.”
I have a lot of practice maintaining a poker face—that’s the only reason I manage to keep my expression neutral. This seemingly friendly woman is Denton Mitchell’s wife. I need to be careful and not let the fact that I know Carter and Dominic slip by
accident.
“Join us,” she says. “It’s so refreshing to see a woman playing poker. I get weary of the testosterone.” She gestures to a table where a game is in progress.
I don’t know how to get out of it, and, from my quick scan of the room, Ed Wagner isn’t here. Ah well. I might as well get warmed up while I wait for him. Giving Vittoria a warm smile, I allow myself to be tugged.
Strangely, I’m not flustered. I’ve spent many years in rooms like this. Here, I feel at home. Here, I belong.
I get a thousand dollars’ worth of chips. Vittoria raises an eyebrow. “Assistants are better paid than I’d realized.”
She’s already noticed my watch—her gaze settled on it during our conversation. There’s no avoiding the giant elephant in the room. “My parents are rich.”
“Ah.” She’s readjusting her mental assessment. She can’t quite decide if I’m a too-keen publicist, or if I’m a wealthy dilettante. Ignoring her struggle, I take my chips and turn toward the table she’d indicated. Despite Vittoria’s statement about not wanting as much testosterone, there are three guys seated there, in addition to two women. They look up at our approach. “Everyone,” Vittoria says. “Meet Gabriella. She’s going to be playing with us tonight.”
“Hi,” I say, surveying my competition for the night. The two women, Vittoria’s friends, have paired sequined tops with yoga pants and heels. Two of the guys—their husbands, I think—are in athleisure too. The third guy is a wildcard. He’s wearing a plaid shirt and faded jeans, and he looks completely relaxed. He’s either a professional, or he’s got money to burn. Neither scenario is particularly good.
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