Seven-Card Stud

by Ava Drake

  “Taking a walk. Clearing my head.”

  “What the hell do you need to clear out of your head?”

  He flared up, irritated at Oliver’s irritation. “What the hell are you doing out here? It’s the middle of the damned night, and you shouldn’t be swimming alone like this. If something happened to you, there’d be no one to rescue you.”

  “Like you tried to rescue me the first time we met? Yeah, that went great. I ended up having to haul you to shore.”

  “At least I fucking tried to help you.”

  Oliver snapped, “You failed. I’m more fucked-up than ever.”

  Collin frowned. “From where I stand, you’re doing great. Your old man is talking to you again, you’re leading the most prestigious poker tournament on earth, and everyone predicts you’re going to win, which means you’ll be rich in a day or two, you got to fuck the pretty British boy, and you get to walk away from me with everything.” Including the eviscerated pieces of Collin’s damned, traitorous heart. And unlike Collin, Oliver got to walk away with his heart still intact. Lucky bastard.

  “You think I give a damn about the money or whatever the hell we’re playing for?” Oliver’s voice rose in anger with each word, and he shoved his hood back to reveal spiky hair sticking out in every direction.

  “You sure as hell don’t give a damn about me!” Collin shot back.

  “Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me?” With each word, Oliver took a step closer, bringing them nose to nose. Even in the faint starlight, Oliver’s eyes sparked with fury.

  “You won’t even speak to me!”

  Oliver leaned in threateningly. “Then what am I doing now?”

  “You’re arguing with—”

  Oliver cut him off, grabbed him by both shoulders, and kissed him forcefully. Livid, Collin kissed Oliver back, their teeth colliding and tongues clashing angrily.

  “You’re a goddamned idiot,” Oliver ground out as he ripped Collin’s sweater over his head.

  “Says the pot to the stupid kettle,” Collin retorted as he yanked down the long zipper on the front of Oliver’s wet suit. Yup. Commando underneath the black neoprene. He reached hungrily for Oliver’s flesh, cool to the touch, but with fire pulsing beneath the skin.

  Collin’s shirt fell away, and at the same time Oliver sucked Collin’s tonsils from his throat, he went to work on Collin’s belt buckle and trousers.

  The night air was a shock against Collin’s naked body, but then Oliver’s body slammed into his, shoving him back against the rock. Oliver bit his neck, and he raked his fingernails down Oliver’s back hard enough to be painful.

  “Asshole.”

  “Idiot.”

  “Bastard.”

  “Fuckwad.”

  “Fuck me.” Collin gasped the words as Oliver’s fist closed around his dick, forcing him in a matter of seconds to the point of riotous explosion. Collin’s hips rocked forward violently, and Oliver grabbed him and turned him around, shoving him down to his hands and knees. Collin grabbed fistfuls of wet sand as Oliver spooned his body on top of Collin’s.

  “I hate you,” Oliver whispered hoarsely.

  And then Oliver was plunging into him, all heat and restless motion, surging deeper and deeper until Collin couldn’t string thoughts together. Oliver surged up onto his knees, one hand grasping the back of Collin’s neck, and the other reaching between them to cup Collin’s balls.

  Collin keened in pleasure as Oliver’s cock stroked his prostate hard and fast, turning him into a hot mess of lust and longing. He threw his head back and shouted his pleasure as Oliver slammed into him one last time, coming with a roar of his own flung out to the sea, which roared back in return.

  Oliver collapsed on top of him, breathing hard. Collin absorbed his body heat, vaguely registering the grit of sand on their skin and beneath his knees.

  “I love you,” Oliver sighed.

  Collin froze, not sure he’d heard correctly. Surely not. It was just the aftermath of the sex talking. Using his considerable strength, he lowered the two of them slowly to the sand, lying flat on his belly with Oliver sprawled on top of him like a heavy blanket. Slowly, the sand beneath him warmed, conforming to his body and cupping it softly. He could lie here like this all night.

  “I’m crushing you, aren’t I?” Oliver muttered, rolling away.

  Collin wanted to wail for Oliver to come back, but instead, he rolled onto his side to face him. In the wake of their angry sex, a deep stillness had settled between them. He hated to disturb it. He studied what he could see of Oliver’s face in the deep shadows. No trace of stress tightened his features, and no hint of a frown marred his brow. This quiet, introspective side of Oliver was new to him. He didn’t know how to react or what to say. And so he let the silence lie there and prayed to whatever deity looked over lost fools like him that this was not an ending but a new beginning.

  “You’re cold,” Oliver finally murmured.

  “No colder than you.”

  “Yes, but I surf all the time. I’m used to it. Not to mention I’m wearing part of a wet suit. You’re shivering.” Oliver started, swearing. “I forgot about your wound. Is it still bleeding? We didn’t get sand in it, did we?”

  “It’s good. Bandage is still safely taped over it.”

  Oliver sighed. “As much as I’d like to stay here with you for a week or two and not move, we need to get you back to the hotel.”

  Collin sat up reluctantly and turned to hunt for his clothes. “Umm, Oliver? We’ve got a problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The waves have covered the strip of sand I walked on to get here.”

  Oliver laughed. “Well then. I guess I get to rescue you this time.”

  “Does that mean I’m going to end up saving you?”

  Oliver’s smile faded. “You already have, Collin.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that, and a wave of shyness—of all things—swept over him. He eyed the water, now a good two feet deep, sloshing against the rocks.

  “We need to keep your side dry and not get saltwater in that cut. You could leave your pants off and wade for it,” Oliver suggested, “or, I could carry you piggyback around the point.”

  Collin laughed. “Or I could leave my pants off and you could carry me piggyback around the point.”

  That ended up being what they opted for, in the name of keeping Collin dry and no more hypothermic than he already was from lying naked on the sand for the past half hour. It irritated the hell out of him that Oliver didn’t seem to be as affected by the cold as he was. Not that the two of them were ever competitive or anything. The guy must have the metabolism of a blast furnace not to be cold out here.

  They paused on the far side of the rocks for Collin to put on his pants and shoes, and then they trudged back toward the resort. A few hundred yards shy of El Rocca, Collin stopped. “We’d better say good-bye here.”

  Oliver snorted. “Wouldn’t want my old man to think we’re sneaking around making out on the beach.”

  “Heaven forbid.”

  They traded wry glances, and Oliver headed up the beach toward the road. “I’ll approach from the front. You take the rear.”

  “There’s got to be a joke in there somewhere,” Collin retorted.

  “Joke’s on us,” Oliver retorted with surprising bitterness.

  It was gratifying to know Oliver wasn’t any more thrilled with the situation than Collin was.

  “See you at the gaming tables,” Oliver added.

  “Right, then. Break a leg or whatever gamblers say to one another.”

  “Hell, around here, they’d actually break your damned leg,” Oliver grumbled.

  Laughing under his breath, Collin veered toward the water and the hotel’s beachside entrance.

  Tomorrow, he and Oliver would face each other across a poker table for the first time. It was a prospect he roundly dreaded. He, of all people, knew just how brilliant a poker player Oliver was. Worse, Oliver knew all his tells. Non
e of Collin’s self-effacing amateur schtick would work on the guy. But then, Oliver’s half-stoned surfer act wouldn’t work on him, either.

  He fully expected Oliver to win the whole tournament. Thing was, with only six players left, a certain amount of luck would come into play. They would likely play for only a matter of hours before a winner emerged. In so few hands, luck could be a factor. Hell, even he had a shot at winning.

  Although he worried how Oliver would react if Collin beat him. They both knew Oliver was the better player. But was he a better loser? Or even a decent one? Collin rather doubted it. Not that he was all that great a loser himself. Oh, he was gracious and polite in defeat, but he didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  He hated to think what George Elliot would do to him if, by some backward miracle, he came out the winner. Would he even get a chance to find out what the prize was and tell his superiors and the British government, while he cried into his cups over losing the love of his—

  He stopped, staring at the ocean sliding back and forth before him, and finished the thought. The love of his life. Cripes. Had he really fallen that hard for Oliver?

  He’d just spent an hour in the cold, wet sand getting hypothermic and ignoring stabbing pain in his side so he could make love with the man. And he hadn’t cared at all. He’d been so deliriously overjoyed to steal a moment with Oliver that he hadn’t even noticed the cold. Wow. He really was a goner.

  OLIVER sat down at the poker table, studiously avoiding looking across the table at Collin until he caught himself doing it. Crap. His old man had to be watching tonight’s play live. No way would he miss it if Oliver and Collin pretended the other one didn’t exist. With a sigh he glanced up from stacking his chips and caught Collin peeking at him.

  “Good luck, English.”

  “You too, Gun.”

  Play was cautious at first, but all six players were looking for opportunities to strike hard and draw blood. The bets went up steadily, the pots growing bigger and bigger, the risk of making a wrong decision higher and higher. One mistake could spell the end for any player at the table.

  Silently, Oliver begged Collin to stay focused, be smart, and keep his wits about him, which was weird. Normally he wished just the opposite for his opponents. Collin had played so well this far; he didn’t want the guy to humiliate himself on the big stage like this, where everyone would see every tiny misstep or error he made.

  The tournament directors did not have to force the players to bet big tonight. Everyone seemed to want this long, exhausting tournament to end. First one player, then another busted out. The chip stacks ebbed and flowed between the players. Oliver went head-to-head against one of the other players, and Oliver’s flush beat the inside straight the other guy hit on the final turn card.

  And now they were three. Tony Carlotti, a veteran American player with purported mafia connections, was the other remaining player. Regardless of his shady associates, he was a hell of a poker player and a genuine threat to win.

  Collin opened the betting on the next hand, coming out strong. Oliver figured Collin for an ace and something else high, maybe a jack or a queen. His own cards were a pair of tens. He followed up Collin’s bet, raising it fifty thousand, and Carlotti raised his bet another fifty thousand. Oliver smelled a bluff.

  He glanced over at Collin, who was studying Carlotti intently. Oliver knew that look in Collin’s eyes. He smelled a bluff too. Go easy, he silently exhorted Collin. They would need to slow roll this guy, neither of them overplaying their hands if they were going to sucker Carlotti into sticking with his bluff to the bitter—and expensive—end.

  The first turn card was revealed. A king. No help to Oliver, but perhaps it set up a straight for Collin. Carlotti came out betting hard, as if he’d paired up a pocket king in his own hand and was now playing a strong king pair. Not freaking likely.

  Collin hesitated to call the aggressive bet just the right amount of time to convey that he was worried about Carlotti’s hand. Oliver pulled an aggravated face as he pushed in his own chips, matching the bet.

  The next card was a ten. Oliver was now sitting on triple tens, normally a winning hand. He considered the odds if Carlotti wasn’t, in fact, bluffing, and still liked his own odds. Carlotti bet aggressively again, presumably on the fake pair of kings, and Oliver matched him more confidently this time. It was Collin’s turn to look annoyed at the cards as he pushed his chips in. Oliver couldn’t tell yet which one of their hands was the strongest, so he had to stick around to see another turn card. Once he knew whether his hand or Collin’s was stronger, he’d know which one of them should bow out and let the other knock out bluffing boy.

  The turn card was a queen. He looked up at Collin and spotted the tiniest tightening around Collin’s eyes for a fraction of a second. A person would have to know Collin as well as Oliver did, be as fully familiar with every nuance of Collin’s face as he was, to have noticed it. Collin had hit his straight.

  Carlotti made an outrageously high bet, which Oliver recalled from the video of his play was a standard bluffing tactic of his. Collin had this guy dead to rights, so Oliver folded. No need to bankrupt himself when Collin had this handled.

  Except Collin hesitated when the bet came to him. What the hell was he doing? Alarmed, Oliver stared at him, willing him to call the bet. He had this hand! Surely, Collin knew Carlotti was bluffing. They’d studied the tape together, for crying out loud.

  Collin played with his chips, shuffling two short stacks into a single taller stack with a musical clatter of clay disks. He was obviously thinking hard, running numbers and staring speculatively at Carlotti, who gave him a stone face back. C’mon, c’mon. Make the bet already. Jeez. He’d served up Carlotti to Collin on a silver fucking platter!

  Finally, Collin reached for his chips. He called the bet and raised it a million chips.

  Oliver mentally gave him a standing ovation. If Carlotti stuck out his bluff and lost, Collin’s giant bet would cripple the guy. Of course, if Collin lost the hand, he’d be crippled instead. It was a courageous move, and Oliver couldn’t be prouder of Collin. It was a play worthy of a world-class poker player.

  The heat was now on Carlotti to sacrifice half his chip stack, which was already in the pot, and walk away from his bluff, or to see this thing through and potentially go down in flames. Oliver watched Carlotti watching Collin.

  Collin leaned back in his chair to wait out Carlotti, his thumbs hooked casually in the pockets of his pants. Even Oliver had to admit that Collin was a cool customer under pressure. All three of them knew what was at stake with this hand.

  Carlotti defiantly called the bet.

  Oliver allowed himself a faint congratulatory nod that Collin caught and flashed a momentary smirk back at. Oliver sat up straight in his seat, startled. It had all been an act! Collin had known all along he had Carlotti dead to rights and had been faking all that uncertainty! Son of a bitch. He’d even faked out Oliver, who knew him better than anyone here. Nice.

  The final card—the river card—flopped. It was a five, of no use to anybody. Collin was in the clear. Collin made a bet that would gut the remainder of Carlotti’s chip stack, and the guy had no choice but to call. He was into this pot too deep to back out now.

  Collin flipped over his ace-jack. He had, indeed, made his straight. Carlotti stared at the cards in dismay and shoved his hold cards in, face down, without bothering to show them. The guy swore angrily in Italian as the next hand was dealt.

  Oliver eyed Carlotti’s now pitiful stack as Collin raked in his huge pile of chips and counted and stacked them. If Oliver wasn’t mistaken, Collin had just moved into the chip lead by a nose. Jerk, he thought fondly.

  It took four more hands, but Oliver maneuvered Carlotti into going all-in—pushing in all his remaining chips—on a mediocre hand. Oliver matched up his queen-nine hold cards with a queen on the flop for a pair. Carlotti matched on the flop to make a pair of sixes, but it wasn’t enough. The guy was out of the tournament. H
e stood up, shook hands with Oliver and Collin, and left the room. Now it was just the two of them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  COLLIN stared across the green felt expanse at Oliver. A sense of inevitability washed over him. Of course it had come down to the two of them pitted against each other. Panic hovered just behind his sternum. They both knew Oliver to be the better player. But the cards and lady luck were in charge now.

  Did he dare try to bluff Oliver? God knew, the man could read every nuance of his body language in bed. There was no reason to believe it would be any different at a poker table.

  Would Oliver try to bluff him? Possibly. The guy had been less than forthcoming about his feelings for the past several days, ever since Collin had tried to dump him for his own safety. And Oliver had dumped him back for not guarding his own safety.

  A new shoe was brought out. The wooden rack held three new decks of cards randomly shuffled together to minimize the effect of card counting. Which benefited Collin, no doubt. Oliver was hell on wheels when it came to counting cards. He eyed Oliver’s chip stack. They were pretty even in that department, which didn’t mean much. This was now all about skill and nerve.

  He was shocked to realize he wanted to win. It wasn’t so much about finding out what the prize was as it was proving himself worthy to his lover. Or more accurately, proving to himself that he was worthy of a man like Oliver, he corrected. He realized he was scowling in Oliver’s general direction.

  Oliver looked hurt for a millisecond, and then his bright blue gaze hardened.

  So. It was going to be like that, was it? One-upmanship had always been part of their relationship, from the very first moment they met. Out in the Mediterranean Sea, he’d tried to save Oliver, and Oliver had insisted on trying to save him. As if either one of them had needed help. Ha! Collin released a slow breath and girded himself for battle.

  The first cards were dealt. He had an uninspired nine of clubs and eight of hearts. Oliver peeked at his cards and didn’t look any more thrilled. Collin didn’t bother trying to bluff, and it didn’t appear Oliver was going to try either. They bet out the hand anemically, and the next several hands in similar fashion, neither one risking many chips. Sort of like their relationship. Neither one willing to commit too much, circling around one another, sizing each other up.