by Schiller, MK
A final check in the mirror confirms I’ve done a decent job. I wonder if Aiden will think I look nice…for once. I leave my room early, unable to sit quietly in this rocking dress. Aiden and Carson exit their rooms at the same time.
“Hi, guys,” I greet them.
Carson’s mouth drops open. He plies me with so many compliments I feel my head inflating. Aiden is quiet, though.
“Thank you for the dress, Aiden.”
“Welcome,” he grumbles, barely glancing at me.
“Do you like it?” I ask, spinning around.
He shrugs. “It looked different in the store. I expected more.”
“More what?”
“More dress,” he says through clenched teeth, before walking into the elevator.
Thank you, red dress, for sponsoring yet another awkward moment between Aiden and me.
As we exit the elevator, Carson pulls me aside.
“You look incredible. Aiden’s kind of a jerk.”
“Thanks. I’m glad someone thinks so.” I regret my thoughts. Aiden has a fight to prepare for. The last thing on his mind is me in this dress.
…
Aiden
The last thing on my mind should be Emma and that fucking red dress. I’m really taking this masochist thing all the way. Yeah, it makes perfect sense. Take the girl you’re lusting after, put her in a backless, sexy-ass dress, and sit her right in the front row. Yeah…’cause that’s not distracting.
I should focus on my opponent. Instead, I’m trying to figure out if I have enough time to jack off. I don’t. I’ll have to postpone my gratification and use this pent-up need in the fight.
Time to get my head in the game.
I enter the zone, meditating deeply as I always do before a match. I find my center. I run my finger across the scar at my waist. The scars on my body give me a menacing look. Carson wants to exploit that. He says the media will eat it up, but I’m not interested. Carson knows a little about the stuff I went through. What I’ve told him barely scratches the surface, but my body speaks for itself. I used to be ashamed to go without a shirt, but once I discovered how much I could do with this body, I stopped caring. I wear my scars like the battle wounds they are—with pride and honor. Perhaps there’s a bit of arrogance thrown in, too, but arrogance is a million times better than humiliation.
By the time I’m in the cage, my veins are pumping adrenaline. My opponent outweighs me by forty pounds. I’ve studied his fights. I’ve memorized his stats. I’ve prepared myself physically and mentally. Come and get me, bitch. I’m ready for you.
He chases me. He’s got more power in his fists. I’m faster, though, so I let him pursue me to tire him out. His fist lands on my rib cage once. Mine knocks him on the head. I deliver a swift kick to his back. He bloodies my nose. I put him in a cross lock. Our grappling goes on until the adrenaline shifts. Then my opponent’s face disappears. It becomes the face I see in my nightmares. The one I hope to see when I train for hours and achieve that work out high. I will win this match. I always do when the face changes.
Hello, Father.
I catch the look of fear in his eyes and seize it. My arms let loose. My fists fly with an unrestrained abandon. The man doesn’t see me coming. I’m pulled off him before I realize it. The ref holds my arm in the air. As much as I need this, I don’t enjoy it. It’s not a victory. It’s my sad attempt at trying to let my demons die, or at least rest.
When it’s all over, Emma sits with me in the locker room, cleaning my wounds. It’s apparent she’s upset by what she’s seen.
“You okay, Cooper?”
She cracks a small smile. “I should be asking you that.”
“I’m fine. Answer me.”
“Honestly, I didn’t watch most of it. I had to close my eyes.”
“Not your thing, huh?”
“You were amazing, but all I kept thinking about was that you could get hurt.”
“You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I know I don’t need to. I just do.”
“Ouch,” I say as she applies the burning antiseptic to me.
She laughs, shaking her head. “You can’t be serious? You’re scared of a little antiseptic? After that huge guy knocked you around in there?”
“First, he didn’t knock me around, Miss I’m-keeping-my-eyes-wide-shut. Second, they have people here for this.”
Her gaze lowers, lingering on my waist. There is no lust, only sorrow. “Something tells me you don’t see those people. None of the scars have healed quite right.” She hovers her hand over my stomach where the word freedom in inked, a permanent reminder of the time I made my own escape. “What does this one mean?”
I close my eyes and let out a deep breath. I’m torn between sweeping her up in my arms, and telling her to get the hell out of my life. The reality is I just want to get the fuck out of this conversation. Like I said, when the choice is between stupid and stupider, I go for stupidest. “Emma, I have to tell you something, and it’s really hard for me to say.”
“You can tell me anything.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Go ahead. I’m listening.” Her voice drops with anticipation. She holds my hand and squeezes it as if to lend me strength.
“That dress makes you look fat.”
It’s meant as a joke, a way to defuse the tension, but I’ve gone too far. I open my eyes in time to catch her gaping. She’s debating whether I’m joking or being mean. She should deck me. I deserve it. She snaps her mouth closed, her look of determination back with a vengeance.
“Well, I guess I’ll look fat tonight because I sure as hell love this dress. Even though the guy who gave it to me is a total dick.”
The dress does not make her look fat. She fills it out perfectly.
“I’m sorry—”
“Shut up.” She sashays out of the room, swinging her hips extra wide for my benefit.
“By the way, Aiden, I think you should watch your own weight instead of worrying about mine.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, your shorts are way too tight.”
I look down at the bulge lifting against the material.
Fuck me.
Chapter Thirteen
Aiden
Carson leaves with one of the fangirls after my fight. Hell, I think he only wanted this manger gig to get chicks. I go back to my room and call Emma.
“Hey, let’s go out.”
“Go out? Did you take one too many punches?”
“I’m really sorry.”
“That was a dick move, Sheffield.”
“I was joking.” I feel like shit about it.
“Still very dickish.”
“Let me make it up to you.”
“You sure you want to be seen with a tent show like me?”
“You sure you wanna be seen with a fat ass like me?”
“It wasn’t your ass that was fat.”
Shit, I drop the phone. I lunge to pick it up.
“I thought you hung up on me,” she says. “I was just trying to make you blush. Are you as pink as Pepto-Bismol?”
Nope, just hard again. Thank you, Emma, for inventing some type of fucked-up time machine that makes me revert to my horny fourteen-year-old self.
“Not blushing. C’mon Cooper, let’s play. You’re all dressed up and I can get there in about twenty minutes.” Fifteen if I don’t jack off. “We’re in Vegas. When else can we live it up?”
It’s almost thirty minutes by the time I knock on her door.
“You clean up nice,” she says, giving my navy dress shirt and black slacks a onceover.
There’s not enough soap in the world to clean up my dirty mind.
She grabs her purse. “What do you want to do?”
“Poker.”
She looks at her watch. Then she realizes it doesn’t work and shakes her head.
“It’s around eight,” I tell her.
She nods. “Ask me again at midnight.”
> “Is that when you turn into a pumpkin?”
She laughs. “No, silly boy, that’s when you find my magic slipper and defeat my evil stepsiblings, and…oh wait, you are my evil stepsibling.”
“Funny, smart-ass.
“It’s when I turn twenty-one.”
“Seriously, tomorrow’s your b-day?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I think we should celebrate tonight, and you should play at a real Vegas table.”
“How’s that going to happen? I can’t get into the casinos.”
“Who said anything about casinos?” I jerk my head toward the elevators. “I got an idea.”
“Famous last words,” she mutters.
Our destination is off-strip. And by off-strip, I’m talking Elvis shows, wedding chapels, and the world’s biggest hot dog place. I buy us hot dogs and try not to watch Emma eat hers. I’m just full of great ideas these days. Yeah, buy her some phallic food and dare your dick not to jump. What a fun game this is. In fact, why stop here? I’m sure she could go for a banana or, better yet, a Popsicle. Shit, what the hell is wrong with me?
“These are seriously yummy,” she says, holding a French fry under my nose. My stomach clenches in disgust.
“Get it away from me,” I snap.
She drops the fry, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I didn’t mean to go into full freak mode. I don’t eat fries. They make me sick.”
“Oh, ’cause they’re unhealthy? Because you can’t tell me the hot dogs are nutritious.”
“No, it’s not that. I hate potatoes in general.”
She peers closely at me. “In any form? Any variety?”
“Affirmative.”
“Allergies?”
“No. I just don’t like them…simple as that.” She waits for me to provide an explanation, as if there is some great insight to be gained by my dislike of this particular vegetable. Jesus, Emma, stop digging. “I don’t care for the way they smell or look.”
“Hmm, that’s interesting. My mom hated them, too,” she says. “Dad and I always thought it was the weirdest thing. She wouldn’t even buy potatoes.”
I take the empty wrappers from our table, keeping busy so my thoughts don’t wander into the real reason I hate potatoes. If I go there, I might get lost in the darkness, and I want to be here with Emma, where she shines even brighter than the Vegas lights.
With full bellies, we stride down the street to another little-known place. It’s a non-descript bar called the Elks, with a smoky back room where an old but shrewd group of sharks gather to feast. The rake is smaller than the casinos and the players more aggressive. Carson and I discovered the place the first time we came to Vegas. I brought Emma here because they won’t card, nor will they care, as long as our money is green and it spends. Tonight, they have four tables going. Two are already full, but the other two have a few vacancies.
“What the hell is this?” Emma asks, bumping into me as she spins around for the exit.
I hold her steady. “You wanted a real poker table. This is as real as it gets.”
“Are you crazy, Aiden? This is rounder’s shit. I’m a guppy in this tank. They’re going to slaughter me. I don’t even have enough to buy in.”
“I’ll stake you. C’mon, Guppy, when are you going to have this chance again?”
“I can’t let you do that. I’m going to lose your money.” She points toward the room and back at me. “I think I recognize one of those guys from the World Series of poker.”
I chuckle. “A few of them have been there, but only two of them have bracelets.”
“Oh, that’s comforting.”
“It’s only money, Cooper. Just think of this as a friendly game of poker.”
“There is no such thing as a friendly game of poker.”
“See? You’re talking the language of a shark already.” I place a hand on each of her shoulders and look straight into her eyes. “I do have faith in you, Emma. I did that day when you rescued the pup, and I do now. You are Emma the brave, Emma the fierce, Emma—the girl who stands tall even when her world is falling apart.”
She chews on her lower lip, maybe to make it stop quivering. She flashes me a weak smile and nods.
“Is that you, Sheffield?” Lou King asks me. Lou is a fixture at the Elks. I’m pretty sure he gets his mail sent here.
“Guilty,” I say.
“You come to lose some money?”
“Actually, I came to give you a chance to win some of yours back.”
“Well, pull up a seat, shit talker, and let’s get it on. I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you.”
“Lou, as usual, I can’t tell if you’re coming on to me or giving me smack.”
Emma giggles at our exchange.
“Color us up,” I tell the cashier.
I say hello to Nan, who’s sitting next to Lou. The woman looks like a librarian, but I swear she’s a shark in sheep’s clothing. Etiquette dictates that Emma and I don’t sit at the same table to avoid any appearance of collusion. I plan to sit with Lou and Nan and let Emma sit with the harmless, retired math professors who think they have the formula figured out. They might beat her, but they’ll be nice about it.
My plans fold, though, when a man Lou introduces as the Joker pulls a chair back for Emma. She takes it without blinking. She wants the hot seat…I’ll let her have it. I’ll let this play out. In the meantime, I’ll hang with Dumbledore and the other profs.
I peer at her more than the players at my own table. She keeps her cards close, but her tells are easier to spot than the Eiffel Tower, and I’m talking the one in Paris, not Vegas. She tugs on her watch when she has nothing, she bites her lower lip when she’s nervous, she fucking grins with every good hand. Get your head in the game, girl. She loses the first two hands, clearly overplaying her cards. My little guppy is drowning.
“Hey, baby, we’re trying to take it easy on you,” Joker says. “Because you sure are easy on the eyes.”
Joker…what the fuck kind of handle is that?
She isn’t responding to him. Good girl. Don’t let him intimidate you, Cooper.
Meanwhile, I’m raking it in with the profs. I get a few bad beats, but they’re running blind when it comes to dragging pots and working the game.
“I sure hate to take your chips, but my hands are too strong…in more ways than one,” Joker says, claiming another pot.
Fuck it. I cash out. I can’t concentrate with the way this guy talks to Emma.
“Leave the girl alone. Let her play her cards,” Nan says.
Thank you, Nan. I swear—he says one more thing and I choke him with his own chips. I sit on a metal chair off to the side, observing the game. Joker’s got the lead with Lou in second place. A few minor players are short-stacking it, Emma among them.
Joker beats her again and it sucks ’cause she had a great hand. It really pisses me off when he rubs her nose in it. “See, I won because even though you have three of a kind, I have a flush. They are all the same suit.”
“I know how to play,” she says, her tone even, her face determined for the first time since she took the seat.
“Just trying to help you out, doll. This is a man’s game, after all.”
“Then why are you here?” she asks.
The table is silent for a moment, then Nan laughs so hard I’m surprised her cards stay in her hand. “I like this girl.” She winks at Emma. “You’re a spunky one.”
Yeah, Nan. I like her, too.
Joker narrows his eyes and rubs his goatee. “Just having fun with you, baby. I could show you the finer points of the game if you’re up for it.”
Like hell you will.
Emma arches a brow at Joker. “Did I stumble and fall when I walked in here?”
He gives her a toothy smile. “No.”
“Then quit trying to pick me up.”
Everyone at the table claps for her, except Joker, whose smile turns to a sneer. That’s my Emma—the brave, t
he fierce, the beautiful.
My Emma? My Emma? Where the hell did that come from? She’s not mine. It’s just leftover fuel from the fight. Adrenaline can act like alcohol sometimes. Yeah, it’s just a little psyched up energy that needs to work its way out of my system.
The Joker doesn’t quit. His gaudy gold rings scrape against the table as Nan starts shuffling the next hand. “Don’t you want to learn to be better, doll?”
She sits straighter in her chair, her confidence growing with his insults. “I’m not here for a lesson. Just your money.”
“There are easier ways for you to earn it.”
I shoot up from my chair so fast it falls. I charge for him.
Emma stands before I get there, wedging herself between us. “I can take care of this, Aiden. Have faith in me.”
“This isn’t about faith. It’s about respect.”
She places her hands on my chest, her voice quiet and firm. “Then respect me, because I want to walk away from this table on my own terms, not yours.”
“Relax, Aiden. He’s all talk. Sit,” Lou says. “Someone get Aiden a chair.” He pats me on the back. “We save the drama for the river, friend.”
I back away, but not before making my message clear. Straightening to my full height, I glare at Joker. “Listen up, asshole. Do not talk to her again. Do you understand me?”
Joker holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry, man,” he says. He starts gathering up his chips, his posture shaky. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
I pound my fist on the table making all the chips bounce. “No, you fucking leave them and finish the hand, but I swear if you say anything else to this girl except call, raise, or fold, I’m gonna show you I don’t bluff. Understand?”
He nods, almost missing the chair when he sits. I hope I made him piss his pants. I want to permanently shut his mouth, but Emma wants to beat him a different way. I won’t take that away from her. I sit with my arms folded and my heart pumping. I count the number of tiles on the ceiling until I can focus once more.
The game resumes. She does a call raise. I have no idea what she’s thinking as she tugs on her watch. Well, there goes a grand. I only hope she isn’t too hard on herself or mad at me for forcing her into this. She tried, and that’s more than most people would do.
