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  “I… I know who you are,” she answers, a small stammer in her voice. “You’re Gavin Saint, Mr. Big Deal Poker Player.”

  “Very good, you did your homework.” I retreat from her chair and start to slowly pace behind her again. “But what does that have to do with my question.”

  “This is all a game to you. To see if you can make me crack. To see if I can handle the pressure of taking orders from a man of your stature in the high roller suite. And I’m going to tell you right now.” Confidence now springs from her voice, still looking in front of her. “You don’t have to test me on my will to protect myself, I’ve been doing that for the past three years now. So if you don’t mind, Mr. Saint, I would like to move on with the training. As I told you yesterday, I need this job and I need to do it well, so unless you truly have some wisdom to impart on me, I think we should call it.”

  Never liking it when someone tells me what to do or how to run my own manipulative situation, I grip the back of her chair again, this time pressing my mouth right against her ear, not giving her an inch of space. “I will tell you when we’re done here, Miss Prescott, and we are far from ending this session. So, I suggest you be patient and cooperative.”

  I can see her gulp, another tell. If only the inner workings of her mind were as easy to read as her physical ones.

  “Since you’re so confident in your ability to hold your own on the floor, let’s see your serving capabilities.” I sit back down and rest one of my arms on the table in front of me, striking a casual, yet authoritative pose. I know it works by the blatant perusal she makes of my body. “I’m thirsty, Penelope. Please bring me a drink.”

  “Easy enough,” she mumbles under her breath, parting from her chair and heading to the bar.

  “Oh, Miss Prescott,” I call out, stopping her in her tracks. She turns on her heels, luckily not snapping them off their pegs, thanks to her roommate. “Care to venture what I’d like, or are you just going to wing it?”

  Sauntering over to me with a wag to her hips, she stops in front of my chair and blinks her eyes at me in innocence. “Pardon me, Mr. Saint. I just assumed by the way you’ve acted since I’ve met you, you would be a Shirley Temple kind of man. Am I wrong with my assessment?”

  Cheeky fucking woman.

  “Two fingers of whiskey.” I don’t feed into her snark.

  “Hmm… I was kind of hoping you were a three fingers kind of man.” Without giving me a second to respond, her back is turned to me and she’s walking away, giving me the perfect view of her shapely backside.

  Once again, she catches me off guard. This time, using a sexual innuendo that nearly splits my face in half with a smile.

  Shit.

  I’ve been off my game. I haven’t played a round in a month or so. I’m out of practice and Penelope is making that obvious. Thankfully, I’m quick enough to hide my reactions before she can see them. The last thing I want her to know is that she has an effect on me, that would give her all the power, and that’s just one thing I won’t ever let happen, with any woman I’m with.

  The minute you hand over the power, relinquish control of the situation, that’s when you lose. That’s when you fucking lose it all. It happened to my father, and like hell that it’s going to happen to me.

  Jesus Christ. My dad.

  I haven’t thought about him in a long time, despite him being the driving force behind my need to succeed. He’s the reason I am the way I am. No, he didn’t abuse me, He wasn’t the best father, that’s for damned sure, putting his parental duties to the back burner when it came to gambling, but I guess he could have been worse. He didn’t cheat on my mom—which was an easy feat, seeing as she’d bailed years ago—he didn’t even fall into a liquor induced oblivion.

  He did the opposite, he fell in love.

  Not such a bad thing, right? Love brings the universe together, it’s what everyone strives for in life, to find that perfect person to share the highs and lows this crazy world brings them. You would think I would have been happy for the man.

  I was, until it killed him.

  Let me back up for a second.

  My father, the infamous Aaron Saint, was the greatest poker player in his time, rivaling my record until recently, when I surpassed him in money won. He taught me everything I know, from practicing a face devoid of emotion, to knowing when to bluff and when to call, to reading the tiniest hitch in my opponents his breath. Born and raised in Las Vegas, I’m a product of my environment, a successful case study for any psychologist, needing to follow in my father’s footsteps and exceed his success.

  When I was a young little punk, freshly turned twenty-one and ready to put my trust-fund to good use, I thought I was God’s gift to the gambling world, spending money left and right, going at it hard, and failing miserably. Instead of intervening, my dad sat back and watched me, letting me make my own mistakes. To this day, I will forever be grateful for his approach because after some pretty huge losses and an offensive amount of depletion in my bank account, I learned that poker wasn’t necessarily about being cocky at the table, but rather, being smart and leaving all emotions at the door. You have one job, to forget everything around you, to lean on intelligence and not emotion, and to constantly read your opponents.

  After I took my dad’s teachings to heart, I started winning. And fucking winning hard, to the point that the only casino that would let me play was Hotel Paragon. I became nationally famous from televised poker games, especially since I not only won, but showed up with no tricks of the trade besides my instincts. Hats, sunglasses, visors, they were all beneath me. All I needed was my pressed suit and two fingers of whiskey. Once I swept the tables in Monte Carlo, I became internationally known.

  Poker isn’t really about the hand you’re dealt, but about utilizing your intelligence to read your opponents reaction to the hand they’re dealt.

  What does my father have to do with this? Well, as I said, he fell in love.

  Do you know what happens when you fall in love?

  You forget who you are and get lost in the person who captures your heart. Not such a bad thing, but when you’re a poker player, it’s the worst thing that can happen to you.

  Going into the highest stakes game my dad ever participated in, a game where he had many people in the gambling scene betting on him to win, he wasn’t clear headed, he was fixated on one of the chippies who he’d been seeing for a few months. She was testing his will and he was fucking letting her. Just a little poker knowledge for you; what’s a chippie?

  Chippie: a woman who hangs off the arm of a poker player. Someone who is interested in nothing more than the chips that you carry home.

  His third hand in, he lost all concentration, bet on a piss poor deal, and lost everything. That night, he was killed in a back alley of the hotel he was playing at by a man who’d lost a shit-load of money he’d bet on my father to win. Ironically enough, his chippie was found floating on the arm of the winner the next day. It was then that I decided women weren’t worth it. They weren’t worth the heartache, and they sure as fuck weren’t worth your life.

  Call me an ass, call me the biggest prick you will ever meet, but that’s just the way I feel about the fairer sex. I want them for one reason and one reason only, to fuck at night, in the morning, and up against a wall whenever the mood strikes. Emotionless relationships are what I strive for.

  So why the fuck am I letting Penelope break the finely cemented wall I’ve developed over the past few years?

  “Your drink, sir,” she enunciates, pulling me out of my reverie.

  There’s a curled orange wedge decorating the side of my glass, a garnish I didn’t place in my order. “Did I ask for the orange?”

  “No,” she states matter-of-factly. “But you look like a man who can handle the fancy aspect of a drink.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know, your suits are well tailored, your shoes cost more than my rent, and I’m betting
you took longer on your hair this morning than I did. All I’m saying is you’re rather… fussy.”

  “Are you suggesting I’m gay?”

  “I don’t think personal information is part of the training. You can keep that to yourself. Now, shall we move on?”

  I see the game she’s playing, and I’m not going to give in. Instead of jumping to defend my obvious attraction to women like she wants me to, I decide to show her.

  “Take this drink, back,” I demand, thrusting it at her. “Remove the garnish at the bar and deliver it properly.”

  Taken aback, but clearly irritated, she asks, “And how would you like it delivered? By a gaggle of monkeys holding up a gold encrusted plate with your name engraved on it?”

  More sass, has she not learned anything?

  “By placing it on my left side, Penelope. And if you truly want to keep this job, I suggest you rein in that mouth of yours. Don’t forget, this is a training and I have the ability to ask you to leave at the drop of an ante chip. Rule number one as a cocktail waitress in the high roller suite, mind your manners. Rule number two, get the drinks right, despite what you think is an unrealistic comic jab.”

  Unhappy with my lecture, but following the rules, she returns to the bar to fix my drink. Instead of watching her return, I don’t give her the satisfaction of my perusal and instead, turn my back to her as if I were a real player she was serving.

  I can smell her scent approach before she’s actually behind me. A mixture of fresh blooms and sweet undertones, it’s intoxicating.

  “Here you go.” She sets my drink down to my left but I return it back to her tray.

  “Try again. This time, serve in silence. The players aren’t going to want to hear you speak while they are concentrating on the game in front of them. The less distracting you can be, the better. Remember this, you are an enigma to these gentlemen. You are to remain invisible and only be called upon when someone needs something from you. Until then, you take care of empty drinks and refill them without being asked. Always serve to the left and never try to take a peek at their cards.”

  “I can do that.”

  Testing her once again, I glide my hand up her leg, running my fingertips just high enough that I’m inches from her panty line. Her breath grows stronger and her hands clench at her side. “And when a man other than myself touches you, spit in his drink.”

  “Other than you?” she gulps, still allowing me to run my fingers softly along her skin.

  I stand, removing my touch from her skin and circle around her, pressing my hand against her lower back and leaning over just enough so I’m speaking into her ear again. I’m about to answer her when the double doors of the suite burst open, Graham walking into the room with a cock blocking look on his face.

  “What’s going on in here?”

  As if I burned her, she retreats and straightens up from Graham’s appearance, she must know exactly who he is.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Larson. Mr. Saint and I are just doing some training.”

  Yup, she knows who he is.

  Tucking his hands in his pockets, he stands tall and says, “Are you the new cocktail waitress we hired for the high roller suite?”

  “Yes, sir. My name’s Nell Prescott.”

  He nods his head as if he recognizes her name. The fucker barely knows who works in his hotel, he leaves that “menial” work to his managers and head of house.

  “And you said you’re training?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Interesting.” Graham walks around the room, observing the intricacies before walking straight up to Penelope. Looking her up and down, he asks, “And who might be training you?”

  “Umm… Mr. Saint.”

  What is this dipshit up to?

  Graham turns to me, a smirk on his face but still talking to Penelope. “Miss Prescott, Gavin here has zero right to train you. He’s a poker player, a damn fine one at that, and he observes cheaters in the control room from time to time, but when it comes to training staff, he has no experience in the matter.” I give him no reaction; I know he’s looking for one. He turns back to Penelope and asks, “What would possess you to ask him to train you in such a high stakes case? Especially after the trouble you caused in here yesterday?”

  “Wh-what?” Penelope shoots daggers at me. “I’m sorry, Mr. Larson, but Mr. Saint convinced me, under false pretenses, that he was in charge of me. If I was aware that, in fact, he’s not, I would have asked for someone else with the proper authority to train me.”

  “A simple mistake that won’t go unnoticed. I’m sure he taught you a great deal, but please remember, Miss Prescott, fraternizing with the players as an employee at Hotel Paragon is frowned upon. Keep that in mind when you are serving Gavin to the left and his fingers are grazing your thigh next time.” He smiles brightly and says, “You’re dismissed. We’ll see you tomorrow. Be sure to clock out, you will be compensated for your time today.”

  “Yes, sir,” she says quickly before scurrying off.

  Once she’s out of sight, I turn my attention to Graham who is giddy with pleasure. “You’re a giant dick. You know that?”

  He laughs a hoity laugh that echoes through the room. “Nothing like a well-executed cock block to put me in a good mood.”

  ***

  “Then he walks in, with his dick leading the way, chest puffed out like the fuck boy he is and blows up my spot.”

  “I cock blocked that motherfucker,” Graham adds. “You should have seen how quickly I shut down his poor attempt at seducing the unsuspecting waitress.”

  Scott chuckles while taking a sip of his beer. “That’s cold, dude. You know Karma’s a bitch right?”

  Scott Turner works in the corporate division of the National Fighting League, has a penchant for dating women completely and utterly wrong for him, and has been a good friend for years. Since Hotel Paragon hosts all the major fights, Scott is often on premises, dicking around with Graham and me.

  “What the fuck ever,” Graham says. “The prick deserved it. If you were in the control room watching his power trip, you would have done the same thing.”

  Wavering, Scott says, “Yeah, you’re right. What were you trying to do with this girl anyway, Gavin?”

  Chewing down a bite of pizza, I swallow before answering, trying to gain myself some extra time to answer. In all honesty, I had no right training her, I’m not even in charge of her, as Graham pointed out, but when I saw her on camera, putting Ramos in his place, I had to get to know her better, I had to get my chance to talk to her up close. Therefore, I came up with my little training farce and held it at a time where I knew the room wouldn’t be occupied. What I managed to forget was Graham is a goddamned gossip and likes to stick his nose in my business whenever he gets the chance.

  “She has hot legs,” I answer shallowly. “Plus, she’s a fireball. Just from the looks of it, I know she’ll be a good fuck.”

  Giving me a disapproving look, Scott, the moral police, says, “Gavin, aren’t you ever going to settle down? Don’t you feel empty at all inside? Like you’re missing something important in your life?”

  I give him a “go fuck off” look. “You should know me by now, Scotty, I don’t fraternize with emotions. They’re not for me.”

  “In place of his heart is a second dick calling the shots. Our boy has zero ability to feel anything for another human,” Graham offers. “He’s just like me, a bachelor looking for the next pussy waiting to be twiddled.”

  “Just like you?” I question Graham, not adapting his dipshit philosophy of pussy’s being twiddled. I don’t lie there and twiddle, that’s something a vibrator and some Energizer batteries can accomplish. No, I hover over her and fuck her senseless.

  Glaring at me, Graham asks, “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Want to talk about a certain personal chef named Page?”

  “Oh, I do,” Scott encourages me, looking happy to also have something against the self-righteous Graham.
<
br />   He’s my boy, but I’m not lying when I say he’s a pretentious asshole with the ability to make you feel inferior in the matter of seconds, just from one swipe of his AMEX. Too bad for him, Scott and I are the only two people not intimidated by his stature.

  “What does she have to do with anything?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one who didn’t want to talk about her.”

  “Because she’s not worth it.” He quickly takes a sip of his drink. He should know better than to give me a blatant tell like that.

  “I’m calling you on your bullshit. Next time you’re trying to bluff, don’t take a sip of your beer, asshole. You didn’t even drink with your pinky out like you normally do.” Both Scott and I take sips of our drinks, pinkies out obnoxiously.

  “Fuck you both.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin and then tosses it on his plate. “I’m out.”

  “Oh come on, don’t leave. We promise to stroke your ego if you stay. Scott will even use lube this time, make it nice and smooth for you.”

  Graham walks to the front door of my villa. “Just for that, I’ll make sure your little girl toy is at every game of yours, distracting the shit out of you.”

  “Never going to happen,” I call out before the door slams shut.

  With his beer bottle next to his lips, Scott asks, “Pretty sure he just menstruated on the way out the door.” Scott sniffs the air and nods. “Yup, dude’s on his meriod.”

  “We’re not going to talk about how disgusting it is that you sniffed the air just now.”

  A deep chuckle escapes him. “So tell me about this girl.”

  “Who, the personal chef? Don’t know much about her, just that Graham hired her a while back and something happened between them but he won’t tell me what.”

  “I’m not talking about the chef. I’m talking about the waitress.”

  “Penelope?” I shrug, holding a blank face. “Not much to say. She’s got an amazing body and is sassy and fiery as hell. Like I said, she would be a good fuck.”