Hustler Page 7

  Chapter Seven

  **GAVIN**

  “Mr. Saint, it’s your call.”

  Two pair, aces high rest in my hand, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars sit in the pot, and I’ve earned an easy half mill already from reading the poor suckers at my table. I should be thrilled, relishing in my victory, focusing on sweeping yet another game, but my mind is elsewhere. It rests with the petite brunette flirting with the surfer boy over at the bar.

  I’ve been a dick to her all night, to the point that I know my words have been hurtful, but I’m not trying to be her friend, I don’t really know what I’m trying to do, if I really stop to think about it. All I know is that she’s throwing my game off.

  From an outsider’s perspective, you would never know I’m fighting a war in my head over what to focus on. I’m calm, neutral in my reactions, and observant. I give knowing glances to my opponents, letting them know that, once again, I’m about to sweep the pot. With every ante, I delicately flip my chip to the center, accurately landing it in the middle, a trick I used to practice when I was younger, now a superstitious act I must follow through on every round. I’m executing every step in my process of playing poker, except for ignoring the outside world.

  My thoughts don’t escape me to the point that I can’t concentrate, hence the giant pile of chips resting to my side. They’re just annoying, irritating, and causing me a type of stress I don’t care to deal with.

  “Call,” I say, knowing the unibrow to the right of me has nothing.

  Just like I thought, he shows a pair, kings high. Flipping over my cards casually, I show my own pair, aces high, sending the poor fool into a frenzy of depression. The dumbass bet the rest of his loot on a pair of kings, pathetic showing at most. The only reason he’s in this room is because he can afford it. It’s rare I find a challenge anymore. Maybe that’s why I find Penelope so appealing. Appealing. Ha! More like fucking frustrating.

  While Davies prepares for the next round, I let my gaze wander over to Penelope. She’s wearing the same heels she wore yesterday, her legs are bare of stockings, her skirt rides tight along her hips and falls just under the curve of her ass, and then there are her breasts, practically popping out of her shirt, wanting to be played with. Her smile is sweet, her demeanor is feisty, and there is something clouding those barely sparkling eyes that has the often present crinkle between her brows a constant tonight.

  Money seems to be an issue for her, given the state of the first pair of heels I saw her in, but that doesn’t seem to be what’s bothering her. There is something deeper, something more meaningful manipulating her day to day structure.

  But what the hell is it?

  “Mr. Saint, are you in?” Davies asks, her smooth voice passing over me.

  Instead of letting her see me startle out of my thoughts, I casually look down at my chips, take a sip of my drink and then flip my chip to the center.

  Drawing my attention back to the game, I zone in and blank out everything else in the room. Penelope will be dealt with later. For now, I have money to win.

  The group I’m running against is subpar at best. They’re easy to read. Timbers checks his cards every two seconds when he has a good hand, probably hoping they don’t vanish. Gibson wears glasses, he has shifty eyes, but what he doesn’t realize is that his eyebrows have more of a life to them than his personality. Sanderson is pretty steady, for the most part, but if you watch him carefully, you’ll notice that when he has a good hand, he taps his right index finger ever so slightly against the glass of his drink. It took me a little while to figure him out, but once I did he was easy to pick off. Then there’s Piccori. He’s a hot mess. He scratches his nose, shifts in his seat, and itches his right palm. The man is basically a giant, walking tell. Dude bleeds money whenever he comes into the suite. He doesn’t last very long.

  Game after game, I find myself in the zone, ignoring the outside world. I don’t even notice when my glass is refilled, all I know is my stack of chips is growing and everyone else’s is dwindling as the night draws to a close.

  The last hand is upon us, and I watch as Davies expertly draws us our cards. With every shuffle of the deck, I feel my soul awaken, a lighthearted feeling passes through me, like I’m getting a visit from an old friend.

  Once the cards are dealt, I casually lift the corner of mine to see that I’m holding two jacks, a diamond and a heart. I glance over at the flop and see that Davies has turned over a six of clubs, a queen of hearts, and a jack of spades.

  Fuck yes.

  Despite the party happening in my brain, my face remains stoic.

  Quickly glancing around the table, I look for any tells. Piccoi immediately starts fidgeting in his seat. Sanderson leaves his drink on the table, probably waiting for the turn card to be flipped over, and Gibson is studying his hand.

  “Gibson, it’s your lead bet,” Davies calls out.

  Playing with his chips, another tell showing that he’s bluffing. He puts in ten grand, we all call around the table. I don’t raise because I don’t want to scare away my opponents.

  The turn card is flipped over, revealing a ten of spades. No help to me, but then again, I have three of a kind right now, I’m sitting pretty.

  “Gibson,” Davies calls out. He stacks his chips together and throws in one hundred grand. I hold back the eye roll that wants to cross over my features. Dickhead is coming in too hot, especially for a bluff. We all call, except for Timbers who folds, a string of cuss words flying out of his mouth just in time for Penelope to bring him a drink to drown his sorrows. He swipes the drink from her rather rudely and downs it quicker than she can step away.

  “Another,” he gruffs out.

  I ignore the irritation that bubbles up in me from Penelope being treated poorly by the pricks at the table, then again I haven’t been better than any of them. I make a note to tip her well at the end of the night.

  The river card, the fifth and final, is flipped over on the table, revealing a queen of diamonds. The gallery of legs and tits to the side that the men brought into the room all gasp. The hand just got a little heavier.

  Carrying a full house in my hand, I gauge the men surrounding me. Piccori is an oozing mess, Gibson is counting his chips, stacking them up for his bet, and Sanderson still doesn’t pick up his drink. I’m pretty sure he’s out.

  “Gibson.”

  Outlandishly, he piles three hundred grand in the middle of the table, making the bet too steep for everyone’s hand, besides mine. Sanderson folds, which I knew was going to happen, and Piccori purses his lips together as he pushes his cards away, clearly not happy with his outcome tonight.

  Casually, with a steady hand, I match Gibson’s bet, not wanting to push him any further with a raise. If I was at a high stakes game, with players that mattered, I would be raising, but I’m playing against a bunch of fuckwits. It doesn’t seem right to take advantage of their idiocies.

  “Call,” I say, nodding my head at the man to show me his hand.

  With a snarky smile, he turns over his cards, revealing three of a kind, queens staring back at me.

  I nod my head, take a sip of my whiskey and use the edge of one of my cards to flip the other over, revealing my full house.

  “Fuck!” Gibson shouts, shooting up from the table and tossing his drink to the side. I glance over at Penelope who is once again, talking to the bartender when she realizes she has to assist Gibson in his clean up, and when I say assist, I mean she has to clean up everything.

  I lean back in my chair and finish off the rest of my drink. “Good game boys, but I’m going to have to call it a night.” Davies is stacking my chips for me and pushing them over in my direction. Security comes through the doors with black suitcases handcuffed to their wrists to collect the chips. I don’t even bother counting, I know I have over a million sitting in front of me.

  Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about taking care of my chips, security takes them to the banker who then automatically deposits it
in my account. Just another day at the table.

  Before all the chips are taken away from me, I grab two green ones and stick them in my pocket.

  Sanderson, Piccori, and Timbers all shake my hand, offering up their appreciation for being able to play with me once again while Gibson scowls from the corner.

  Ignoring the petulant child, I flip a chip at Davies who thanks me with a wink and then I head on over to the bar where Penelope finds the need to reside.

  She’s in the middle of talking to Nick when I interrupt her. “Miss Prescott, may I speak with you for a second?”

  Startled by my voice, she smiles quickly at Nick and then nods to me.

  Gripping her elbow, I pull her to the side of the room, trying not to be enveloped by the sweet scent of her perfume.

  Buying us some good distance from prying ears, I say, “Have fun tonight?”

  “As much as I can for serving drinks to a bunch of rich assholes.” She folds her arms over her chest, pumping up her breasts just a few centimeters higher.

  “So you do remember the responsibilities of your job.”

  She shakes her head at me. “Unless you have something to ask me, preferably in the drink department, then you can leave me alone because you have nothing to do with my job. You don’t make any decisions where my job is concerned. Got it?”

  I can feel the tick in my jaw go off from her defiance. Instead of fighting her, I pull the chip out of my pocket and place it in her hand, letting my fingers rub against her palm.

  “What’s this…” she begins before she sees what’s resting in her hand. Her eyes widen, and shock registers across her face. “This is a ten thousand dollar chip,” she hisses.

  “It’s called a tip,” I tell her casually.

  “A ten thousand dollar tip? Are you insane?!”

  “Well you only served drinks, barely actually, when you weren’t flirting with the bartender. I thought a one percent tip would suffice.”

  She holds up her hands, confusion in her eyes. “Wait, what? One percent?” she leans in and whispers, “You made over a million dollars?”

  I lean forward as well, matching her whispering. “Yes.”

  “Holy shit.” Her hand goes to her head, then she looks up. “Hold on, I wasn’t flirting with the bartender.”

  I don’t even bother to argue. Instead, I say, “Whatever you say, Miss Prescott, I know what I saw. Remember, even if I can’t hear what you might be saying, I earn a living by reading people. From where I was sitting, it was blatantly obvious that you were flirting.”

  Frustration bubbles up in her. “So you think you’re so great at reading people?”

  “I know I am.” I place my hands in my pockets and rock on my heels.

  “Well, then read this.” With a firm hand, she flips me off and then walks back over to Nick who is cleaning glasses. With a quick glance over her shoulder at me, she says, “You know what Nick. I would love to go out with you.” She grabs a napkin and pen and writes something down. “Here’s my number. Give me a call later.”

  With that, she turns on her heel and heads out the suite doors, her hips swaying in satisfaction behind her.

  Well Nick is going to regret ever talking to Penelope.

  ***

  My foot is propped against the wall, my hands in my pockets, and my gaze fixated on the blank white space in front of me. It’s been twenty minutes and still no Penelope, how fucking long does it take to grab your purse and leave?

  I should be up in my villa celebrating my win but I can’t seem to force myself to walk to the private elevators. Instead, I find my Burberry leather wingtips pounding against the cement of the employee corridor of Hotel Paragon, searching for Penelope.

  I don’t know what possessed me, but all I know is I need to speak to her, to mark her, to make her realize that going out with Nick is the wrong move.

  The telltale creak of the door to the women’s locker room opening echoes through the space. Penelope walks out, looking down at her phone, I take advantage of her lack of attention to her surroundings, grab her by the elbow, and pull her into the storage closet I’m standing next to.

  In a whirlwind, I have her in my grasp, pressed up against the wall and panting heavily.

  “What the fuck?” she screeches, searching my face. “What the hell are you doing, psycho?”

  “I suggest you don’t speak right now, unless you want to piss me off even more.”

  Defiance is written across her face. “What the hell did I do to piss you off to begin with?”

  I’m the one asking the questions, so I ignore her. “Do you really think that going out with Nick is going to satisfy your need?”

  “And what need is that?” she asks, her eyes lighting up.

  I let silence fall over us as the tension between us builds, erotic electricity igniting the dim room we’re in. Our breaths are heavy, our beating hearts pounding against each other. The only movement in the room are our eyes searching one another.

  Taking the first step, I glide my fingers up her delectable leg, pushing the tight fabric of her skirt up just a notch to gauge her reaction. She doesn’t move, she doesn’t even protest, all she does is continue to breathe heavily, her eyes full of lust, so I move them up a little bit further. I don’t think she realizes it, but in the most seductive way, she licks her lips, wetting them so they glisten under the stark light in the corner shining down on us.

  I take that as an indication to go further. With both hands, I lift the hem of her skirt up to her waist, exposing an exquisite neon yellow lace thong, the color brilliantly bouncing off of her tan skin. She’s spent some time in the Las Vegas sun.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” she asks in a shaky voice.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  I run my fingers along the lace of her thong, carrying them over her pussy, back up to her waistline in a circular motion, showing her my intent.

  “I don’t know.”

  Reaching for both of her hands, I clasp them in one of mine and raise them above her head, pinning them tightly against the wall so she can’t move. Taking a quick scan of her body, I revel in the way her breasts sit high and enticing, begging for my touch, the way her breathing continues to be erratic, and the heady gaze she gives me, her eyes clouded over with lust. Her mouth might be saying one thing, but her body is talking to me with every one of my moves, pleading with me to fuck her, to make her come.

  Pressing my lips against her ear while moving my fingers along the most delicate part of her, over that scrap of lace, I say, “Don’t toy with me, Miss Prescott. What do you want me to do to you right now?”

  Through the thin fabric of her thong, I can feel her arousal, wet, hot, and ready.

  She doesn’t answer me; she doesn’t want to say it so I’ll just have to coax it out of her.

  Moving the material aside, I press my finger along her slit, barely sliding inside, just resting above the surface.

  The faintest, “oh god” slips out of her mouth while her hips wiggle ever so slightly from side to side, encouraging my fingers to slide deeper.

  “Keep moving your hips and I will remove my fingers,” I test her. Immediately she stops and I can’t help the smirk that crosses my face.

  With the scrape of my scruff against her cheek and my lips still pressed against her ear, I say, “Do you know that when you flirt, you casually flip your hair to the side? And when you’re nervous, you wring your hands together. And when you’re angry, your hands twitch at your sides. But my favorite is when you’re intrigued. Do you know why?” She shakes her head, unable to speak. “Because, when you’re intrigued, you stare.” I rub my cheek against hers, reminding her of the rough nature I possess. “I watched you tonight, I watched how your eyes were fixated on my fingers, flipping my chips around, gripping my tumbler, and playing with my cards. Tell me, Miss Prescott, why would you be so intrigued with my fingers.”

  She still doesn’t answer. She remains frozen in place, her chest still risin
g and falling heavily with each inhale and exhale.

  “Would it be because you want to see how they work? How they can play with this delicious pussy of yours? Were you wondering what it would feel like to have my fingers pressed inside of you, curled just enough to hit you in the right spot so you’re coming all over them, screaming my name, letting everyone know who’s finger fucking you into oblivion? Is that what you were thinking?”

  Her eyes stay neutral but her legs spread apart, barely an inch, but her shift has opened her up more to me.

  “Was that what you were thinking, Miss Prescott?” I ask, this time, pressing just above her clit.

  “Oh god,” she says louder.

  I run my nose along her jawline and back up to her ear. “All you have to do is tell me the truth. Are you throbbing for me right now? Is your precious little cunt begging for me to touch it, pulsing out of control for me to just move a little deeper? All I want is the truth, Miss Prescott.”

  Sliding my finger up just a little bit more, I connect with her clit and rub circles along the bundle of nerves, making her spread her legs even further. My lips touch her ear again, “Tell me to finger fuck you, Penelope. Demand it.”

  Her hands are still trapped above her head, her face is a combination of annoyance and pleasure, her skin is glistening with her sweat, and her body is begging for me to continue. I just need her to vocalize what she wants.

  “Yes,” she says softly, her eyes looking up at the ceiling.

  “Yes, what, Miss Prescott?”

  She takes a big gulp of air and then relaxes her body. “Finger fuck me, Gavin.”

  My name slipping off her tongue in that breathless tone is one of the most erotic sounds I’ve ever heard. I have her just where I want her.

  With one more glide of my finger along her clit, I pull away completely, letting her hands fall from their pinned position and her body slump against the wall.

  Confusion is written all across her face. Staring her in the eyes, I lift my finger to my mouth and suck on the glistening digit, delighting in the earthy flavor of her arousal. Her eyes widen, showing me a brief glimpse of life.