“So uh, this one time me and my buddy went to Vegas, you know?” The irritating man next to me recalls.

Paying him no mind, I reach for my glass of whiskey.

For the first time in a long time, I’m able to enjoy a few games of poker without Campanelli’s dark cloud hanging over my head and I refuse to let this bozo kill my vibe.  

I walked in here tonight with a little over two-hundred, courtesy of my brother; and now I’m almost up two grand. It’s small potatoes, but the night is still young.

Unless this moron at the table continues babbling. Even the dealer looks like he’s getting sick of his stories.

Not taking the hint, he continues, “Picture it, table is full. We’re down to our last few thousand, right?”

The man on the other side of me sighs in annoyance. “Right.” The dealer clears his throat and the man shakes his head. “Check.”

I take a long drag off my cigarette and stub it out. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was the player with the motormouth’s strategy.

The dealer looks at me next.

“Raise.”

My cards aren’t the greatest, but I’m one right card away from a straight. And like my pal Max says—on a bad night, a straight can look pretty damn good.

If only the drunk motherfucker next to me would shut the hell up. “Anyway, my buddy looks at me and I look at him.”

Pushing my chips forward, I do the only thing I can think of.

I give the man some rope. “Then what happened?”

The guy on the other side of me mutters a curse, no doubt loathing the prospect of having two Chatty Cathys at the table.

He laughs. “We said fuck it and went all in.”

I give him a little more rope. “You did what?”

He slams the table emphatically. “All in, baby!”

“All in,” the dealer announces.

The idiot’s smile falls faster than a Sumo wrestler jumping off the balcony of a penthouse when he realizes his critical mistake.

“No, wait. I didn’t mean that.” The man who looked plastered a moment ago suddenly looks stone-cold sober. “I didn’t know it was my turn.”

His frenzied gaze flies to me. “Tell him.”

Shrugging, I bring my glass to my lips. “Sorry, man.”

“It’s Chuck.” He stands and stomps his foot. “The name is Chuck. And you know damn well I was only telling you a story and not placing my bet.”

Chucky-boy’s a hair away from having a full-on temper tantrum right here at the poker table.

Then again, losing five-thousand because you’re a dumbass will do that to you.

I down the rest of my glass and gesture to the table. “I’m trying to play some poker here, man.”

His face turns beet red and he curses up a storm when the dealer calls the floor. Even if they do end up ruling in his favor, security is already eye-balling him.

Bad luck Chuck.

My lips twitch when the verdict comes back that the call is binding.

Dude looks like he’s about to pass out when the dealer turns the final card over.

But I grin from ear to ear because I needed that eight to win the hand.

Chucky-boy flips me the bird and swipes his cards on the floor. “This is bullshit.” The two security guards walking over aren’t enough to deter him and he kicks his chair away. “Fuck Connecticut casinos. This shit would never go down in Vegas.”

That gets a laugh out of me. Vegas casinos are no different than any other casinos. No matter where you go, the house always wins.

A bilious feeling slams into the pit of my gut and I wash it down with the fresh glass of whiskey the waitress brings me.

The dealer shuffles the cards and I reach for my smokes, settling in for a new round.

I fish around for my lighter but come up empty. “Anyone have a—”

Before I can finish that statement, someone holds a flame to the end of my cigarette.

I turn my head and immediately regret it. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

This old bag is the last person I expected to see in a casino.

Then again, they say it was the devil who invented gambling.

Christ. I knew I should have booked a flight for tonight instead of tomorrow morning.

“What are you doing here?” I don’t bother hiding my animosity.

Her wrinkly eyes narrow as she parks herself in my former opponent’s spot. I’m about to ask where that shit-stain butler of hers is so he can roll her ass out of here, but it occurs to me that I really don’t care.

“Are you playing, ma’am?” the dealer inquires.

Over my dead body. “No, she’s not.”

She waves me off and points behind her.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter when I look over my shoulder.

Sure enough, here comes the pompous butler. He quickly helps her set up shop and explains to the dealer that she can’t speak, but not to worry because he made cue cards for her.

This is where I should get up and walk away, but the game has already begun. It’s bad luck to start a hand and not see how it will play out.

Something that feels a whole lot like remorse infiltrates my chest as the white-gold band on my left ring finger catches the light. Mocking me. Just like the voicemail icon on my phone.

The one I won’t let myself listen to—because the second I hear her voice…I’ll crawl back to her like a moth to a flame.

My jaw tics and I take a swig of my drink. After I land, I’m making a beeline for Max and kicking his ass for giving her my number.

And then my own…for allowing her to get under my skin like this.

It was never my intention to hurt Kit or let things get as far as they did between us. I knew the lines—hell, I was the one who drew them in the first place, and I crossed them.

I signed up for a five-minute wedding, a cool two mil, and divorce papers sent to my mailbox…not all these goddamn feelings and complications.

My fingers tighten around the glass I’m holding. “Check.”

All I wanted was to give her a reason to stop hating me…

Instead, she gave me a million more reasons to fall for her.

Kit Bishop’s no longer in my veins…she’s taken up residence in the vacant cavity between my lungs.

Shaking the thought out of my head so I don’t lose what little is left of my focus, I look down. I grit my teeth when I realize I don’t have any decent cards. Should have folded.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end when the hand plays out and I lose a grand to the guy next to me.

The old prune gives me the side-eye and I suppress the urge to reach over and wipe the smug look off her face.

My hands itch and my stomach contracts. It would be in my best interest to leave…because once Lady Luck moves on to the next chump, it’s time to get up and walk away.  

But unlike every other area of my life…walking away from the table has never been my strong suit.

Because every gambler will tell you…

It’s never winning that’s the problem. It’s losing.

Losing stirs the beast…the addiction. The sweet aphrodisiac laced with optimism.

The ultimate illusion of control.

It’s easier to walk away when you’re winning. It’s impossible to walk away when you’re losing.

Not until you’ve lost everything.

Which is exactly why I stay and place my next bet.

Because when you’re standing outside Lady Luck’s church and she lures you in with the promise of sucking your dick like a champ and letting you fuck her like a dirty little whore…it makes an atheist like me a believer again.

My new cards are just as bad as my last hand, and logically, I should fold. But hope rears its ugly head and I decide to ride it out.

Bad move—I lose two grand. This time, to the seventy-year-old witch.

There’s a certain shift that happens at a poker table when you lose two rounds in a row.

You plummet to the bottom of the food chain…and if you lose the next round as well, you might as well rip off your balls and add them to the pot—because they’re about to start feeding off you like an injured animal in the wild.

Unless you’re smart and calm enough to use it to your advantage.

I raise on the river…Nanna Wicked doesn’t know I’ve got plans but judging by the way my other opponent goes rigid, he’s stumbled upon my trail of breadcrumbs.

If you can make your opponents follow you to the river—you’ve already won half the battle. Chances are if they’ve stuck around this long, they’re going to stay in the game for the final showdown. They’re invested by this point—both financially and emotionally.

Gambler or not. Hope springs eternal in all of us.

No one likes to lose.

If they both fold right now…I’ll win. Not only their money, but the exchange of power will once again shift back to me, because they were too much of a pussy to call my bluff.   

I can see the player on my right mulling it over, which immediately clues me into the fact that he doesn’t have a good hand.

As predicted, he folds a moment later.

Nanna, however, doesn’t. The bitch re-raises and goes all in.

She turns her head to look at me. Her expression echoes the very same thing I’m thinking. You’re fucked.

If I fold now, I can still leave with a few thousand in my pocket. Or better yet, go to a new table and start from scratch.

Or, I can leave it all up to fate and roll the dice.

Perspiration trickles down my back and seeps through my shirt. I’ve already screwed up, given it’s taken me more than a moment to think about my next move.

Right when I’m about to make it—she slips me a note. Much to my dismay, the dealer allows it given she can’t communicate any other way and it’s fairly standard—if not expected—to persuade your opponent to fold.

How much money did my granddaughter offer you?

I snatch her pen and write my response. Our prenup is none of your business.

It’s clear she doesn’t like that answer by the furious way she grabs the paper and scrawls something on it. I’ll offer you double if you stay.

I blink. To say this is an unexpected turn of events would be an understatement.

However, unlike the game—this decision is an easy one. No.

Her nostrils flare. Why?

Shaking my head, I scribble. Every dime you have belongs to Kit. I won’t take more than what me and my wife already agreed upon.

I finish my whiskey and stand. “Fold.”  

With that, I turn and walk away.

“Young man,” the butler calls out behind me. “Madam wants me to inform you the conversation isn’t over.”

And here I thought Kit didn’t inherit any qualities from her grandmother.

“A conversation requires the participation of more than one party. Unless you’re batshit crazy,” I toss out over my shoulder.

They continue following me out of the casino, only unlike Vegas, there are no cabs lined up outside and I can’t make a quick departure.

I had intended to wait at the airport until my early morning flight—but considering I’m broke, stranded, and being followed, the odds are not in my favor. I’m forced to stand outside.

The butler waves his arms like a ground controller on a runway. “Sir, a moment of your time.”

I point at my grandmother-in-law. “For your Lord and Savior, Nanna Satan?” I snicker. “Nah, I’m good.”

She elbows him when I start to walk inside and what happens next can only be described as the biggest mistake this butler has ever made.

The second he stands in front of me and puts his hand on my shoulder, I lose it. There’s no notice or warning, there’s only my fist to his face and a high-pitched squeal from him.

I look at her. “Stay the hell away from me.”

I’d never hit a woman, not even one as vile as she is, but I won’t hesitate to position her wheelchair-bound ass at the top of the steepest hill and blame what happens after on a strong breeze.

In a flash, she holds up her notepad and my chest tightens.

I’m not dead yet. I still have time to change the will and sell everything my son and his whore wife ever touched.

Doing that won’t just break Kit’s heart—it will break her.  

I take back what I said about never hitting a woman. Before my head can process my actions, I’m charging for her.

“I’ll fucking kill you.”

The butler, noble as ever; wedges himself between us. “That’s not much of a threat to a woman who’s already dying.” I’m about to chuck him across the parking lot, but he lowers his voice. “Trust me, it’s in your best interest to do what she says. For you and Kit.”

Despite it sounding like a warning, I don’t detect a hint of it in his voice. Quite the opposite. The uptight servant façade is gone…he almost looks afraid.

It tells me one of two things. Either Granny’s got his balls in a vise because she’s got something on him, or he knows something about her…something that makes him uneasy.

Grinding my teeth, I look at her. “What do you want?”

Her lips purse in a tight line and she flips to the next page of her notebook. I want you to hold up your end of the arrangement with my granddaughter and remain married. She holds up a finger and jots something else down. Not living in separate states or houses.  

My hands clench into fists. I don’t know why this woman is so keen on making Kit miserable when I’ve never met anyone who deserves happiness more. “You know Kit’s gay, right?” I lean down and get close to her face. “She likes pussy. Forcing her to marry me or any other guy won’t change that.”

The pen flies across the pad and her eyes become tiny slits when she holds it up. Perhaps your bedroom skills aren’t up to par then and you should be working on those instead of hanging out at casinos.

A snarl leaves me. “You’re an asshole.”

She shrugs and scribbles on the pad. So are you. However, only one of us is in the unfortunate position to be manipulated by the other. Here’s a hint: it’s not me.

The bitch has me there. I try a different tactic. “You realize you only have a few more months before you croak, right? Wouldn’t you rather spend your limited time on earth making sure your granddaughter doesn’t hate you and you do something nice for her for once?”

Her response is swift. No.

Jesus. This woman is so despicable she makes me look like a saint. Hurting Kit is firmly on my top three list of things I abhor doing. And yet—she does it for sport.

I’m positive there’s a special place in hell for her. If not, I’ll be sure to save her a seat.

I grab the armrests of her wheelchair. “That’s too bad because believe me when I say—it’s your loss. Your granddaughter is kind, generous, and unlike anyone else I have ever met in my life. Her pinky finger has more strength and grace than you on your best day.” I level her with a stare that tells her every bit what I think about her. “Clearly she didn’t get that from your side of the family, you haggard, blackmailing, good-for-nothing cunt.”

She reaches for her notebook, but I wrangle it from her and toss it in the trash.

Then I look at the butler. “I’m calling a cab. I suggest you get her out of my face or I’ll finish rearranging yours.”

When I take out my cell, the witch shoves an envelope in my other hand.

I’m about to go off, but the butler wheels her away and my eyes fall to the note on it. I only had a pair of sevens. You never should have folded, imbecile.

Inside the envelope—is the three grand I lost.

My palms are itching when I turn and face the casino. It’s safe to say calling a cab is now the farthest thing from my mind.

The old bat doesn’t play fair.

I go to shove my phone in my back pocket, but the message icon snags my attention. Given I have no choice but to stay, it might be best to find out how pissed my wife is before I knock on her door.

Tapping the icon, I bring it to my ear.

“I need you.”

Instantly, I feel the color drain from my face and my hand clamps in a fist around the phone.

Emotions—all different ones—slam into me. Far too many to register or single out.

Except one.

I need to be wherever she is.