The faces on the original LeRoy Neiman painting seem to be glaring down at me with disdain. I wipe the sweat from my brow and try to focus.

Thirty hours without sleep—or is it forty?—make it hard to concentrate. And all the scotch isn’t helping.

Lyle Berman, Bobby Baldwin, Doyle Brunson, and Chau Giang aren’t giving me any guidance either. Then again, the mouths of the most famous poker players in the world can’t offer up advice when they’re painted on a canvas.

The confine of the glass wall that surrounds me makes me feel like I’m in a fishbowl with all eyes on this Wall Street wolf. Technically ex, but why spill what no one needs to know?

Pulling strings got me in here. Unraveling them will get me kicked out.

“Blue Suede Shoes” is playing overhead and I think to myself, now Elvis, he was one hell of a man. Good with the ladies, and according to legend, one hell of a card shark. And let’s not forget he could hold his booze.

Seconds tick by and all I can do is stare down at the dwindling pile of thousand-dollar chips in front of me. I’d roll up my shirtsleeves to ease the stress, but I did that eight hours ago.

All or nothing.

It’s all or nothing.

The hot little cocktail waitress is making her rounds again, and even though I raise my glass to indicate a refill, she still saunters behind me and presses those big tits of hers up close and personal. “Another?” she purrs into my ear.

I nod with a dip of my chin and give only the slightest glance into that ample cleavage of hers.

Under any other circumstances, I’d excuse myself from the table and take her into the bathroom to fuck her against one of the stall doors.

But right now, getting laid isn’t on the top of my list.

Winning is.

All or nothing.

It’s all or nothing.

Shifting the jack of diamonds next to the queen of diamonds, I try to study the tells on the players’ faces. They all seem like professionals, though, and they don’t have many tells.

What the hell am I doing here?

Bobby’s Room at the Bellagio hosts the highest-limit poker action in the United States, with $20,000 minimum buy-ins. And although I’m good, I’m definitely not a professional player.

Still, I had the cash, and the connections, so the higher Vegas powers that be extended an invitation.

And I figured, why not?

You see, after I quit my job on Wall Street because my prick of a boss pushed me to the edge, he insisted on firing me. Fuck him, I let him, and then I cashed in all $500,000 of my severance and decided to let the chips fall—literally.

That fucking job was my life.

I didn’t give a shit about the money. I was making double that in a year. For five years, I worked my ass off. And the last two years I was working seventy-hour weeks. All that for it to come down to a would I or wouldn’t I—cross the line, that is.

I’ll be honest: I thought about it. Long and hard. The FANG market is blowing up. No one would question me. Facebook, Amazon, Netflix, Google. Everyone wants a piece. All I had to do was what he said. The problem? You can’t come back from insider trading.

I might be a dick, but I’m not stupid.

As the air fills with another Elvis Presley tune, it’s the shuffling of cards that sounds the loudest in my ears.

I shift the king beside the queen. Blink. Focus. Concentrate. Or try. I’ve been out of it for a while now, and I think it’s finally sinking in. I lost my fucking job. My fucking life, and—oh right—Maggie.

Maggie.

Right girl.

Wrong time.

After that day, I couldn’t think about the possibility of a relationship—my life was in a million pieces. I gave everything to that prick. That firm. Everything! And when I said no, he fucked me, right up the ass.

The dealer’s hands are flying around the table, pushing chips and flipping cards, and then his round eyes are fixed on mine.

I push all that shit aside.

I’m here now.

Living the dream.

Everyone at the table is holding their breath, or maybe just me. I have no idea if I can pull this off, and the suspense in the air is palpable.

The giant stack of chips in the center is holding 90 percent of the money I arrived with. I think about tapping my knuckles on the gold felt. I don’t. I wonder if I should fold. I don’t. I consider doing something certifiably insane. I might.

It’s not a bluff if you can back it up—and I almost can.

Almost.

I quickly allow my eyes to trace the perimeter of the table to see who still has cards. The Texan is out. Good. The movie star too. Great. The real-estate tycoon as well. Fantastic.

Not many sharks left in the game.

Looks like insanity it is.

Without another thought, another breath, another twitch of my eye, I announce, “Call!”

Everyone looks at me in shock.

“Call?” several players echo in bewilderment.

“Yes,” I say in a much stronger voice than I thought I had left in me.

One by one, the remaining players push their cards toward the dealer.

Fucking hell, I did it.

I fucking did it.

The dealer pushes the winning pot in my direction.

Setting my cards face up on the table, I stare down at all the chips in awe.

I should quit right now.

Walk away and head to some exotic place where the women are plenty and the drinks never end.

But with over one million dollars’ worth of chips in front of me, there’s no stopping me now. Yesterday, had I walked away, I’d have had two million. The day before that, I was broke. And the day before that, I was up three million. Tomorrow it might be four. The next day five.

You never know.

By the time I leave here, my fucked-up life might just have turned around. Who knows, I might do better than a house in the Hamptons. I might just be able to buy my own island, where I can lie in a lounge with girls in bikinis fanning me and feeding me grapes, ready to fuck with a simple curl of my finger. Screw the king of Wall Street—I could be king of the world.

All or nothing.

It’s all or nothing.

Chairs move; players leave; new players arrive; I stay put. Over the buzz of chatter comes the dealer’s booming voice, “Place your bets!”

Adrenaline pumps through my veins, and I’m more than ready for this.

Just as I’m about to pick up one of the giant stacks of chips in front of me, my biggest bet yet, a dark shadow looms over me.

“He’s out.”

The voice of the person is so close it makes me think he is proclaiming I’m the one that is out. I ignore it and take hold of my chips. Just as I’m about to toss them into the center, a hand grabs onto my arm.

“He’s out,” the voice repeats.

“What the fuck—?” Wheeling around with my arm in swinging motion, I’m about to clock this asshole when he grabs my arm again in midair.

The move is so familiar I don’t even have to look at his face to know who it is. There’s only one guy who knows me well enough to know I might rake with my right but I swing with my left, who’s fast enough to catch me, and who’s stupid enough to try.

“What is your problem?” I bark.

The glare he gives me reminds me of days gone by. I guess it is the wrong question to ask since it’s obviously me. “You. Everyone has been worried about you.”

That piques my interest. “They don’t need to be.”

“Well, they are.”

“You’re boring me with all the concern shit.”

“Then let me get to the point. It’s time for you to leave,” he hisses through gritted teeth.

My fingers spread and my hands are lowering as if to calm him down. “Whoa, man, chill,” I counter as I look into the eyes of Camden Waters. Cam has been my best friend since, well, maybe since I was born, and right now he doesn’t look any too happy about it.

He narrows his steel-gray eyes at me and then lifts the dark aviators from my face. “I’m serious. We need to talk.”

I check out his suit, his shirt, those shiny shoes. Then I reach and pull on the red tie. “Nice threads. I haven’t seen you dress like this since your brother’s funeral.”

Okay, that was way out of line. “Sorry, man, that was uncalled for.”

Cam shakes his head at me. “You can be a real asshole.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. Come on, man, you know me.”

Cam glares at me and then lets his eyes scan my attire. Black jeans, more on the dirty side than grunge, a very well-worn white button-down, and the Adidas that I normally only wear for running. Since I left Wall Street, I’m not even sure I’ve changed my clothes. “Now!” he snaps.

“Fine.” I hold a finger up. Turning back around to the dealer, I ask, “Could you give me a minute?”

The shake of his head is immediate. Guess I’m not the bigwig I thought. No special treatment given here.

Looking back at Cam, I shrug. “Sit down. I’ll front you.”

Those narrowed eyes become slits. “You and me, outside now.”

Something tells me this could turn into a scene, and that would get me kicked out. I don’t want to be tossed. “Fine,” I mutter. Taking a handful of chips, I push the rest in the dealer’s direction. “Cash me out and put the money on my account. Keen Masters,” I tell him, tossing him a chip, and then I pivot back around. “What are you doing here, Cam?”

“Putting an end to your self-destructive behavior,” he tells me.

I laugh under my breath. “This is a vacation. What are you talking about?”

“Right, that’s why you’ve been MIA for weeks. Not answering your phone, not returning calls. Fuck, man, everyone has been worried about you.”

Unlikely, since it’s been since January 3.

To put him at ease, though, I wrap my arm around his shoulder. “I’m alive, and living life in the fast lane. Come on! Join me at the tables. It’ll be like the old days when we ran those high-stakes games in grad school.”

Just like the dealer, he shakes his head no. “That was you, not me. And you got kicked out, remember?”

One of the bouncers heads in our direction. There’s no loitering in Bobby’s Room. I give him a smile and indicate the doorway to let him know we’re headed out. Again, I’d hate to be tossed.

The bouncer stops and crosses him arms.

Giving him a smile, I redirect my attention to my buddy. “Way to crush a guy’s memories,” I tell Cam.

He shakes his head at me.

“Wharton was a better school anyway,” I mutter under my breath.

This time he narrows his eyes at me. “You’re still delusional I see, bro.”

“Whatever. How did you know where to find me, anyway?”

Keeping in step with me, Cam looks around and then points just beyond the exit.

Right here, right now, everything crashes down around me. The pain. The sorrow. The heartache. It feels a little less intense. A little less important. It’s like I suddenly remember there is more to me than Wall Street. That the man that I am isn’t only defined as that prick in a suit that sat at his desk every day wheeling and dealing. That being a part of the merry band of stockbrokers isn’t all that matters in life.

Standing outside the confines of the glass with his hands in the pockets of his board shorts, and looking really tan from the California sun, is a guy who has the very same crystal-blue eyes as I do, same nose, is the same height, and by looking at him now, might weigh close to the same as I do. The only major difference between us is that his hair is lighter than mine. If it weren’t for that, and the twenty-month age difference, you might think Brooklyn James and I were twins, not half brothers.

Emotion surges through me. I’m a fucking mess. My head snaps back to the guy I might soon be calling my former best friend. “Fuck, Cam, you brought my little brother? Why would you do that?”

My brother is the last person in the world I want to see me at my worst. I’ve always been the older brother. The one he’s looked up to. The one he calls when he has a problem or wants advice. And I like it that way. Even though he grew up in California and I grew up in New York, the distance never mattered. Neither did the fact that we have different fathers. We are brothers. And he is the most important person in my life right now. Cam coming in second, but he doesn’t need to know that.

With a concerned look on his face, Cam runs a hand through his hair. “You got it all wrong, Keen—he brought me.”

I blink a few times and try to process what he just said.

For whom?

Maggie?

But why?

I fucked all of that up.

There is no way I could get her back now.

No fucking way.

Is there?

The hot little cocktail waitress steps in my path, and this time she has a big pink heart pinned right to her ample chest with the little K on it, which stands for Keen. “Your drink,” she says with a smile and a wink. And I know just what the wink is for. Not that I intend to do anything about it. I keep playing along, though.

Like a missile redirected, Cam’s even quicker movement cuts off the quick outstretching of my hand. Before I can blink, he has my scotch grasped in his hold, is lifting it to his lips, and then has the nerve to down it, all before setting the empty glass back on the tray.

Her eyes grow wide and I think my valentine might be crushing on my best friend. She shouldn’t be shooting her Cupid’s arrow in his direction—he’s taken. Fallen madly in love with the girl next door. Blah, blah, blah.

Grabbing two chips from my grasp, Cam smiles at her. “Thank you for that, but my friend here has had enough.” Then he drops the two thousand dollars in chips on her tray. “And this is for your trouble.”

With that little ditty, she walks away.

Looking over Cam’s shoulder at all the pink and red decorations, I want to call her back, but know I won’t. Instead I meet Cam’s stare. “What the fuck? That was my drink, and she and I have a date later.”

His finger is in my face. “First of all you reek of alcohol. When was the last time you were sober?”

I shrug. “Does it matter?”

With a huff, he wags his finger at me. “And secondly, do you even know her name?”

Now that question I can answer. “Do I need to? She’s my Valentine’s date.” Not that I planned on taking her out. Truth is, I’ve been avoiding her, but fuck, Cam doesn’t need to know that.

He shakes his head. “You’re a piece of work.”

“Hey bro, I’m not feeling the love.”

Leaning in close as if to make sure I can hear him, Cam whispers, “I’ll show you the love. I’ll give you five minutes to go jerk off in the bathroom if you have to, but Emma sent us to bring you home, and I, for one, don’t plan to piss her off.”

The door is opened wide for us as we approach and the sweet sound of slot machines drowns out the ringing in my ears. “My mother?” I ask in shock just as I exit the high-stakes poker room. “How did she know where I was?”

Cam is about six two, only an inch shorter than me, but I swear his size has morphed or I’ve shrunk when he says, “Some big movie producer you played with yesterday called her.”

All of a sudden I’m twelve, not twenty-seven. “Played with? Like outside, as in Cowboys and Indians, basketball, or is this some chick trying to pull some crazy sex scandal that can’t possibly be true?”

That fucking Cam smirk lights up his face. “It was a guy, you dumb fuck. And cards.”

What.

The.

Fuck?

Someone from Bobby’s Room called my Mommy Dearest? Are you kidding me?

It’s not until we’ve fully cleared the poker room and entered the din of the casino that I can see anything but red.

Glancing around, I take a minute to try to remember who it was. You know, in case I see him; I’ll promptly remind him that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. And also I think I’ll have to enlighten him about my mother. Emma Fairchild might be a hotshot director who rules Hollywood, but to me, she is nothing more than the vessel that birthed me.

End.

Of.

Story.

Brooklyn approaches with apprehension in his eyes, like I might just pound him into the ground for doing our mother’s bidding. For once, I have no intention of doing that. Instead, when he’s close enough, I pull him in for a hard embrace. Needing him more than I ever thought I could. “Little brother, good to see you.”

When he steps back, my brother’s face is so somber you’d think he was standing at someone’s grave, not smack dab in the middle of all the action at the Bellagio. “Why the fuck haven’t you called me back?”

There is absolutely no reason I should be laughing, and yet I am. “Someone drowned my phone a while ago. Just haven’t gotten around to getting a new one.”

Brooklyn narrows his eyes at me. “It’s not funny, Keen. I’ve been calling you for weeks. Called your apartment building; they told me you moved out. Called that chick Sarah you used to hang with every now and then; she told me she hasn’t seen you since your father died. Finally I called your office, and they told me you were fired six weeks ago.”

“Quit,” I mutter under my breath.

“What happened?” he asks in a tone that is somewhere between fury and concern.

Standing in the middle of the casino, everything seems to suddenly be slowing down.

Exactly how long have I been here?

Seven days?

Ten?

Wait. Two weeks?

No, three.

Four.

Fuck.

Without conscious thought, I clench my brother’s shoulders, which seem so much stronger than they did last month. “I honestly don’t know,” I answer.

And that’s the truth.

Somewhere between my old man dying almost two years ago and subsequently deciding I wanted to become the next Wolf of Wall Street, time flew by, and so did life.

All I did was work.

Night and day.

Fell out of touch with the people I knew.

All because I had defined success as that pie-in-the-sky dream.

And then in the blink of an eye, I’d lost it.

When I thought I had nothing left, I packed what I needed into my Porsche 911, put the rest of my shit in storage, and then drove west. I’d intended to head to Laguna, but decided I should pull myself together first, and in my delusional state, I figured why not in Vegas.

Brooklyn gives me a hard shove. Man, is he grown up. The skinny teen from the hit MTV reality series Chasing the Sun is a man. And by the amount of women eyeing his James Dean look, he’s a real panty dropper. “Don’t ever disappear like that again, asshole,” he hisses.

Fuck, I guess he really does care.

Moving past the shitty feelings I have about my life, I take a breath and give him a smirk, knowing that what I’m about to say is going to make all his anger disappear. “You know, this was just a pit stop on my way to California.”

“No fucking way.” Brooklyn smiles.

When I swing my gaze over to Cam, his jaw is hanging open. “Catching flies?” I ask.

“Absolutely fucking not. Just please tell me you are finally going to take me up on my offer and come work for Simon Warren?” Cam asks, his enthusiasm breaking down the wall I’ve had up.

Feeling overwhelmed, I have to pretend I’m unsure to hide my emotions, when fuck yeah—if after all this time the offer is still on the table, I am taking it. And besides, Maggie is there, and maybe she’ll be willing to forgive me for going off the radar while I figured my shit out.

Putting on a show for Cam, I tilt my head to the side in contemplation. I hadn’t really considered it, totally forgot about it to be honest, but fuck, it just happens I need a job. And getting out of New York City for a while wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

Cam’s wheels are turning in true Cam form and I know I’m screwed unless I say yes anyway.

Swinging my arms around my brother and my best friend, I answer. “I’m willing to give it a try. Just a try. Nothing permanent out of the gate.”

Cam looks over at me. “How about this? We label it as interim. I’m in over my head right now and could really use the help. If you can just stay onboard until I pull all my assets together and align proper management, that would help. And then if you don’t like it, you leave. If you like it, you stay. But no pressure.”

No pressure—now that’s a deal I can handle. “Just so we’re clear, I don’t know shit about running a men’s apparel division, but if you’re willing to put your faith in me then you’d better fucking believe I’m ready to find out.”

“C’mon, you’re Keen Masters. I have no doubt you can turn this company around.” Cam grins.

“Thanks for the confidence boost. I appreciate it. Now what do you two losers say to a few drinks while we sit at a blackjack table? And then maybe hit a strip club a little later?”

With a move I have to say I didn’t see coming, Cam untangles himself from my hold and wrenches my arm behind my back.

Over my shoulder, I whine, “Fine, you can skip the strip club now that you have a girlfriend, but that doesn’t mean you have to ruin it for Brooklyn and me.”

Thought I’d test the waters, see if Brooklyn would back out because he has a lady at home, but looks like that plan has been shot down and I’m going to be left hanging.

Cam hisses in my ear, “The only place you are going is in the back of my Jeep.”

“But my car,” I protest.

Brooklyn dangles a set of keys in front of me. “Already had the valet pull it around. And I’ll be happy to drive it.”

“Yeah, well all my shit is up in the penthouse.”

That smirk on my brother’s face tells me he already took care of that too. “Shit’s loaded and in the Jeep.”

Cam lets go of me and removes a tin of breath mints from his pocket. He pops one in his mouth and then shoves the tin my way. “Here, you need the whole pack. In fact, if there’s a self-service car wash anywhere nearby, I think I’ll stop and hose you off.”

After giving him the finger, I run a hand down over my stubbled jaw. Yeah, I could probably use a shower and a shave.

Brooklyn is laughing so hard that he has to hold his stomach.

Sizing up my best friend and my brother against my drunken condition, I consider my options. I could run. Or try to. Probably not the best course of action right now. Or I could just go with them.

Fuckers.

Honestly, my liver could use a period of detox.

Snatching back my shades, I slide them on my face before I turn and head for the exit, muttering over my shoulder, “You two are assholes.”

Their response comes in unison. “And so are you.”

Just as I reach the glass doors and step out into the hot Nevada weather, I turn back and look at what might have been my kingdom.

When my gaze lands on Cam and Brooklyn, I realize I didn’t lose everything in my life.

And for the first time in six weeks, I take a deep breath and feel like I’m able to breathe.

It’s all or nothing.

All or nothing.