Hustler (36 page)

I hold up my hand to stop him. “Save it. I don’t want to hear your fucking apology. What I
want
to hear is that you’re going to back out of this game.”

Anguish. Complete and total anguish washes over his handsome features as he gives his head an almost indiscernible shake. “I can’t,” he whispers in a ravaged voice.

Doing the best I can not to break down completely, I blink back the deluge of tears that want to fall, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin, because when I walk out of here, I’m doing it with my pride intact, goddamn it. “Then, good luck. I hope beating him gives you what you’re looking for.”

I step past him, only to be stopped by his hand on my arm. “Penelope, just… god
damn it
! Just, wait, okay? Please. You have to understand—”

“Nope, that’s where you’re wrong, Gavin. I don’t have to understand anything. See, I grew up with parents who showed me that when you love someone,
really
love them, you’d be willing to compromise anything you could to make that person happy. That’s what they did for me my whole life. And that’s what I was willing to do for you.” My bottom lip trembles as I slowly pull my arm from his grasp. “I’d have done
anything
to make you happy, Gavin,” I whisper in a pained voice. “But what I’m not willing to do is settle for a man who isn’t willing to do the same for me. Play your game, and I mean it when I say I hope you win. I really do. I
want
you to win. Because the knowledge of that is going to be the only thing you’ll have to keep you warm at night. I hope that can be enough for you. But it’s not enough for me.”

With that, I fly from his villa like the hounds of hell are nipping at my feet. It isn’t until I’m in the sanctuary of my room with my face buried in a pillow to muffle the sounds, that I let the gut wrenching sobs break free.

**GAVIN**

“You look like absolute shit,” Graham says, walking up next to me as I push the button to the elevator to head back up to my villa. It’s been a long fucking day going through press junkets, interviews, and sitting in for another pickup game over at The Bellagio.

Now that my name is plastered all over the headlines again—thank you Harley St. James, you asshole—every hotel on the Strip and outside of Vegas is offering me a spot at their tables, wanting to get a little piece of the media frenzy swarming me.

Every hand I’ve played has been a joke. Every man who sits at my table, a sparkle in their eyes as they hope to strike it big against the best in the world, leaves sour, salty, and with a huge hole in their pocket. I’ve earned more money in the few days than I did all last year, and it keeps coming.

It isn’t about having a good hand when it comes to these games. It’s about being smart. There are times I fold because I’m not dumb enough to raise someone who has a good hand. I take my time, I read my competition and then I annihilate them when the time is right, just like the repeat performance I’ll make when I play Harley.

“Thanks, asshole,” I respond, waiting for the elevator to open. “Is there something I can help you with?” We both step in and I press the button to my floor, one hand in my pocket and exhaustion written all over my face.

I haven’t played this much poker since I was young and just starting out, wanting to get my hand in any game I could. Back then, I would even sink to the level of touristy gambling tables, just to feel the cards in my hand, to feel the thrill of winning yet another deal.

Now, there is no thrill. Every time I’m awarded with the pot, I don’t feel the electric buzz coursing through my veins, I don’t feel the pure elation of once again taking down another opponent, and I sure as shit don’t feel like celebrating with a random fuck up in my villa.

“I haven’t seen you in a while, thought we could catch up,” Graham says tentatively.

“Not in the mood,” I shoot back, walking out of the elevator to my villa where I use my key card to get in. Without an invitation, Graham follows behind me and sits in one of the barstools at my kitchen island.

Ignoring him, I go to my bar and pour myself a glass of whiskey, two fingers. Staring out the window at the neon lights that brighten the Strip on a daily basis, I ask, “What are you really doing here, Graham?”

Sighing, he says, “Scott and I are concerned about you.”

“Why?” I turn to him, an indignant look on my face. “There’s no need to be concerned.”

“You’ve been closed off recently. We haven’t heard from you in a while and the only time I really see your fucked up face is when it’s on TV.”

Stepping up to Graham, I pat his face, sarcasm dripping from my lips. “Aw, does my little lady friend need some attention?”

“Don’t be an ass,” Graham says, pushing my hand away. “Have you even talked to her at all?”

“Talked to who?” I ask, knowing damn well who he’s talking about but I want to stall because every time I think about Penelope, I can only picture her beautiful face, crushed and bruised from the words I spat at her. The hardest part is knowing she’s still living in the hotel, so close to me, yet completely unreachable.

“Nell,” Graham answers without skipping a beat. “Don’t act like you don’t know who I’m talking about. Have you spoken to her?”

“Why would I need to talk to her? She made it quite clear that we’re done, not that there was really anything between us. She was a good fuck for a while, but those things only last so long before you get bored.”

Every word uttered out of my cold, fucked up mouth is a lie, a lie dripping with so much self-hatred that I can barely listen to what I’m saying. It’s easier to get angry, to let that anger ferment, and then use it against anyone who tries to “fix” your problem. There is no fixing of anything where I’m concerned.

This is my life.

I’m a hustler.

I was born a hustler, raised a hustler, and I will be damned if anyone takes that away from me. Even a little brunette with hazel eyes and a heart of fucking gold can’t shake who I am.

Coming up from behind me, Graham pushes my back, sending me forward into the crest of my couch. “What the fuck,” I seethe, looking down at my hands where some of my whiskey has spilled.

“You know, Gavin, we’ve known each other for a long time now. I’ve seen you go through a lot. From winning big in Monte Carlo to visiting your father’s grave with you. I’ve watched countless women slip in and out of your villa with no intention of returning that night. I’ve seen you depressed and going through the motions of life instead of actually living it. But I’ve never seen you genuinely happy, like sappy fucking happy to the point that your smile stretches from ear to ear. That is, until Nell came along.”

“We’re not talking about this,” I warn, my heart pounding against my chest with every mention of Penelope’s name.

Never in my wildest dreams would I expect Graham to approach me about Penelope. He’s a self-centered asshole who spends more time looking at himself in the mirror than the people around him. So for him to stop being vain for two seconds and see how I’m doing is more than a little shocking, and seriously unwanted.

“Why is this so important to you?” Graham asks.

“Me?” I point to myself, rounding the kitchen to wipe my hands. “Why is
this
so fucking important to
you
, Graham? When have you ever cared about a woman I’ve slept with?”

“I haven’t and Nell isn’t just some woman you slept with, Gavin. She’s more than that. So my question to you is why are you letting her go over some goddamned poker game? You already know you’re the best, what’s the point?”

Wiping my hands, I stare Graham directly in the eyes, my hands twisting the towel painfully tight. “The point is simple, Graham. I’m not interested in anything long term.”

“Bullshit. That’s such fucking bullshit and you know it. Is it because you’re scared?”

“Why the ever loving fuck would I be scared of a woman? I would think you knew me better than that.”

“You’re not scared of Nell, dipshit, you’re scared of people believing you’re your father.”

Well if that’s not the God’s honest truth, then I don’t know what is. I’ve spent my entire adult life doing everything possible to not end up like my dad, losing his game and his life over a woman who forgot about him the second his body grew cold, why would I start now?

“I’m not scared of being like my father, I just don’t want people to see any correlation between us.”

“And why the hell not? From what I can remember, your father was a passionate man, a good man, he might not have shown it in the best way, but he was someone who loved you dearly…”

“He didn’t fucking love me!” I shoot back, cutting Graham off. “If he loved me, then he wouldn’t have spent every waking hour at the table chasing after something he already had.”

Stepping back, Graham taps the counter in front of him and then sticks his hands in his pockets. “If that’s the case, then you
are
your father, Gavin.” Shaking his head, he saunters over to my front door. “You’ve won it all, you’ve proven yourself. There is nothing left on your docket of success.” Taking a deep breath, he says, “Don’t be like your dad and keep chasing after a dream you’ve already accomplished. It’s time for you to live your life outside of cards and poker chips. I just hope Nell will be there for you when you finally pull your head out of your ass. That is, if you actually do.”

Not saying another word or waiting for a response from me, Graham leaves, the click of the door lock echoes through my very empty, very cold apartment.

“Fuck,” I mutter, gripping my forehead with my hand, feeling an intense headache starting to form at the base of my skull.

As I head back to my bedroom and start stripping out of my clothes, I think about Graham’s final statement. Am I so fucking fixated on not falling for a woman like my dad did that I’ve been blinded to the fact that I’m chasing after something that will never truly make me happy? Suddenly questioning everything you’ve based your life around is a fucking disconcerting feeling, and I feel the tension begin to build in my body as my stomach sinks at the questions swirling around in my head.

Making quick work of getting ready for bed, not even bothering with dinner, I slip between the cool sheets and stare up at the ceiling, my hands behind my head, images of Penelope running through my mind.

When I first saw her, I wanted to fuck her. I wanted to fuck her more than any woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. So I did what I do best, I hustled. I chased her, captured her, and branded her.

But that wasn’t enough.

For some foreign reason, I needed more. I needed to make her mine, to make sure she screamed my name every single night, to see her bright smile when I woke up in the morning, and to feel her petite, lithe body pressed against mine just to get a good night’s sleep.

And you know what? Fuck if I didn’t enjoy every aspect of having her around.

But it was bound to end. I knew that going into it. Being labeled as following in my father’s footsteps is a daunting fear of mine and I refuse to paint that on my shoulder like a scarlet letter.

But why does it feel so fucking wrong? Why do I feel like I’m spiraling out of control? Why does it feel like I can’t catch my breath? I pinch my eyes closed as images of Penelope flip through my mind, pictures of her hair floating over my bare chest, her sweet smile and sassy attitude cloud my brain just as a sharp pain shoots to my very fucking core.

This bed is so cold, so empty, so lifeless without her. Everything in this room seems so dark, bleak, and worthless without her.

“Fuck!” I shout, slamming my fists on the mattress.

Breaking, I grab my phone and pull up my text messages. The last one I sent to Penelope was over two weeks ago.

Two fucking weeks ago!

Shit.

Because I’m a masochist and need some sort of fix, I type out a message to her.

Gavin: I miss you.

It’s not a lie; it’s the God’s honest truth. I fucking miss her. I miss everything about her from her broken heel on her worn out shoes, to her spitfire attitude, to the way she moans my name at the point of climax.

Before my mind can wander anymore, my phone dings with a response, pulling me back to reality.

Penelope: Save it, Gavin. Are you still going to play in your game tomorrow?

I don’t even hesitate.

Gavin: Yes.

Penelope: Then there is no reason for us to talk. Have a good life.

Because I can’t fucking help the asshole that comes out of me, I text her back out of pure spite, refusing to let my wounds show.

Gavin: You too, Miss Prescott.

***

This is too easy.

Harley sits across from me, flipping his chip in his hand, stuttering with his flip every time he has a good hand, as if his fingers are shocked he’s been able to grab ahold of decent cards. There are cameras all around the room and under the table, showing the viewing audience what we’ve been dealt.

Easily after the first few hands I’ve been able to knock out Ramos – fucking moron – Samuelson, and Baker. Now it’s myself, Harley, and a new guy by the name of Tucker Reed, who actually shows a lot of promise but is way too fidgety. At least he’s been smart enough not to go in for a big bluff just yet, it’s the only reason why he’s still around.

Before I came into the suite today, dressed in one of my impeccable suits and sporting a fake smile, I had a conversation with Scott about my intentions going into this game. The jackass must have spoken with Graham because I received the same pep-talk Graham gave me the night before. Him telling me I didn’t need to do this, I had nothing to prove, and by no means would I ever reflect the man who raised me.
Blah, blah, fucking blah
.

He then proceeded to tell me that he wouldn’t be staying to watch, and neither was Graham, they were all headed over to the theater to watch Penelope perform her first show. I was fucking cast aside by my own friends. The traitors.

I can still hear the entire conversation on replay in my head.