Morrison (Caldwell Brothers)

I have ignored her calls and the calls from my brothers. I need focus, not distractions.

I get out, walk up to the door that says “Closed,” and knock. When it opens, the chain still linked from the inside, I flash my card, and the door is opened fully. I shove the card in my pocket, knowing that if I have to leave to get more cash, this will get me back in.

As I walk in and all eyes settle on me, the bouncer puts his hand on my chest, stopping me.

“Weapons get left at the door.”

“I don’t have any with me.”

“Go to the bar and get your chips. No cash at the tables. If you need more, you ask one of the men circulating. They can take you to the ATM.”

I am dressed to impress. Old habits die hard.

I brought all the cash in my safe with me—thirty grand. Buy-in for first round is a grand.

I walk up to the bar and hand the man twenty grand. I am given a look that tells me it’s a big exchange. This makes me a little nervous. If twenty grand is a lot, that means there may not be enough money to be made. There are thirty men here, and I need all their money and then some.

The man running the game starts throwing names into a container.

“Game starts in ten minutes. There are still a few players who have been invited and haven’t shown yet. We’ll give them the respect they deserve and wait. In the meantime, feel free to grab a drink.”

I look around, seeing some familiar faces and some not so familiar.

“Aces?” I look to my left and see the kid who parks my ride at Aria.

“Wheels, man, what are you doing off the Strip?” I shake his hand and pat his back.

“Coming to play the game.”

“You aren’t gonna win like that, man.” I laugh.

“Whatcha mean?”

“I’m gonna give you some advice, okay?”

“Yeah, that would be great.” He smiles.

“You don’t play the game; you are the game. No other way to win. Watch the players, the cards; forget about the game and winning—be the game. Own it.” I wink. “You feel me?”

“Yeah, man, I feel you.” He smiles. “That’s it? That’s your secret?”

“Our secret.”

He takes in a deep breath.

“Throw the nerves out the window.”

“Done,” he says, nodding.

“How much did you bring with ya?”

“Everything I had. A grand is all, but it’s a start,” he says, flipping the chip in his hand.

I reach in my pocket and pull out a chip of my own. “Another secret: Start with two grand when you play cards. As soon as you win that much and still have the original two grand to play with, pocket it for the next game, and don’t go digging for it if you run out. Don’t let the game play you.”

“Own it.” He nods.

I hand him the chip I pulled out. “Tonight, you put away three grand. Give me this back when it’s all over.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Fuck, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me—pay me back at the end.”

“I will. I promise.”

The room has filled up, and a man stands in the center of everyone. “Welcome to Seed. I’m Scott, the owner of this fine establishment. Thank you all for being part of tonight’s festivities. The game is five-card draw. You all know the rules. The house gets two percent when you cash in your chips at the end of the night. One-thousand-dollar buy-in at the start of each hand. You lose it, and you leave. Names will be drawn in a moment. First four at table one, second four at table two, and so one. Each round will end when there is one man sitting at each table. Each advancement requires a grand more for your buy-in. If you wanna leave, you cash in your chips every time you exit. Doesn’t matter to us; we still get our two percent. When we’re down to the final four players, we play at one table. Good luck, everyone.”

The name “Aces” comes up: I’m at table three, my favorite. I sit down and look around at my crew. All are hungry and intense. All of them are easy reads. I own this game.

Timmons is at table six, and my buddy Wheels is at seven. They are not a distraction, but when the name “Hard Knocks” is called to table eight, that shit distracts me. I look up to see the back of a chick wearing a hippie helmet, a half shirt, jeans, and black combat boots. I don’t stare, ’cause I know the chick I left home is fucking home.

Then I hear Monte laugh, and I look up again. I follow his eyes to table eight, and staring at me is the fucking doppelganger of Hailey. At least I wish it was. I shake my head and start to stand, but she shakes her head, and then I hear the announcer call Hendrix and Jagger to table ten. I wonder, how the hell did they get in?