Always Mine (Roommate Duet 5)

I pay my fee for the two p.m. no-limit hold ’em game that’s hosted every day, then get on a waitlist for a low-stakes cash game. As I’m standing around, one of the guys who played in the Five Diamond tourney with me a few weeks ago makes his way toward me.

“Liam!” JJ shouts with a grin. “Didn’t know you’d be in town this weekend.” JJ O’Leary has more money than he knows what to do with and always plays at the high-stakes tables. He’s risky, makes bets when he shouldn’t, and tries to bluff his way through each hand. Meanwhile, every move I make is calculated, and I take the game seriously. The bottom line is never taking a bet I don’t think I’ll win.

“You playin’ at two?” he asks, combing his fingers through his blond hair.

“Yeah, already bought in. How ’bout you?”

“Yep, gonna win it today. Just feel it in my bones, but now that you’re here, I’m not so sure,” he teases.

Laughter escapes me. “I’ll go easy on you, this time.”

My name is called for the low-stakes game I was waitlisted for, and the host escorts me to a table. I sit in one of the swivel chairs, place my chips in front of me, and play for hours. Some of these guys are idiots, and I run circles around them, bluffing my way through half of the hands. Many are too scared to call me, so they fold almost instantly. It’s easy money, and I leave with an extra thousand dollars’ worth of chips in my pocket. After I cash them in and grab a bite to eat, I take a shot of whiskey, then make my way to the poker area.

Nearly every seat is taken in the crowded room as I’m handed my chips from the buy-in. During a tournament game, everyone starts with the same amount, and only one person will survive. I know I’ll be playing for hours and hopefully win more than I spent to enter. Every thirty minutes, the tables are combined with those who are still in until only a handful of us are left.

Hours later, only three others besides me are left with large stacks of chips. The dealer throws out cards, and the assholes I’m playing with keep raising the bid until JJ randomly decides to go all in. He’s not the greatest player, and I know his tells more than he does. One thing I’ve learned from my job is to watch people and identify their quirks and habits. It’s my turn to make a decision, and I glance up at him, then back at the flush in my hand. With a straight face, I call his bet. All the other players fold their cards, so we go head to head.

The dealer continues with the hand, and when JJ shows his pair, I hold back the urge to laugh. When I flip over my cards, he stands, pushing his chair back and cursing. He’s told to calm down, which he doesn’t like. Before walking away, he shakes my hand, and then I continue because this is far from over.

It doesn’t take long before I’m calling bluffs and taking the other guys out. I can’t stop grinning, knowing I just won ten grand in one day. I’m exhausted from sitting and having to concentrate so much, but I’m happy as hell when I leave. There’s nothing comparable to this, other than catching a fugitive I’ve been tracking for weeks. After everyone congratulates me, I sign some paperwork and take my winnings. I’m comped for dinner and extended hotel stays to encourage me to keep playing, but I need a mental break.

I put the cash in the safe of my room, then go back downstairs where I grab a drink at the bar. As soon as I order a beer, JJ comes and sits next to me.

“Good fuckin’ game,” he tells me, ordering us a round of bourbon.

“Thanks.” I take it, and he tells the bartender to keep them coming.

JJ stands when a guy with dark brown hair and a mustache walks by. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

They make eye contact, and I can immediately sense the tension in the room. The guy looks disgusted as they stare each other down, and for a split second, I think a fight is about to break out. JJ cracks his knuckles before shooting his drink down, then slamming it on the table.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” he says under his breath, and the guy keeps walking, glaring over his shoulder.

JJ sits, and he’s visibly upset.

“Everything okay?” I ask, but don’t want to pry.

“That’s Mickey DeFranco. He’s a piece of shit, comes from liars and thieves. Our families don’t get along and haven’t for decades.” He snarls as the hatred drips from his lips.