Free Hustler by Meghan Quinn, Jessica Prince

to the door, making sure no one has entered. “You don’t think he’s, like, a dick or anything like that?”
    “Always seemed nice enough to me,” Davies shrugs. “You know, for practically being a mute.” At that, she stops shuffling, turns to me and props a hand on her curvy hip. “Why are you asking all these questions, anyway?” she asks in a skeptical tone.
    “ Pfft ,” I wave my hand in the air in front of me. “No reason. Just curious, I guess.”
    She stares at me in total silence before her eyes go wide. “Oh my God,” she gasps, suddenly looking giddy. “You like him!”
    “Do not!” I protest instantly.
    “You do! You totally like him!”
    “No I don’t!” I whisper-yell, darting a look over my shoulder to make sure Nick can’t hear us from the other side of the suite. “And would you shut up about it? God, I do not like the guy.”
    Davies studies my face closely before finally humming, “Mmm hmm, if you say so.”
    Before either of us can say anything else, the double doors to the high roller suite open and a group of men—along with their scantily clad bleached robots—walk in. I do my best to ignore the hitch in my chest at the sight of Gavin entering the room, both his arms surprisingly empty. I don’t know why, but I expected he’d have at least one woman with him on the nights he played in the high stakes game.
    I found myself frozen in place as those dark, penetrating eyes hit me. It’s as though he’s seeing right through me in this very moment, and the disconcerting feeling leaves me somewhat breathless and shaky.
    “Good evening, gentlemen,” I offer my standard introductory speech. “I’m Nell and I’ll be your server tonight.” As the men take their chairs, I make my way around the table, taking drink orders. A sense of relief washes over me when I notice Ramos is missing from the game. For some reason I refuse to analyze, my gaze continues to shoot to Gavin the closer I get, and I can’t help but feel slightly bereft that, other than the cursory glance upon his entry into the suite, he hasn’t given me another look.
    “Hello, Mr. Saint,” I speak quietly once I get to him.
    The jackass doesn’t even deem me worthy of a nod, the only acknowledgment I get that he’s even aware of my existence is his grunted, “Whiskey, two fingers.” I don’t understand why, but his casual disregard is like a slap in the face. I’m just about to step away when he continues. “Think you can remember that?”
    I spin around, wide-eyed at his sarcastic insult of my waitressing skills, ready to lay into him as my instincts beg of me, only to find one corner of his mouth hooked up in a smirk. The motherfucker is testing me.
    And the night has only just begun!
    Refusing to be baited, I give him a small nod and a professional, “Yes, sir,” before heading off toward the bar.
    Davies has dealt the first game and everyone’s anted up as I stand and wait for Nick to finish loading my tray, making sure to keep my back to the other side of the room.
    “Is this one Mr. Saint’s?” I point at the tumbler filled with amber colored liquid. When Nick nods, a smile creeps across my face as I lean forward just slightly, hovering over the tumbler, and spit in it.
    “What the fuck are you doing?” Nick hisses frantically, shooting wide-eyes at the oblivious men sitting at the table.
    “You didn’t see anything,” I mumble a warning, swirling the contents of the glass to mix everything together. “Just do your job and act like the past thirty seconds never happened.”
    As I turn to walk away from the bar, drink tray firmly resting on my shoulder, I can swear I see Nick smiling at me with something akin to hero worship. Mindful to place the glasses down on the men’s left, I work as quickly and quietly as possible, so as not to draw attention to myself.
    Just like Gavin had “trained” me.
    “Ah, very good,” the arrogant ass uttered under his breath as I set his drink down.