Free Hustler by Meghan Quinn, Jessica Prince Page B

feel his hateful words like a punch in stomach.
    I can’t understand why I’m having such a strong reaction, or why I seem to care so much, but as I stand silently, ignoring Nick’s concerned gaze as he refills Gavin’s glass, I give myself an internal pep-talk. Gavin can just go and fuck right off for all I care. I don’t need to put up with his shit.
    Well, technically I do . But only for the next few hours, until this stupid poker game ends. Then he can go and fuck right off.
    With a resigned nod to myself, I lift my chin, square my shoulders, and prepare to battle with the world’s biggest asshat. And I am going to come out the winner, damn it! So help me God!

Chapter Seven
    **GAVIN**
     
     
    “Mr. Saint, it’s your call.”
    Two pair, aces high rest in my hand, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars sit in the pot, and I’ve earned an easy half mill already from reading the poor suckers at my table. I should be thrilled, relishing in my victory, focusing on sweeping yet another game, but my mind is elsewhere. It rests with the petite brunette flirting with the surfer boy over at the bar.
    I’ve been a dick to her all night, to the point that I know my words have been hurtful, but I’m not trying to be her friend, I don’t really know what I’m trying to do, if I really stop to think about it. All I know is that she’s throwing my game off.
    From an outsider’s perspective, you would never know I’m fighting a war in my head over what to focus on. I’m calm, neutral in my reactions, and observant. I give knowing glances to my opponents, letting them know that, once again, I’m about to sweep the pot. With every ante, I delicately flip my chip to the center, accurately landing it in the middle, a trick I used to practice when I was younger, now a superstitious act I must follow through on every round. I’m executing every step in my process of playing poker, except for ignoring the outside world.
    My thoughts don’t escape me to the point that I can’t concentrate, hence the giant pile of chips resting to my side. They’re just annoying, irritating, and causing me a type of stress I don’t care to deal with.
    “Call,” I say, knowing the unibrow to the right of me has nothing.
    Just like I thought, he shows a pair, kings high. Flipping over my cards casually, I show my own pair, aces high, sending the poor fool into a frenzy of depression. The dumbass bet the rest of his loot on a pair of kings, pathetic showing at most. The only reason he’s in this room is because he can afford it. It’s rare I find a challenge anymore. Maybe that’s why I find Penelope so appealing. Appealing. Ha! More like fucking frustrating.
    While Davies prepares for the next round, I let my gaze wander over to Penelope. She’s wearing the same heels she wore yesterday, her legs are bare of stockings, her skirt rides tight along her hips and falls just under the curve of her ass, and then there are her breasts, practically popping out of her shirt, wanting to be played with. Her smile is sweet, her demeanor is feisty, and there is something clouding those barely sparkling eyes that has the often present crinkle between her brows a constant tonight.
    Money seems to be an issue for her, given the state of the first pair of heels I saw her in, but that doesn’t seem to be what’s bothering her. There is something deeper, something more meaningful manipulating her day to day structure.
    But what the hell is it?
    “Mr. Saint, are you in?” Davies asks, her smooth voice passing over me.
    Instead of letting her see me startle out of my thoughts, I casually look down at my chips, take a sip of my drink and then flip my chip to the center.
    Drawing my attention back to the game, I zone in and blank out everything else in the room. Penelope will be dealt with later. For now, I have money to win.
    The group I’m running against is subpar at best. They’re easy to read. Timbers checks his cards every two seconds when he has a