Page 5 of Stealing Blinds

Three Days Later

Not a single thought has entered my mind that hasn’t involved my pretty little bandit, but Mardi Gras has a knack for lingering, so I’m not too stressed about it.

It’s a simple fixation hangover, something I tend to welcome after fumbling a trick. Not that I encounter that scenario often, which explains the reason it’s plaguing me. And I certainly didn’t fumble anything that night. So, it’s nothing. It’ll be a thing of the past soon.

Jax tosses his chips into the pot, not bothering to glance at his cards. “You gonna tell us about …” He takes his typical second-too-long pause before pressing on my bruise—metaphorically. “The detour you took on Tuesday?”

We’re at the Underground—the La Lune Noire employee haven, which is filled with bars, restaurants, and entertainment areas. It’s in direct contrast to the classy 1920s opulence of the rest of our establishment, but no less exclusive. Our employees are practically a cult. Anything goes here, with the only rule being to never tell Axel or Ryker, the two oldest Noire siblings. But their wives, Zara and Mercy, respectively, are with us. And both are eager for the same details Jax is requesting.

I should fold my worthless hand, but none of them can read me, so I raise to accompany my response. “No.”

Confidence almost always trumps good cards. Wager enough preflop, and the pot is yours, regardless of what you’re holding.

“Give us something,” Mercy demands, calling my bet with a triumphant glimmer in her brown eyes.

Mercy was Ryker’s best friend long before she was his one and only, so she’s been around since I was a kid. She’s sharp, but still not attuned to discerning my antics, probably because she’s good and pure down to her marrow.

She thinks she has the winning hand. She doesn’t. Jax does.

Since she’s been challenging me the last few rounds, my strategy has shifted to drawing her out when she can’t win against him. Best-case scenario: they all fold for me to reign the victor. But if all I reap is that she simmers down after a loss to Jax, I’ll sweep the next several hands with ease.

Zara is the opposite. She hears everything unsaid and can spot deception from across the room. Mahogany hair and wicked green eyes. Loyal but formidable.

She clinks her nail against her glass, folding in search of a juicier prize. “Was it a woman or something sinister?”

Heat zips up my spine as flashes of that night whip through my mind—backflips and threats and sparkling amber eyes. Couldn’t hurt to give them something.

“Both.”

One Week Later

Maddox flicks his butterfly knife around at the threshold of my office, strands of his onyx hair slipping from his man bun to graze his temple, announcing that he just left his wife sated. “Figured out the girl’s name yet?”

I hate that he knows shit. He’s two years older and my best friend. And it’s like we can get inside each other’s head—a talent we’ve both manipulated for some epic pranks. One that landed him Tessa, thank you very much.

I’m sure I’ll cave soon enough and tell him everything, but for now, I grip the fraying threads of my dignity. If I’m not careful, he’ll start talking about me inhaling the scent of her hair, which is his determining factor for how gone a man is.

My eyes never leave my computer screen, which currently has facial recognition software on it. It’s failing miserably at discerning who the beauty in my picture is. Who knows why? Her mask, the lighting, or the lack of her existence.

“Who said anything about a girl?”

“Your sudden disinterest in the female gender for the past ten days—the cabaret girls asked if you were dying. Your weird preoccupation with computer screens—I didn’t even know you used your fucking office. And your face.” The clicks and clacks of his balisong halt as he pushes off the doorframe to saunter inside. “You’re down bad, aren’t ya?”

Down bad?

“Fuck no.” I close out the program and spin my chair toward him. “It’s nothing. A loose end that’s nagging me.”

In an effort to prove that, I launch into the details about my mystery girl, sans the dollar-bill-fate request. Maybe he’ll be able to help me identify her.

“Christ,” he howls, grabbing his chest. “You’re in trouble, man. She beat you at your own game.”

“Only if I don’t find her, which I will,” I protest as I lock up my desk and office door, with us still inside.

“You did get turned down cold at Café L’Ambroisie,” he jeers.

“What the hell does that have to do with this?”

“I’m sensing a pattern.”