Black Number Four (48 page)

We end the video call and I fall back on my bed, exhausted from the day. The wine is lulling my body into a relaxed peacefulness while a war rages in my head. If I win tomorrow, there’s no telling if Kip will want anything to do with me at all. And even if he does still want me, will I want anything to do with him? And what if he beats me? Even if I do get enough prize money to pay off tuition, this is
my
tournament. What will I feel for him if I see him holding that champion ring instead of me? I trusted him, I told him my strategy for this tournament, I let him videotape me and I believed him when he said he wanted to help. I let him in only to find out everything he said was a lie.

Or was it?

I roll over onto my side, feeling a wave of nausea roll over me. Everything is a mess. A big, nasty, steaming pile of mess. Before Kip, I never knew what love was. I never knew love could
hurt
like this. I never knew how cruel it was. How heartless. Careless.

But that’s the thing about love.

Love doesn’t care about the games we play. It doesn’t care about the rules or the players or what’s at stake. Love is wild and unruly and it does what it wants with our hearts without us having any say in it. It’s beautiful and paralyzing and breathtaking. And it kills us because it’s the only thing that keeps us alive. Love doesn’t play our games because love is a completely different game in and of itself. And in the game of love, when all the chips are on the table, no one emerges unscarred. No one.

But sometimes our scars are the most beautiful story tellers.

I’ve been playing poker professionally now for exactly three years, seven months, and twelve days. I’ve been in countless tournaments, played everyone from a fish to a pro, lost and won amounts of money I never thought possible – but nothing,
nothing
, in my poker life could ever have prepared me to feel any less calm in this moment.

I am sitting at the final table.

In one of the biggest poker tournaments in the country.

Only ten players are left out of thousands.

One of them is me.

And one of them is Kip.

We somehow managed to not get placed at the same table throughout the tournament, which either means luck loves me or really,
really
hates me. I silently prayed every time I got a new table assignment that his name wouldn’t show up on the screen, but now, sitting across from his electric blue eyes, I wish I could take it back. Part of me thought he would be knocked out by now, as shitty as that makes me sound, and part of me didn’t think I would even make it this far. I’m confident, yes, but I’m also realistic. There are thousands of pros here, and right now Kip and I are about to take on eight people who I know by name without looking at the table details. That’s a bad sign and we both know it. They know what they’re doing, and this isn’t going to be easy. For anyone.

Kip is nervous. He can’t even hide it anymore. I watched him play a table earlier and I knew he was nervous then, too, but he was hiding it from everyone else. Now, he’s visibly shaking slightly, a thin film of sweat gathering on his forehead. Pulling off my sunglasses, I catch his eyes with mine and try to silently reassure him, to calm him, but if anything I just make things worse. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple moving along his throat and pulling more of my attention than I care to admit. I chew my lip and pull the glasses back over my eyes, taking shelter in the protection they provide.

This is it.

All or nothing.

Quickly, I size up the stacks at the table. I’m definitely not the lead chip holder right now, but I’m far from the bottom. Unfortunately, Kip is low. He’s here, which is what’s important, but compared to the rest of us, he’s low. I think only one person has less than he does, Veronica Small, an older woman from Indiana who I played once before. I don’t think she’ll be here long, and unless Kip can play smart, he’s not going to last, either.

Wait.

Why do I care?

I shift, licking my lips and shaking my head.
Good. I hope he’s out quickly. Asshole shouldn’t be here in the first place.
But, even though I want to think that way, I can’t. It’s impossible. As much as I want to crush him, I want him to win, too. Or at least last a while and move up in the prize payout bracket. But I don’t know if that would be enough for him. This isn’t about prize money to him – it’s about the title.

And I want that same title.

I study him from behind the shade of my sunglasses, letting my eyes wander the length of his arms as they tense and move beneath his button up. Every single man at this table is dressed modestly, jeans and a nice shirt at best, but not Kip. He’s got the same vest and button up look that he does so well, so effortlessly. And while four of us at the table sport sunglasses, he wears his regular black frames, his blue eyes clear and wide for everyone to see. His hair is styled but messy, probably from him dragging his fingers through it all day the way he’s doing right now. He’s so handsome, so
painfully
handsome.

We barely have time to get a good look at everyone at the table before the first hand is dealt and I slip my poker face back on, zeroing in on the task at hand. When I play, something happens that I can’t quite explain. I know I’m here, I’m at the table, but I feel like I’m removed – almost as if I’m hovering above it, watching each and every player as they play the cards. I look for their tells, watch their strategy, note when they call and when they raise. Every small move is a neon sign, flashing their strengths and weaknesses. I lose myself in discovering them, finding just the perfect way to take them out.

Hand after hand is dealt, the hours dragging on but flying by at the same time. I watch Kip closer than any of the other players at the table and a mixture of emotion rolls through me the more attention I pay him. He quickly climbs the chip ladder as we knock players out, creeping up to my stack. I’m proud of him and terrified of him at the same time and I’m not sure which way to lean, so I straddle the two emotions.

When it’s down to just me, Kip, and Brendan Cartwright, last year’s tournament runner-up, I start to sweat under my heavy black hoodie. I debate taking it off, but I’m wearing nothing but a tank top under this hoodie and I know all too well what the headlines would be covering if I won wearing it. Unfortunately that’s what happens when you’re a girl in the poker world. Truthfully, though, I’m thankful for the heat. It makes me focus, it keeps me centered – and I need to be centered right now.

Kip hasn’t looked at me but maybe twice the entire time we’ve been at this table, but he has to know I’m watching him. When I go all in against Brendan and we flip over our cards to let the hand play out, I let out a sigh of both relief and panic when I see he has a pair of Jacks and I only have a hope of getting another heart to complete my flush. Standing, I pull my sunglasses off and drop them to the table, resting my hands on my head as the dealer pulls the turn. Jack. Of spades.

Fuck.

Kip’s eyes finally find mine and I realize he’s breathing just as hard as I am, his chest moving and ebbing under his vest. I try to steady my heartrate but it’s useless. If a heart doesn’t show on river, I’m screwed. I’m done. And as much as I don’t want to lose at all, I definitely don’t want to lose to Brendan. I don’t want third place. No one remembers third. If I’m going to go down, I want to lose to only one other person – the best. Brendan is amazing, but he’s not the best. And I don’t want to lose by his hand.

My heart is in my throat as the dealer burns a card and then slowly flips the river. I close my eyes for just a second, listening to the crowd’s mixture of gasps, claps, and groans. I don’t know if it’s safe to look, but I peek anyway.

Nine of hearts.

Thrusting my fist into the air, I join the crowd in celebrating for just a moment. Brendan moves to shake my hand and then just like that, he’s out. The adrenaline is still rushing through me when I take my seat again, the smile on my face absolutely ridiculous as I realize I just practically doubled my stack. But when my eyes find the matching pair of icy blues at the other end of the table, I swallow, my throat suddenly too dry for comfort.

It’s just me and Kip now.

There’s always a short break when it gets down to the final two. They make a show of it, having scantily clad women bring out briefcases stacked with cash and a glass case displaying the ridiculously expensive ring that goes to the champion. Do they ever have any half-naked men for the ladies of the poker world? Of course not.
Damn them.

By the time the little show is over, Kip and I are both visibly anxious but trying to play it cool. By the way he’s looking at me, I can’t tell if he’s excited to be here or if this is his worst nightmare. Maybe he didn’t think it would be us two sitting here, maybe he thought he’d be out by now or hell maybe he thought
I
would be out by now. Truthfully, this isn’t what I expected, either. But here we are. And before I have the chance to truly register it, the first cards are dealt and it’s game time. I reach for my sunglasses but pause, letting my hand hover over the plastic for a moment before pulling back, grabbing my cards and flipping up the small corners just enough to see their value instead. Kip eyes me curiously, but I shrug.

I don’t want to hide my eyes, anymore.

The truth of the matter is that we’re here. This is happening. And as much as I want to be pissed and hurt, I’m stoked. I’m proud of Kip and I’m beyond excited that I’m here. One of us is going to leave here the champion of this tournament and the winner of close to a million dollars. This is something to celebrate. I smile at Kip before placing my first bet. “Sixty-thousand.” I move the chips forward and then lean back in my chair again, crossing my arms. “And a shot of tequila.”

Everyone in the viewing area laughs and I’m sure the announcers are having a hay day with my comment. They probably think I’m being a smart ass, or maybe they don’t understand it at all, but I don’t care because Kip smiles – a true, radiant, full-teeth smile.

“I kind of like tequila now.”

“Is that so?” I quirk my brow.

He shrugs, his smile growing even wider. “Acquired taste, I guess.”

I blush a little and he winks, and suddenly the table doesn’t feel so scary. He’s smiling, and that’s enough for me. We both visibly relax.

And then we play.

My tequila comment must have loosened Kip up, because by our thirtieth hand between each other, we’re cracking jokes back and forth, causing fits of laughter in the viewing area and even getting a smile from our dealer from time to time. We’re pretty much even chip-wise and we’re having way too much fun to be battling for almost a million dollars, but I love every minute of it.

But when we get up around forty hands and we both start pushing harder, we fall quiet, and I watch as Kip’s expression turns solemn. I know he’s thinking about his father, he’s digging to find the last push he needs to win this. I should be looking for the same, but for some reason, I already feel like I’ve won. I feel a sort of peacefulness fall over me as the dealer deals our cards. When he lays out the flop, my breath catches in my throat.

A pair of fours is on the table.

One club, and one spade.

Two black number fours.

My eyes flit to Kip’s just as his find mine. Maybe we should laugh at the irony, or at least smile at the coincidence, but we both just stare. And somewhere in those ocean blue eyes of his, I find what I’ve been searching for.

There are three things you should know about me.

One, I can read any bluff like a neon sign. Two, I have one of the best poker faces in the game. And three, I know when to fold.

But I couldn’t read Kip’s bluffs. He played his game on me and I fell for his every trick, thinking I had a handle on him when I didn’t even come close to touching him at all. And my poker face is gone, destroyed by the notion that maybe it’s okay to be myself and not hide behind it all the time. And maybe it’s those two truths that made me hold so strongly to my third rule – folding. I gave up on Kip, on us, on
everything
. For once, I walked away from a hand I maybe could have won if I would have stuck around. Kip Jackson has completely turned me on my ass, and now I’m not exactly sure who I am.

But I think I’m on my way to finding out.