Morrison (Caldwell Brothers #2) (9 page)

All in.

I walk out of the bathroom at the airport, dressed in fucking jeans and a T-shirt. Why? ’Cause when I threw shit in my bag, I wasn’t thinking about my show—that’s why. That woman has me all sorts of fucked up.

I throw a twenty in the airport slots, and the first pull is a loss. The next twenty goes in, and the next pull, I get my cash back. My third pull, I lose.

A lose, so I should start off the Strip. Ritual gone.

I’m not playing my normal game; I’m playing a game for her, for my girl. Yes, I am fucking calling her “my girl,” and she is also about to lose the “Hard Knocks” tag she has been given and seems to accept. Fuck that! She’s platinum. She’s just gotta accept it, and by God, I’m gonna make sure that happens!

I am all in. It’s a game, one where
I will either lose it all or gain the biggest fucking jackpot I have ever played for.

I walk out and hail a cab.

“3111 Bel Air Drive,” I tell the cabbie as I climb in.

The first time I came to this sandbox, I expected it to change my world. And in certain ways, it did. For one thing, I was suddenly able to buy the people I loved nice things. But life-changing? No.

Still, it sure as hell felt,
and feels, good. Ballin’ feels good. Having people look at you and want to be like you feels good. Lying down with pussy that’s neat, trim, and pampered feels good. Having socialites on their knees, sucking you off in the bathroom at a club feels good.

But none of that is life-changing.

Fame or virtue, which do you choose?

A month ago, it was all about fucking fame for me. Fame is what I have
here. People know me—they fucking
know
me. The man I chose to be, not the man everyone thought I would be. Not the fucking man my old man raised. Here in Vegas, they know I am good at the game.

But I wanted life-changing moments, and so far, all I have gotten are material things.

Virtue, though…Now, virtue changes lives. Virtuous people change lives, and changed lives break cycles. And virtue
is now within arm’s reach. If I lose the game, lose the girl, I do it knowing that this man, this Caldwell man, did something that made his momma proud—gave a girl back what should be a birthright, something that was stripped from her: the freedom of choice.

When I get to my pad, I go inside and realize I didn’t even check on my car. But who gives a shit? Not me. Not today.

I open the safe and
grab two grand, then snatch the keys off the entry table.

Opening the garage, I see Hailey’s little car and decide I wanna drive it. That motherfucker is out there, and it’ll draw him out like a cockroach in the night. I slide in and check for the keys, but they’re not in the ignition. I check under the seat—not there. I look above the visor and all the typical places people stash keys, but they
aren’t there.

Then I look in the rearview mirror and see little chick’s car seat, reach back, and pull up the cover. Keys. I laugh to myself, because Hailey isn’t anything like the chicks I bang. She thinks, plans, strategizes, and has better street smarts than anyone else I know. Hiding keys under car seat covers. Your typical car thief wouldn’t even think to check there. That’s because he wouldn’t
know the little chick’s more important to her than anything or anyone else in this world. Her tell, and her reason for the fight, is that little beauty.

I want in on whatever bullshit underground tourney Monte has coming up, because that motherfucker has no clue how to treat a girl like Hailey, and he has no fucking right to that little chick, either.

I drive by her place three fucking times.
Three isn’t my lucky number, but three makes shit happen in my life. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end. The middle is the safest place to be; I’ve always known that to be true. I hated the idea of choosing to be the safest—the one who floated—so I never did.

I park in front of a dive bar, the Double Down Saloon. Then I walk in, order a beer, sit, and wait. Before my beer is finished,
I see four men walk in together, and behind them is Monte.

I leave my stool, walk to the back of the bar, and sit in a corner booth. I look up to see that bastard walking toward me with his boys.

He stops in front of me. “I want the keys to that piece of shit you rolled up in. Then you better tell me where my little whore is.”

I laugh, intentionally taunting him. “Not gonna happen.”

“I don’t
know who the hell you think you’re dealing with here, Aces, but in these parts, you don’t fuck with me.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t much like following the rules of a piece of shit like you.”

One of his guys steps forward.

“You might wanna call him off, because the way I look at this, you may not want any physical altercations between you and me. ’Cause, if you ever come face-to-face with that fine
ass again, she’s gonna be looking at you like you ain’t shit. Not after she’s had me.”

“I’ll fucking ruin you.”

“Well, I did ruin her…for you or any other man she
chooses
to let inside that tight little pussy of hers. You ever hear her scream out anything other than ‘
Get the fuck off of me
’? ’Cause the way she screams my name is like—”

“You’re a dead man.”

“If I died today, I’d die knowing
I’ve tasted heaven, something you never did. I have no idea how the fuck you can call yourself a man and not eat a pussy.” I look at one of his boys. “Can you believe that shit?”

“I don’t eat whore.”

“From what I understand, she was seventeen when you fucked her, and she had no one else, ’cause you made her believe she owed you, which sounds a lot like rape to me. So, if my calculations are
correct, Monte, she’s had two dicks, one tongue, and only one man who made her feel like a woman and not a fucking captive.”

“She and I are married; her mother gave consent. There was no rape involved.”

“Not a true marriage, and she was a seventeen-year-old girl who was scared out of her mind after being raised by a woman who never knew true freedom. You fucking raped that ass.”

“Is that what
she’s saying?” He laughs.

“No, that’s what’s real. She’s learning real fast, though. She’s gonna raise that little girl to be whatever she chooses to be someday.
You
owe
her;
she doesn’t owe you shit.”

“Listen, you fucking punk, she owes me three hundred thousand dollars, and I intend to get it all back, by whatever means it takes. If you’ve got that kind of cash, she’s all yours.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, she’s all
hers
.”

“The man doesn’t want to lay claim to an ass he’s willing to die over.” Monte laughs, and then so do his guys.

“What you fucks don’t get is that a woman who chooses the man she is underneath is fucking owned—mind, body, and soul. If I get you the money and she stays with me, I’ll have much more than ownership—I’ll have a woman who will be by my side willingly. She
won’t be a girl looking for an escape. And if she doesn’t choose me, I’ll still never have to reach down my pants to check to see if I have the equipment that makes me a man—I already know by my actions that I am all man, a better man than she had before.”

“Three hundred grand and I don’t give a fuck if she’s a willing participant to you or not. I’ll just know the little whore has paid her debt.
You have three days.”

When he stands up, he looks at his guys, then at me. “Three fucking days and I’m coming after you, then her, and then the kid.”

“You touch either one of them, and I will personally put you six feet under.”

“This isn’t a game, Aces.”

“No, that would be too easy. I’ve already beaten you.”

He whispers something in the ear of one of his goons, then walks away.

The man pulls
out a card and throws it on the table in front of me. “Your mouth should have stayed shut. Monte doesn’t just want your money; he wants your game, too. Be there or I give him the location.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I have people looking into you. You play his game, get him his cash, and I won’t use the information. You don’t show up and don’t pay him, and he’ll know who you
are and where to find his wife and child.”

“What the fuck is your deal?”

“Ask Hailey.” He turns and walks away.

“Ask her what?”

He doesn’t turn back.

I look down at the card. It’s the golden ticket, the address to the tournament where I will play a game for the biggest prize of my life.

He thinks I’m a gambler.

But I’m not.

I pull up in front of Seed, a little dive on the east side
of Vegas. I grab the card Monte’s man dropped on the table, my golden ticket. The ticket that will win the girl who has been blowing up my phone for the past twelve hours.

I have ignored her calls and the calls from my brothers. I need focus, not distractions.

I get out, walk up to the door that says “Closed,” and knock. When it opens, the chain still linked from the inside, I flash my card,
and the door is opened fully. I shove the card in my pocket, knowing that if I have to leave to get more cash, this will get me back in.

As I walk in and all eyes settle on me, the bouncer puts his hand on my chest, stopping me.

“Weapons get left at the door.”

“I don’t have any with me.”

“Go to the bar and get your chips. No cash at the tables. If you need more, you ask one of the men circulating.
They can take you to the ATM.”

I am dressed to impress. Old habits die hard.

I brought all the cash in my safe with me—thirty grand. Buy-in for first round is a grand.

I walk up to the bar and hand the man twenty grand. I am given a look that tells me it’s a big exchange. This makes me a little nervous. If twenty grand is a lot, that means there may not be enough money to be made. There are
thirty men here, and I need all their money and then some.

The man running the game starts throwing names into a container.

“Game starts in ten minutes. There are still a few players who have been invited and haven’t shown yet. We’ll give them the respect they deserve and wait. In the meantime, feel free to grab a drink.”

I look around, seeing some familiar faces and some not so familiar.

“Aces?” I look to my left and see the kid who parks my ride at Aria.

“Wheels, man, what are you doing off the Strip?” I shake his hand and pat his back.

“Coming to play the game.”

“You aren’t gonna win like that, man.” I laugh.

“Whatcha mean?”

“I’m gonna give you some advice, okay?”

“Yeah, that would be great.” He smiles.

“You don’t
play
the game; you
are
the game. No other way to win. Watch
the players, the cards; forget about the game and winning—
be
the game. Own it.” I wink. “You feel me?”

“Yeah, man, I feel you.” He smiles. “That’s it? That’s your secret?”

“
Our
secret.”

He takes in a deep breath.

“Throw the nerves out the window.”

“Done,” he says, nodding.

“How much did you bring with ya?”

“Everything I had. A grand is all, but it’s a start,” he says, flipping the chip
in his hand.

I reach in my pocket and pull out a chip of my own. “Another secret: Start with two grand when you play cards. As soon as you win that much and still have the original two grand to play with, pocket it for the next game, and don’t go digging for it if you run out. Don’t let the game play you.”

“Own it.” He nods.

I hand him the chip I pulled out. “Tonight, you put away three grand.
Give me this back when it’s all over.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Fuck, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me—pay me back at the end.”

“I will. I promise.”

The room has filled up, and a man stands in the center of everyone. “Welcome to Seed. I’m Scott, the owner of this fine establishment. Thank you all for being part of tonight’s festivities. The game is five-card draw. You all know the rules. The house
gets two percent when you cash in your chips at the end of the night. One-thousand-dollar buy-in at the start of each hand. You lose it, and you leave. Names will be drawn in a moment. First four at table one, second four at table two, and so one. Each round will end when there is one man sitting at each table. Each advancement requires a grand more for your buy-in. If you wanna leave, you cash
in your chips every time you exit. Doesn’t matter to us; we still get our two percent. When we’re down to the final four players, we play at one table. Good luck, everyone.”

The name “Aces” comes up: I’m at table three, my favorite. I sit down and look around at my crew. All are hungry and intense. All of them are easy reads. I own this game.

Timmons is at table six, and my buddy Wheels is at
seven. They are not a distraction, but when the name “Hard Knocks” is called to table eight, that shit distracts me. I look up to see the back of a chick wearing a hippie helmet, a half shirt, jeans, and black combat boots. I don’t stare, ’cause I know the chick I left home is fucking home.

Then I hear Monte laugh, and I look up again. I follow his eyes to table eight, and staring at me is the
fucking doppelganger of Hailey. At least I wish it was. I shake my head and start to stand, but she shakes her head, and then I hear the announcer call Hendrix and Jagger to table ten. I wonder, how the hell did they get in?

I look over to see they both have shit-eating grins on their faces, but the fuckers won’t look at me. I glance back at Hailey, and she bites her lip to keep from smiling.

I turn around in my chair and want to bounce my fucking head off the green felt, but I don’t.

My brothers are here, so I know all is gonna be okay. Regardless of how tonight goes, I am gonna get Hailey out of here safely and then drag her by that fucking hippie helmet to Detroit. The part of this that is rocking my world right now is that if she didn’t know it already, she knows now that win,
lose, or draw, she is part of a family who has her back.

By round five, my table is cleared; I’ve taken all the motherfucking chips. I have never before felt the emotion of the game being all or nothing. But now, with my need to show a chick I can take care of her—not only can, but want to—I am feeling the electricity of the Vegas lights on steroids, and I’m not even on the Strip.