Page 12 of Hungry Hearts

I’m not that guy.

But the angel at the bar last night has me second-guessing my intentions. Normally, I’d be sighing in relief that the woman is gone. This morning, I kinda feel cheap. Used.

Shit. I don’t even do this to women I sleep with. Sneaking out in the middle of the night, or early morning, is a low blow. It’s disrespectful. I worship women, respect them, then leave. Totally different from what happened to me last night.

It doesn’t stop me from wanting her. Wanting her bad. I pick up two pillows that had fallen to the floor during our sexcapades and notice something shiny under the bed. Bending down, I reach for it and dangle it from my finger.

A small set of keys. Our housekeeping staff is too good to have missed them from a previous guest, and they weren’t hidden under the bed very far. They have to belong to my angel. I quickly get dressed, then send Nolan a text. I’m about to stoop to a level I’ve never visited before.

We’ve been best friends since nursery school. He and I are part of the Four Aces that make up the casino. Drake Reynolds, our Ace of Diamonds, was the mastermind behind Boston’s first casino. He took us under his wing, helped us invest our money because he’s a fucking math whiz, and asked us to be partners with him.

Being a former Navy SEAL, it only made sense for Nolan to head up security. Our Ace of Spades, he is.

Trey’s bulk and tattoos make him look like he should be in charge of security intel, since that’s how we met him when we were all working in New Orleans. He took up running The Club, the unoriginal name of the casino’s top nightclub, which matches his personality. Brooding, simple, unflashy. Although, he’s a little less broody these days now that Ella has domesticated him. Nightclub life isn’t his jam and he recently stepped back from his duties to focus on buying property and flipping houses.

Leaving me as the Ace of Hearts. My title needs no explanation, since the guys accuse me of breaking hearts across Boston, New Orleans, and Ohio when I was a pubescent teen.

When Nolan doesn’t reply to my text by the time the elevator drops me off at our floor of business suites, I call him.

“The fuck, man. It’s not even seven-thirty. What the hell are you doing awake?”

When we first opened Four Aces, the four of us worked fifteen-hour days, seven days a week. Our sleep schedule usually lasted from three in the morning until nine, if lucky. It’s why we own the two biggest penthouses. Drake and Nora live in one with their Boxer, Daisy. While Nolan, Trey, and I share the other one as a place to crash when needed.

We use it for catching a few hours of sleep, whipping up a quick meal, or having some alone time when we’re not up to driving out to our own places. Nolan’s brownstone isn’t too far from here where he lives with his wife, Trey’s sister ,Avery. Trey and Ella live in an upscale neighborhood with lawns, pools, and a cul-de-sac outside of the city, and I prefer my high-rise apartment in the Seaport district.

“Getting an early start, and I need a favor.”

“Give me a few. I’ve gotta drive Avery to work.”

“You coming into the office after?”

“You at the penthouse?”

I don’t correct him. It’s not that I hide my hook-ups from my friends, especially Nolan, but this isn’t a phone conversation.

“Yeah. I’ll see you in a bit.” I hang up and head to the private elevators that will take me to the penthouse.

I strip off my clothes in my room and pad down the hall to the bathroom. I hate to wash off the sweet floral scent of my angel, but I need the cold water to wake me up. After I change into joggers, I make myself a coffee and stick my head in the fridge. We’ve been spending less and less time in the penthouse, and the fridge isn’t as stocked as it usually is, but I find ingredients to make myself a Denver omelet and avocado toast.

The dishes are washed and I’m on my second cup of coffee when Nolan lets himself in. He’s dressed in his usual attire of a charcoal suit and no tie. Now that he’s living with Avery and she works a normal eight-to-five job, he’s shifted his hours to match. When we host big roller tournaments he’ll work nights, but he hired a staff that he trusts to keep the evenings running smoothly while he’s on the floor during the calmer hours. The guy deserves it after the shit he’s gone through the past few years.

“You’re freaking me out, Benton. It’s not like you to call so early. What’s going on?” He swipes my coffee from me and guzzles it half down.

I expected as much and take a second mug down from the cabinet, filling it with more coffee.

“I need information on a guest.”

He eyes me over his mug—mymug—and swallows the rest of the coffee, holding the empty cup out to me. “What kind of information, and why?”

I refill the cup and lean against the counter. “A woman I met while bartending last night.”

He smirks and mirrors my pose, leaning against the counter opposite me. He casually crosses his ankles and lets me stew. “She turn you down?”

I snort. “As if.”

“You fucked her last night?”

Normally, I have no problem bragging about my sexual conquests. Me not wanting to share my evening with him tells me I’m already in too deep. “I need her number,” I say, ignoring his question.

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