Page 14 of Restless Hawke
Butch raises.
The men between us fold.
I call.
The only ones left standing on the hand are Coen, Butch, and me.
Coen casually lays down his cards—four kings, thanks to the help of the community cards.
Smiling at him, I incline my head. “Nice hand.”
It’s the first thing I’ve said to him since we sat at the table—the first thinganyof us have said, save for Butch, who seems not to notice that no one is responding to his comments and questions.
No one is here to make friends or chit-chat except him.
To play at this level, we’ve all developed our own strategies, and no one’s is to getfriendlywith the competition.
What happened between Coen and me at the bar in Atlantic City crossed a line he never would have if he had known who I was and why I was there, and he’s fuming over it.
He gives me a little half-grin, victory dancing across his icy blue gaze.
Butch grunts and tosses his cards in—full house, queens and jacks.
That might have been a winning hand in any other round.
But now, it’s just Coen and me staring each other down across the felt.
I drag my red-polished nail across the top of my cards, lay them down, and watch the color drain from his face. “A nice hand…but it doesn’t beat a royal flush.”
Those little hearts all lined up in a row…crushing the hand he was so sure had won.
“Shit…” Coen mutters it loud enough for me to hear, even on this end of the table.
I’ve broken him.
The stoic man who played with ice in his veins suddenly becomes an iceberg bobbing around, lost in the ocean current, waiting to slam into something to knock it back onto course.
He would never react like that.
Neverhaswhen I watched him.
He’s off balance.
The dealer takes the cards and shuffles as Coen holds my gaze across the table. Tension builds the longer we stare each other down until the hair on my arms stands on end. Energy crackles in the air, and I fight the urge to shiver against the coldness radiating off him.
Butch glances between the two of us, brows rising. “You two know each other?”
I swallow through my suddenly dry throat and shake my head, giving the Texan a soft smile to try to dispel any potential issues that the hatred emanating from Coen toward me might stir up. “No.”
The last thing we want is anyone thinking we’re together, somehow working the table in tandem. That’s the kind of thing that gets you kicked out of tournaments and blacklisted.
Coen crosses his arms over his chest, jaw tense. He knows what he needs to do, needs to say. He can’t admit we’ve met before, or under what circumstances. “Nope…”
And in reality, we don’t.
A short conversation at a hotel bar accusing someone of being a prostitute is hardlyknowingone another.
But something tells me that when the final cards are dealt in this tournament, when it’s finally over, that is going to change.
