Page 1 of Crown Jewels
VAHN
Typically, there were two reasons people chose to move to L.A., , and for their dreams of fame, that more than likely wouldn’t come true. Suzie Hopeful may have been the prettiest girl in butt fuck Nebraska, but in LA she was just another pretty face in a crowd of beautiful people. Sure, she may have talent, but if she didn’t have that thing agencies were looking for, then how well she could sing didn’t matter.
That’s what most people didn’t understand. The only requirement for fame, was the it factor. Did I have that factor? Maybe. My movies did quite well. There weren’t exactly the kindsomeone would see in a theater—there was too much nudity for mainstream media—but I enjoyed making them.
Mind you, Soda Springs California wasn’t exactly like L.A. It was still full of people who wanted to be famous, but I wasn’t one of them. I came here for one reason, and one reason only. To be no one. The name Kessler didn’t mean shit in California.
I scanned the hardened faces seated around the poker table with my best friend Mitch and I.
Each and every one of these four men thought they were the baddest motherfucker in the room. And in this little run down piece of shit bar, maybe they were? They’d clearly seen some shit, or caused some shit. Mitch and I were the only people seated here that didn’t have a visible scar. Emotional scars however…
Yeah, I didn’t have any of those either. But Mitch’s soul was covered in them.
Mitch ran his finger through his red hair and leaned over to whisper to me, “What do you think?”
I think he needs to get control of his tells, and stop running his fingers through his hair. “I think you should fold.”
His right brow lifted as his silver eyes poured over the other players. I knew what he was going to do before he dropped more chips in the pot.
“I raise 500.”
Goddamnit.
“Mitch,” I whispered in warning.
“Relax Vahn,” he hissed back. “I know what I’m doing.”
No he didn’t. There was a reason he was three grand in the hole while I was up two. My best friend was a lot of things, observant was not one of them. I doubted that Mitch knew our fellow players names, let alone their tells.
For example, Armen puffed on his cigar when he had a bad hand, while Hayk drummed his fingers on the table, and Ruben played with his wedding ring. Edgar’s tell I had yet to figure out.
If Mitch was paying attention he would’ve picked up on the same things I did. What kind of gambler couldn’t read the room?
A gambling addict, that’s who. That was the downside of addiction. You were so caught up in chasing whatever high you were after, that everything else didn’t matter. Right now all Mitch could see were dollar signs from the big win he was convinced was right around the corner.
I grew up around addicts. My uncles, Mason and Chase, had past issues with drugs, and my uncle Logan was addicted to his wife. He couldn’t be in the same room as my aunt Shelby without touching her. My mom called him obsessive, but obsession was just another word for addiction.
That addiction at least I understood. Mostly because I had one of my own. A tempting little redhead named Emma, who just so happened to be Mitch’s baby sister. If he wasn’t so concerned with where his gambling fix would come from, then he might’ve noticed how I looked at her.
Armen eyed Mitch while striking a match on the table. “I think you’re bluffing.”
“Ayo.” Edgar nodded and dropped more chips in the pot with Armen.
All four of them had an accent, which I was fairly certain was Armenian, and based on the meat hook I spotted in the back room dripping blood, I didn’t think they were the friendly type of Armenians.
Mitch rolled his shoulders back and tipped his head. “If you think I’m bluffing, then you won’t have a problem throwing another 500 in the pot.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
What the hell was he doing? I knew Mitch too well. At best, he had a pair. These guys weren’t the kind of people who would let us leave without paying our debt. They were dangerous, and I knew something about dangerous people. I was one of them. It came with my last name. But the way Edgar was staring at us…
There was a look someone had when they didn’t have a problem snuffing out another’s life. This blank stare that was almost void of emotion. I’d seen it on two people in my life. Preston Whitley, who took care of ‘problems’ as my dad put it, and now Edgar.
Meaning if Mitch kept digging himself in a hole, he wouldn’t be walking away with another debt. He wouldn’t be walking away at all. We’d both probably end up on that meat hook in the back.
Not that Mitch was thinking about that. Consequences in his mind, were nothing more than an obstacle he had to veer around, for that big win he was sure was right around the corner. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t try to stop him. Someone had to be the voice of reason, and we needed to get out of here before things went too far.
“Mitch…”
