Suspicion

Suspicion©

Copyright 2017 Donya Lynne

Phoenix Press LLC

ISBN: 978-1-938991-43-1

Cover by Reese Dante https://www.reesedante.com/

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment and may not be resold or distributed without the author’s express consent. Contact the author at donya@donyalynne.com.

References to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, persons, or locales, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Books by Donya Lynne

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About the Author

Preface

Suspicion was originally written as a Kindle Worlds novella in Aleatha Romig’s Fidelity Kindle World. As such, this story contains elements of Aleatha Romig’s copyrighted works that are part of her Infidelity Series, and it is published with the permission of Aleatha Romig, information about whose books are found at www.aleatharomig.com/infidelity-series.

After the Kindle Worlds platform was shut down, I was given back the rights to this story so I could publish it on my own for all my readers to enjoy.

It isn’t required that you read the Infidelity Series (not about cheating) to enjoy this book, but I personally think you would find tremendous enjoyment from reading Aleatha’s 5-book series along with this book. And while you’re at it, dig into all the other books that were written as part of this Kindle World before the platform closed. It’s such an amazing collection of stories, featuring many talented authors.

On that note, I’d like to thank Aleatha Romig for inviting me to write in her exciting Fidelity Kindle World so that I could discover this fun and sexy little story filled with twists, turns, lies, and deceit.

Dearest reader, may you enjoy getting lost in Suspicion, where some of the best poker faces are some of the prettiest.

Donya

Suspicion

Some poker faces are prettier than others

Chapter 1

Max

People think poker is a sexy game. They watch movies like Casino Royale and Runner Runner and see the money, the bling, the excess, and they base their reality on the fantasy. Every man is as dashing as James Bond, and every woman is a supermodel wearing a skintight red dress with a plunging neckline.

I’m not saying poker can’t be sexy. It can, especially when you’re winning big. But when you’re not, you’re like a homeless person standing on the corner, shaking your plastic cup of coins, holding a sign: Hungry. Homeless. Please help. God bless. Nobody wants to be near you. Women don’t want to fuck you. Men don’t want to buy you drinks or be your friend (because if women don’t want to fuck you, there’s no leftovers for them. See how this works?). When you’re losing, you’re on an island by yourself.

In the real world, poker is more about cards, crowded tournament rooms, and plastering on your poker face. Women don’t factor in unless they’re sitting at the table with you. As another player. Not as the red-dress girl who comes up behind you, bends over to distract the other men with her cleavage, and kisses you for good luck.

Which is why the flash of blond hair, long legs, and a little black dress from across the room catches me by surprise.

I look up, but as fast as she was there, she’s gone.

Good thing, too. I’m deep in the middle of a hand. The last hand, if I play it right, which means I don’t need any distractions. The fact I allowed a pair of sexy legs to break my concentration means I need to work harder on my game if I’m going to make it as a pro. But what can I say? I’m a leg man. Long, supple legs are my weakness.

Pulling my focus back to the baize table and the pair of cards sitting facedown in front of me, I fondle a stack of chips, mentally berating myself for my lack of discipline. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been sitting here for almost four hours and have to piss like an elephant (do you still think poker is sexy?). All it takes is one small slip, and I’ll lose the advantage I’ve spent the entire game cultivating.

Speaking of pissing, a lot of poker players would be pissing in their pants if they were holding the hand I am right now. Four kings. Not much beats four kings. Four aces, a straight flush, a royal flush. That’s it. And the community cards make it mathematically impossible for my opponent to be holding any of those. My bet is he’s sitting on an ace-high flush, but not even that can’t beat my cowboys.

Call. I toss a stack of chips toward the center of the table, keeping my expression as stony as Mount Rushmore.

Times like this are when discipline and skill are most important. Skill is how I’ll make my opponent think he has a chance. Skill will make him believe his hand is stronger than mine. That’s the only way I’ll keep him throwing money in the pot.

Since the deal of the first hand, I’ve studied my opponent with the thoroughness of a pathologist conducting an autopsy. I know his patterns. His habits, mannerisms, and quirks.

His tell. When he bluffs, the skin around his right eye tightens.

He’s not bluffing now.

But he is concerned. He eyes me and his stack in turns, delaying his bet.

I wait.

We stare each other down.

I shuffle a stack of chips. The plastic pieces click together in a rapid-fire ripple of sound. Cli-i-i-i-i-i-ck. Like a tiny machine gun. You can hear the same sound all over the room as other players do the same with their chips. You can’t call yourself a real poker player if you don’t know how to shuffle a stack of chips.

I continue shuffling mine, waiting for my opponent to grow some balls and raise me.

In poker, you don’t just play the hands of everyone else around the table. You play their fears, habits, and patterns, so you have to pay attention. You have to watch the cards that get played and analyze how your opponents bet with those cards. Eventually, patterns emerge.

Patterns reveal weakness.

Weakness can be exploited.

But as important as it is to play against your opponent, it’s just as important to remember you’re also playing against yourself. While you’re studying the others around the table, they’re studying you. A smart player remembers this and finds ways to keep his opponents guessing.

I continue shuffling my chips, calm, showing nothing, keeping one hand over my cards.

Another minute passes before he finally raises my call.

Just like I knew he would.

A less skilled player in my shoes would do something foolish right about now. He’d pump his fist or show off by shoving his chips into the center of the table like he’s got something to prove . . . and immediately scare his opponent into folding and drag this game on even longer.

Instead, I blink. That’s as much emotion as I’m willing to reveal.

Restraint is the name of the game. It’s what will make my opponent think I’m bluffing, which is a good thing. I want him to think I’m sitting on two pair, maybe three of a kind, at most. That’s how I’m going to get him to give me his money.

Smoke and mirrors. That’s all poker is. An act. It’s a game of suspicion. You can never trust the people you’re playing against, and they can’t trust you.

While I make my opponent sweat, my gaze travels over his attire. We couldn’t be more opposite in appearance. He’s wearing a black baseball cap backward and has on a faded Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt that looks like it’s been washed a hundred times too many. I’m wearing a black silk button-up, untucked over crisp dark denim, and polished Italian loafers. The collar of my shirt is open, revealing the small silver locket I rarely take off. My long fade is brushed back from my forehead, styled the way a lot of men are wearing their fades now. In other words, I’m put together.

The way I’m dressed is part of my game. It’s part of who I am as a player.

Classy.

Refined.

Legitimate.

I may cheat in every other aspect of my life, pulling scams and cons on unsuspecting marks, but poker is the one place I’m honest. It’s the one area of my life I won’t taint with deceit. I want to earn my place at the biggest tables, not cheat my way into them.

After giving my opponent enough time to sweat his bet, I straighten and put my hands at the rear of my stack.

All-in. I slowly—tentatively even—push my chips toward the center of the table. If he bites, the pot will be fifty thousand dollars.

Gasps go up from the crowd that’s gathered around the table. Going all-in always gets a powerful reaction from the railbirds.

The money is a drop in the bucket of my net worth, but the win has even greater value. A win is validation I don’t need to pull cons anymore.

Winning today proves that I’ve got what it takes to do this for a living . . . and do well. This isn’t the first time I’ve crafted a win at a Vegas tournament. It’s not even the second. In the last two years, I’ve won three Texas Hold’em tournaments and placed in the top five of eight more, and that’s playing just a few times a year.

Imagine how much money I could make if I played every week or even every day. For that matter, imagine the payday I could have by earning my way into the World Series of Poker, which is next year’s goal.

Maybe then I’ll be good enough to deserve the heart of a woman like the one I met by the pool in Del Mar last month. Charli. With an I. I talked to her less than five minutes, but I could tell she was a class act. A woman who wouldn’t fall for a con artist like me. A woman who would never get involved with a criminal.

If I’m going to win the heart of a woman like that, I need to change my ways. That’s one reason I’m here. It’s one of the reasons why I’ve decided not to wait any longer to get out of the racket.

The corners of my opponent’s mouth pinch. He wasn’t expecting me to go all-in, but he’s too proud to fold and fight back with a short stack. He still has faith—or perhaps it’s fading hope I see in his eyes—in the losing hand he’s holding.

It doesn’t take long, and he calls my bet. All our chips are in the middle of the table.

When I flip over my kings, he chuffs and shakes his head, showing the ace-high flush I assumed he had with an air of defeat.

When you went all-in, I knew you had four. I just knew it. He sighs and pushes away from the table. I just didn’t want to believe it.

I stand at the same time he does and reach for his hand. Good game, I say.

You, too. He eyes the cards again as if he still can’t believe he got outplayed then meanders away from the table.

I catch Shaun’s eye at the rail. He’s been milling through the crowd and scouting the ladies for the last hour, no doubt working his angles to make off with