Julia’s blood raced along the speedways in her body, panic galloping through her veins. She had a sinking feeling about what was coming next, and she was right. Skunk reached for his gun with a speed she’d never imagined the lumbering man possessed. “Get the fuck out,” he said coolly to Hunter. “And you’re not welcome at the restaurant, either.”

“I was right,” Hunter said, practically hopping in righteousness.

Julia clamped her lips shut so she wouldn’t shout, “What did you think it was? What the hell else could this game possibly be?”

“Charlie told me it was an executive game, but it’s not,” he insisted and he must have been the ballsiest VC in the Valley because he wasn’t leaving.

Stevie waved the gun. “Was there something unclear about what I said? Because it sounded clear to me. But if you’re having trouble hearing, I’m happy to head on down to the local precinct tonight and make sure my friends on the force know that you put your fucking hands all over this woman here,” he said, gripping Julia’s shoulder with his free paw, in a gesture that felt both strangely protective and thoroughly invasive. “And I’ve got witnesses who’ll vouch for me, right?”

The chiseled-cheekbone guy nodded along with the sporting goods fella.

The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she was oddly grateful for Skunk, and disgusted at the same time. He’d protected her, but he’d really protected Charlie’s investment. And he’d done it in the same way Charlie had subverted her for his uses—by betting on her being a woman. By betting on men underestimating her at cards, and now by suggesting she was a helpless little lady who’d been manhandled.

Hunter grabbed his few remaining chips. “I’m cashing out.”

“No you’re not. You’re getting out. That’s your penalty for disrupting the game. Out,” Skunk said in a low and powerful tone, pointing to the door.

Hunter held up his hands, huffed out through his nostrils. “You won’t be seeing the last of me.”

He left, the sound of his footsteps echoing as he clomped down the stairs.

* * *

Charlie glared at her. “What did you say to him?”

“I didn’t say a thing.”

“What did you say that made him figure it out?” Charlie pressed, dropping his chopsticks next to his plate of pork dumplings at the Chinese restaurant underneath the apartment where the game was held. The restaurant was empty. It had closed an hour ago.

“I told you. Nothing.”

“I don’t need all of the VCs knowing our game is rigged. He and his friends come to my restaurant every Friday for lunch. Their employees eat here too,” he said, stabbing the table with a finger. “I had some of his friends from Steiner Hawkins coming to the next game. They just sold a social media startup they backed for $50 million. They are flush with cash. You know what that means?”

Julia shook her head, fear rippling across her chest. “No.”

Charlie pushed back from the table and rose. He stalked closer to Julia, forcing her to back up against the wall. He crowded her, caging her in with his hands on each side of her head.

“Let me explain what it means, Red,” he said, spitting the words on her face. “It means they’re not coming. They’re not playing my game. It means I won’t get their money. And that also means the next time you play, you take a fall.”

“What?” She furrowed her brow in disbelief. “How does that help any of us?”

“It sends the word to the street that my games are fair. You take a fall. And you are in my debt, Red.”

“I won tonight,” she said, trying to insist. “I won $6,000. I’m close. I’m almost there.”

“You didn’t win $6,000,” he said breathing on her. The scent of fried pork coming from his mouth curled her stomach. “You cost me $6,000.”

She wanted to sink to the ground, to crouch down and hug her knees and curl up in a corner. She felt like she’d been smashed with an anvil. Every time she got closer, he moved the finish line.

“It’s not even my debt,” she said, her voice bordering on begging.

“It is your debt. I have seen your pretty little bar, with your pretty little bartenders, and my pretty little money that you put into it. And let me remind you of what happens if you ever think I will forget that you owe me.”

He grabbed her by the hair and yanked. She stifled a scream, and her mind flashed to how different it felt when Clay pulled her hair or boxed her in against the wall. When he did those things it was fair and it was wanted, and it was part of the way they played with each other. There was no game with Charlie. He played to hurt, and he gripped her hair so tight she believed he had the strength to tug it right off her scalp.

He jerked her through the empty restaurant, out the door and into the foggy night, then down the block, stopping in front of a pub. He let go of her hair, and she wanted to cry with relief. “This bar? See this bar? Picture it as yours. It’s Cubic Z, and if we’re not clear by the end of the next month, it’s mine.”

“No!” she said, trembling from head to toe. She had employees; she had a co-owner. She was responsible for them all, for their livelihood, even for the little baby growing in Kim’s belly.

“Yes,” he said with an evil smile as he nodded vigorously. “Yes, it will be mine, and I have not decided if it will be Charlie Z or if I will simply take great pleasure in running it into the ground and then having my way with you.” He stopped talking to coil a strand of her hair around his index finger. “I might be starting some new businesses with some very pretty women who can make money for me the old-fashioned way. Would you like that, Red? To be on your back?”

Every cell in her body screamed as fear plunged its way through her veins. “No,” she said, her voice shaking.

“I didn’t think so. Now get out of my sight.”

He turned her around and shoved her hard on her spine. In her skyscraper heels, she stumbled and the sidewalk loomed ominously close, but she gripped the doorway of the bar in time, and walked away from him. When she reached her building, she stopped at the mailboxes in the lobby and grabbed bills, flyers and coupons. She quickly sorted the letters, tossing credit-card offers and carpet-cleaning deals in the trash. Then she spotted a letter that would make any citizen groan.

From the IRS.

She slid her finger under the flap as she trudged up the stairs, wondering what the government could want from her. She paid her taxes on time every year. She unfolded the letter and scanned it—a letter of inquiry. The IRS was asking if she knew where Dillon Whittaker was living these days since he hadn’t filed his taxes for the year before.

She scoffed as she unlocked her door. If Charlie didn’t know where Dillon was, the IRS sure as hell wasn’t going to find him.

* * *

Later that night, the hot water from the shower rained down on her head and her mind returned to Dillon. When they’d met he seemed like the easygoing photographer, the funny guy with a quick wit, and a sweet word.

But he was so much more. He was insidious in ways she never imagined he could be, because he’d figured out how to leave town with $100,000 scot-free, and no strings attached. Tra la fucking la. She could still recall the moment when her world came crashing down. She and Dillon had already split, and she wasn’t keeping tabs on him so she didn’t know he’d fled the country. She’d been mixing a pitcher of margaritas for a bachelorette party when Charlie strolled into the bar, parking himself on a sleek, steel stool. He steepled his hands in front of him, and cocked his head to the side. “How is the expansion going?”

“What do you mean?” she asked curiously. She knew Charlie, had met him once before through Dillon, but they’d never broken bread or toasted together.

“I understand you needed some money for your bar. Dillon asked me for a loan on your behalf, and since he’s been good and loyal to me, and was willing to pay 15 percent, I happily said yes. And seeing as Dillon has left the country, it seemed the right time for you and I to get acquainted.”

The saying you could hear a pin drop took on new meaning as the sound in the bar was vacuumed up. She could hear everything, from the chatter of nearby patrons, to the waiters placing drinks on low tables, to the frantic beat of her heart and the blood roaring in her ears.

“What do you mean?” She carefully set down the pitcher she was holding. If she held it a second longer she’d drop it, and it would shatter and break. It would be her tell, and if there’s one thing she knew from the mobster movies she’d seen, you don’t let them smell your fear. When they do, they pounce.

He drummed his fingers against the counter. “What I mean is we need to talk, Red.”

“About what?” she asked, feeling like an animal crouching in a corner.

“About what you can do to repay me.”

Her eyes widened. “But the money wasn’t for me. I didn’t even know he got a loan from you,” Julia had said, her voice rising in fear, her skin turning pale.

Charlie arched an eyebrow. “That’s very funny.”

“But it’s true. This is the first I’ve heard of this, I swear. I never got that money. I never saw a dime. I had no idea,” she said, trying so hard to prove her innocence, as her stomach twisted and her hands turned clammy.

This couldn’t be happening.

Charlie cackled. “That’s what they all say. I had no idea. But now it’s time to have an idea about how you’re going to pay me. I hear you like poker. Make me a gin and tonic and I will tell you how you will be playing for me. Because what this means, Red, is that you are mine.”

She still was his, and she had no idea how much longer she would have to pay for that son-of-a-bitch’s twisted act of deception.

* * *

Julia couldn’t sleep, which bugged the crap out of her. She’d never suffered from insomnia, not even in the darkest days with Dillon. Not even in those early weeks of Charlie’s indentured servitude when she was still dazed and shocked that this had become her life. But now she lay wide awake in her king-size bed, the window open, the late night sounds of San Francisco drifting in: the occasional car horn, the faint hum of the bus that ran on electricity, the crash of a garbage can, likely knocked over by a vagrant.

Clay had seemed a bit wary of her neighborhood, and while her section of The Mission wasn’t bad per se, it hadn’t yet come into its own. She didn’t mind the seedier elements; she knew real danger didn’t lie with the guy panhandling on the street corner. But she liked that Clay had a protective side, and a helpful side, too. He’d tried so hard to get her to open up the other day and tell him all her troubles. She’d been tempted. She could see herself laying them at his feet and serving them up for him to solve.

But then her problems would become his problems, and she couldn’t abide by that. Dillon had sloughed off his garbage onto her, and she wasn’t going to hot potato it on to someone else, especially someone she cared so deeply for. Because she did care for him. So much more than she’d planned to when she said yes to that one weekend in New York. She’d thought she could jet across the country and have a fantastic getaway. Instead, she’d gone all in.

She had nothing to show for it though.

All the anger that fueled her during the game had faded, and she simply felt weary, and lonely, too, as she flashed back to the pained look on his face, to the tortured gaze in his eyes, to the way he’d reacted when she’d pleaded.

Then she cast her mind further back to the night before when he’d tried so hard to find his way into her heart. Her chest tightened at the memory, and she longed so deeply to let him in the way he wanted, and the way she wanted too.

The very least she could do was say she was sorry. She grabbed her phone from her nightstand and began tapping out a message to the man she missed more than she had ever expected.

CHAPTER THREE

As he stepped off the red-eye from Los Angeles to New York the next morning, his email burst with a flurry of messages.

First, a note from Flynn about the Pinkertons, and how the deal was coming together for their next film. Then one from his friend Michele, reminding him that they had tickets to the theater in a week. Damn, he’d nearly forgotten they were going to see an adaptation of The Usual Suspects for the stage. Next, a quick update from an actor client, Liam, who was starring in that play and also opening a hip restaurant in Murray Hill. Clay had been advising him on the deal. Liam was a busy guy and Clay liked it that way. Then a note from Chris McCormick, the TV show host he’d met with in San Francisco after spending one more night with Julia.