Betting on Bailey (Menage MfM Romance Novel) (Playing For Love Book 1) (25 page)

D
uring the regular season
, pool league is a fun, social activity for all except Clark Ellis, who really takes it far too seriously. Team captains match beginner against beginner, and expert against expert. Everyone stays challenged that way, and people can hone their game against equally skilled opponents.

The rules are different when it’s tournament time. Now, the objective is to win at all costs. As a result, when your opponent is a seven, the highest skill rank attainable in the American Poolplayers Association, the strategic response is to counter with a two or a three. Because of the handicapping system, the player who is a seven needs to win six games to win the match, and the lower-ranked player needs to just win two games to prevail.

I’m a three now. Trevor’s still a seven. I just have to win two games.

Juliette had come up to me the Wednesday after the great tabloid debacle, and she’d apologized quietly. After that, she’s stayed away from us, merely showing up, playing without saying a word and leaving. I feel a little sorry for her, to be honest, and I’m tempted to tell Daniel and Sebastian that it’s time we all buried the hatchet.

Trevor’s team walks over. These guys - and they are all men, there’s not a single woman among them - have a definite swagger as they approach. Trevor gives me a snide look. “I’m surprised your team got this far, Bailey,” he calls over, his voice cutting through the noise. “But it ends here.”

His team fist-bumps each other and exchanges high-fives, while I exchange a dry glance with Daniel and Sebastian.
It ends here.
Seriously, who talks like that? Do they think they are in a Quentin Tarantino movie? We are in Yonkers, for crying out aloud, in a sports bar located in a strip mall. Glamorous, this isn’t.

I would normally be a bundle of nerves by this point, but Daniel and Sebastian have taken steps to prevent it. And by steps, I mean a butt plug buried in my ass, and a vibrator nestled against my clitoris. Then there’s the red lace bra and panties they’ve made me wear under my black dress. The sexy lingerie and the toys, not to mention the multiple orgasms I had in the car on my way over here, have all left me too blissed out to be nervous. Tense? Not me. I’m a deep pool of relaxation.

Clark goes up first, and Trevor puts up Peter, the only guy on their team who isn’t a complete jerk. Even though I should be rooting for my own team, I’m secretly not too heartbroken when Peter beats Clark. Clark’s a jerk. I’m never going to want him to win.

Next up is a player from Trevor’s team called Frankie. He’s listed as a five, but that’s a garbage rank. I’ve seen Frankie play, and he’s almost as good as Trevor. I whisper my disbelief to Daniel and Sebastian, and Daniel nods, unsurprised. “I’ve heard Trevor’s team does this,” he says. “They win as many games as it takes to qualify for the tournament, and then they start throwing games to lower their rank.”

“That’s cheating,” I say indignantly.

He doesn’t look concerned. “We can take them, Bailey. I have complete confidence in you.”

Juliette is selected to play against Frankie. She’s a four. Sebastian walks up to her to warn her about Frankie’s true skill level, and I turn to Daniel. “Are they talking again?” I ask him, indicating Sebastian and Juliette.

He shakes his head. “Not really.”

“Well, they should. His cookbook is still a New York Times bestseller. That was all Juliette’s doing.”

“She involved you,” he responds with a half-smile. “Neither Sebastian nor I find forgiveness easy.”

I think both of them are wrong, and it’s time to let this go, but for the moment, I hold my peace and watch Juliette play. She’s on fire today. She’s hitting the ball cleanly, she’s making smart, strategic decisions, and best of all, she’s in Frankie’s head. He thought he was playing against a
girl
, and it would be an easy win. Juliette’s proving him wrong.

I cheer loudly as she wins her first game. “Go Juliette,” I yell, drawing a glare from Trevor. I refrain with difficulty from flipping him off, and instead do a fist-bump of solidarity with Juliette. She looks surprised, but grateful. “Thanks, Bailey,” she says. “One game down, three to go, right?”

“You’ve got this. Frankie’s spooked, and he gets worse when threatened, not better.”

Sure enough, Frankie’s level of play drops off in the second game, much to Trevor’s disgust, and Juliette wins again. Frankie manages to hold on in the third game, but then he drops the next two. Juliette’s won her match.

One-one.

I’m somewhat relieved and somewhat disappointed. Both Daniel and Sebastian rarely lose, and they will win their games. It won’t matter whether I win or lose after that. It’ll matter to Clark, obviously, because of the bet, but it won’t matter in the scheme of the tournament.

Sure enough, Daniel makes quick work of his opponent. And then something unexpected happens.

Sebastian loses his match by a hair.

It’s all up to me now. And the butterflies in my stomach are back in full flutter.

T
he theme song
from ‘
Chariots of Fire
’ plays in my head as I walk to the center of the room, under the spotlight. Trevor walks forward, almost in slow motion. The coin toss to determine who breaks seems to take an eternity, then the quarter lands face up on the felt. Heads. I’m breaking.

“You’ve got this.” Sebastian’s voice is low and certain next to me.

“Did you throw your game?” I demand. “Did you set this up?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he says blandly, watching Daniel rack the balls for me. “Why does Trevor look so pleased about the coin toss?”

“He thinks I can’t break,” I chuckle. “He’s about to find out he’s wrong.”

The vibrator buzzes against my clitoris right then, and I almost drop the chalk I’m holding in my hand. I glare around, trying to decide which one of them is the culprit. One of them has the remote. When I find out which one…

The buzzing stops. “Go on,” Sebastian smiles wickedly. “It’s time to show Trevor what you can do.”

Can a girl who just started playing pool a few months back beat an expert? Not every day. Not even most days. Some days, however, the planets line up just so.

Trevor underestimates me. I can see him laughing with Frankie, rolling his eyes as I bend down to break. At the right angle, you can see my bra. From the way Trevor suddenly swallows, I know he’s caught a glimpse of red lace.

You called my breasts cow-like, asshole,
I think, and the resulting surge of anger powers my break. I hit the cue ball with a resounding thwack, and it speeds toward the rack. Balls scatter everywhere, and two balls roll into two pockets. “I’m playing solid,” I call out calmly as I walk around the table, chalking my cue. Trevor gapes at me, and behind him, his team falls silent. They’ve seen me play before. They thought the tournament was theirs.

Not just yet.
Not if I have anything to do with it.

My best chance is to win quickly. I have to be careful not to give Trevor an open shot, because then he’s capable of running the table. My shot selection needs to be strategic. If I’m not sure I’m going to sink a ball, I need to position the cue ball in such a way that Trevor can’t, either.

I’ve been practicing. Interspersed with hot sex and even hotter spankings, I’ve been working hard on improving my game. I’ve never been as good as I am in this moment. I’ve never felt as confident.

“Go on Bailey,” a familiar voice yells out. “You show them, girl.”

I turn around, and a huge grin covers my face. Not only do I have Daniel and Sebastian rooting for me to succeed, but I also have my own personal cheering squad. The Thursday Night Drinking Pack - or the four of them that live in New York - Katie, Gabby, Piper and Wendy - have all made the trek to Yonkers to watch me play. “Miki sends her apologies,” Wendy tells me. “She was going to try for a flight, but bad weather derailed her plans.”

“She was going to fly out to New York for this?”

“What could be more important than watching you win?” Gabby asks matter-of-factly.

Tears form in my eyes. I’m about to answer and thank them all for their constant, unwavering support, when Trevor interrupts with an impatient look on his face. “If the peanut gallery is done, Bailey, perhaps you can get on with it.”

You want to get on with it, you jackass?
Let’s get on with it.

I’m on fire as I play. My focus is completely on the table. I’m seeing the balls more clearly. It feels like time has slowed down and my awareness has tunneled to this game. Even the feel of the butt plug and the vibrator can’t distract me from my mission.

Today, I’m going to win on the behalf of all long-suffering women who put up with men that don’t treat them right. Today, I’m going to pay Clark back for his disdain by making sure he loses his bet. I’m going to reward Daniel and Sebastian for their steadfast faith in me.

It takes five games. I win the first. Trevor fights back and wins the next three, but by the time the fifth game begins, he’s become cocky and complacent, and he makes a mistake.

And I pounce. I run the table. I win the match.

There’s noise in the background. Wendy, Gabby, Katie and Piper are throwing back shots and cheering loudly in celebration. Clark’s looking ashen at the thought of paying Daniel fifty grand. Trevor is stunned, and his palm, when he shakes my hand, is cold and clammy. Behind him, his team looks disappointed, and Frankie’s just punched his fist into the table. Ouch. That looks painful.

That’s the background. In the foreground, Daniel and Sebastian are beaming, and I can tell how proud they are of me. I walk up to them and draw them in for a hug. “Tell me,” I whisper so that only they can hear me. “What kind of games should we play next?”

Sebastian’s hand runs over my butt in a possessive gesture. Daniel’s eyes twinkle. “I don’t know,” he says. “Let’s go home and find out.”

On April 15, I’m going to be sending out a free short story to my mailing list, featuring Bailey, Sebastian and Daniel. If you want to read this story, which will only be released to my mailing list subscribers,
please do sign up!

New York is filled with glamorous spots, but this bare room somewhere in Chinatown, illuminated by cheap fluorescent lighting and furnished with scratched particleboard tables and metal folding chairs, isn’t one of them.

I’ve just lost almost one hundred thousand dollars in a poker game that I’m convinced was rigged.

Belatedly, my skin is covered with goosebumps, and I can’t seem to stop shivering. The adrenaline has finally caught up with me. Outside, the night is warm and the air thick and humid. A storm is coming. I can sense it in the breeze that blows through the open windows. I can feel it in my bones.

Or maybe it’s just the money I’ve lost that’s making me fanciful.

Ninety eight thousand, five hundred dollars, lost in one night of poker. One bad hand after the other, and a sense of hubris that made me repeatedly ignore my more sensible self. I should have bailed and I didn’t. I wanted to figure out who was cheating and how, and I thought I could take advantage of the situation.

I have no idea what to do.

The guy that runs this underground poker room knows me well. I’ve been playing at his tables for five years now, ever since I moved to New York. His name is Sammy. He’s a big guy. Once upon a time, he would have been considered handsome, but now, all you can see is a guy gone to seed. Muscles have deteriorated to fat, and his shirt buttons strain over the expanse of his belly. His bald head shines with sweat that all the fans in the room haven’t been able to wick away.

“Gabriella,” he wheezes. “Rough night.”

“You said you’d give me credit, Sammy,” I say, a prickle of fear at the back of my neck. My head spins and the room shimmers in and out of focus. My mouth is dry. What have I done this time? I know I can be reckless, but until this moment, I would have argued till I was blue in the face that my risks were calculated.

“Of course, of course,” he agrees with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You are one of my good customers, Gabriella. One of my best customers, in fact. For you, an extension is no problem.”

Sammy has two enforcers. They stand now on either side of him. One of them looks like a low rent version of Elvis, with sideburns and slicked-back black hair. The other is bald, like Sammy. Standing the way he is, with his arms folded in front of his broad chest, he reminds me of Mr. Clean.