Playing for Keeps (A San Francisco

Storm Hockey Novel): Hot on Ice Series,

Book 2 Aurora Paige
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PLAYING FOR KEEPS
HOT ON ICE, BOOK 2
AURORA PAIGE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Aurora Paige

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Published by
Smitten Ink Books, LLC

www.aurorapaige.com

Cover Design: Steamy Designs

Editing: My Brother’s Editor
Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, discussion about suicide and
death.
To all that are struggling with mental health. Remember, you are enough and you’re not alone.
 CONTENTS

Prologue
1. Brandon
2. Katherine
3. Katherine
4. Brandon
5. Katherine
6. Brandon
7. Katherine
8. Brandon
9. Katherine
10. Brandon
11. Katherine
12. Brandon
13. Katherine
14. Brandon
15. Katherine
16. Brandon
17. Katherine
18. Brandon
19. Katherine
20. Brandon
21. Katherine
22. Brandon
23. Katherine
24. Brandon
25. Katherine
26. Brandon
27. Katherine
28. Brandon
29. Katherine
30. Brandon

Also by Aurora Paige

About Aurora Paige
Acknowledgments
A Note from Aurora
 PLAYING FOR KEEPS (HOT ON ICE, BOOK 2)

BLURB

She’s a fierce, award-winning investigative journalist who stops at nothing to uncover the truth.

He’s the alpha and captain of the hottest hockey team in the league who always gets what he wants.

Unfortunately, they’re playing for opposite teams--and only one of them can win.

Katherine Mendoza

I live and breathe investigative journalism and will do whatever it takes to uncover the truth. When I
get a lead to the story about the local casino in the area, I can’t pass it over to someone else. This one
hits home--and it’s personal. I’m not giving up until I get vengeance for my brother’s death, even if I
need to put my desire and feelings aside for one of the casino’s owners, Brandon Owens.

Brandon Owens

When I’m not playing hockey or with women, you can find me at my casino. It’s not all mine yet but
will be soon. I own half, but after a friendly wager with my business partner on a poker tournament,
the rest is as good as mine assuming I win—I don’t plan on losing. I know what I’m doing, and I
always get what I want. Until this pretty young thing comes to the casino. She’s distracting and acts
like she doesn’t want me. But soon enough, she’ll be mine as well.
PROLOGUE
 KATHERINE

Eighteen Years Ago - Eight Years Old

“M ama, where’s Papa? Is he coming home soon?” I asked, watching my mom stir what was
inside the pot on the stove.
“Hindi ko alam, anak. I don’t know… probably at the casino again,” Mama said, an annoyed tone
laced in her voice. “Go wash your hands and tell your Kuya Edgar that it’s time for dinner. Kain na
tayo. We don’t need to wait for your dad. He can eat dinner cold.”
“Okay, Mama.” I scurried to my older brother’s room, where he was playing video games instead
of doing homework. “Kuya, it’s time to eat dinner.” I’ve always called my older brother Kuya, as a
sign of respect. My mom told us that in Filipino culture, we need to respect our older siblings and
cousins with ate for the girls and kuya for the boys.
Kuya Edgar and I sat around the dining table. Mom set down the dinner she just cooked in the
middle of the round table—nilaga and white rice. She ladled the beef and cabbage soup into a bowl
for both my brother and me as we scooped rice onto our plates. Then we sat down quietly, eating our
meal. My mom had a scowl on her face, brows furrowed, lips pursed when she wasn’t chewing.
My dad walked through the front door just as Mama was clearing off the table. Papa kissed me on
the top of my head. “Hi anak.” Then squeezed Kuya Edgar’s shoulder. “Tapos na kayo? You’re all
done?”
“Yes, Dad,” Kuya responded, then Papa headed toward the kitchen.
Crash. A loud sound of metal startled me. It sounded like a pan fell on the floor.
The quietness from dinner turned into a shouting match between my parents.
“Lagi kang nasa casino. You’re always at the casino! Do you even go to work? Hindi mo ba kami
mahal? Don’t you love your family? You’re barely here!” Mama screamed.
“I do care. I’m going to the casino so I can win money to support my family. Don’t tell me na wala
akong pakialam sa pamilya ko. I do care and love this family,” Papa grumbled.
“I can’t do this anymore, Paolo. Our bank account is decreasing. We’re going to be broke and
homeless soon—”
“I won’t let that happen. I’m getting better playing cards—”
“Stop! I’m done!” I saw Mama head to their room, slamming the door.
It was quiet again. I turned to Kuya Edgar; he sighed and left back to his room.
 Papa walked into the dining room, pulled out a chair next to me, and sat down.
“Are you okay, Papa?” I asked, his face upset, frowning. His eyes lost the brilliance that he had
earlier when he came home.
“I’m fine, anak.” His lips curled into a small smile.
“Can you show me what games you play at the casino?” I asked, curious.
“You want to play cards, Katie?”
I nodded my head up and down.
“I’ll show you tomorrow, okay, anak? You should get ready for bed soon.”
“Okay.” I kissed my dad on the cheek. “Good night, Papa.”

THE SUN PEEKED THROUGH THE CURTAINS , WAKING ME UP . I STRETCHED AND GOT OUT OF BED . AFTER
my morning routine, I went to the kitchen to check on what Mama had cooked for breakfast.
The kitchen was empty and there wasn’t any food on the stove, counter, or dining table.
“Mama!” I called out. “Mama!”
The house was quiet.
“Papa?” I wasn’t sure if he was home.
Papa entered the kitchen. His eyes were red and glazed over.
“Anak…” he whispered. When he called me “child” in Tagalog, it was always endearing, but this
time, the way he said “anak” had me scared of what he would say next.
I stared at my dad, eyes wide.
“Mama left us. She is going to the Philippines and not coming back.”
My heart sank. I thought she loved us.
 1

BRANDON

Present Day

S lowly opening my eyes through heavy lids, I lay on my back and twisted my head toward the hot
woman that lay next to me.
“Baby, last night was amazing,” she said softly. “I wanted to snuggle with you.” She
caressed my chest with the tips of her fingers, following the grooves of my abs.
“I’m not the snuggling type of guy.” Grabbing her wrist, I stopped her hand from traveling any
farther south and moved it back toward her. I’m the decision maker around here. My house, my
rules.
I didn’t cuddle with anyone, especially after sex. Cuddling implied that I cared about the women I
slept with. I do care, to a certain extent, but it’s all about getting a hot girl in my bed whenever I
wanted, then moving on. I brought this sexy brunette home last night from the club. She was one of the
promoters of the club. I was there celebrating the engagement of the San Francisco Storm’s owner,
Arianna Santos, and our former goalie turned general manager, Blake Collins. Held at an upscale club
in the China Basin area of San Francisco, this private event was just as exclusive as those held in
Vegas.
“Come on, baby,” she whined, sounding desperate for attention. “How about we go out for
breakfast after we take a shower together?”
I hate women that whine. I moved away from her, back toward the edge of the bed. Then pulled
on gray boxer briefs.
“Didn’t you have a good time last night?” she asked, a sulky tone in her voice.
I turned toward her. Her hazel-green eyes focused on mine. “Yes, but we’re done here. You can
leave.”
Her eyes opened up wide and her cheeks turned a couple shades of pink. She got up and quickly
started to pick up her clothes from the floor and put them on. She was fumbling with her clothing, her
hands trembling nervously.
I wasn’t looking for a relationship and she seemed a bit clingy for my taste. Plus, I don’t
remember her name.
Continuing to walk down the stairs, I finally reached the last step and entered ​the foyer of my
million-dollar home. Click. I turned the silver bolt to lock the door. Walking to the kitchen, I heard a
knock coming from the main entrance. Inhaling a deep breath in, I exhaled the air and sighed. Walking
back to the door, I looked through the peephole and it was the hookup that had just left. Rolling my
eyes, I opened the door slightly.
“Hey, you’re back,” I said sarcastically, then gave a tight-lipped smile.
“Yes, I think I left my phone in your room. Would I be able to go upstairs and get it?” the young
woman said, her brown eyebrows wriggled in concern.
“I’ll check upstairs. Where in the bedroom did you leave it?”
“I’m not sure.” Her eyes are shifty.
“You wait here. I’ll be back.” I closed the door, having her wait outside on the porch.
Running upstairs and back into the guest bedroom, I scanned the room, trying to locate her phone.
Checking under the bed, pulling the covers off the bed, lifting up the pillows, and checking the
nightstands, I couldn’t find a phone anywhere around here. Hmm. I stood by the bed where she slept.
A muffled unfamiliar ringtone alert sound was close by. The phone was behind the nightstand.
I moved the black nightstand and picked up the small smartphone, then it pinged. By habit, I
looked down at the screen as if it was my own phone. There were a couple of text messages that
appeared on the screen from BJ.
BJ: Hello darling. Did you get to check on what I needed? It’s important that your task is
completed. I’ll see you when you get home.
BJ: This is a reminder that if you didn’t get what I needed, you’ll get reprimanded.
I wondered who BJ was. In any case, I used protection and it was her choice to be with me if she
cheated on him. Last night, she told me she was single.
I quickly ran down the stairs, back to the front door and opened it. The olive-skinned woman from
last night was still standing there.
“Did you find my phone?” she asked.
“I did.” I extended my arm, phone in my hand. “Behind the nightstand.”
She smiled and reached out to take it.
I pulled back my arm and gripped her wrist. Her eyes opened wide.
“You have a text message that popped up on the screen when I picked it up off the floor.” I glared
at her. “Was there something of mine you were looking for?”
“I… uh… nothing. I wasn’t looking for anything…” she said, voice shaking.
“I’m going to ask you again. Was there something of mine that you needed to get for BJ?” I
growled.
“Okay… since you’re famous, I wanted to find something that was yours that I could sell on eBay.
I’m sorry.” Her cheeks tinged pink, eyes focused on the ground.
“Did you take anything?” My hand continued to grip around her wrist.
“No, I swear I didn’t,” she pleaded.
“Alright. Here.” I loosened my grip and handed her the phone. “Oh, before you leave, I wanted to
know something.”
“What did you want to know?”
“What’s your name again?” I laughed.
“Seriously? It’s Annmarie.”
“Well, Annmarie, I hope we never meet again. If I find any of my belongings on eBay, I’ll sue you
and whoever you’re working with. Now leave my property.” I slammed the door in her face and
locked it.
Walking to the kitchen, the doorbell rang.
“What the fuck!” I grunted. What did Annmarie forget now?!
Getting back to the front door, I didn’t bother looking through the peephole.
 Opening the door furiously, I yelled out, “What do you want?!” Looking at the women staring at
me, my eyes opened wide as a warmth rushed up to my cheeks.
“Excuse me? That’s no way to talk to us.” A well-dressed woman with a fair complexion and
dark-brown hair stood on the porch holding her brown leather Louis Vuitton bag. Standing by her side
was a medium-complected, fashionably dressed young woman with black hair. Great.
It was my mom and younger half sister.

MOM AND HAILEY WALKED THROUGH THE DOORWAY. I SHUT THE DOOR BEHIND THEM. “I’ M SO SORRY,
Mom. I thought you were—”
“The tanned brunette wearing a skimpy dress and stilettos?” Mom pressed her lips into a thin line.
I greeted both of them with a kiss on the cheek. “So, you saw her?”
“Yes, Kuya Brandon, when we parked the car in front, we saw her getting into hers… plus you’re
just wearing boxers.” Hailey laughed, pointing at my underwear. “Can you please put some more
clothes on?” She rolled her eyes.
“Yes, I’ll be right back. You can make yourself at home.”
I ran upstairs again and hurriedly put some gray joggers and a black T-shirt on, then went back
down to meet my family in the kitchen. The bold aroma of brewed coffee filled the air. Finally! I’d
been trying to make some coffee for the last hour. Happy that Mom was here.
Mom and Hailey were sitting around the kitchen island as I walked into the bright, open space. I
went straight for the coffee maker and poured myself some dark roast in my mug.
“What brings you here on a Saturday morning?” I asked, then took a sip of the dark-brown liquid,
and leaned onto the marble counter where they were sitting at.
“We had plans today to go to Napa. Don’t you remember, anak?” Mom said.
“Oh man, I forgot, Mom. That’s why you both are dressed up and even more beautiful than usual.”
“Stop trying to butter us up, Kuya Brandon. You forgot that we were supposed to hang out as a
family. Instead, you were too busy hooking up with someone last night.” Hailey glared at me. Her
dark-brown eyes and dark hair were just like mine. She had features like our dad, but she looked
more Filipino than I did.
“Brandon, anak, if you’re busy today, that’s fine. We will set up another day to go out. Bahala na.”
Mom is starting to talk in Tagalog. Dammit, she’s upset. Growing up with a half Filipino, half
Spanish mother, who was born and raised in the Philippines, was interesting. My father, who was
Caucasian, was in the military and met Mom when he was stationed there for a couple years. He
learned the Philippine language as well. Mom and Dad primarily spoke to me in English, adding a
few phrases in Tagalog that I had learned growing up; however, when they didn’t want me to
understand what they were talking or arguing about, or in this case, when Mom was upset, they spoke
in Tagalog. Since Dad passed away several years ago, Mom spoke Tagalog with her family since I
barely understood the language, except for a few words.
“Mom, please don’t be upset. I’m so sorry that I forgot about it.” I reached out and held her hand.
“Anak, don’t worry. It’s fine,” Mom said, squeezing my hand. “You’re so busy with hockey,
investing in many businesses, and now Black Stone Casino. Maglaan ng oras para sa atin. Just make
some time for your family. That’s all I ask from you, Brandon.” She gave a reassuring smile.
“Of course, I will, Mom.”
 “Kuya Brandon, hockey season starts next week. When will you be available? We have to work
around your schedule… always,” Hailey said, giving me the side-eye as she sipped her coffee.
“Hailey, it’s okay, anak. We can just go out for brunch somewhere in the city if you want.”
“That sounds great, Ma. I’d love to.” The corner of Hailey’s mouth pulled up into a wide smile.
Although Mom calls Hailey anak, Hailey was not my mom’s biological child. She embraced her
as her own anak after my dad and Hailey’s mom passed away from a car accident. Dad was an
asshole to Mom and me, but now he won’t be able to hurt us any longer as well as Hailey. Hailey was
twenty-one years old, seven years younger than me. Dad had an affair and had a child with his
mistress, but Mom forgave him and wanted to take care of Hailey since she had no other family.
Hailey was given her mom’s surname Ventura instead of our dad’s surname Owens.
“Brandon, where did you pick up that woman you were with last night?” Mom asked. “Is she
someone you’ll introduce us to in the future?” Her brow raised as she stared at me, waiting for me to
answer her questions.
Here she goes again. “Mom, no, she isn’t someone I’ll be introducing to you both. I met her at
Blake and Arianna’s engagement party last night—”
“I’m not getting any younger, anak. I would love to see you get settled down with someone, get
married, and have kids. Do you know that I’m the only one among my friends that doesn’t have
grandchildren?”
“I’m not ready to settle down yet.” Turning my head, I looked away from both of the women and
gazed out the window overlooking the backyard.
“Brandon, anak, it’s been four years since they passed away. They’re not coming back. You need
to understand that and move on… please,” Mom said softly, sadness and pity in her voice.
My heart dropped. Turning around, my back toward my mom and sister, I placed my hands on the
edge of the gray kitchen counter and tilted my head down. “I know. It’s taken me the last couple years
to get stable and be in a good place. I don’t need the reminder,” I said, low and gruff.
Mom knew why I would never commit to another woman. Before I was a famous hockey player, I
was in love. Before anyone knew my name, I had a fiancée and a baby on the way with dreams of the
perfect family. Then those dreams were abruptly shattered. My fiancée, Malea, was involved in a
hit-and-run, and the motherfucker who did it was never caught. My heart and all the dreams we had
died with her and our baby.
“You know that I want what’s best for you, anak. I want you to be happy… truly hap—”
“I just said, I know, Mom! Please stop bringing this up—” My voice got louder, irritability laced
in my tone.
“Kuya Brandon! That’s no way to talk to Ma,” Hailey snapped.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
An awkward silence fell over the room.
I turned back around and looked at them. My eyes welled with tears.
“We’re done talking about this,” I said.

AFTER MOM AND HAILEY LEFT MY HOUSE TO GO SHOPPING , I DECIDED TO JUST STAY HOME FOR THE
rest of the Saturday afternoon. Sitting on my suede couch in my living room, I binge-watched some
Netflix shows and movies for the remainder of my day. I knew Mom was trying to help, but now I was
feeling like shit. Fuck! Why did she have to bring up that I needed to move on? I wasn’t going back
down that road again. I decided to call Dr. Ryder Carmichael, the San Francisco Storm’s sports
psychiatrist.
Picking up my cell phone, I scrolled through my contacts and pressed on the one that said Dr.
Carmichael. After a couple of rings, a gruff voice answered on the other end of the phone.
“This is Dr. Carmichael,” he said calmly.
“Hey, Doc. It’s Brandon Owens. Did I catch you at a bad time? I can call back at your
convenience,” I said low, trying to keep my emotions at bay.
“Mr. Owens. It’s no bother at all. It’s been a while—a little over a year, I believe. How are you?”
“Well, I could be better. My mom and half sister visited today and Mom brought up the fact that I
need to move on, settle down, and start a family.”
“How did it make you feel?” Dr. Carmichael’s voice was subtle.
“I felt like shit and I still do. It’s not like I stopped thinking about Malea and my baby. I still think
about them… I know I need to move on… but shit! I don’t need the reminders.” I closed my eyes
tightly, wanting to shut down and push the memories of my late fiancée and unborn baby out of my
mind. They weren’t coming back.
“So what did you tell your mom when she brought it up?”
“I told her that I didn’t want to talk about it and that we were ending that conversation.”
There was a pause.
“Doc, you still there?”
“Yes, Mr. Owens. I’m here, just jotting down some notes. Since the last time we met in my office,
have you reverted back to your old habits?”
“Nope.”
“So no excessive drinking, gambling, or aggressive behavior leading to physical altercations?”
“No… I recently bought part of a casino and I invest in restaurants, hotels, and other
establishments to keep me busy,” I said.
“I see. Do you go to those places often? It’s quite concerning that you own part of a casino where
only a few years ago, you went down a dark hole, unable to control your gambling addiction and
alcohol abuse. Not to mention your anger management issues.”
“I’m good, Doc. I’m able to control my urges to gamble and drink. I haven’t gotten into any
physical altercations with anyone, if you’re not counting the fighting I get into during some games.
Don’t worry about me,” I said confidently as I pulled my shoulders back and sat up straight on the
couch.
“Since it’s been about four years since you lost Malea and the baby, have you been dating or had
any interest in dating?”
“Dr. Carmichael, you don’t have to worry about my sex life. It’s been great. I’ve been hooking up
with women a few times a week.” I laughed out loud.
“Have you dated for emotional interest and been in a relationship since our last session?”
The laughter and smirk I had on my face were completely gone as soon as I heard the word
relationship.
“Mr. Owens, are you still there?” Dr. Carmichael asked.
My chest rose and lowered as I inhaled and let a heavy breath out. “Yes, Doc. I’m still here. To
answer your question, no, I have not been in a relationship or dated for emotional interest.” I was
exasperated, resentful, and mad at myself for calling the doctor.
“I see. I want to start seeing you again in the office to explore these topics more. Are you
available to meet next week?”
“Doc, I appreciate your offer, but I’m fine. I think I just needed to vent and talk this out with
someone who knew what was going on in my life.”
“Well, I am not going to force you to start sessions again, but I encourage it. If you change your
mind, just make an appointment. My office door is always open for you to return when you’re ready.”
“Thank you, Dr. Carmichael.”
I ended the call. I didn’t need to go back to the therapist. I just need to find a way to shake this
feeling off.
Despite being drafted into the National Hockey League, I was in that dark place for too long.
Gambling and drinking way too much were how I ended up with a significant stake in Ben
Rodriguez’s casino—Black Stone Casino and Resort. When I played against him in Texas Hold’em,
he gambled on a bluff. I didn’t—and then he went double or nothing.
I didn’t care when the team in New York I played for transferred me, or that the press said the
Storm’s head coach, Coach Hall, was insane to want the player who had been given the most
penalties in NHL history. It took me a long time for Dr. Carmichael to get me in a place where Coach
Hall let me play. The coach took a chance on me and it paid off in the long run. And yes, I cared now.
The darkness I experienced made me the man I am. Strong. Single-minded. I did nothing I didn’t
want to. I rule my world.
 2

KATHERINE

P resent Day
I was on to a story! The last time I felt this good about a story was the infamous San
Francisco Storm hockey organization embezzlement that gave me license to investigate whatever
I wanted. The new owner of the Storm, Arianna Santos, had a feeling there was shady business
happening in her newly acquired organization, and I gave her the information to solidify that intuition.
It feels good to take down the bad guys as it always does.
But this story was the reason I was an investigative journalist. It was hard-hitting and about real
people with real lives, manipulation, corruption, and rich men lining their pockets by taking the
money from the needy. Money that was literally the choice between their gambling addiction and their
family starving.
I knew because my inside source, a floorwalker at the Black Stone Casino and Resort, said she’d
seen a team of fake players given chips to play. Some were encouraged to lose deliberately to keep
the real players at the tables living the highs of their wins and then the others joined in and won back
the casino’s money as well as the players.
They were told to prey on the young, inexperienced, and vulnerable players. They were required
to encourage players who’d lost their chips to get more, open credit lines, or set dates for their next
game. In the floorwalker’s opinion, they were essentially con artists stealing from the poor and giving
to the rich. It was definitely not Robin Hood. Working at the casino was apparently the only way
someone could make a decent wage in the San Francisco Bay Area these days. Cost of living was
rising and so were the number of people living on the streets or in their cars.
This story’s personal to me, and I’m going to make sure that I take down whoever is
responsible.

ON THIS S UNDAY MORNING , IT WAS A TYPICAL DAY VISITING THE CEMETERY, TALKING TO LARGE GRAY
stones etched with names of those I once had meals with, fought with, and became a family with. It
was another day where I was hoping to get some type of sign that everything was going to be okay
before I got the call that could change my career forever. Placing a bouquet of assorted yellow, pink,
and purple flowers brightened up the headstones for both my father and my brother.
I arranged the flowers in front of Papa’s grave first, removing the dried, wilted flowers that I had
left last week. I traced the carving of his name, Paolo Edgar Torres, with my fingers. Oh, how I
missed that stubborn old man.
I moved to the headstone next to Papa’s. It was Kuya Edgar’s, my older brother. Although we
were five years apart, we were close. I felt we were more like twins rather than kuya and his baby
sister. Papa reminded me of our Filipino roots, “Laging igalang ang iba. Always respect others.”
Then reiterated to not forget that Edgar was older, so I needed to refer to him as kuya, which I tended
to forget.
The corners of my mouth lifted into a small, closed-lip grin. Taking a deep breath in, I inhaled the
crisp, lightly salted San Francisco air, exhaling a heavy breath. I missed them both.
Tracing the name, Edgar Torres, etched on his tombstone, tears welled up in my eyes, making my
vision blurry. It had been a year since I found him at home, unconscious in bed with a letter on the
nightstand addressed to me, along with an empty bottle of painkillers that he took for chronic pain.
Dear Katherine,
I’m so sorry for any pain that I have put you through over the years, even when we were
growing up. I never wanted to ever put you in a place where you needed to help me overcome my
problems with debt and gambling. So I thought it would be easier for everyone if I was gone and
wasn’t a burden. Anything I own is yours now. Please know that none of this is your fault in any
way.I’m so proud of all that you’ve accomplished so far and I know you will uncover the truth
about all the wrongdoing in the world and take all the bad guys down. I love you, baby sis.
Love,
Kuya Edgar
My bottom lip quivered as tears welled in my eyes. Then a tear escaped, sliding down my cheek,
then another and another until I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I sat on a patch of dewy bright-green
grass between the two headstones, sobbing. Bringing my knees up to my chest, I wrapped my arms
around my legs and hugged my knees tightly. I memorized that letter soon after I found it. I read it over
and over again, word for word. I didn’t believe those words—not wanting to believe that he wanted
to end his life. He wouldn’t be here to give me away on my wedding day, be the best uncle to my
children, or for us to grow old together as he was my one and only sibling. Folded neatly inside my
wallet, I kept that letter with me wherever I went. It was a reminder of why I do what I do, and why I
was so passionate about taking down the bad guys.
Kuya Edgar wrote that his suicide was not any fault of mine. I completely disagreed. I could have
prevented it. Why didn’t I pay attention to the signs that he was in trouble? Why didn’t I try hard
enough to help him if I knew he had a gambling problem? How was he losing so much money so
quickly? Wiping my tears using the sleeve of my dark-gray hoodie, I reflected back on the last couple
years prior to my brother’s death. He was barely at home, lying about where he was, missed days at
work, and always asked for money. Every. Single. Day. He would tell me, “Huwag kang magalala.
Don’t worry. When I win, I’ll pay you back.”
Going through his belongings after he passed away, I found agreements and promissory notes from
my brother opening lines of credit. Of course, he maxed his credit cards and lines of credit, owing
them thousands of dollars and not paying it at all. I also went through his phone and found text
messages from friends and colleagues asking when he would pay them back because they needed the
money for rent, food, family, and to just survive and live.
He responded with the same message to everyone: Soon, I promise. You know what some people
say, promises are meant to be broken.
“Kuya Edgar, I can’t believe it’s been a year. Why did you leave me? You know I could’ve helped
you with your problems. You didn’t need to leave this world. And Papa, I miss you more than you
know,” I said softly to the slabs of stone sitting before me. Scanning the large area filled with grass
and headstones around me, I was alone here. The silence was both calming and eerie at the same
time.
I was startled by the sound of the ringing of my phone. Pulling my phone out of my bag, I glanced
at the screen to see who was calling, it flashed Private. Considering the line of work that I did, most
of my calls were from private numbers.
“Hello, this is Katherine.”
“Hi Katherine, it’s Julia Baker. I have some information that I think you’ll want to know. Can we
meet somewhere private at the end of this week?” the woman on the phone said, almost in a whisper.
“Sure, how about if we meet at Golden Gate Park at the Dutch Windmill on Friday around one
p.m.?”
“Alright. I’ll see you then.”
I slipped my phone back into my bag. Taking a deep breath in, I let the air out with a huge sigh.
“Papa, I think I have a lead to a new story. When you told me that you had a feeling the casino was
corrupt, I started looking into it, especially when Kuya Edgar passed away.” I sniffled. “Kuya,
whatever I find out, I hope it will help those that are struggling with gambling addiction and those that
may be taken advantage of. Please watch over me and help guide me.”
Making the sign of the cross with my hand, I whispered a little prayer to myself. “Amen.” Then I
stood up, wiped off any debris stuck on my pants, grabbed my bag, and headed home.

ON MY WAY TO GOLDEN GATE P ARK ON F RIDAY AFTERNOON , I MADE A QUICK CALL TO MY EDITOR AT
the office.
“This is Frank.” His voice was gruff.
“Hey Frank, it’s Katherine. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, I’m good. What’s going on?”
“Okay, so I’m on my way to meet my inside source at Golden Gate Park. She may have some info
about the wrongdoings happening at Black Stone Casino. I don’t have any details yet but wanted to
give you a heads-up.”
“Oh, that may be a good story. You know, the San Francisco Storm’s team captain, Brandon
Owens, is now a significant share owner for the casino. It’d be good to see if he may be behind it
too.” Frank’s voice perked up with excitement. “Let me know what you hear.”
“I will, Frank. Talk again soon.” Then I hung up the phone.
The clouds burned off from this morning’s gloomy weather. It was blue skies with a mild
temperature and a nice ocean breeze in the City by the Bay. Parking at the west end of Golden Gate
Park, I headed toward the historic Dutch Windmill to meet Julia. Golden Gate Park was breathtaking
with the vibrant colors of the grass and the assorted flowers surrounding the windmill.
Julia and I had first met through a mutual friend, Camila Reyes. Camila has been my best friend
since college. We were both journalism majors and had a lot in common. I veered toward
investigative journalism and she preferred to go toward the communication route and be a news
anchor. When I found out that Julia worked at Black Stone Casino, I knew that she could be someone I
could trust since Camila vouches for Julia’s credibility.
Standing in front of the large wooden windmill, I spotted a tall, fair-skinned blonde walking
toward me. She was wearing a black baseball cap, denim jeans, and a dark-blue sweater. Getting
closer, I was certain that it was Julia.
“Hi, Julia. How are you?” I smiled and shook her hand when the blue-eyed woman stood in front
of me.
“Hi, Katherine. Good. It’s nice to see you again.” Julia flashed a smile. “Thanks for meeting me
today.”
“I should be thanking you for reaching out. What’s going on?”
“Well, when you asked me to monitor any unusual activity in the casino, I noticed a couple of
things. At first, I thought that maybe I misunderstood something I overheard in the employee break
room, but I was able to see it with my own eyes when I was walking the casino floor,” Julia said, then
lowered her voice. “Black Stone Casino is cheating its players and apparently has been doing so ever
since Ben Rodriguez became the owner.”
My brow rose up high and my lips pursed into a thin line. Then I said softly, “It’s been happening
for a couple decades then? That’s when the casino first opened.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Wait, Rodriguez is not the full owner of the casino, right? Doesn’t the San Francisco Storm’
captain own part of it too? That’s what I heard.”
“That’s right. Brandon Owens recently became a co-owner and owns half of the casino. Since
he’s only been involved for less than a month, I’m not sure if he knows what’s really going on. He
hasn’t been around too much either to know the business. He tends to just play at one of the table card
games.”
Hmm. “So, how’s the casino cheating its players?”
“There are loaded dice at the craps table, a rigged roulette wheel, marked cards—”
“Seems like every game in there is rigged?”
“Yes, but get this. There’s also a team of five fake players given chips to play. Some of those
players were encouraged to lose deliberately to keep the real players at the tables, living the highs of
their wins, and then the other fake players will join in and win back the club’s money along with
winning the real players’ money. Because it’s rigged, the dealers are in on this scheme, and will know
when to change their style of dealing or change to a marked deck.”
“That’s insane. Is there a particular table game where they gang up on the real players?” My
blood was boiling under my skin, spreading up to my face. I clenched my jaw. This is how my brother
was conned out of all his money. I’m damn sure of it.
“It’s primarily blackjack, Omaha poker, Texas Hold’em, and Caribbean Stud Poker.”
“Is there anything else that you noticed?”
“Oh yeah. Rodriguez told me and the other floor walkers to prey on the young, inexperienced, and
vulnerable players. We were told to encourage players who’d lost their chips to get more, open credit
lines, or set dates for their next poker game.” Julia kept her voice low, eyes shifted, looking at her
surroundings.
“So, Rodriguez is stealing from the poor and giving it to the rich?”
“Pretty much—like con artists. Before you ask why I help with encouraging players to get more
chips or find ways to help them get more money to play, it’s because Rodriguez is ruthless. He may
hurt my family and me if he found out that I told someone.” Julia twisted her head from side to side,
eyebrows wriggling, and concern showed on her face.
“You don’t need to worry about that. I’ll make sure that he doesn’t find out.” Giving Julia a
reassuring smile, her face relaxed a bit.
 “Thank you. That’s all I have. If I hear anything else, I’ll let you know. ”
“I should thank you. That’s plenty of information for me to start digging into this corruption,” I
told her.
Julia nodded in acknowledgment.
I gave a tight-lipped smile; then we both walked in opposite directions.
I was trying to absorb all the information Julia provided me before I forgot. I pulled out my phone
and typed out the information in my electronic notepad. Hearing that all of this was happening in the
Bay Area was completely crazy.
I’m going to find a way to take Rodriguez down… I just need to figure out a way to do it.
 3

KATHERINE

A week later, I made my decision and will go undercover for the sake of my family. Arriving at
the Bay Area Times office in the Financial District, I headed directly to Frank’s office and
knocked on the glass door.
Frank looked up from what he was doing. “Come in,” he barked, gesturing with his hand his
approval to enter.
Opening the door, I strolled in and approached his desk.
“Katherine, have a seat. What’s going on? You have something for me?”
I sat down and looked him directly in the eye.
“Do I have a story for you, Frank,” I said with excitement, a wide grin on my face.
“Alright, what do you have?”
“I got more info on the Black Stone Casino and how they may be cheating their guests,” I started.
“I met with my source, who’s a floorwalker at the casino, and she told me that all the games are
rigged; roulette, craps, poker, blackjack, everything… and I want to be the one who’s going to
uncover it.”
“And how are you going to do that? What’s your plan?” Frank leaned forward, placing his elbows
on his desk, clasping his hands.
“I’m going to go undercover and find a way to work there… maybe a waitress or dealer—”
“No, I won’t let you go undercover. It’s dangerous, Katherine. You don’t know what Ben
Rodriguez is capable of. What if he recognizes you or someone else?”
“No one knows what I look like—”
“Your name. People will recognize your name from the newspaper and news.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I’m changing my name,” I said, trying to reassure him.
“I don’t like this.” Frank shook his head from side to side. “I’m not approving this. That casino
has ties to the newspaper. We’ve sponsored them and did a story when Rodriguez took over the
casino.”
“Fine, Frank. Have it your way.” I pressed my lips into a thin line, brows furrowed. I got up from
the chair and walked out of his office and left the building.
I wasn’t one to take orders from anyone. I did what I wanted to get shit done, and it was going to
be done my way. If this meant going rogue and doing this on my own, then so be it. If I got fired, then
I’d find a way to get this story out to the people.
THE ENTIRE DRIVE HOME, I WAS BRAINSTORMING THE POSSIBLE WAYS I COULD INFILTRATE BLACK
Stone Casino and Resort. How can I get in the door without looking suspicious? I could always be a
guest, but I don’t think gambling my money would get me the answers I needed to take down
Rodriguez—plus I was a little nervous to start gambling. I had never been really into it. I saw what it
did to my brother and the relationship between my mom and Papa. I needed to check out the current
job listings they had at the casino and resort. Maybe I could be a waitress, a cashier, or a floorwalker,
but I needed to find a way to get near the card tables to see all the action that was supposedly going
on.
Arriving at my Victorian-style family home in the Glen Park neighborhood of San Francisco, I
walked down the hall to my home office and turned on my laptop. What I needed for this exposé was
to experience it firsthand as a casino employee and find proof that Rodriguez was conning his guests
and Brandon Owens was in on the deception as well. I pulled up the casino’s website on the internet.
Wow! I scanned through the pictures of the casino and hotel and it looked amazing and definitely
impressive. I had never been to that resort before, but I was looking forward to seeing it in person. As
I scrolled through their website, I came across the picture of an older man with light-brown skin,
inky-black hair, and a receding hairline. He was dressed professionally, wearing a dark-gray suit and
black tie. Underneath the picture was his name, Ben Rodriguez Jr. CEO/Owner of Black Stone
Casino & Resort. I studied his facial features and the details of his sleazy face. I needed to remember
what he looked like when I went to the casino.
“You’re going to be sorry you messed with me, Rodriguez,” I said to the computer screen.
Navigating through the website, I found the Job Employment link and eagerly clicked on it. As I
suspected, there were openings for bartenders, slot machine technicians, cage cashiers. Ugh. I’m not
qualified to be a bartender or a technician. I can apply to be a cage cashier, but it wouldn’t allow me
to be close enough to see the action going on at the tables. I continued to scroll down the job listings,
then stopped at the croupier opening. Perfect. I know that my gaming work permit should be up to
date. Since Papa was one of the best poker players of his time, and being a daddy’s girl, I was
influenced by his card skills growing up. When I turned eighteen, I went to Casino Dealer School and
got certified to be a table game dealer as well as a poker dealer. I worked part-time in local card
clubs to help me pay my way through college. It wasn’t too bad. There were those occasional drunk
players that livened up the table, as well as those that were obnoxious and killed the vibe of the game.
Even after I graduated college and started working in journalism, I renewed my gaming work permit
every two years—just in case investigative journalism didn’t work out for me.
I read the job requirements for the croupier position: must be twenty-one or older. Check. Pass
the Livescan fingerprint background check with the state of California and Department of Justice.
Check. No felony charges. Check. And dealer experience. Check. Since my parents divorced, I had
used my mom’s surname, Mendoza, for journalism; however, it was now recognizable after the San
Francisco Storm embezzlement story broke. I helped the Storm owner, Arianna Santos, uncover the
truth of the organization’s finances and what the now ex-general manager, Elliott Reynolds, and his
executive staff were doing with the money. I needed an alias that wouldn’t make me recognizable—
lucky for me, my face was never on television or exposed in the media, so my name in the article
was only what people got to see. Filling out the job application online, I decided to go by the
nickname Papa used to call me as well as the use of his surname—everyone, please welcome Katie
Torres.
I completed the rest of the information required as well as submitted the most up-to-date work
permit, then clicked on the submit button, and prayed for the best. I hope putting myself in this
situation will get me all the answers I need.

NOW IT WAS JUST A WAITING GAME. THE ANXIETY OF WAITING FOR YOUR JOB APPLICATION TO BE
reviewed and for it to be decided if you would be given a chance to explain and prove why you
deserved to work for that company was going to drive me crazy. I needed a distraction.
Picking up my cell phone, I dialed the number of my best friend, Camila Reyes.
“Hey Kat,” Camila said, her voice sweet and soft.
“Hey Mila. You busy?”
“No, I’m good. What’s up? Everything okay?” she asked.
“Why do you always assume that when I call you, there’s something wrong?” I laughed.
“How long have we known each other? If you’re calling instead of texting me, something’s wrong.
What’s going on?”
“Everything’s alright.” I paused. “So, I got a lead to a story. I think it’ll help me get some closure
for Kuya Edgar’s death. I’ve been waiting for this moment—” I stopped, unsure if I should tell her all
the details. She’s like a sister to me, and I trust her with my life, but I don’t want her in any danger
if things go sideways.
“That’s great, but you still sound like something’s bothering you?” Camila knows me so well,
even when she’s not here in person to see the emotion in my eyes and face.
“I’m going to go undercover to see firsthand what’s going on at that casino.”
“Seriously? That’s dangerous depending on who you’re dealing with,” Camila said, being
overprotective.
“Like you, I know the concerns and dangers I may run into, and I hope no one recognizes me if I
get the job.” My voice trembled as I thought of what could happen if Rodriguez found out who I was.
“Maybe I should find you some bodyguards?” Camila laughed.
“Who do you have in mind? Some of the San Francisco Storm players?” I laughed.
“That’s not funny.” Camila’s voice changed from lively to serious in a split second.
“I’m teasing. How are you holding up since you moved to Chicago?”
“It’s been an adjustment. I miss everything about San Francisco—you, my family—”
“Cole?” I interrupted.
“Of course, but he probably hates me,” Camila said softly, a crack in her voice.
“Just focus on yourself and your career—Oh shit! I just realized that Cole is still on the Storm and
Brandon Owens owns half the casino. If Cole and Zach visit the casino and they see me, they’ll for
sure know who I am.”
Dammit! Cole and Zach Richardson are the famous identical twins of the Storm hockey team.
Cole and Mila were together for six months before she left him at the altar for the job opportunity of a
lifetime—a chance to be the main sportscaster of Chicago’s major sports news station. Just like
Arianna and Blake, Camila and Cole were a good-looking couple. Camila was Filipina—black hair,
tanned skin, and curves. Although, I think my body was thicker and curvier than hers. Cole was tall,
muscular, and worshipped Camila. I felt so sorry for him when she left.
“You don’t have to worry about Cole or Zach going to the casino. That’s not their scene,” Camila
said reassuringly. “One thing I ask is that you check in with me daily to make sure you’re safe.”
“Sure. How about I text you every day while I’m there?”
 “Sounds good. If you don’t check in, I’ll assume something’s happened to you. So, I’ll call your
cell and at the casino. If I can’t get a hold of you, then I’m going to reach out for help. Deal?”
“It’s not going to come to that—”
“Deal, Kat?” Irritation in her voice.
“Yes… deal.” I sighed. “By the way, I’m going by Katie Torres if I get the job. I’ll let you know
once this undercover thing is confirmed.”
“Alright.”
“I miss you. Maybe after I throw this casino scumbag in jail, I’ll take a vacation and visit you,” I
said gleefully to change the subject.
“That sounds fabulous, Kat. Stay safe and keep me posted. Try to relax and take a bath or
something or listen to your K-pop music or read those smutty books you love.” She giggled.
“You know you love K-pop and smut too.” I bellowed out a laugh. “But I will. Love you, girl,” I
said.
“Love you too,” Camila said. Then we ended our call. I think I’ll take her suggestion and calm
my nerves with a bath.

I TURNED THE FAUCET ON , A MIXTURE OF HOT AND COLD WATER RAN INTO THE LARGE WHITE CLAW-
foot tub. I poured some bubble bath and lavender bath salts into the water. I brought a glass of wine, a
Cabernet Sauvignon from Russo Family Vineyards in Napa Valley, lit some candles, and turned on
some relaxing jazz music.
I undressed out of my tunic sweater and jeans, then stared at myself in the mirror, just wearing my
navy satin bra and matching panties. My dark hair up in a messy bun, I stared at my body. I’m not as
toned and fit as I was in my early twenties. I’ve definitely gained weight throughout the years,
developing curves I never knew I had as well as cellulite. With being only five foot five, my body
wasn’t as proportioned as I hoped it would be. I was only twenty-six and needed to take better care
of myself. My mouth curved down and formed a frown. “No wonder no one wants to date me,” I said
to my reflection in the mirror. I took a deep breath in and then let it out in a loud exhale.
Unhooking my bra, it slid down my arms to the cold tiled floor. Then I pushed my navy panties
down and the silky material slid down my legs, pooling at my ankles. I stepped out of them and shut
the faucet off. Testing the water with my foot, it was the perfect temperature and I climbed into the tub
carefully. The aroma of lavender, along with the relaxing ambience was what I needed. I grasped the
glass of red wine from the ledge and lifted it up to my nose. I swirled the wine and inhaled the
delicious aroma in. Mmm. Hints of black cherries, licorice, and vanilla filled my senses. I brought the
delicate, curved glass to my lips and sipped the burgundy-colored liquid. The wine went down
smoothly, coating my throat.
I set the glass down on the ledge and laid my head back on the bath pillow positioned on the edge
of the tub. Closing my eyes, my body fell limp as I relaxed in the warm, scented water. I thought about
the last time I had a bath. It was when I broke up with my ex-boyfriend three years ago. I found out
that he was cheating on me, so I left him. I guess investigative journalism has its pros and cons. It
was definitely a curse with my relationship—my last boyfriend said that I was never home, hence, the
cheating, and that I didn’t care about the relationship. He said that I was so consumed with my career
and getting exclusive stories, that nothing else mattered to me. And I believe it.
 This relaxation turned into a pity party for myself. Ugh. Lifting my head up from the bath pillow,
my eyes opened, and I sat up in the tub. Tears welled up in my eyes until my vision became blurry. I
blinked a couple times, then the tears slid down my cheeks. The last few weeks had been days filled
with crying. What’s wrong with me? Papa always told me that I was so strong, but right now, I felt
weak and helpless.
The water was getting cold. Pulling the plug, water slowly emptied into the drain. I stood up, still
a bit soapy from the bath. I grabbed the showerhead, turned the faucet on, and rinsed the suds off my
body. Hanging from a hook, I grasped my fluffy white bathrobe as I climbed out from the tub and
enveloped my body with the warmth of the material. Wrapping my teal towel around my head, I
twisted my hair in it and piled the terry material on my head. Then left for my bedroom. Hopefully the
rest of this day won’t bring me to tears.
 4

BRANDON

I t’d been several weeks since I spoke with Dr. Carmichael. All these pent-up feelings needed to be
released, so I went out. Holding her hand, I led her upstairs to my guest bedroom. This cute,
blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman was a hockey groupie that approached me at Rogue Bar and
Lounge this evening. We hung out at the bar, threw back a few drinks, and it didn’t take much for her
to want to come home with me. She told me that she would love to “fuck a famous person.” I didn’t
care to remember her name—all I wanted was a hookup, and I didn’t give a fuck about who she was.
We went to my guest room where I fucked my flavors of the week. I had never taken any woman—
those I’ve brought home to have sex with—in my bedroom. No one was going into my bedroom
except for me. That was my sanctuary. The only time I would bring someone into my bedroom would
be someone very special to me.
I pressed my lips firmly on hers, kissing fervently. She opened her mouth, deepening the kiss; then
my tongue entered, thrashing against hers. My hands roamed down her back to her ass. She was a
skinny woman and didn’t really have an ass, but let me tell you, her breasts were nice and big.
Probably fake, but I didn’t care. Placing my hands on her tits, I squeezed them. Yeah, they’re fake.
She wore a tight dress with skinny, narrow straps. I released our lip lock, moving to the crook of her
neck and placed a trail of kisses down to the top of her chest, where her tits were pushed up.
“Get on the bed… on your knees.”
Pulling her legs closer to the edge of the bed, I closed the space between us. I pushed her panties
aside. Then I took a condom from the box in my nightstand and tore the foil packet open. Taking the
condom out, I rolled it down my length. Positioning the tip of my cock to her entrance, my hand on her
lower back, pushing her down at an angle. Her ass up in the air, I plunged in deep. She gasped,
breathless, then moaned as I thrust into her hard, bottoming out.
I grunted, then grabbed her ass, spreading her out. She moaned louder.
“I’m coming!” she screamed out, body stiffening. Her pussy clenched around my cock.
“Fuck!” I growled. “I’m going to come.”
I bucked faster, sweat beading on my skin. She was panting. I reached my peak, plunging in one
last time, emptying my cum into the condom. Pulling out, I removed the condom and tied it off,
throwing it in the garbage. I slowed my breathing down, staring at the sexy woman on the bed. She
smiled.
AFTER I GOT MY FIX , MY BODY SPENT ; I LAY IN BED TO RELAX .
“Do you want to cuddle?” Her blue eyes were brilliant, smiling wide.
“I don’t cuddle, and it’s time for you to go.”
The blue in her eyes dulled and widened; jaw dropped. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Does it look like I’m kidding?” I sneered, brows furrowed. “We’re done. Leave.”
She quickly picked up her clothes and dressed. I followed her to make sure she left my property,
then locked the door. Going back upstairs, I headed to my bedroom and took a long, hot shower to get
relaxed before going to bed.
Why do these damn women want to cuddle? I don’t do intimacy. I have needs to be met, women
to fuck… I’m not here to fall in love. I had fallen in love before, and look what happened to my life
—alcohol, gambling, anger—I wasn’t going to make that mistake and love again. Maybe I’d be a
bachelor for the rest of my life like Leonardo DiCaprio.

TOSSING AND TURNING IN BED LAST NIGHT , IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE TO FALL ASLEEP , AND WHEN I FINALLY
dozed off, it wasn’t long until I woke up again—restless and frustrated. What the fuck is wrong with
me? I was wide awake at six o’clock in the morning, where it was still pretty dark in the city. Getting
up from bed, I headed straight for the bathroom and got myself ready to go to the only place I knew
that would help ease the stress and weight I was carrying on my shoulders—the ice rink.
I parked in the lot of the Bay View Ice Center early this Sunday for morning skate. My duffel bag
filled with my practice gear was in the trunk of my red sports car. I yanked it out from the small space
in the trunk, walked into the large building, and directly to the locker room to gear up.
There wasn’t anything more calming to my soul than being alone in an empty rink. I ran some
drills on my own. Skating around, slapping pucks, and taking in the sights and sounds of the sport that
I was passionate about playing—and dominated in. Standing in the middle of the rink, I inhaled a
deep breath and soaked in this moment of quiet. It was just me, the ice, and the puck.
Memories of my dad taking me to my first hockey game, learning how to ice skate and play
hockey, getting on the college hockey team, and getting drafted into the NHL flooded my head. Then
flashes of meeting Malea in college, proposing to her, and finding out I was going to be a dad filled
my thoughts before it came crashing down with finding out that my love and unborn child would never
be part of my life ever again.
“Argh!” I screamed. The echo of my cry for help vibrated against the walls of the rink. Pucks
started to fly all over the map as I slapped them as hard as I could. The area where the painful
thoughts and memories that kept me from sleeping and doing absolutely anything were pushed down
so deep in my head. I wanted to forget about it. I needed to forget about it. But now, that area was cut
open and the wound was bleeding profusely.
I need to find someone to help me stitch up this wound and help me heal.

“I’ M GLAD I’ M NOT ONE OF THOSE PUCKS YOU’ RE HITTING AROUND .” BLAKE LAUGHED AS HE WALKED
over to the bench. The sound of his laugh echoed in the arena.
I remained focused on the pucks that lay on the ice, scattered and waiting for my stick to slap them
into the net. Ignoring the newest general manager for the Storm, the laughter subsided quickly. The
steel blades of my skates cut the ice as I moved swiftly toward the net. The puck sailed on the cold
floor, the blade of my wooden stick hovering close behind it. Then I slapped the hell out of the rubber
puck and it flew into the net.
A loud crack echoed in the rink. My eyes opened wide as a piece of wood flew next to the puck. I
looked down and the blade of my stick had snapped off.
“Damn, Brandon. How many sticks have you gone through the last couple practices?” Blake
yelled out.
I exhaled a breath, sighing as I glided to where he was standing.
“Brandon, you good man?” Blake’s brows wriggled in concern.
“Hey Blake. Yeah, everything is all good.”
“Alright, well if you need to talk about whatever’s bothering you, my door’s always open.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m good.”
“If you prefer, you can talk to Arianna—”
“Nope, that won’t be necessary. I’d rather not talk to the owner.” I chuckled.
“You know that she will do whatever it takes to put you in your place.” Blake bellowed out a
laugh.
“Oh I know. Look what happened to you.” I raised my arm and flicked my wrist. “Whipped.” The
corners of my mouth lifted to my ears, a wide smile.
“Ha. Ha,” Blake said, sarcastically. “That’s why I’m here so early.” He grinned.
“I’m only joking, bro. You two are quite the power couple in the NHL and the Storm will be a
force to be reckoned with this upcoming season. I wouldn’t want to mess with either of you.” I
grinned. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but I’m good. Just got a lot going on and I just needed to
de-stress.”
“I understand. How about we get drinks later with the guys? I could use a break from wedding
planning.” Blake rolled his eyes, then let out a hearty laugh that resonated against the walls of the
arena.
“Sounds good. I’ll hit up you and the guys later.” I gave him a fist bump and then coasted back to
center ice to continue my drills.
A night with my boys should help clear my head… at least for now.
 5

KATHERINE

O ne month. That’s how long I had to wait for someone to email me back from Black Stone
Casino and Resort in regard to the employment application I completed weeks ago. I received
an email from an A. Carson:
Dear Miss Katie Torres,
Thank you for your interest in working at Black Stone Casino and Resort. We received your
application for the croupier position, and after careful review, we would like to extend an
invitation to interview you and take a look at your card skills. Are you available to meet
sometime this week? I look forward to hearing from you.
Regards,
A. Carson
After a couple emails back and forth with this individual, I was able to confirm an interview in a
few days on Thursday at ten o’clock in the morning. Now that was set, I needed to start practicing my
card skills. It’s been a while since I dealt any hands. I’d be surprised if I still remembered how to
shuffle cards. An exaggeration… but I knew that I needed to practice and prepare so I could get that
job.
I needed to brush up on the card dealers’ skills—the way they deal the cards, lingo, body
language. Leaving my house this morning, I drove to one of the local card rooms in San Jose. It was a
small place with about twenty tables, most seats filled but it wasn’t too busy. As I walked in, the
heavy aroma of cigarette smoke lingered in the air, making the room hazy and my eyes watery. Slowly
going around the room, I observed each table carefully before I chose which table to sit at. I watched
each dealer and how they interacted with the players. Each dealer embodied a different presence;
some were stoic and others were much livelier. Some dealers dealt cards robotic-like, almost
mechanical, the way cards were placed on the green felt table aligning perfectly with each player.
Responses to player hands were quick and almost automatic, as if the dealer knew what the player
was going to do.
I strolled around the room one more time, choosing a five-card draw poker table with an empty
seat, surrounded by men and a female croupier. She was one of the few female dealers that were
working today, the majority were male, but I preferred to watch and get some insight into how she
worked. She wore a white collared button-down shirt and burgundy vest, and her salt-and-pepper-
colored hair was pulled back into a sleek bun. It had been a while since I’ve been a croupier—I
would assume that rules may have changed through the years.
Nodding to the older-woman croupier, I reached into my purse, pulled out some cash, and
extended my hand out to give it to her. She examined each one-hundred-dollar bill, making sure they
were legit, then slid four hundred dollars’ worth of chips. Let’s see how much my money will last.
Cards were distributed to each player and to the dealer. Waiting for everyone to get their five
cards, the dealer gestured with her hand that it was okay to pick up the blue signature Bicycle-
branded cards. Slowly picking up my cards, I fanned them open one by one, carefully checking my
hand and deciding which ones were worth holding on to. Nine of clubs, king of clubs, six of hearts,
nine of diamonds, seven of spades. I placed my bet in front of me, a stack of green chips as the small
blind. The dealer moved the chips to the middle of the table with the rest of the pot. These cards were
not anything to brag about. I discarded the six of hearts, seven of spades, and king of clubs, and the
dealer threw three cards my way. Picking them up, I examined the cards against the previous ones I
had. Ten of diamonds and ten of hearts. I had two pairs… not bad at all.
Scanning around the table, the other players were expressionless as they each discarded their
cards for new ones. Then we each took turns placing bets to continue playing or folding. Grabbing a
stack of chips, I tossed them onto the green felt tabletop in front of me. Out of the eight players, two
had folded their hands. We flipped our cards over—one player had a pair of twos and the other had a
flush with spades. I lost this hand.
I stuck around and continued to play a few more rounds until we each had a turn as the “dealer,”
in which we were dealt cards and placed bets first. My last hand before I got up to go to another table
and try a different poker game, I won my first hand—a high straight with ace of hearts, king of clubs,
queen of spades, jack of spades, and ten of diamonds. Glancing at the chips pushed in my direction,
it looked like about a thousand dollars. Not too bad for a rookie card player.
I smiled at the dealer, throwing a black chip to her as a tip.
“Thank you,” the dealer said with a warm grin on her face.
Collecting my winnings, I grasped my chips with both hands, stood up, then roamed around the
small card room again until I found another game to try. I think this research is what I needed to
prepare for my interview with Rodriguez.

I SPENT MOST OF THE DAY IN THE CARD ROOM BEFORE HEADING BACK HOME. I WAS ABLE TO FIND A SEAT
playing Omaha poker, Texas Hold’em, Let it Ride, blackjack, and Pai Gow. I played a few hands of
each game and felt confident to show Black Stone Casino my dealing skills.
Rummaging through my closet, I retrieved the box of Papa’s belongings that I couldn’t bear to
donate or throw away when he had passed. Opening up the box, I shuffled through old pictures,
knickknacks, and his card-playing paraphernalia.
There you are! Exactly what I was looking for.
I pulled out a stainless steel briefcase that held Papa’s poker chips and playing cards. Besides
spending most of his days and nights at the casino, he played poker once a month with his friends at
our house.
I strolled to the dining room directly to the round table sitting in the middle of the room. Pulling
out one of the wooden chairs with padded seats, I laid the silver-colored case on it. Then I lifted up
the dark wooden tabletop, exposing green felt, cup holders, and chip holders for eight players
underneath. The stench of tobacco and alcohol wafted into my nostrils, making me cough. I hadn’t
opened this for at least a few years. I definitely needed to air out the card table. After setting down
the tabletop on the floor, I went back to the large table and brushed my hand on the green fabric. So
many memories of Papa playing here.
Sitting down, I lifted the silver briefcase, rested it on the green felt, and opened it up. The smooth
weighted chips were unorganized and scattered in the case. I organized them by color, stacking reds,
blues, greens, and blacks next to one another. I retrieved a white button labeled “DEALER” and a
deck of cards from the case. Moving the case aside, I shuffled the red Bicycle card deck. Splitting the
deck into two equal halves, I brought the packets of cards together by slowly riffling the half decks
with my thumbs, causing a light breeze toward me. After riffle shuffling a couple times, I did an
overhand shuffle.
To ensure the deck was thoroughly jumbled, I spread all the cards on the table, making sure all the
cards were face down, then mixed them around before bringing all fifty-two cards together. Things I
needed to remember when doing a standard “blackjack shuffle” was to make sure to square the deck
evenly, lay the cards horizontally, pull up on the two inside, bottom corners, then let the cards fall into
the shuffle. That wasn’t too bad as long as I didn’t compromise or bend the cards.
Starting with blackjack, I dealt starting from left to right, keeping cards faced up for each player,
and went back around until each player had two cards. My first card was face up. ace of hearts. The
last card dealt was mine, where I kept it faced down. I peeked at the other card to check if the two
cards would total twenty-one. That was a negative—two of spades. Ugh! Looking at the cards that
were in front of me, I anticipated what the player’s next move would be.
Player one: five of spades and queen of diamonds. Hit. I flipped the next card over from the
deck. King of spades. I took the stack of chips then the cards. Player two: ace of clubs and ten of
diamonds. Stay. Player three: three of hearts and three of spades. Hit. Taking the next card from the
deck, I brought it next to the two card and turned it over. Nine of clubs. Stay. Player four: ace of
spades and six of spades. Hit. Six of diamonds. Hit. Eight of clubs. I took the stack of chips then the
cards. Player five: four of hearts and ten of hearts. Hit. Five of clubs. Stay. Player six: queen of
hearts and jack of spades. Stay.
Now it was my turn as the dealer. I quickly flipped my card to show the two of spades. I took a
card from the deck and flipped it over. Jack of clubs. Took another card from the deck and slowly
turned it to face it up. Jack of hearts. That was a bust. I paid out the winners of this hand. I cleared
out the table and did a few more practice rounds of blackjack.
After the last blackjack hand, I cleaned up and set up to practice Omaha Stud poker. A few rounds
of practice with that game, I did the same with Let it Ride, Pai Gow poker, and Texas Hold’em poker.
It wasn’t easy practicing without players, but I was doing my best and I was starting to get the hang of
dealing each game.
Finishing my last practice deal of Texas Hold’em, I checked the time. My eyes opened wide,
realizing that it was already seven in the evening, not aware that I had skipped lunch and dinner. I was
too focused on making sure I knew how to deal the games correctly. Nerves started to settle in my
stomach; the twisting and churning in the empty space didn’t make me feel hungry, but I knew I should
eat something. I contemplated if I should cook something or just have a snack as I cleaned up the
cards and chips I had on the green felt. Stacking the cards together, I neatly placed the full deck back
into the box and back in the silver briefcase along with the chips, organized by color.
I was exhausted and didn’t feel like cooking anything for dinner, but I knew if I didn’t eat
something now, I would be a mess come interview day. I needed this job for my story, there’s no
room for error on my part.
 6

BRANDON

A few beers and chicken wings with the guys last night helped ease the hurt and frustration I had
suppressed for all these years. I needed to get back on my A game; focusing on my business
ventures and hockey was my priority.
I woke up late with my head pounding. I slept through my alarm and rushed to get here on time.
On my way to Bay View Ice Center for morning skate, I quickly glanced in the rearview mirror,
the flickering red-and-blue lights flashed behind me. Shit!
Not wanting to blow up at the officer, I took a couple of deep breaths after pulling over to the
side, placing my car in park, and turning off the engine. From the side-view mirror, I noticed the
officer approaching the passenger side. Rolling the window down, he peered in.
“Good morning, officer.” I forced a small smile at the husky man with blonde hair.
“Did you know you were going fifty-seven in a thirty-five-mile-per-hour zone?” he asked, a gruff
tone to his voice.
“Unfortunately, I did. I’m running late to practice,” I preached.
“License and registration, please.”
I pulled out my license and registration and handed them to him. He eyed them carefully, looked at
me, then back at the items in his hand.
“Are you really the Brandon Owens from the Storm?”
“Yes, sir.” Please let me off the hook.
“You guys have a game tonight against the Renegade. I have tickets to take my son tonight.” He
smiled.
“It should be a good game. It’s against one of our rivals.”
“Look, I’m not going to give you a ticket, Mr. Owens—”
I sighed with relief then interrupted. “You can call me Brandon.”
“Brandon, I’ll let you off the hook this time, but slow down. I don’t want anything worse to
happen where a speeding ticket would be the least of your worries.”
“Yes, of course, officer.” I nodded as he handed back my license and registration. “Thank you.
Would you like a signed puck?” That’s the least I can do for getting out of this ticket.
“If it’s not too much trouble. That would be great… my son would love it.” The officer smiled
widely.
I reached behind me to my duffel bag and pulled out a puck. In my glove compartment, I had a
Sharpie—you never knew when you would need it. I signed it To my #1 fan. - Brandon Owens 88,
then handed the rubber puck to the officer.
 “This is awesome,” he said, taking the puck from me. “Remember, slow down. See you at the
game tonight. Good luck.” He nodded.
I responded with a head nod and watched him get in the police car before starting my car. He
passed by, waving.
Then I headed to practice, slowing down. Maybe next time I wouldn’t be so lucky.
Arriving for practice, I was the last one to arrive from the team.
“Nice of you to join us,” Coach Hall said with sarcasm, staring at me as I walked by the rink
toward the locker room. “Gear up so we can practice.”
“Yes, Coach.” A raspy tone left my lips.
I changed into my practice uniform, secured my pads, then pulled the practice jersey over my
head. Picking up my stick and helmet, I headed to the rink.
I placed the helmet on my head, visor affixed and strap secured. The guys were already doing
drills. Before I stepped onto the ice, I closed my eyes, taking in the sounds of the slap of the pucks
and blades cutting through the ice. This is what I live for.
Gliding on the ice toward the center, I joined the rest of the team. A pile of black rubber pucks
waiting for me to slap them toward the empty net. Near the net, the goaltenders were stretching and
warming up with their own drills. I skated around, stretched, and warmed up before trying to shoot
pucks. My best friend, Patrick “Pat” Greene, passed a puck to me as I moved closer to the net.
Hoisting the puck, I flipped it with the blade of my stick, then took my shot. It hit the rim and
ricocheted toward the boards.
Dammit!
One of the other guys passed the puck to me. I skated toward the net, slapped the puck, and missed
again. Then I tried again and missed. What the fuck! My blood boiled under my skin, rushing to my
head. Heat spread across my face.
I threw my stick down with enough force for it to crack. Sounds of skates gliding, pucks being
slapped, and chatter decreased. I scanned the rink and all eyes were on me.
“What?” I grimaced.
“You-you o-o-okay, br-rr-ro?” Pat asked. Although he was big, brawny, and looked like he could
tear you apart, his stuttering showed that he was of pure innocence. He was the enforcer on the team
and had everyone’s back. He’s had mine since day one when my whole world turned upside down.
“Yeah—I’m getting so fucking frustrated. I need to be on point for tonight’s game,” I said through
gritted teeth. “First, I get pulled over for fucking speeding, then I can’t even make a shot in the net.
What the fuck.” My head was fogged up with the frustration and I couldn’t focus. Everyone returned to
what they were doing. “At least I was able to get out of the ticket.” I shrugged.
Pat placed his hand on my shoulder. “We-we’re ju-just prac-prac-practicing. Do-do-don’t wor-
worry.”
I nodded, acknowledging him. We continued to run drills and play a scrimmage game before
hitting the showers and heading home prior to the game tonight.

I WENT STRAIGHT TO THE BLACK S TONE CASINO AFTER THE GAME. IT WAS THE WORST GAME OF MY
career. We were shut out—and I was pissed. I needed to keep my mind off of how we just played.
Instead of calling my flavor of the week to hook up with, I did the next best thing—gamble. But first, I
had to check in with my business partner. I didn’t trust him completely, but I owned half of the casino,
and it was imperative that I knew what was going on.
“What the fuck, Rodriguez?” I snapped at him, sitting down in the chair in front of his desk, my
muscles tensed.
“Watch your tone, Owens,” Rodriguez snarled.
“Look, I own half a stake of the casino. I’m your business partner and can talk to you how I see
fit,” I said lowly. My brows furrowed; my eyes glared in his direction. “Why the fuck is everyone
quitting?” The volume of my voice gradually loudened.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “They’re dispensable. We’ll find others to replace them. I’m not
worried about it.”
“We should be worried. If it has to do with labor and work conditions, we need to get that
corrected. I put money into businesses that I believe have the potential to succeed. Multiple
employees quitting at the same time shows something’s wrong with the system here. What are we
going to do about this?”
“What do you mean ‘we?’ I own the casino and you’re a stakeholder—”
“Bullshit,” I lashed out. “We signed the contract months ago indicating that I own half the casino.
You’re no longer the sole owner of this business. If you’re going to make any decisions, you need to
run them by me too.”
“You need to mind your part of the business, and I’ll take care of the operations.”
“My part of the business was customer relations and marketing. I can’t sit back and let this place
fall apart with my name on it.” I slammed my palms on his desk, got up, and walked out of his office.
Plans of staying and gambling weren’t on the agenda anymore.
Rage was pent up inside, my blood heated up quickly, and I wasn’t able to focus. There was only
one thing that would alleviate all this frustration and stress—it wasn’t going to be staying here.
Pulling my phone out of my pants pocket, I scrolled through the contacts and made a call.
“Hey, baby. Come over tonight… see you in twenty minutes.” I ended the call to one of my flavors
of the week, then drove home.
I’ll find a way to be the only owner of this casino. Rodriguez will need to fold when I go all in
to claim what should be mine. In the meantime, this booty call will be a placeholder.
 7

KATHERINE

I t was a struggle to wake up this morning. Tossing and turning throughout the night, I couldn’t drift
off to sleep. When I finally dozed off, my alarm woke me up at eight in the morning, with sweat on
my forehead and the back of my neck. My head was spinning with thoughts of what could go
wrong with this interview and not landing the job. My heartbeat raced. I was trying to slow it down
with breathing techniques I’d learned in yoga. Calm down, Katherine. You need to calm the fuck
down.
I got out of bed and headed for the kitchen to brew some coffee before I did anything else. The
aroma of the dark roast cascading into my mug filled the small space of the kitchen. Closing my eyes,
I inhaled a long, slow breath, absorbing the fresh cup of joe and waking up my senses. The scent
alone was addictive, almost as much as drinking it every morning. If it was a busy day, I would have
three or four cups to get work done.
My hands wrapped around the warm mug after the last drop of my coffee fell from the machine. I
lifted the white cup to my lips and breathed in the bold scent wafting up from the top. I blew the steam
and took a sip of the hot liquid. The temperature still a bit hot, burning the tip of my tongue.
With drink in hand, I walked back to my room as I planned out my day in my head. I had about an
hour to finish getting ready for my interview. According to the email correspondence between A.
Carson and I, my interview should last no more than an hour to an hour and a half, depending on the
card-skills assessment. I opened the door to my walk-in closet and proceeded inside, shuffling
through my eclectic choice of clothing hanging on the bars of the large space. I separated my clothing
by type of item and color: long dresses, short dresses, pants and skirts, and tops and blouses. Some
may think I was obsessive-compulsive about this, but I thought of myself more as a “highly organized”
individual. I decided to wear business attire to look polished and professional, so I grabbed fitted
black slacks, a matching blazer, and a white button-down pin-striped shirt. I paired this ensemble
with black patent leather pointed-toe pumps.
After taking a quick shower, I got dressed in my chosen outfit, styled my long black hair up in a
sleek ponytail, then started on my makeup. Since I was trying to give a good first impression, I didn’t
go heavy-handed on the makeup—but it’s not like I wore tons of makeup anyway. People have told me
that I didn’t need any makeup because my skin was so clear and I had a pretty face. I put on
foundation and powder to match the medium complexion of my skin, added some bronzer as a contour
of my cheeks to take away from the roundness of my face, and pink blush on the apples of my cheeks
to give a natural flush. To finish my look, I applied black eyeliner, mascara, and touched up my
eyebrows.
 One final once-over in the full-length mirror, I was ready to go. I texted Camila before leaving my
house just to keep her in the loop.
KATHERINE: Hey girl! I’m going to my interview now. Wish me luck!
CAMILA: Good luck, Kat! You’re going to crush it!
KATHERINE: Thank you!! *Hug emoji*
Scanning around my house and rummaging through my purse, I checked if I had everything I
needed before going on the long drive to the casino. Seen that I had everything, I left for my job
interview.

THE CASINO WAS AS NICE AS HOW IT LOOKED IN THE PICTURES ON THEIR WEBSITE. THIS WAS JUST AS
modern and fancy as the casinos in Las Vegas. As I entered through the main doors, black marbled tile
lay across the large open space of the lobby and front desk area. I noticed lots of security staff around
watching everyone carefully.
I found the concierge and asked where human resources was located. The friendly woman at the
desk explained that there was an entrance to the side of the cage where guests cashed out, and down a
long hall.
Navigating through the casino, which was filled with more security staff and security cameras
everywhere, I found the cashier area and door to the side of it. Soon enough, I was at the human
resources office.
“Hi, may I help you?” the beautiful brunette sitting behind a large L-shaped desk asked.
“Hi, I have an interview. My name is Katie Torres,” I said softly.
“Oh yes, please have a seat. I’ll take you in when Mr. Rodriguez is ready.” She smiled.
A small smile curved on my pressed lips as I sat down on the closest vacant chair.
After a few minutes of waiting and running card games through my head, it was my turn.
“Ms. Torres, we’re ready for you now.” The receptionist stood up and gestured for me to follow
her.
I got up from my chair and followed closely behind her down a short hallway to a conference
room. She opened the door for me, waving her hand that it was okay to go inside. Entering the bright
room, a man sitting at the far end of the oval table looked in my direction—it was none other than Ben
Rodriguez Jr.
“Good morning. Please have a seat over here.” He lifted his arm, palm up, and motioned to the
chair on his left.
“Good morning, sir.” I pulled the leather chair out and sat down, sitting up tall with my hands
folded on my lap.
The first thing I noticed was how shiny his forehead was; the light in the room reflected off it. His
receding hairline was more noticeable than in his picture on the website. The way he stared at me,
eyeing me up and down, made my stomach churn. He licked his lips, and I felt nauseated and
uncomfortable, but I had to push my feelings about him aside and get through this interview. What I
needed for this exposé was to experience it firsthand as an employee and proof that Owens was in
on the deception as well.
He glanced down at some papers before looking back at me. “Katie Torres.” He stared at me,
squinting his eyes. “Are you by chance related to the late Paolo Torres?”
 “Yes, he’s my father.” I gave a small smile.
“You know he’s a big deal in the poker world. I remember watching a tournament in Vegas and
Paulo Torres knocked them out one by one. He’s a legend.” Rodriguez smiled wide, excitement laced
in his voice.
“So I’ve heard. That’s why I learned how to be a dealer. I took after my dad.” Memories of Papa
teaching me how to shuffle cards and deal them flooded my brain. Oh, how I missed him.
“Your work history shows that you haven’t been working as a dealer for over four years. Why are
you interested in returning to work in the casino?” He cocked a brow.
“I was a dealer when I was going to college so it could help pay the bills. When I graduated, I
worked in the smaller card rooms until I found a better-paying job as a retail manager for a high-end
department store as mentioned in my résumé. Retail’s burning me out, so I decided to try working in
the casino again and apply here.”
“I see that your major was biology. What were you thinking of using that degree for? It doesn’t
align with retail.” He had a concerned look on his face.
“Well, I want to work in a pharmaceutical company and be in the lab doing research, but it’s
difficult finding entry-level work in that field.” I sat up in my chair, shoulders back, confident in my
response. Although my résumé was made up, I came up with answers to every possible question I
thought of that could be asked for what I had listed.
“Understandable. I don’t know anything about the pharmaceutical industry, but it sounds like it’s a
competitive one to get into.” He looked down at my résumé again and pressed his lips together.
After a few more questions about my strengths and weaknesses, what my goals were if I was
hired, and my future plans, he was ready to see my card skills.
“I have a standard deck of cards here.” Rodriguez pointed at the blue Bicycle cards on the
wooden table. “Let me see your skills, Ms. Torres. First, blackjack.”
“Would you like me to deal as if you’re the only player, or should I deal as if there is a full table
of players?” I asked.
“Just one player and the dealer.” He gestured with his hand to the cards again.
Picking up the deck of cards, I split it into two packs and held one in each hand. Then my thumbs
grazed each corner of the packs to shuffle the cards together. After shuffling the deck a few times, I
placed it in the shuffling machine then I dealt a hand to myself and Rodriguez. With my last card I had
dealt to myself, I flipped it over, revealing a jack of spades. Gesturing my hand to him, he took a
quick look at his cards that were face up, ace of hearts and seven of clubs. I looked at him, waiting
on what he wanted to do with the hand. He motioned his hand from side to side, indicating he wanted
to “stay.” I flipped my second card over, nine of diamonds.
“Dealer wins.” I picked up our cards, added them to the deck and shuffled it manually before
placing them in the shuffling machine. He had me demonstrate blackjack at least ten times before I
had to show him my poker dealing skills in the different poker games.
At the end of the interview and skills demonstration, he stared at me and was speechless. His lips
pressed together into a thin line.
My body squirmed in the chair and my eyes were shifty. He really knew how to make someone
feel uncomfortable.
“You have great skills, Ms. Torres. You’ll make a great addition to our croupier team.” He
smiled.
I gave a small smile, happy to know that I’d found a way into the casino.
“However, I’m not going to hire you as a dealer.”
 His words crushed the chances I had for this exposé. “Oh, I understand. Thank you for your time
—”
“I’m not done yet. I think you’re too good to be a dealer. You should be on the floor playing
against the VIPs. This is a secret position that only a few know about. I’m sure you’re as great as your
father.”
My body stiffened, mouth slightly agape. I couldn’t believe he was already telling me what I
wanted to gain more insight on.
“But to assess if you’re truly capable of handling such responsibility, you have to take on one
particular VIP player, my business partner, Brandon Owens,” he said with a deceitful sound to his
voice.
I nodded. “I’m confident I can beat him. I learned from the best and I don’t like losing.”
“Owens is the best, and if you win, you have a job at Black Stone Casino.”
I gave a sly smile, knowing that I’d had my fair share of winning with high rollers in Las Vegas.
“Okay, sounds good.”
“One thing you should know is that Owens is a sore loser and a womanizer. So, if you win and get
him to make a move on you, I’ll double your salary.”
“I have a question—why me?”
“You look like you’re the type to be up for the challenge. None of my girls down in the casino are.
Owens doesn’t know there are secret players that are on his payroll, and he won’t know anything
about your arrangement with me. Plus, your father wasn’t the most honest player, but I’m sure you
knew that.” Rodriguez clasped his hands together and set them on the table. “So, are you up for this
challenge?”
Rodriguez mentioning my father being dishonest boiled the blood under my skin. My father was
honest as far as I knew. He was a man of integrity. My heartbeat increased as I figured out what I
wanted to do. If I declined, I didn’t think I would be hired as a dealer since Rodriguez wanted to have
me working in a different position at the casino. If I accepted, I would have my “in” at the casino and
have firsthand experience of what this shady businessman was doing, and have proof that Owens was
in on the deception as well.
I sat up straight in my chair and extended my arm toward him. His hand clutched mine.
“Yes, Mr. Rodriguez, I’m all in.”
I’m going to nail this son of a bitch!
 8

BRANDON

A fter storming out of Black Stone Casino a few days ago, I decided to go back to make sure all
hell didn’t break loose with all the changes in staff Rodriguez had made. Plus, I had an itch to
gamble. In two months, the annual poker tournament was going to be held at the casino. I
wanted to brush up on my skills, even though I knew I was going to win—I’d won the tournament
every year for the last six years… and I wasn’t planning to lose this year.
As soon as I walked through the entrance, staff dressed in business attire greeted me.
“Good evening, Mr. Owens.” A young brunette woman from the front desk smiled.
I stopped at the desk, looking at the brunette and a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman, a small smile
across my face. “Good evening, ladies. How’s everything going?”
“It’s going well, sir,” the blonde woman said, her eyes shifted as she looked away from me,
embarrassed.
“Good, good. If you both need anything, let me know.” I winked at the cute women, and both
smiled wide, cheeks turning a couple shades of pink. What I needed was to get them both in bed with
me—that would be fun. I smirked at the thought as I walked away.
The staff were on their A game as I roamed around the casino. Greeting me and making sure I was
catered to and had everything I needed. One of the waitresses, wearing booty-hugging shorts and a
tight white shirt, handed me a glass of scotch served neat. I scanned the room, noticing the familiar
faces of the regulars at the tables. I approached one of the blackjack tables that was pretty empty and
sat down. Then I saw her—a pretty young thing sitting across the table from me. She was hot; her long
black hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she had huge, dark-brown come-to-bed eyes.
“Mr. Owens, welcome back,” the older man dealing tonight greeted me as I handed him five
hundred dollars in cash.
I glanced at the dealer with salt-and-pepper hair, smiling, then my gaze quickly turned to the
woman who caught my eye. “Glad to be back.” I flashed a smile; my eyes locked on this mysterious
woman.
“So, you’re the infamous Brandon Owens.” She gave a sly smile.
I cocked a brow. “You’ve heard of me?”
“I hear you’re a good card player—”
“A great card player, err, I take that back… the best card player here.”
The dealer turned his head back and forth between us.
“Excuse me, the best card player.” She chuckled. “Well, Mr. Owens, that’s going to change.”
“How so?” I asked, amused to hear what she had to say next.
 “Because I don’t lose and soon, you’ll be the second-best player.”
I bellowed out a laugh. Wow! This woman had the balls to come at me like that—there was only
one thing I wanted that involved my balls and her coming. I brought my glass of scotch up to my lips
and took a long sip, eyes locked on hers. She had cute dimples on each side of her cheeks when she
smiled. Her pink lips were full and looked so soft.
The dealer’s eyes widened and he shifted his gaze to me, then the woman across from me.
“You know who I am, and I haven’t had the pleasure of knowing who you are, gorgeous,” I said,
flashing a charming smile.
“I’m Katie Torres.” She picked up her glass and used the two tiny black straws to take a sip of the
red-colored drink through her lush lips.
“Torres? Any relation to Paolo Torres?” My brow rose high. Paolo Torres was a poker player
legend.
“He’s my father,” she said, proud and confident.
“Well, Ms. Torres. Bring it on. We’ll see who the best card player is.” Smirking, I looked at the
dealer and nodded.
The seats filled between Katie and me.
“Alright, Mr. Owens. I’ll hand you a tissue when this is over. You’ll need it when I win,” she
said, sarcasm lacing her voice, getting the attention of the other players at the table.
I laughed out loud. She had a mouth that made promises that I hoped she wanted to keep because I
knew that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.
I placed my bet along with the other players. The dealer shuffled the deck a couple times before
placing it in the card shuffler machine. Then he dealt the cards face up to all the players, and the
dealer’s card showing was an eight of diamonds.
I looked down at my cards: Queen of diamonds, seven of spades. Shit! Hope Katie’s cards are
worse than this. One by one, I glanced at each player’s hand, then at Katie’s cards. Dammit! My eyes
slowly moved to her face. Our eyes locked. She squinted and raised an eyebrow. The cards in front of
her on the green felt were the ace of clubs, king of hearts. It’s blackjack. Heat rushed to my face. The
dealer beat my hand as well. What the fuck!
I huffed out a heavy breath through my nose, clenching my jaw. Katie fucking beat me. No one beat
me. Not at cards. Hell, they rarely beat me on the ice since I’d learned to channel all that anger into
more productive plays.
The dealer paid out the winners of this round, then he cleared out the cards and started again,
dealing our hands. I smiled at the two cards in front of me. Ten of hearts. King of spades. Katie
would need to get twenty-one to beat me and looking at her cards, she may bust if she hit on her turn
or lose to me with the two of clubs and ten of clubs if she stayed with that pair.
“Stay,” I said, low to the dealer.
Then the dealer moved on to the other players. When he got to Katie, she gestured to “hit,”
scratching her fingers on the felt tabletop. The dealer flipped a card. Nine of spades. My muscles
stiffened, angry that she beat me again. Why the hell did my cards suck?
“I want a rematch,” I snarled.
She smiled. “Perhaps tomorrow… I want to play something else. I’m done with blackjack.” Her
voice was sweet with a bit of sass in her tone.
For a brief moment, I thought that something else was me. But I wanted a rematch and she’d
emasculated me in front of a crowd, so I wanted my manhood back before we hit the bedroom. And if
it meant beating her at something else, then so be it.
 The other players at the table left and the game was only between me, Katie, and the dealer. There
was a chance to win since Katie would have the cards the guy next to me had.
Cards were dealt and Katie got another blackjack. What?! Saying this wasn’t my best day at card
playing was a huge understatement. She had beaten me again and the dealer’s cards beat my hand as
well. Then Katie stood up and picked up her chips. Her body was smokin’ hot. I raked her voluptuous
body up and down as I admired how her black dress hugged every curve of her body. Damn!
Those beautiful fluttery eyes and that oh-so-kissable mouth, that spilled quick-witted flirtations,
were a huge distraction. While she made me look like a fool in my own casino, I was already thinking
of all the things I was going to do to her. I wanted to wrap my hand around her ponytail and pull her
head back as I fucked her hard from behind. By the time I lost a third time, I didn’t know what I
wanted more: another game or her.
Both. I want both… and I will find a way to get them.

THE SECOND I RESTORED MY EGO , I GOT UP AND WALKED TOWARD KATIE, THEN TOSSED HER OVER MY
shoulder like a Neanderthal. Her plump, round ass next to my face.
She squealed. “Put me down, Brandon!” I felt a few punches on my lower back.
A mischievous smile curved on my lips. “Katie, don’t worry. I’ll put you down soon.” I headed to
the bar as guests and staff watched us. “If you fight, I’ll take my time to get where we’re going to go.”
Her body relaxed a bit and the punching ceased. As much as I wanted to, it took a lot of willpower
not to slap her ass.
When I reached the bar, I set her high-heeled covered feet on the floor. I was going to put an end
to the games she was playing on me.
“What the hell, Brandon,” she snapped, then adjusted her dress, smoothing down the wrinkles. “Is
that how you treat all the women you meet?”
“Not all. Only the ones I think are gorgeous.” I moved closer to her. I watched as her breathing
increased as her chest moved up and down quickly. I had a strong whiff of her sweet and floral scent;
it was intoxicating. A bulge grew in front of my pants.
“Wow, should I feel special? You must pull that stunt on a few women a day, am I right?” Her
brow rose high.
I threw my head back, chuckling. “You’re both sexy and sassy.” I gave a sly smile. “I’m getting
straight to the point. I want to challenge you to a game of poker… specifically, Texas Hold’em.” My
eyes squinted as I stared into her chocolate-brown eyes.
No one beat me in poker. Many had tried, many came from far and wide to challenge me. Many
more were coming next weekend to join our annual poker tournament, when one million dollars went
to the winner who beat me. If they didn’t, I gave the prize money to a charity of my choice. I had never
lost this tournament since it started six years ago.
Katie looked up at me, with that doe-eyed look on her face and a glimmer sparked in her eyes. I
imagined her on her knees giving me head with that look in her eyes as I controlled her head, pushing
my cock deep into her throat.
“Honey,” Katie said in a way that made me feel about three inches tall. “I only play one kind of
poker. It’s not the kind you play in public. Nor is it the kind I’m ever going to play with you—but if I
did, you’d lose in that too.” Then she stepped back.
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leaves which had brought the pale-faced man to the luxurious sky
parlors of the “Elmleaf.” His merry face was soberly overshadowed.
With little formality, Jimmy Potter closed the door into the rooms
where the two women were engaged, and, not without a glance of
impelled admiration at the statuesque stenographer, broke into a
confidence which astounded Vreeland.
“Hear me out first, Vreeland,” he soberly said, “and then help me if
you can. I’m off on the steamer for Havre to-morrow. To join
Hathorn’s widow.”
Vreeland started, but Potter’s outstretched arm kept him in his chair.
“Poor Fred was drowned two days ago by the upsetting of a boat at
Cienfuegos. The fact is, the Cuban authorities were after him, and
so, he cleared out of Havana.”
“I’ve sent a good man down there to do all that may be done, in a
decent respect for his past. Mrs. Hathorn has just cabled for me. I
have had a long letter from her.
“Some damned traitor deliberately gave her the dead cross on the
‘Sugar Deal.’ She was trying to get Fred out of the Street. And so,
she plunged on fifty thousand shares of Sugar on this lying tip, came
out short, and has to pay, as Hathorn shoved all their customers’
money in to hold over his own huge, private gamble until the market
broke down to forty. It’s up to seventy-eight and there to stay. Now,
she wishes to make restitution to the men whom the firm robbed.
And I have to help her settle her own private losses.”
“Poor woman,” murmured Vreeland, with an agitation which did not
escape Potter. The little man was all broken up.
“See here, Vreeland!” cried Potter, “I have had a glimpse into a real
woman’s heart. This fatal quarrel with the Willoughby has wrecked
two lives. Hathorn believed Mrs. Willoughby to be invincible in the
Street.
“He tried to follow her game. She is reported to have dealt in Sugar
up to several millions.
“Do you suppose that she laid a trap for Hathorn’s wife to fall into?
Who gave her the false tips? I hope that the author of this misery will
roast in hell.”
“I know nothing. I am not in speculative stocks,” musingly said
Vreeland.
“Someone may have taken advantage of the Hathorns and lured
them on by pretending to give them Mrs. Willoughby’s game. I am
busied here now, half the day, with my own private matters.”
“It was soul-murder, whoever did it,” said Potter. “Alida Hathorn went
in nobly to help and save her husband. To aid him, to square him
with the Street and his firm, and then to take him forever out of the
turmoil and convoy him over to Europe. She has loads of money, you
know. But, the Ring was too much for him.
“He plunged, too, on her tip, and then came the crash, his flight, and
now his untimely death. It’s all due to the one who lured Alida
Hathorn on to ruin her husband. It was a fiend’s work.” A silence
reigned, a gloomy acquiescence.
Vreeland was moodily regarding the falling snow through the
darkened panes when Jimmy Potter sighed and said: “Well, it’s
good-by, old fellow. I’ve got an expert with Wolfe going over the real
honest debts.
“I shall stay over there, advise with Alida and see that the sufferers
get their money. For she has been a wifely sacrifice; she is high-
spirited and true, she outclassed Hathorn. Mrs. Willoughby set him
up, and then threw him down.
“His pride never got over her ruin of his firm’s reputation by drawing
all her business out.
“Of course, the society snakes who poisoned the young wife’s mind
brought on the social catastrophe. I would like to feel that Elaine
Willoughby did not betray that poor young woman. But I’ll square it
all by and by.”
“How?” eagerly demanded Vreeland. Potter was brave in a mad
resolve.
The young millionaire paused, hat and umbrella in hand. “I have
found a business in life at last. One that suits me.
“If Alida Hathorn has not money enough to square all the honest
claims, I have. For a year and a day from Hathorn’s death, I shall
marry her, and then give her a woman’s decent happiness.
“It was a false ambition that pushed Hathorn into her circle. He was
only a good-looking upstart, and never worthy of her.
“So, you can see all comes around to the man who waits.
“Now, I count on your sense of manliness to protect the name of
Fred Hathorn’s widow, the woman who will be my wife, for, with all
your money, you would not be in New York to-day, as you are, at the
top of the ladder but for Hathorn.
“You stand in his shoes up at Lakemere, here in the Circassia, and
you of all men, should be considerate to his memory.” The scheming
liar bowed his head in a speechless agitation.
Vreeland escorted his visitor to the stair. “If I need any private tip, I
may use you,” said Potter. “I’ll be at Hotel Vendôme, Paris, till I have
made her Mrs. Jimmy Potter, if we live.”
With a last touch of his old lightness, the champion of the absent
Alida whispered, “That’s a young goddess you have captured.”
Potter had observed the Bona Dea.
Vreeland frowned gravely as he followed the furtive gesture.
“Miss Garland has entire charge of all the books and records of my
private estate,” he coldly said.
“I am a man of system and order. The other little woman is my
private telegraph operator. She is a part of our ‘business force.’”
Vreeland affected the careworn millionaire.
“Ah, you don’t mix up the two affairs. Very good, very good,”
complacently said Potter as he disappeared, leaving Vreeland
startled. He bore away fruitful memories of Vreeland’s downcast
hesitation.
The hard-hearted schemer took a pull at the brandy bottle. “It was a
close shave,” he murmured.
“Alida Hathorn is game to the very last. She has not given him my
name, and now, as she will finally drift into this fortunate marriage,
the Lady of the Red Rose will be only a buried memory.
“I am safe, and he never will know. The lovely ‘Red Rose’ is only
another flower in le Jardin Secret.”
He realized, at last, that the daring imprudence of Alida Hathorn’s
visit was but a jealous wife’s device, at any risk, to break the lines of
her husband’s enemies.
“She got my secret far too easily,” he gloomily reflected, “and without
paying the price.
“I wonder if she was playing me as a lone fish,” he pondered—and
then a flash came to enlighten him.
“Could Elaine Willoughby fancy that the news of her plunging would
leak out and ruin them?
“By heaven! She may have crossed this gigantic trade by secret
orders to Endicott. Hathorn ruined, she may have no further use for
me.
“And if the Lady of the Red Rose should ever speak I would be
ruined, even held at arms length as I am.”
He shuddered under the curse of the burning words of that last
telegram.
“She believes me a liar and traitor to her, and I will never dare to
undeceive her.” He felt that he had missed the finest play of his life.
But the “special delivery” letter still stared him in the face. He
carelessly tore it open and then a smile wreathed his lips.
“To meet Senator Alynton, Senator Garston, and Miss Katharine
VanDyke Norreys at dinner.” He instantly wrote out and dispatched
his acceptance. A glow of joy lit up his anxious face.
“I must get Justine at work soon on my secret lines. I see it all.
These Senators are of the ‘Inner Guild,’ the true illuminati.
“Who the devil is this Garston—some Western fellow?”
A few moments’ reference gave him the news: “Senator-elect from
one of the newly knocked together Western States”—the “means to
an end” in balancing National elections. The trick of warring
plutocrats and democrats.
He paced the room in deep thought, after dispatching his reply. “The
battle will be on again soon. The Trust is reorganized and
conveniently removed to little Jersey. The courts have now done
their worst, and the small holders are all squeezed out.
“Now for a game of high ball. Yes, my lady, that’s your trick. A new
deal. And the beautiful Californian heiress is only a bright lay-figure.
“Your real hold on the Street is the secret chain linking these
statesmen, through you and Endicott, to the secret chiefs of the
Sugar Syndicate.
“I’ll get myself into your current, as a ‘transmitter,’ and you, Madame
Elaine, shall yet learn to bow and bend. The child, the secrets of this
dangerous partnership, the story of your past life, I can soon get it
all, bit by bit. And, then, marriage and ‘dominion over you.’ That’s my
game!”
There was an unpleasant menace lingering in the last words of the
departing Potter. Vreeland knew that should the generous-hearted
ex-banker, in time, marry Fred Hathorn’s widow, the few hundred
thousands lost in saving Hathorn’s personal honor would not in any
way impair their united estates. He lingered long on the subject. He
feared this new alliance.
“They might crush me, if they joined forces. The one danger is a
reconciliation with Mrs. Willoughby. I will see that this never occurs.”
And so, with a sense of defeat clinging to his past attempts, he
decided to use great care in approaching his proposed dupe, Miss
Romaine Garland.
For his patroness certainly was not wearing her heart upon her
sleeve now. Her private sorrows busied her more than the
confidential intimacy with her newest protégé.
“She could drop me, ruin me, or trap me as easily as she finished off
Hathorn,” he decided.
“And the hot-headed, daring young wife, desperate in her jealousy,
anxious to break Elaine Willoughby’s lines and guide her husband
into the heart of the Sugar forces, she had merely broken the
convenances, nothing more.
“For only a cur dare ever hint at the stolen visits. Club and coterie
would brand the man as a hound who dared to boast of such a
desperate confidence in a man’s honor.
“No. The Lady of the Red Rose, bright, daring and stormy-hearted
like many another fin de siècle New York wife, was safe.”
Safe by all the laws of manhood and honor. And, in all the gay life he
had led, he had only met the easy abandon of high life.
The loosening of restraint of a democratic luxury. He well knew that
the Dickie Doubledays and the Tottie Thistledowns did not weigh in
the scale against a real flesh and blood womanhood. They were only
bright, lurid beacons, warning signals on the seas of life, stranded on
the reefs of human weakness, and with shoals of foolish virgins
following on in their daring footsteps.
When he lifted his head, the stroke of twelve brought Miss Romaine
Garland, with bowed head, before him, awaiting her daily dismissal.
He had never dared to use the busy hours from nine to twelve for
any covert approach upon the stately girl’s confidence. There, too,
was the clear-eyed Mary Kelly.
The rapturous verdict of Jimmy Potter was confirmed as he glanced
at the young goddess, her brown hair rippling from a pure Greek
brow, her dark eyes dreaming under their lashes, and her pale,
proud face at rest, with all the untroubled peace of maidenhood.
In her plain, dark dress, her sculptured form was deliciously
intimated. Her voice, sweet and low as the breath of forest winds,
awoke his hungering curiosity. It was temps de relâche.
Here was the very chance to begin to mold her to his will. To awake
her latent love of luxury, to lead her out step by step into the
confidential delights of wine and song, and to find out the shady
places where Love lurks, an archer unawares. Yes. He would begin
to mold this woman to his will.
Vreeland desired to let the loneliness of a great city aid him in his
easy approach. And to hurry slowly and be wise. He had noted the
friendly cordiality of the two young women. “If the new assistant
would only play into his hands, and help to outwit the pale spy.
“If she can throw this little spy off her guard—if I can get them both to
begin to enjoy themselves a little, and then drop into an easy, hidden
intimacy with Miss Romaine, then my patroness’ little spy game here
will be useless.
“For, if that woman learned to love a man, she would go through fire
and water for him.”
The throbbing of his heart made his voice tremble, and the veiled
purpose of his crafty soul crept into his eyes, though they only rested
on her superbly molded arms and slender, delicate hands, when he
carelessly said: “If you would kindly leave me your private address,
Miss Garland, I might need it. There may be some extra call of duty. I
might wish to communicate with you.”
There was a slight flush upon her cheek as the delicate lips slowly
parted.
“I live at some distance, Mr. Vreeland, with private friends, and it
would be impossible for me to render you any other services than as
arranged. I have no one to escort me, and I never receive visitors.”
The voice was as cold as the glacier’s rills.
Her beauty shone out as pure as an Easter lily, when she simply
said: “Miss Kelly will, however, send any communication you might
have to make. I am an absolute stranger in New York. The
references which I gave Miss Marble are from old friends in Buffalo. I
can, however, at all times, stay as late as Miss Kelly does, on any
occasion when you may have overwork.”
The young Diana’s pure brow was loftily brave in its innocence.
Vreeland’s eyes hungrily followed her as she moved quietly away in
answer to his grave bow of dismissal.
“More time. More time,” he murmured. “If I could find some way to
gain her personal confidence. Flowers, books, little attentions, a
stray set of theatre or opera tickets. For she is, after all, only a
woman. Fit to reign, royal in youth, and serving without stooping.
“I must see Miss Marble. The ice once broken, perhaps—”
He mused long upon an ingenious plan to “brighten the life” of the
woman he would use as a tool. “Yes, it can be done, easily, through
the Marble.” And he knew that veteran traitress would aid him for
money.
The week before the day of Mrs. Willoughby’s ceremonial dinner was
wasted by Vreeland in some amateur detective work. Miss Justine
Duprez easily diagnosed the growing friendship of the two young
girls.
For Miss Garland’s sweet, tender face was already familiar in the
little household where Mary Kelly’s mother watched and wondered
from what fairyland this bright-faced nymph had descended.
A stout school lad of sixteen was an efficient home escort for the
young neophyte in New York, and pride filled the eyes of Mary
Kelly’s brother.
Vreeland felt all the growing charm of the steadfast girl’s influence,
her cultured manners, her dainty refinement and the rare delicacy of
her language and taste. He valued her as of superior clay.
“Not of common stock,” he murmured as he deftly trod along her
path, with a veiled impatience. He was deep now in the last details of
a plan which busied Justine Duprez, for the coming of the second
Senator, the open splendors of the grand dinner party as elaborated
by Justine warned him that if he would cut the secret channels so
vital to his success, he must bring the janitor and postal carriers of
the “Circassia” under control.
Justine, checking his headlong impatience, only smiled her velvety
smile and whispered, “Give me some money to hoodwink them a
little. Wait only for a few days, and trust to me. Have I ever failed
you?”
When the “rising and successful man,” Mr. Harold Vreeland, dressed
himself with unusual distinction for Mrs. Willoughby’s regal dinner
party of twenty, there was all the happiness of a new-born hope in
his heart. For he was nearly ready now “to move on the enemy’s
works.”
That experienced “broker in young womanly talent,” Miss Marble,
had earned herself a pretty diamond lace pin, and “an authorization
to proceed,” by her ingenious plan of drawing out “Miss Romaine
Garland.” The experienced lady had smiled at all his first crude
attempts.
“You were too abrupt. There is the awkward fact before her eyes
always, that you are her employer. She acts on the mere defensive.
“The proprieties you surely know. Now, you are far too young and
charming as a man,” she blushingly said, “to be a safe benefactor for
this glowing-hearted girl with her sweet, tender eyes.
“She is a rare beauty and frankly good, and untinged as yet with the
fires of Babylon. I have some showy friends of some influence, and,
as she trusts me blindly, I will ‘have warm-hearted civilities’ extended
to her.
“You will have her home address now, in return for my pretty pin.
Never go there. You would ruin all.
“But, sir, you shall be drawn in as a guest to our little friendly
coteries. She must be led into our allied camp gradually.
“You, by hazard, will appear as an old intimate, here and there, when
her shyness is worn off and, on that friendly and neutral ground, you
can soon warm the marble into life.” The Marble had a crafty and
glowing heart.
The sly woman smiled. “No lonely young woman can resist long-
continued and unobtrusive kindness. It always disarms. Let me have
the means to lead her along into little pleasures. Once the taste of
the easy evening outing life comes upon her, then, bit by bit, she will
be as wax in my hands. You can meet her, by chance, at the
theatres or operas when out with me. I will have a little supper given
at some friend’s home. We can drop off the friends one by one. I
cling to her.
“You can then drop me off, when we are sure that the taste of
pleasure is gently awakened, and you are free to then show her all
your generous liberality. Take her home to your daily life, then once
that the confidential relation is established—” Vreeland’s eyes
gleamed in a coming triumph. The way shone out, “straight and
sweet,” before him. “Miss Joanna, you are a good fairy, and a keen-
witted genius. I will give you carte blanche to lead her out along the
rosy path, step by step, and a path that leads always toward me.”
Mr. Harold Vreeland moved on serenely and laid his pitfalls for the
pure young girl, whom chance had thrown in his way, with no
compunction. In the blighted career of his own dishonored father, he
had only despised the weaknesses which led to failure.
He had seen the downfall of Hathorn without a throb of sympathy
and he resented the frank, honest predilection which was now
leading the warm-hearted Potter to screen Alida Hathorn from a mob
of cold-hearted “woman eaters” in honorable marriage.
Mean at heart, he even doubted the past life of the woman who had
lifted him up to luxury. He hated her now only that his charms of
person and manner had not brought her to his feet, a willing dupe.
“She seemed to be impressed at first,” he mused. “But the shock of
Hathorn’s cold abandonment in his little tiger cat wife’s jealous frenzy
seems to have turned her against man, for a time.
“But, let me only get a hold on her. I do not care to be the star actor
in a modern ‘Romance of a Poor Young Man.’ She shall not shake
me off.”
He plotted deliberately against her peace—his generous
benefactress. “First, the tapping of the private lines. Then, to mold
Romaine Garland to my will. If she does not yield to Joanna Marble’s
smooth ways, then out into the streets of New York.
“There are others, more complaisant; but to awaken those dark eyes
to pleasure’s glow. To have them quicken at my coming.”
It was with these “undreamed dreams” haunting him that Harold
Vreeland arrived, in sedate splendor, at the “Circassia,” where “the
feast was set” for Senator Alynton and that Western wonder of
recent occultation, Senator-elect James Garston.
In the kaleidoscopic splendors of the drawing-room, where manly
eyes gleamed upon the beauties of splendid womanhood, among
the fair daughters of Eve he missed that brilliant blonde heiress, Miss
Katharine VanDyke Norreys. A tap from Mrs. Volney McMorris’ fan
recalled him.
“I know that you are looking for her,” whispered the radiant duenna.
“Katharine is a sort of ward of Senator Garston. He is her trustee.
They all come together. I must have a word with you about poor—”
The entrance of Mrs. Elaine Willoughby brought the splendid circle
around her, there where gleaming lights and the breath of matchless
flowers, where diamonds and brightest eyes, where ivory bosoms
and shapely silver shoulders were mingling charms of a modern
Paradise of throbbing, hungry hearts.
Doctor Alberg’s gloved hand was resting in Vreeland’s palm—he was
whispering, “You and I and Justine must watch”—when the calm,
passionless face of Senator Alynton, with Miss Katharine Norreys on
his arm, appeared.
There was a hum of astonishment, of frank self-surrender to the
Occidental beauty’s charms as Alynton gravely presented a tall,
stately stranger, whose slightly silvered hair and chevalieresque
bearing recalled the “Silver King.”
“My friend, Senator James Garston,” began Alynton, but there was a
crowd of a dozen men eagerly stretching willing arms, as Elaine
Willoughby’s face contracted in a spasm of pain, and she fell
senseless into Doctor Alberg’s firm grasp. “Only the old heart
trouble. In five minutes madame will be herself,” suavely announced
the doctor. “Perhaps a bit too tightly laced,” he whispered to
Mrs. McMorris.
It was a stately function, the dinner, which proceeded in a solemn
splendor.
Senator James Garston was gravely attentive at the hostess’ left,
and only Vreeland knew when the lights were low that Garston had
whispered, “I must see you, at once.”
And with pale lips Elaine Willoughby had murmured, “At Lakemere,
and to-morrow.”
Justine had gained her long-needed clue.
 CHAPTER X.

AN INTERVIEW AT LAKEMERE—SOME INGENIOUS MECHANISM.

—“WHOSE PICTURE IS THAT?”

Harold Vreeland was seated in a blaze of light, in his own rooms at

four in the morning, anxiously awaiting a night visit from one who
might unravel the whole mystery while the lonely Elaine Willoughby
lay helpless in her secluded rooms, feebly struggling toward a return
of her self-control.
“What new devil’s jugglery is this?” muttered Vreeland, pausing in his
wolf stride. He carefully recalled every action of the newly-made
Senator and yet he was baffled at every turn. “Was the newcomer an
agent of a morose husband, an old lover, or an unwelcome
apparition from the clouded past?” He was baffled.
For, he began to realize how baseless were his meaner suspicions
of the past. There had been no unworthy love between Elaine and
Hathorn. The devil’s poison of slander alone had excited Alida’s
burning jealousy. She herself had only sought “a dead straight point”
in the daring visit to his rooms. Elaine’s record was clear so far. “Was
it only an old sorrow?” He pondered long. Even the pale-faced,
proud girl, whom he would trap, so far had hugged her honest
poverty to a stainless bosom.
“I’ve been dead wrong on Alynton’s game all along. There’s neither
an old love, nor a new intrigue, there,” he growled. “Justine has
clearly proved that. Their union is only to be termed, ‘strictly
business.’
“And the Senator’s frank, brotherly concern at Elaine’s sudden
illness went no farther than Colonel Barton Grahame’s sympathy,
Judge Endicott’s alarm, or my own undisguised interest. Here is a
new jack-in-the-box. I must watch Senator Garston.”
It had been a galling mortification to Vreeland in the past, that faintly
disguised disdain of Senator David Alynton, who had always
practically ignored him.
But, this new statesman, sturdy James Garston, had brought to their
meeting an unfeigned western bonhomie.
The newcomer had sought him out eagerly. He had drawn the
younger man aside, in a lull of the entertainment.
“We must meet and talk over western matters; we have the world’s
coming treasury out there,” largely remarked the new Senator-elect.
“I am housed at the Plaza, to be near Miss Norreys, who is at the
Savoy. I shall stay here a few days, and, we will have a luncheon
together.”
In fact the acute Mrs. Volney McMorris had very deftly arranged it,
for she was eager to matronize the resplendent Miss Norreys, to
bask in the smile of this rising financial sun, and to have her own
private chat with the young Fortunatus about the vanished Lady of
the Red Rose. Her prompt social fastening upon Mrs. Willoughby,
was only a grim proof that “the one who goes is happier than the one
that’s left behind.”
The new Senator’s round bullet-head, his curved beak-like nose, his
uncertain gray eye and unsmiling lips marked him as a man of
power.
He bore in every movement the badge of hard-won success.
His fifty-one years had marked him lightly, and, lawyer, mine owner,
and capitalist, he was riding into the Senate on a chariot with golden
wheels. It is the West that holds now the American sceptre.
Vreeland had watched Garston keenly at the dinner and noted his
poised manner, his brilliant flashes of silence, and the grave,
undisturbed courtesy of his demeanor toward the marble-faced
hostess. “A man of a level head,” was Vreeland’s verdict. And he
tried to read the secret of Garston’s imploring glances.
There had been no lingering cloud over the table, and no shade of
Banquo was evoked to chill the later merriment. Love, veiled and
unveiled, deftly footed it, among the revelers, and, only Doctor
Alberg’s steady eyes, anxiously fixed upon his “star” patient, proved
that but one, besides Vreeland, realized the desperate battle against
Time which Elaine Willoughby was fighting out to the last. The
egoistic revelers imagined their hostess’ seizure to be a mere
passing weakness. They all knew the strain of the exhausting New
York season.
“Charming woman, our hostess,” frankly remarked Senator Garston
to Vreeland. “Type all unknown to our modest Marthas of the
Occident. Here in America, our women will soon be crowned
queens, if I may trust to the ‘tiara’ bearing stories of the society
journals.” And a casual remark from Vreeland brought out the
admission that Senator Garston had never before met the hostess.
“It was to my colleague, Alynton, that I owe the honor of this
presentation,” said the newly-made toga wearer. “And, as
Mrs. Willoughby has been so kind to my ward, Miss Norreys, in this
new acquaintance, both pleasure and duty join hands.”
But, the startled Vreeland, pacing his silent room had several times
exclaimed, in his lonely rounds while waiting for Alberg, “James
Garston, you are a cool-headed, thorough-paced liar! I will trace you
back, my occidental friend, only to find ‘the wires crossed,’
somewhere in the past, and, from you, I will yet wrench the secret of
Elaine Willoughby’s early life. Her child! Yes,” he cried, “It might well
be.” He was thrilling in every fibre, for, in the dressing room, Justine
had stolen to his side whispering:
“Doctor Alberg has sent for a trained nurse to help me watch with her
to-night. Be on your guard.
“When this new Senator had made his adieu, I was hidden behind
the curtain in the long hall. I saw him neatly drop his glove, as if by
accident. Alynton and that tall golden-haired girl were waiting outside
as he stole back.” The French woman fairly hissed, “He is the man to
fear. I am sure they are old lovers. For, he caught her by both hands
and fairly devoured her with his eyes.
“‘To-morrow, alone, at Lakemere,’ she said. Voilà! Milady. Just a
woman, like the rest of us.”
“Justine, that paper, the one in her corset. A thousand dollars for a
copy of it.”
“I will get it to-night!” the velvet-eyed spy cried.
“Go now. You will hear from me soon. Don’t leave your room for a
moment, and, gare la Kelly. She reports daily on you to our full-blown
ingenue. Whatever turns up, you will surely hear from me. I’ll earn
your money yet.”
It was five o’clock when the haggard German physician crawled up
Vreeland’s stair. He was worn and exhausted.
“I’ve had a night of it,” he savagely cried, “give me a glass of real
brandy. No slops. That poor devil of a woman has had fainting fits
one after the other. I’ve now got Martha Wilmot, my only really
reliable nurse, watching her. The devil of it is, Madame will go up to
Lakemere at ten o’clock, and she vows she will, alone. The house
there is shut up. It is not even properly warmed. She will come back,
and have a relapse, but what can I do. She has an iron will.”
The angry Teuton drank a second dram and then relapsed into a
sullen silence.
“Alberg, my boy, you are a good doctor, but, you don’t know women,
only your blue-eyed, clumsy frauleins, over there. This American
woman is made of fire and flame. Tell me, what sort of a person is
your nurse, Wilmot?”
“She’s a good one—an ‘out and outer.’ She goes home to England
next week. She has some ideas of her own to work out over there.”
“Tell that smart woman to slip down here and see me before our
patient comes back. I’ll be here from four to seven to-day. And, mind
that you put her ‘dead on’ to me, as the holder of a hundred pound
note for her.”
“Good,” grunted Alberg.
“And, now, my son of Galen, what was it that upset
Mrs. Willoughby?” Vreeland was eagerly studying the German’s
face.
“The old thing. She has raved all night about her child. I only brought
her out of the attack with the strongest anti-spasmodics that man
dare to use, short of clear cold murder. It’s a terrible risk,” sighed
Alberg.
When Doctor Hugo Alberg left the Elmleaf, he was under the spell of
his lying coadjutor, and richer by a few hundred dollars. “This fellow
must never even lift the veil of the Temple,” muttered Vreeland. “Only
trust to Justine. Only Justine,” he cried, as he threw himself down to
sleep, after ordering the wondering Bagley to send Miss Kelly home
on her arrival, and also that dark-eyed enigma, Miss Garland. He
needed solitude.
“I am ill, and, must have a long sleep. You can take a day off
yourself. Clear out for the day and don’t let me hear a single footfall
about my rooms,” were the staccato injunctions of the excited
schemer.
“If that nurse only comes,” he murmured, as he closed his weary
eyes.
It was eleven o’clock when a light step echoed in Vreeland’s hall,
and the swishing sound of Justine Duprez’s robe made the banker
leap to his door. The French girl had her will at last. She stood amid
the splendors of Vreeland’s veiled Paradise—her lover’s home.
She cried out in glee, “Thank God! She is out of the way. I came
here from the train. She absolutely forbade me to go with her. I have
had the janitor’s boy watching all the trains. This Senator Garston
went up the road an hour ago. The smart boy helped us last night in
the cloak rooms, and, so, they are off alone together, up there, to-
day.”
Vreeland’s eyes blazed in a mighty triumph. “To-night, you must help
me, Justine,” cried the eager schemer.
“See here. I already have stolen what you want,” cried Justine. “You
said it was worth a thousand dollars. I copied even every mark on
the hidden papers, and, I went over it a dozen times, while the new
nurse was with her. Madame was insensible, and, I had time to work
in safety. What will you give me, now?”
She was not listened too, for with a ferocious joy, Vreeland leaped
up, crying, “My God! I have her now. They are all in the hollow of my
hand.”
He had glanced over the list of names written there, and a row of
figures with some characters added, which seemed to glow before
him in living flame.
He drew the Frenchwoman to his side, and there dashed off a check
to his own order and carefully indorsed it.
“There’s your money, you jewel,” he gasped. “Listen. To-night, when
she comes back, or to-morrow night, if she is again under the
nurse’s watch, you must steal that envelope again. I will be waiting
outside the Circassia, and stay all of both nights till I get the original
paper that you copied. Put a simple sheet of blank paper back in the
envelope and close it up. Sew it up again in the same place in her
corset.
“We will leave that to be stolen by the nurse, Martha Wilmot. She will
know what to do with it.
“She clears out of here for Europe in a few days. She will keep well
out of Mrs. Willoughby’s way. And, so the Madame will think that she
has been robbed by our sly, English friend. I will pay the nurse well
and help her away. But that original paper must come to me.
“Be sure to leave Mrs. Willoughby’s garments where the nurse could
easily reach them—no one shall suspect you. I’ll hold you safe—it is
our own secret. Alberg will, of course, raise a devil of a row about the
nurse clearing out, and robbing him, but only after she is gone.”
“And my mistress. Mon Dieu! But, how I fear her!” faltered the
trembling Justine.
“Nonsense. The woman comes down here to-day. She will get her
orders from me. You can put this blank envelope with its paper filling
back in the corset, so that Mrs. Willoughby will feel that something is
there. And, now, about tapping her telephone and telegraph wires.”
Justine had finished a glass of wine when she sprang to her feet.
“To-day is the day of days. The janitor, August Helms, is all ready to
tie on the wires to tap her telegraph and telephone. Come up to the
Circassia at noon. I will take you into his room by the back way. He
has arranged all with Mulholland, one of the two letter-carriers, to
always delay Mrs. Willoughby’s mail by one delivery. Mulholland can
hold them all for himself to handle. And, Helms, in his room, will then
open and copy any we need. He is a German adept in letter
opening.”
“You are a genius, Justine,” cried Vreeland. “You can bring Helms
down to your own room in South Fifth Avenue and there you and I
together can square up with him. We must be two to his one. This is
the very day of days while she is fondly lingering at Lakemere with
her own oldest lover.
“And now, my girl, take a good look around my den and then get out
of here. It is too dangerous for us.
“For, you must never come here again. The janitor has sharp eyes.”
“Yes, and, the new ‘Mees Gairland’ is many evenings now, with that
little Kelly devil. Look out for them both. You can only trust me,”
nodded Justine, as she fled away, whispering, “I will come down into
the court of the Circassia and meet you, in the entrance, as if by
hazard at noon precisely. All you have to do is to silently follow me. I
will have that paper by midnight if I live and the nurse shall have the
blame.”
The rooms echoed to the laughter of hell as Vreeland’s fiery devil
whispered, “Victory!” He had at last solved the mystery of a
“business syndicate” which made him tremble as he feared its name
might escape his lips. The copied paper gave a list of names whose
publication would shake a nation’s counsels, and Garston’s name
was there.
So, tiger-like and triumphant, he waited for the hour to go and
arrange for his secret stealing of his dupe’s messages.
And, far away, at lonely Lakemere, where the trees now gleamed like
ghastly silver skeletons of summer’s glories, the winds wailed around
the silent mansion where Elaine Willoughby stood face to face with
the man who had come out of her dead past, an apparition as grim
and awful to her as the rising of the sheeted dead.
It was the struggle to the death of two proud and world-hardened
hearts. The secret of her blighted youth was face to face with her
now. And, the shadow of a crime hung menacingly over James
Garston, the toga wearer. A statesman of a clouded past—a past
known only to the defiant woman facing him on her own battle-
ground.
“I find you here under a stolen name, facing the world, as a living lie.”
The woman’s scornful lips had lashed into his quivering heart.
Garston, bold-brave, reckless now with a mad tide of desire
sweeping over his reawakened heart, had seized her hands. He
cried, passionately: “And, I find my lost wife, the mother of our child,
here, a lovely, and a glowing truth.”
When he would have drawn her to him, she flung him off and
dropped, a shaken Niöbe, into a chair, with her stormy tears raining
over her beautiful, pallid face. That single word, “child,” had
disarmed her rising anger. For, she was facing one who knew all of
the sealed past.
“My child, my child,” she sobbed.