Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(47)

Jason and Cowboy are still in the game, at different tables for the last round before the finale. So is Ricky D, who has somehow landed at Jason’s table and is now playing him for the win. Abel and I hurry to the divider wall, and when my neck tingles as if I’m being watched, I glance to my right to find Mandy a foot away and staring at me. The instant she realizes I’m watching her in return, she waves. “Good luck,” she calls out, but what she means is “burn in hell,” and I don’t even repeat the fake nicety.

Instead, I face forward and watch Jason play, analyzing him as many people are, considering he’s now up on a huge television screen above the tables. And he is all cool confidence, unfazed by any card he glances at or any move his opponent makes. I love watching him like this, but I have nerves all over again, and I’m actually relieved when he’s replaced on that big screen by Cowboy.

Immediately after that a waitress brings Jason a Red Bull and he pays, but for some odd reason he looks down at his napkin, almost appearing to read something. He studies it one beat, two, then three, unmoving, unreacting, and yet . . . something is there. Something is off. I think . . . he’s not pleased. Seeming to confirm this fact, he balls up the napkin, and rather than tossing it, sticks it in his pocket.

“What the hell was that?” Abel murmurs.

“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to confirm he saw the same thing I did.

“There was something on the napkin the waitress handed him,” he says. “And whatever the hell it was, it made him blink. He doesn’t blink.”

He’s right. Whatever I just saw happen was Jason’s version of a blink. But right now, the cards are dealt, and I swear, I can barely breathe. Seconds tick by like hours, until finally, the game is over, Ricky D is out, and Jason wins. The minute Jason’s free, Daniel is by his side, and the two men lower their heads in conversation, but this is no celebration pow wow. And to Daniel’s credit, he’s now as completely unreadable and focused as Jason, perhaps now playing the role of manager, not the * I’ve seen to this point. They exchange words for a mere thirty seconds and once it’s over, Daniel goes one direction and Jason strides this way, and while he appears cool and collected, he’s told me he’s not free between games, and yet here he comes, and there is just something different about him. A longer step maybe? A straighter spine? Just . . . something.

“What the hell is happening?” Abel murmurs, standing as I do the same, and Jason motions us toward a barrier break way down at the other end of the room, beyond the bleachers.

Inhaling, I hurry along beside Abel, concern balling in my chest. I’d really like to think this is as simple as Daniel having issues with me again, but based on the exchange I witnessed, I simply don’t believe that to be the case. Thankfully, walking away from the crowd, we avoid any interruptions, and Jason is waiting on us at the end of our path, his expression still totally unreadable. He steps to me immediately, his arm wrapping my shoulder, and while I’m relieved he hasn’t put distance between us, I have this odd sense he wants me close to protect me. Why would he need to protect me?

“Daniel wants you to find him,” he instructs Abel. “He’s already outside the event room and he has his cell phone with him.”

Abel narrows his eyes on Jason, the two having some sort of silent exchange, to which Abel’s only reply is, “Done,” before he turns and starts walking back toward the bleachers.

Jason immediately puts us in action in the other direction, heading toward a side door not open to the public. “What’s going on?” I ask.

“Wait until we’re someplace private and I’ll explain everything.”

Not good—and I instantly know this is related to the blackmail. We exit the event room into a private hallway and head to the left and then left again, and a million questions punch through my mind. Fortunately our path is short, and we’re already stopping at a VIP lounge. Jason opens the door, releasing me to allow me to enter the lobby. A receptionist behind a high wood and glass desk asks, “Can I help you?”

Jason joins me, his hand covering mine. “She’s with me,” he says, leading me to the right, and then immediately right again to enter a narrow hallway with a good half dozen doors, one of which he opens, motioning me forward.

Entering what turns out to be a private sleep room with a leather recliner, I turn to face Jason as he shuts us inside. He reaches for me and turns me, pressing my back to the wall, his big body crowding mine but not touching me. “I should never have brought you here,” he says, one of his hands settling on the hard surface by my head.

“What?” I breathe out, feeling that abrupt statement like a punch to the chest, embarrassment and something else I can’t name assailing me. “I don’t understand. If you don’t want me here, I said—”

“I do want you here, Skye. Me wanting you isn’t the question here, and I’ve tried to make that crystal clear. But I was a selfish prick for acting on my attraction to you right now, without considering how I might get you attention you don’t need.” He pushes off the wall and removes the napkin from his pocket, offering it to me.

Taking it, I open it and glance down to read: Your bitch is now going down with you. This is getting fun. “You have to be kidding me,” I say, crumpling the napkin in my hand, my anger hitting fast and hard. “I’m being used against you?”