Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(51)

“I’m supposed to be watching out for you,” he says.

“What’s Davie’s deal?” I ask, my voice low. “He was staring at me.”

He snorts. “He’s probably trying to figure out how to turn you and Jason into television ratings. He’s known for pulling stunts.”

“What kind of stunts?” I ask, putting Davie on my blackmail radar.

“He once egged on an argument between two players that turned into a fistfight and was picked up by a hot gossip website. The next show they both played on had huge ratings. And if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, he’s not behind Jason’s situation.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because Jason’s winning streak makes for killer ratings. Fans either want him to keep winning or they want him to lose, and they watch to see both.”

I take that in, refocusing on Jason, but Davie is still on my mind. He’s dating Mandy, who wants her brother to win, while he wants Jason to win. How does that work out? I’m still pondering that when the news conference is over fifteen minutes later. The crowd breaks apart, though one reporter corners Jason and Cowboy.

As I wait eagerly for Jason, the group I’ve met today gathers around me: Mandy, Davie, Abel, and finally Sheila, who glowers at me.

“I guess you aren’t as special to him as I’d hoped,” she snaps irritably. “You darn sure didn’t distract him.”

“Way to be a bitch,” Abel replies. “We all know you’re just being you, but she doesn’t. And it’s damn sure not her problem: Cowboy fell for the same trap Jason set for him a month ago.”

“The war between those two is making for damn good ratings,” Davie says, looking beyond pleased, and he’s not at all the creepy guy he seemed a few minutes ago. Did I imagine that?

Mandy sighs, shoving blond hair from her eyes. “I guess it’s too much for me to ask my brother to actually get in the game.”

“What the hell do you think I’m doing?” Ricky D asks, coming up behind her. “Sucking my thumb?”

Ouch, I think, cringing, while Sheila touches my arm and says, “Sorry. I’m used to the regulars who take things on the chin. I hate losing. I admit it.”

“I take things on the chin,” I say. “And I hate losing, too, so I get it.” I smile. “But don’t be a bitch.”

She laughs. “I’ll try.”

Jason breaks away from the reporter still holding Cowboy captive, only to have Daniel step in front of him, and I watch them, looking for any signs of trouble.

“Earth to Skye,” Mandy says.

I blink and look at her. “Yes. Sorry. Did you ask me something?”

“Where are you from?”

A simple question with a complicated answer. “I live in San Francisco, like Jason.”

Luckily, that satisfies her. “How did you meet Jason?”

“Random paths crossing,” I say. “Right time, right place, I guess.”

Jason is suddenly standing beside me, his arm sliding around my shoulders. “Did I warn you about Sheila’s mouth?” he asks, his hips aligned with mine, instant heat shimmering through my body.

“She did, actually,” I say, wondering how this man can feel so comfortably right when I’ve only just met him.

“You’re a bastard, Jason,” Sheila spits. “You know that?”

“So you tell me, every time I match up with Cowboy.”

“A bigger one than ever tonight,” she adds.

“Let’s go drink off this hellish night,” Cowboy says, appearing by Sheila’s side, his eyes meeting Jason’s. “You bastard, I need a tequila.”

“Someone listening in would think my name was Bastard,” Jason says dryly. “I never thought you’d actually go balls to the wall again, man. I just pulled that shit on you last month. You beat you. I didn’t.”

“Yeah,” Cowboy concedes. “I know.” He scrubs his jaw and shoves back his hat. “But you won. You buy my tequila.”

“I’ll owe you,” Jason says. “Skye and I flew in today and it’s been a long day. We’re calling it a night.”

“You whupped my ass after you flew in today,” Cowboy snaps. “So yes—go away and take the salt for my wounds with you.”

Jason laughs and gives everyone a mock salute, turning us away from the group and setting us in motion toward the door.

“I was starting to think your name was Bastard too,” I tease.

“Cowboy’s a damn good player,” he says. “He wins against everyone but me, and I beat him because I have his number. I know his tell signs, even with his sunglasses.”

He maneuvers us into a hallway and toward the casino. “Like what?” I ask, curious now—intrigued, even.

“He presses two fingers to his temple when he’s got a bad hand.”

We step into the main casino. “Every time?”

“Every damn time. And I know this because he plays a hell of a lot more televised games than I do, which I watch. And I guarantee you the regulars are watching me and looking for my giveaways, too—but I don’t have any.”

“Why is that? How is that possible?”