Fair Game (The Rules #1)(28)

“No, it’s not enough.” I keep my gaze focused on the road in front of me, speeding but not too much over the limit. “I just need to make a quick stop. It won’t take long.” Better not take long. I have way more important things to do.

Like Jade.

“Where?”

“There’s trouble at one of the tables,” I mutter, just under my breath, hoping she won’t hear me.

But she must have sonar hearing because she swivels in her seat, her arms dropping to her sides as she stares at me so hard, I bet she’s burning holes in my face. “You’re taking me back to that—gambling house? Oh God, no. I do not want to return to the scene of the crime.”

“The scene of the crime?” She’s hilarious. Says the craziest things.

“Yes. Where we met.” She stares at me with a look that says duh. “Remember?”

“Trust me. I remember every detail about that night.”

I can still feel her glaring at me and I’m tempted to say something else but I don’t. It’s best I leave it alone. Focus on driving. Focus on my anger towards Gabe because what the hell. Why can’t he take care of this problem? It’s not that big of a deal.

We arrive within minutes and I park the car out on the street, directly in front of the house. We make any and all so-called patrons of our establishment park down the street so as not to call too much attention and so far since we started this little side business two years ago, we’ve been successful in doing just that.

“I won’t be long,” I tell her as I put the car into park. “A few minutes, tops.”

“I’m staying in the car,” Jade says when I turn off the engine.

“Whatever. It’s your choice.” I don’t feel like arguing. We could go round and round in circles wasting precious time. Besides, she might be safer in the car. I have no idea what’s going on inside.

The moment I enter the house and see the six-foot-five gorilla sitting at the blackjack table with his meaty fingers curled around the edge of the table, his expression one of pure fury, I know it’s a huge deal. This guy is massive. Gigantic. With closely cropped dark brown hair and murder in his pale blue eyes, his face so red he looks ready to explode, all earlier plans of how to approach him evaporate.

“He’s been sitting like that for the past five minutes,” Gabe says out of the side of his mouth when I come to stand beside him. He’s leaning against the wall, his arms crossed in front of him, his gaze never leaving our subject. “Doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, just his face keeps getting redder and redder.”

“How much has he had to drink?” I evaluate the scene. No one else is currently sitting at the blackjack table. In fact, the entire place is pretty much empty, which is typical of a Sunday night. Business is usually slow. But not this slow.

“Plenty of beer. I don’t think that’s the problem though. He’s been in here before. I recognize him. Name’s Stan. Football player.” Gabe turns to look at me, his expression serious. “I think he’s on something.”

I frown. “Like what?” Drinking happens here. We encourage it. Makes everyone looser with their bets. Drugs? Can’t necessarily escape it because we’re in college and it feels like everyone’s doing drugs. Prescription medication, weed, and cocaine seem to be the drugs of choice lately, but we don’t usually have a problem with anyone getting out of control while under the influence.

“Coke,” Gabe says, shaking his head. “I just spoke to one of his friends. Says Stan here can get real angry sometimes when he’s done too much coke.”

“Fucking great,” I mutter as I start to head over to the table. The dealer—Patrick, great guy, a senior, sad to see him graduate—looks nervous as hell, his gaze skittering to mine briefly before he returns his attention to Stan the Gorilla. “Hey Stan. What’s the problem here?” I keep my voice light, my approach friendly. Don’t want to rile this guy up any more than he already is.

He blinks slowly, his eyes narrowing as he tips his head forward. “Who the f*ck are you?”

I wave a hand at Patrick. “Head on out, bro. I got this handled.”

Patrick doesn’t say a word, just scurries his skinny ass out of there like his jeans are on fire.

“I own this place,” I tell Stan, smiling at him. “And we’re just about ready to close down for the night so I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.”

I swear Stan’s fingers tighten even harder around the edge of the blackjack table. I hope like hell he doesn’t break it. “Fuck you,” he says, his voice slow and thick. “I’m not going anywhere, *. Need to win my money back before I leave.”

“Afraid you’ll have to come back another night to do that.” I reach out to grab his arm but he shrugs me off, his expression tight, his eyes dull. The dude is clearly wasted. “Come on, no need to be stubborn.”

“Fuck you and your pansy ass talk. I’m not leaving until I can play enough hands to win back the money I came here with,” he slurs, his head lolling to the side before he snaps back to attention.

Hell. How much did this guy drink? And how much coke did he do? Oh and… “How much did you lose?”

Stan smiles, his eyelids drooping. He looks ready to pass out. “Forty bucks.”