Over in the kitchen, Stevie the Skunk sifted through a plate of fresh-baked cookies, scarfing down another one. She had no idea who’d baked cookies for a rigged card game, but maybe it was his mama or his wife. Or maybe it was his colleague. There was a new guy with him, a baby-faced fellow named Max with gray eyes and a barrel-like body. Perhaps he was a trainee of Skunk’s, Julia had mused when she’d met him before the game. No gun on his ankle yet, though. Maybe he hid it elsewhere.

Hunter surprised her by grabbing two chips and dropping them in the pile. “Time to show the cards. Lucky sevens,” he said with a lopsided grin, all confidence and bravado now. She wondered if his tutor would pat him on the back for that move, and say good boy. She wondered if she cared what his tutor thought. She decided she didn’t. All she wanted was that money, so badly she was damn near salivating for it. All those black beauties in the pile would bring her a touch closer to freedom from Charlie’s thumb, and his knife, and his goon who followed her around with a gun.

She laid down her hand, revealing her pair of tens. Hunter nodded once, all steely-eyed and cool at first. But when Julia pulled the chips over to her corner of the table, he pointed a finger at her. She raised her eyes, mildly curious.

Hunter didn’t speak at first. She could see the cogs in his head turning, like he was adding, multiplying and dividing.

“You don’t play like the rest of them,” he said in an even voice.

“You don’t say,” she replied, emotionless.

“You play like a shark. I see it in your eyes. I know that look. I’m a venture capitalist. I have that look every day when I take a risk. You’re the same.”

“Just call me a VC then,” she said as she stacked her chips, keeping her hands steady even though her heart was thumping.

“You’re not just a player,” he said, with narrowed eyes.

“Call me a player. Call me not a player. I don’t care. Why don’t you just deal the next hand?” she said, keeping her cool as best she could.

Skunk looked up from the cookies when he heard the chatter. This was more talking than usual for this kind of a game.

“No,” he said, shaking his head as he rose. “I’m not gonna deal. You’re a fucking ringer, aren’t you?”

Stevie the Skunk took the reins. He ambled over to the table and pressed his big hands on the wood. “What’s going on? We all playing nice?”

“No. She’s a ringer and this game is rigged. I knew something was up the first time, and I know it for sure now,” he said, pointing his finger accusingly at the big man. Max marched closer but kept his distance, watching the scene.

Julia’s blood raced along the speedways in her body, panic galloping through her veins. She had a sinking feeling about what was coming next, and she was right. Skunk reached for his gun with a speed she’d never imagined the lumbering man possessed. “Get the fuck out,” he said coolly to Hunter. “And you’re not welcome at the restaurant, either.”

“I was right,” Hunter said, practically hopping in righteousness.

Julia clamped her lips shut so she wouldn’t shout, “What did you think it was? What the hell else could this game possibly be?”

“Charlie told me it was an executive game, but it’s not,” he insisted and he must have been the ballsiest VC in the Valley because he wasn’t leaving.

Stevie waved the gun. “Was there something unclear about what I said? Because it sounded clear to me. But if you’re having trouble hearing, I’m happy to head on down to the local precinct tonight and make sure my friends on the force know that you put your fucking hands all over this woman here,” he said, gripping Julia’s shoulder with his free paw, in a gesture that felt both strangely protective and thoroughly invasive. “And I’ve got witnesses who’ll vouch for me, right?”

The chiseled-cheekbone guy nodded along with the sporting goods fella.

The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she was oddly grateful for Skunk, and disgusted at the same time. He’d protected her, but he’d really protected Charlie’s investment. And he’d done it in the same way Charlie had subverted her for his uses—by betting on her being a woman. By betting on men underestimating her at cards, and now by suggesting she was a helpless little lady who’d been manhandled.

Hunter grabbed his few remaining chips. “I’m cashing out.”

“No you’re not. You’re getting out. That’s your penalty for disrupting the game. Out,” Skunk said in a low and powerful tone, pointing to the door.

Hunter held up his hands, huffed out through his nostrils. “You won’t be seeing the last of me.”

He left, the sound of his footsteps echoing as he clomped down the stairs.

* * *

Charlie glared at her. “What did you say to him?”

“I didn’t say a thing.”

“What did you say that made him figure it out?” Charlie pressed, dropping his chopsticks next to his plate of pork dumplings at the Chinese restaurant underneath the apartment where the game was held. The restaurant was empty. It had closed an hour ago.

“I told you. Nothing.”

“I don’t need all of the VCs knowing our game is rigged. He and his friends come to my restaurant every Friday for lunch. Their employees eat here too,” he said, stabbing the table with a finger. “I had some of his friends from Steiner Hawkins coming to the next game. They just sold a social media startup they backed for $50 million. They are flush with cash. You know what that means?”

Julia shook her head, fear rippling across her chest. “No.”

Charlie pushed back from the table and rose. He stalked closer to Julia, forcing her to back up against the wall. He crowded her, caging her in with his hands on each side of her head.

“Let me explain what it means, Red,” he said, spitting the words on her face. “It means they’re not coming. They’re not playing my game. It means I won’t get their money. And that also means the next time you play, you take a fall.”

“What?” She furrowed her brow in disbelief. “How does that help any of us?”

“It sends the word to the street that my games are fair. You take a fall. And you are in my debt, Red.”

“I won tonight,” she said, trying to insist. “I won $6,000. I’m close. I’m almost there.”

“You didn’t win $6,000,” he said breathing on her. The scent of fried pork coming from his mouth curled her stomach. “You cost me $6,000.”

She wanted to sink to the ground, to crouch down and hug her knees and curl up in a corner. She felt like she’d been smashed with an anvil. Every time she got closer, he moved the finish line.

“It’s not even my debt,” she said, her voice bordering on begging.

“It is your debt. I have seen your pretty little bar, with your pretty little bartenders, and my pretty little money that you put into it. And let me remind you of what happens if you ever think I will forget that you owe me.”

He grabbed her by the hair and yanked. She stifled a scream, and her mind flashed to how different it felt when Clay pulled her hair or boxed her in against the wall. When he did those things it was fair and it was wanted, and it was part of the way they played with each other. There was no game with Charlie. He played to hurt, and he gripped her hair so tight she believed he had the strength to tug it right off her scalp.

He jerked her through the empty restaurant, out the door and into the foggy night, then down the block, stopping in front of a pub. He let go of her hair, and she wanted to cry with relief. “This bar? See this bar? Picture it as yours. It’s Cubic Z, and if we’re not clear by the end of the next month, it’s mine.”

“No!” she said, trembling from head to toe. She had employees; she had a co-owner. She was responsible for them all, for their livelihood, even for the little baby growing in Kim’s belly.

“Yes,” he said with an evil smile as he nodded vigorously. “Yes, it will be mine, and I have not decided if it will be Charlie Z or if I will simply take great pleasure in running it into the ground and then having my way with you.” He stopped talking to coil a strand of her hair around his index finger. “I might be starting some new businesses with some very pretty women who can make money for me the old-fashioned way. Would you like that, Red? To be on your back?”

Every cell in her body screamed as fear plunged its way through her veins. “No,” she said, her voice shaking.

“I didn’t think so. Now get out of my sight.”

He turned her around and shoved her hard on her spine. In her skyscraper heels, she stumbled and the sidewalk loomed ominously close, but she gripped the doorway of the bar in time, and walked away from him. When she reached her building, she stopped at the mailboxes in the lobby and grabbed bills, flyers and coupons. She quickly sorted the letters, tossing credit-card offers and carpet-cleaning deals in the trash. Then she spotted a letter that would make any citizen groan.

From the IRS.

She slid her finger under the flap as she trudged up the stairs, wondering what the government could want from her. She paid her taxes on time every year. She unfolded the letter and scanned it—a letter of inquiry. The IRS was asking if she knew where Dillon Whittaker was living these days since he hadn’t filed his taxes for the year before.

She scoffed as she unlocked her door. If Charlie didn’t know where Dillon was, the IRS sure as hell wasn’t going to find him.

* * *

Later that night, the hot water from the shower rained down on her head and her mind returned to Dillon. When they’d met he seemed like the easygoing photographer, the funny guy with a quick wit, and a sweet word.