Page 7 of Ace's Winning Hand
Still, it feels wrong to stay locked in my suite. I’m in a new city, which is exactly what I wanted, and I’ve committed to saying yes. I could have said no to Kenneth; maybe I should have. But I’m here now and I need to embrace it.
I change out of my travel clothes, which are always casual, and pull a dress on. My eyes flick over the clothing waiting for me to wear during the tournament. Thankfully, they are relatively modest, but flashy enough to be noticed on camera and have people wondering what I’m wearing.
When I step off the elevator, I head toward one of the many bars. A drink is the perfect way to start out the night, and it’ll give me a chance to figure out what to do next. I’m not really looking forward to exploring the casino. That’s a lot of flashing lights, sounds, and people.
It’s a damn good thing I can keep my face neutral because inside the cringe is epic.
Even withthe fancy setting, the whole scene borders on garish.
When I step up to the bar, I’m glad to find it quieter and the lighting moodier. It’s not as jarring as everything outside. Maybe I could even blend in here.
As I glance around, I realize that might be wishful thinking. No one rushes up to me, but I’ve been spotted, if the whispers, furtive glances, and longer stares are anything to go by. I turn my back to the room and force a smile at the bartender whose eyes light up slightly.
I’m used to that reaction.
“What can I get for you?” His voice is smooth and I’m relieved when he doesn’t comment on who I am.
“Midori sour, please,” I order with a small smile.
“Comin’ right up,” he tries to charm me, the smirk on his face telling me everything I need to know about him.
And I’m not interested in what he’s selling. I think that my team wouldn’t let me hear the end of it if I hooked up with a Vegas bartender. I can already see the photos I never consented to, and a story that has no business being public, being splashed all over the damn place.
When he pushes my drink toward me on the top of the bar, my mouth tips down into something that might be a frown if I was behind closed doors. It’s a sad existence when you can never trust the interactions you have with other people. Every second is filled with questions which will remain unanswered.
Do they have an ulterior motive? Are they just waiting to sell a story to some off market tabloid? Will they post something on social media for their own clout? What kind of judgement are they handing out to me as if I’m not human, regardless of my celebrity status?
“Thank you,” I keep my voice sweet and I swear his eyes twinkle.
It’s a shame, he’s an attractive guy. But I can’t trust it.
Movement next to me has my body stiffening. The bartender’s eyes flick over to whomever has sat down. His eyebrows pinch together before his face smooths out again. His smile is forced now and doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Hammond Whiskey on the rocks,” a man orders next to me.
I recognize his voice. I’ll be honest, I’m not thrilled to hear it.
“Hey there, Quincy,” Aaron Holt teases next to me, “still pissed at me?”
My shoulders tense, my tone going glacial, “What are you doing here?”
One side of his mouth kicks up, but it’s not quite a smirk. He nods toward the bartender when his drink arrives, and he takes a sip before looking back at me.
“I’m playing in the tournament,” he informs me, his tone hinting that I should have already been aware of the answer.
Since I wasn’t aware, I mask my surprise. Not fast enough considering the way he shrugs as if answering an unspoken question, one I wasn’t aware was even on the tip of my tongue.
My sigh is long and weary. “I’m not pissed at you, Aaron. I never was. I’m just not interested in playing games and doing the whole fake relationship for the press thing. The fact that it was suggested right after you shot a movie with Margot, where there were rumors about you two before she was swept off her feet by a former SEAL, just made it feel grosser. I don’t know if you had something to do with it and I don’t care.”
Understanding washes over his face and some of the cockiness he was wearing like armor evaporates. His eyes turn solemn in a way I’ve never seen before, even when he’s acting.
“I didn’t ask anyone to reach out to your people,” he sounds sincere, but I’m not sure I can trust his words. “I wasn’t thrilled with the suggestion either.”
“Because you can get your own date?” The question is a challenge, complete with an arched eyebrow and too much curiosity for how he’s going to answer.
His head tips back as he laughs. When he looks back at me, amusement dances in his eyes. “I can definitely get my own date.”
When his eyes move over my shoulder, I don’t have to look. His eyes find mine again and he winks before he stands with his drink.
