McKettrick's Luck (31 page)

Myrna nodded and vanished again, shutting the door behind her.

Cheyenne blew on the Lilliputian camera, like a gunfighter blowing the smoke from the barrel of a pistol, and dropped the thing into a desk drawer.

“Where could she have gotten something like that?” she whispered.

Mitch grinned. “On the Internet, of course,” he said. “$19.95 plus postage and handling. Are you really going to report her to Keegan?”

Cheyenne sighed, deflated. “I don't know,” she replied.

“You don't have to whisper,” Mitch told her. “The mic was attached to the camera.”

“Why would anybody want to spy on me?” She didn't care if Myrna overheard that one, through some bug they hadn't discovered yet. She intended to ask her about it straight out, when they got a private moment.

“For fun?” Mitch suggested.

Cheyenne remembered Jesse feeding her morsels of sweet-and-sour chicken. Remembered the wager they'd made, and all the talk about full penetration.

“Yikes,” she muttered, wincing.

Mitch changed the subject with abrupt good cheer. “Keegan's having the Escalade fitted for a lift,” he told her. “That way, we can ride to work together.”

“Sounds good,” Cheyenne said, feeling better in spite of discovering the camera in the panda bear and losing Jesse and all the rest of it. “Ready to go home?”

Mitch nodded. “Rance said to back the Escalade up to the loading dock under the building. That way, we can just roll the chair inside.”

“Great idea,” Cheyenne replied. “I guess that's why they pay him the big bucks.” It still left the problem of hoisting Mitch up into the passenger seat, but with her help, he could probably manage.

“That and because he's part owner,” Mitch said. “Let's get a move on, sis. I have a hot date with Bronwyn tonight. We're going to a drive-in movie.”

Cheyenne laughed. “Well, I wouldn't want to interfere with your social life or anything.”

As she closed her office door a couple of minutes later, she noticed that Travis's was still shut, and low voices came from inside. Jesse was still with him, then. For a moment, Cheyenne devoutly wished she'd planted a few panda-cams of her own, à la Myrna, so she'd know what was going on.

Myrna gave her a guilty glance as she passed the reception desk with Mitch, headed for the elevator.

Mitch pushed the button, and while they waited, Cheyenne approached Myrna, meaning to ask the burning question.

She didn't get the chance because the elevator arrived and because Myrna cut her off with an urgent whisper. “Jesse's paying that woman a million dollars,” she said, “and he's going camping on the ridge for who knows how long.”

B
EFORE
C
HEYENNE COULD
respond to Myrna's announcement about the million dollars and the camping trip, she heard Jesse and Travis talking in the hallway.

Unable to face Jesse and endure being freeze-dried again, Cheyenne dashed to the elevator, where Mitch was waiting, impatiently holding it open. She jabbed at the close button with her thumb. As the doors shut, Jesse appeared and their gazes collided, like a pair of heat-seeking missiles over a war zone.

“Sooner or later,” Mitch said looking up at her, “you're going to have to work this out.”

“No, I'm not,” Cheyenne argued. “Why is this thing so slow?”

They reached the loading dock, finally, and the doors whisked open.

Jesse was standing squarely in front of them, his eyes as glacial as ever—until they dropped to Mitch's upturned face.

“Hey, buddy,” he said.

“Hey,” Mitch replied.

“I thought you might need a little help getting into the Escalade,” Jesse told Mitch. Cheyenne might have been invisible, for all the notice he gave her.

“He doesn't need—” Cheyenne began.

Mitch nudged her. “That'd be great, Jesse,” he said.

Cheyenne suppressed a sigh, produced her keys and rushed off to get the Escalade from the parking lot. A couple of minutes later, she was backing up to the waist-high concrete slab where trucks unloaded office supplies, equipment and the like.

Meanwhile, Mitch descended the ramp alongside the stairs and reached to open the door of the Escalade on the passenger side.

“Watch this, Jesse,” he said.

Jesse folded his arms, one side of his mouth quirking in a wan grin. “I'm watching,” he answered.

Mitch strained, got hold of the inside door handle and hauled himself up into the seat. He was sweating, and he'd gone pale, but he looked so pleased with the accomplishment that Cheyenne's heart threatened to split right down the middle.

It occurred to her that the sensation might have more to do with Jesse being there than Mitch's newfound ability to get into a big SUV without help, but she instantly dismissed the idea. Hurried up the stairs onto the dock to raise the hatch on the back of the Escalade.

“Excellent,” Jesse said. Again, his attention was solely for Mitch. “I hear you signed on with the outfit.”

Mitch nodded proudly. “Thanks for putting in a good word with Keegan and Rance,” he said.

Cheyenne went still to the very core of her being. He was thanking
Jesse? She
was the one who'd stuck her neck out.

“Not a problem,” Jesse answered.

He was taking the credit.

Cheyenne simmered, tapped one foot in suppressed exasperation. The sound echoed in the empty chamber like a series of gunshots.

“Guess we'd better go,” Mitch said, suddenly uncomfortable.

Jesse nodded, pushed the chair back up the ramp to the loading dock, elbowed Cheyenne aside, still without the slightest acknowledgment of her presence, and shoved it into the back.

Cheyenne fully intended never to speak to Jesse again. Two could play at the freeze-out game, after all.

“Jesse,” she said instead.

He wouldn't look at her.

She repeated his name.

He slammed the hatch down, turned and walked away, without so much as a glance in her direction. She might have been a disembodied spirit, a dead person, caught between heaven and earth, trying in vain to communicate with a living one.

That was certainly how she felt.

She would not go after him.

She
would not.

Oh, but she wanted to. She wanted to pound on his back with her fists. She wanted to yell. Make him turn around and look at her. Make him—

What?

She drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders and walked down the ramp. Got inside the Escalade and started the engine.

“What did you
do
to him?” Mitch asked.

Cheyenne shoved the SUV into gear and peeled out with a screech of tires. “What did
I
do to
him?
”

“It's got to be more than the Nigel thing. He is
seriously
pissed.”

Cheyenne slammed on the brakes at the exit leading up into the parking lot and onto the street. “Now, you listen to me, Mitch Bridges! I don't want to hear another
word
about Jesse
or
Nigel! Not
another word!
”

“Whoa,” Mitch said, awed.

Cheyenne laid her forehead against the steering wheel, fighting another attack of tears. “I'm sorry, Mitch,” she whispered. “I'm sorry.”

He reached out, patted her back in a tentative, little-brother way. “You know why he's so mad, Chey?” he asked. “I just figured it out. It's because he cares so much.”

Cheyenne sniffled. Lifted her head. Drove on.

“Chey?” Mitch persisted.

“I heard what you said, Mitch. I'm simply choosing to ignore it.”

“Why?”

“Because it isn't true.”

“That's what you think,” Mitch replied, very quietly. “When Jesse and I went riding, all he talked about was you. He wanted to know what your favorite color was, and whether or not you liked horror movies. That kind of stuff.”

“He was just making conversation. Being polite. And besides, I thought we weren't going to talk about Jess—him.”

Mitch sighed, and it was such a sad sound that Cheyenne turned to look at him. “Except for Mom,” he said, “Jesse's the first person in a long time who believed I could do something besides play video games on my laptop.”

“Mitch, I didn't mean—”

“Yes, you did. And I just want to go home, okay? I've already stood Bronwyn up once. She won't understand if I do it again.”

Cheyenne glanced into the rearview mirror, saw Jesse's truck behind her. An overwhelming loneliness rose up inside her, swelling, threatening to tear her apart.

“I wouldn't want to interfere with your love life,” she said stiffly.

“At least I have one,” Mitch countered.

Cheyenne let the remark pass.

Drove down the main street of Indian Rock, Arizona, as if she didn't have a care in the world. All the while, though, she was painfully conscious of Jesse, following at a distance.

Maybe he was having second thoughts.

Maybe he would be willing to talk things over, like a rational human being. They could go their separate ways afterward, that was inevitable, but at least there would be some closure.

Cheyenne was desperate for closure.

There had been too many loose ends in her life.

She turned off when she came to her road.

Jesse went right on by.

C
HEYENNE HATED CASINOS
.

Hated the noise, the sense of underlying desperation. The greed.

Most of all, she hated poker.

Now, here she was on a Saturday afternoon in June, set to play in a tournament. Her friends, Sierra, Elaine and Janice, were all counting on her to win. Run this gauntlet and carry the torch to Las Vegas.

She closed her eyes for a moment.

Elaine moved close, whispered, “You can do this, Cheyenne. For the clinic.”

“For us,” Janice added.

Only Sierra seemed uncertain. Little wonder, given that her wedding was one week away. She was probably wondering why she'd ever gotten involved in something this hopeless.

Cheyenne was wondering the very same thing—about herself.

She took a wary step toward the thirty or so preliminary tables, set up in a corner of the busy casino and officially roped off.

Was Jesse around?

God, she hoped not. Hoped he was still on the ridge, where Myrna had said he'd gone, doing whatever it was he did up there. Hoped he
wasn't,
too, because it had rained every night since the last time she'd seen him, on the loading dock at McKettrickCo. A man could come down with pneumonia, getting drenched like that.

Raining outside. Raining
inside.

Cheyenne felt saturated, sodden through to the center of her heart.

“Just do your best,” Sierra whispered

Cheyenne nodded.

Her best wasn't going to be good enough, that was the problem. Sure, she knew the game, but mostly as an observer. She had a passion for it, equal and entirely opposite to Jesse's.

She despised it. Wished it had never been invented.

Just one more reason why she'd been a complete idiot to fall for Jesse McKettrick.

She'd come to terms with that much, at least. She'd played with fire, and she'd been burned. She was in love with Jesse, had been since she was a kid, tacking pictures to the wall of her bedroom.

It was just as hopeless now as it had been back then.

End of story.

She and the others signed in at the registration desk, pinned on their name tags, found their widely separated tables, moving between other milling dreamers. Cheyenne had hoped to sit with Sierra. Instead, she found herself among strangers.

She ignored the others at her table—they all seemed to know each other—and sat looking down at her interlaced fingers, longing to get through this day. Put it behind her, along with all the other days she wanted to forget.

Her dad's voice spoke suddenly inside her head.
Things are never so bad they can't get worse, kiddo.

Startled, Cheyenne looked up.

Jesse was sitting directly across from her. His eyes burned into hers.

Instinct said,
Run!

Pride said,
Stay.

What did she really have to lose? She was zero-for-nothing as it was.

So she went with pride. Lifted her chin, straightened her spine. Waited out the first deal.

Jesse took the hand, with pocket aces. It didn't seem to please him, though. He looked grim, like some lesser, scruffier version of his old self, sitting there in a baseball cap and a plain navy-blue sweatshirt. His face was gaunt and he needed a shave.

Cheyenne shook off the impressions, along with the tenderness those stirred in her.

He was the enemy.

Jesse didn't need to play in the early rounds to enter the Vegas tournament; he was the defending champion, which meant he was comped in, with his entry fees paid, a free suite and God only knew what other perks. There was only one reason for him to be here, in a local casino, on a rainy Saturday afternoon, and that was to bring her down. Knock her out of the running, just to prove he could.

Adrenaline surged through Cheyenne's system.
Damn
him, if he thought she was going to slink away like a kicked dog. Most likely, he'd beat her—he was, after all, a shark—but not without a fight.

Her focus intensified. Everything she knew about poker came back in a rush of dizzying clarity.

She met and held his gaze.

Bring it on,
she told him silently.

He gave a semblance of a grin, as if he'd heard the thought. Then he nodded.

Cheyenne survived the first round.

So did Jesse.

She hung in through the second, too, with a back-to-the-wall determination to stay alive.

Jesse came with her.

All afternoon, it went that way. Players fell away, including Elaine, Janice and Sierra, who were now clustered together on the other side of the fat velvet rope marking off the battleground. Mitch and Ayanna were somewhere in the crowd, too. Ayanna didn't approve of poker any more than Cheyenne did, but she wanted to lend moral support.

The games wore on.

Finally, at seven o'clock in the evening, they were down to the final table.

Cheyenne. A man who looked like a truck driver. An old woman with blue hair. A biker, with a bald head and tattoos up both arms.

And Jesse.

Cheyenne began to sweat, on the inside, where it didn't show.

She figured she could take the truck driver. He was nervous, despite an outward pretense of calm. The tells were there, in the tick under his right eye and the way he tapped his fingertips on the table between hands.

The old woman was harder to read. She wore wire-rimmed glasses and a cotton print dress, and looked as though she might have left a pot of jelly simmering on the stove at home.

The biker cared too much. He leaned slightly forward in his chair and constantly fiddled with his dwindling stack of chips.

And then there was Jesse.

Cool.

Quiet.

Totally in control.

God, how she wanted to beat him.

The biker went broke first, then the truck driver.

The old woman held on, then went all in on a bluff.

Jesse called.

Granny went down.

Cheyenne waited for her cards. Internally, she was a jabbering mess, and Jesse might have been picking up on that, but she'd learned a few things from her dad. One of them was never to reveal any emotion at all, not at the poker table, anyway.

She got a two and a four, off-suit.

The flop was three queens.

She was screwed, unless another two and four came up. Then she'd have a full house.

She could fold, but then Jesse, being the only other player still in the game, would take the pot by default. He had three times as many chips as she did as it was, and another win would put him in an unassailable position. The blinds were steep by then, and the next one would clean her out.

She shoved in a small stack of chips. Out of the corner of one eye, she caught sight of Mitch and her mother, watching from the sidelines. Ayanna put one hand to her mouth.

The turn came down, and it was a four of clubs.

Cheyenne didn't move a muscle, but her heart was pounding.

Jesse raised the stakes, quietly relentless. There was blood in the water, and he knew it. He was circling in for the kill.

Cheyenne matched his bet.

The river, the fifth card, was a jack of spades, useless to Cheyenne.

Jesse sat back in his chair. Smiled a little.

Damn him. He had the other queen.

He went all in.

Cheyenne did the same, knowing there was no way in hell she could take the pot, unless Jesse was bluffing. Even if he was and she won, she'd have to surrender most of the chips to make up for the disparity in their bets.

He wasn't bluffing. He had the fourth queen.

Cheyenne left her cards facedown, which was her prerogative, and pushed back her chair to stand.

Jesse stood, too, seemingly oblivious to the applause, and the exuberant man who appeared at his side with a microphone.

After all, Jesse McKettrick was used to winning.

No big deal.

Calling on all the dignity she possessed, Cheyenne turned and walked away. As she passed Sierra, Elaine and Janice, who were staring at her in awe, as though she'd just parted the Red Sea, as though she'd
won,
she shook her head.

She didn't want them to follow her.

Didn't want
anyone
to follow her.

All she wanted was a few minutes alone.

She spotted a side exit and headed for it. Stepped outside into a drizzling, chilly rain. It was dark, and the lights on the side of the building seemed muted.

The door opened behind her.

“Cheyenne?”

She didn't have to turn around. It was Jesse. He'd come to gloat, of course.

“Go away,” she said without looking at him. “You won. You're a better player than I am.”

He stepped in front of her, hooked a finger under her chin, so she had to look at him. “Is that why you think I came? To take you down?”

She swallowed. “Why else would you do it?”

“Because I love the game. Maybe because I love—”

Cheyenne's heart stopped. “Don't,” she whispered.

“Cheyenne, will you listen to me?”

“No.”

He kissed her, lightly. Cheyenne was electrified.

“I figured out one thing, while I was up there on the ridge feeling sorry for myself, Cheyenne,” he said. “I love you. I think you love me. So what if we start over? Play with a new deck?”

“You
lied
to me.”

“That makes us even,” Jesse said.

“You could have told me about Brandi.”

“I know,” he answered. “I'm sorry.”

She blinked. “You are?”

“Yes.” He waited.

“I tried to tell you about Nigel.”

Jesse nodded. “I know,” he repeated. “I guess I just didn't want to hear it.”

Stubbornly, Cheyenne folded her arms. It was cold out and, besides, she had a dangerous impulse to throw them around Jesse's neck and hang off him like a groupie at a rock concert. “I still don't understand why you didn't mention a little thing like
being married.
”

“I didn't think of it as a marriage, Cheyenne,” Jesse answered. “Brandi and I were together for a week. It's not as if we had any kind of a history together, or kids. It was a sexcapade.”

“Very colorful. Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He grinned. “No. But I can think of a couple of other things that might do the trick.”

Cheyenne opened her mouth to speak, but before a word came out, she saw a shadow move behind Jesse. There was another flash of motion, then a sickening thunk. Jesse's eyes went blank, and he crumpled at her feet.

 

“C
HEATING BASTARD
,” said one of the two men Cheyenne had seen in the back room at Lucky's, when Jesse had signaled her, with a single look, that things were about to go south in a hurry.

The assailant was holding a crowbar, and the other man had a knife.

Cheyenne stepped between them and Jesse, who was bleeding at the back of his head and groaning. She had no weapons, nothing but rage.

“Step aside,” Crowbar man said. “We're not through with him yet.”

“Security!” a woman's voice screamed in the thrumming void that buzzed around Cheyenne like a swarm of invisible bees. “Somebody get security!”

Ayanna.

“Like we're afraid of a bunch of casino cops,” scoffed Crowbar man. He shoved Cheyenne aside, sending her crashing against a Dumpster, and raised the steel bar over Jesse with both hands.

Acting on primitive instinct, and nothing else, Cheyenne scrambled toward Jesse's prone form, intending to cover him, absorb the blow herself, anything.

She was nearly run over in the process.

By Mitch's wheelchair.

He zoomed into Crowbar man, mowed him down, screaming like a warrior in the midst of battle.

Crowbar man shrieked in pain and terror, and his buddy dropped his knife, whirled and ran.

Mitch probably would have backed over Crowbar man if Ayanna hadn't stopped him. Meanwhile, Jesse sat up, dazed, bloody and grinning like an idiot.

Security swarmed around them, radios crackling.

Cheyenne crawled to Jesse, threw her arms around him.

Sobbed with relief.

“Your brother is a good man to have around in a fight,” Jesse said, close to her ear. With one hand, he plucked the pins from her hair, so it fell down around her shoulders.