Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

Maybe that was right.

Or maybe that was horseshit.

He’d gambled because it was fun and because he could get away with it.

Then, when he got deep in hock, it stopped being fun. And he couldn’t get away with it anymore.

As he sat sipping his second beer, trying to make it last, he idly wondered how much money had been gambled on the outcome of this Rangers game. How much would his former business associates in the fancy Las Colinas office make off these nine innings? Plenty, you could be sure. The Vista boys had bookmakers all over the country working for them.

One less, now that Bill Bandy was no longer in their employ.

Griff hoped that sniveling little snitch was being slowly turned on a spit over the fieriest fire in hell.

“You got any money on it?”

Having been lost in thought, Griff turned his head to his right, to make sure he was the one being addressed. The man on the next stool was glaring at him, his upper lip raised in a belligerent smirk.

“Pardon?” Griff said.

“Ask him again.” A second man was standing behind the first. His truculent expression matched that of his friend, and his eyes were equally bloodshot from too much drink.

Calmly Griff said, “Ask me what?”

“I asked if you put any money on this game.” The one on the stool hitched his thumb toward the TV screen.

“No. I didn’t.” Griff turned away, hoping that would be the end of it.

“You don’t gamble anymore?”

Ignoring him, Griff reached for his beer.

The one on the stool jabbed his arm, causing him to slosh beer onto the bar. “Hey, asshole. Didn’t you hear me? I asked you a question.”

By now, those nearest to them had become aware of the cross words being exchanged. The music continued to blare through the speakers with palpable percussion. Action continued on the TV screen, but conversations were suspended as attention was directed toward them.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Griff said under his breath. “Why don’t you guys just back off, go somewhere and sober up, okay?” But he knew they weren’t going to simply walk away. The second one had moved up behind his barstool, crowding in close. Griff’s back was to him, but he sensed the man’s hostile, challenging stance.

He made eye contact with the bartender and motioned that he wanted his check. The bartender hastened over to a computerized cash register. Griff glanced across at the brunette who’d been flashing him. She was sucking her drink through a straw, watching him over the frosted glass. Her escort was looking at him, too.

The guy standing behind Griff’s barstool said, “I guess he only bets on the games he throws.”

“Fucking cheater.” The first guy jabbed his arm again, hard. “Fucking, fucking cheat-”

Griff’s hand shot out with the speed of a striking snake, grabbed the man’s wrist, and slammed it down onto the bar like the coup de grâce of an arm-wrestling match.

He howled in pain. The second one landed on Griff’s back like a mattress stuffed with lead. Griff came off his barstool and tried to shake the guy off. There was a noisy shuffling of feet as people hastily backed away. Somewhere a glass broke. Two bouncer types appeared and pulled the guy off Griff’s back. “Break it up.”

One of the bouncers pushed Griff’s shoulder, shoving him back several steps. Griff put up no resistance. He raised his hands. “I didn’t ask for any trouble. I didn’t want it.”

The two bouncers took firm hold of his hecklers and escorted them away. They protested drunkenly but were taken outside. But the show wasn’t over. All eyes remained on Griff, especially now that he’d been recognized. His whispered name moved through the crowd like a spreading stain.

The bartender presented his check. Before he could count out the bills to pay it, a young man in a fashionable suit materialized beside him. He was obviously the man in charge. “It’s on the house,” he said to the bartender, who nodded and retrieved the check.

Griff said, “Thanks.”

But the young man’s expression wasn’t hospitable. “I’m asking you to leave and not come back.”

Anger and embarrassment caused Griff’s face to grow hot. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I’m asking you to leave and not come back,” the young man repeated.

Griff stared at him for several seconds more, then pushed him aside and strode past. The crowd parted to clear a path. When he reached the door, one of the bouncers held it open for him. As Griff walked through, the bouncer muttered, “Cocksucking cheat.”

Outside, the air wrapped around Griff like a damp shroud. However, he would have had better luck throwing off the cloying, humid atmosphere than he would his anger. He’d been minding his own business, hurting nobody, and he’d been asked to leave and not come back by a guy wearing one of the shirts he’d passed over at Neiman’s because it looked too faggy.

Screw ’em. He’d had better burgers at Dairy Queen for a fraction of the cost, so what the fuck did he care, anyhow?

He cared because he’d been humiliated in front of people who used to cheer him. And going from a superstar of the Dallas Cowboys, surrounded by media photographers and screaming fans, to being escorted out of a glorified burger joint was quite a comedown.

He got to his car and unlocked it. Before he had time to open the door, he was grabbed from behind and flung against the rear quarter panel.

“We’re not finished with you.” It was the guy from the bar, the one who’d first spoken to him. His buddy was standing right beside him. They weren’t drunk. They were stone-cold sober. And, Griff realized with a blast of clarity, they weren’t disgruntled fans, either.

“This is for my wrist,” the guy snarled. He buried his fist in Griff’s stomach.

No, Griff thought as his knees liquefied, these guys aren’t sports fans with too many beers under their belts. They’re pros.

FOSTER?”

“Hmm?”

“Will you come to the office tomorrow?”

He set down the book he’d been reading and looked across at Laura. She’d brought home paperwork from the office. Since dinner, she had been sitting on the sofa in the library, riffling through various reports. “If you want me to.”

“Some of this stuff is over my head,” she said. “It’s technical and requires your input. It’s been almost a week since you were there. I think it’s important for you to go to the office whenever you can.”

“You think the mice are playing?”

She smiled. “No, because they know I would tattle on anyone slacking off.” She hesitated, then said, “I think it’s important to you that you go.”

“Oh, so you think that I’m slacking off.”

She placed her hands on her hips in feigned exasperation. “Are you trying to pick a fight?”

“Okay, no more teasing. But you do understand, don’t you, that just because I’m not physically at the office doesn’t mean I’m not working.”

“I know that your mind is always busy, but there’s an energizing quality about actually being in the office.”

He considered her for a moment. “You’re doing your job as well as covering for me. Have the dual responsibilities become too much for you?”

He’d touched a sensitive spot, and she reacted. “Do you think they have?”

“Not at all. I’ve just noticed that you seem tired.”

She let that go for the moment. “I’m concerned for you, not me. You love SunSouth. It’s your lifeblood. You need that airline as much as it needs you. And when was the last time we went out to dinner?”

His head went back a fraction. “Sorry. I must have missed the segue. When did we switch subjects?”