I held out my arms and did a slow turn.
Who knew a haircut could make me feel ten years younger and a thousand times sassier? Not to mention the short denim skirt Stef had talked me into.
The man set the gold standard for being a best friend. While waiting for me to prance out of the dressing room in my new skirt, Stef had been on a conference call with his “people,” arranging to have my stuff packed and my house on Long Island put on the market.
Tonight he was staying with Waylay, and I wasn’t sure who was more excited about their plans to binge-watch Brooklyn Nine-Nine.
“You like the hair, Fi?” I asked, giving my head a shake to make the curls bounce.
“Love it. My brother’s a damn genius with hair. Speaking of Jer, is your Stef single and if so can we play matchmaker?”
“Why? Did Jeremiah say anything about Stef?” I demanded.
“He only casually mentioned that your friend was the hottest gay man to strut into Knockemout in a decade.”
I squealed. “Stef asked me if Jeremiah was seeing anyone!”
“Oh, it’s so on,” Fi announced, pulling the lollipop out of her mouth. “By the way, I’ve got good news for you.”
I grinned as I stowed my purse behind the bar. “Did Idris Elba come to his senses and offer to whisk you away to a private island?”
She grinned wickedly. “Not quite that good. But you’ve got a party in the private room starting at nine. High rollers.”
I perked up. “High rollers?”
Fi jerked her head toward the hallway. “Poker game. Hush-hush. Half a dozen big spenders who feel like throwing away six figures on cards.”
“Six figures?” I blinked. “Is this legal?” I whispered the question despite the fact that we were alone in the empty bar.
The lollipop returned to her mouth. “Weeeell, let’s just say if Chief Morgan wanders his fine ass in here tonight, he doesn’t get in that room.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. As someone who was supposed to be looking good in the eyes of the court, I probably shouldn’t be lying to law enforcement about anything.
But I’d cross that bridge when I had to tonight. Feeling happy, I swung into the kitchen to get set up for the busy night.
The extent of my professional poker knowledge was entirely based on the snippets of games I’d seen on TV while changing channels. I was pretty sure the players on TV looked nothing like the ones crowded around the round table in Honky Tonk’s secret back room.
Beneath his turquoise polo shirt, the British-accented Ian had muscles that looked like he bench pressed cars all day. He had dark skin, short-cropped hair, and the kind of smile that made a woman’s knees go weak. He was wearing a wedding ring with a whole lot of diamonds.
On Ian’s right was Tanner. He had reddish-blond hair that looked like a woman’s fingers had just left it. He wore the D.C. commuter uniform of expensive, fitted trousers, rolled-up shirt sleeves, and a loosened tie. No wedding ring, and he’d made certain I’d noticed with every top-shelf scotch I brought him. He fidgeted constantly and jumped every time the door opened.
On Tanner’s right was a man the rest referred to as Grim, though I doubted his parents had actually named him that. He looked like he’d walked right off the pages of a silver fox motorcycle club romance novel. Tattoos crisscrossed every inch of visible skin. He kept his sunglasses and scowl firmly in place as he lounged in his chair, sticking to club sodas.
Next to Grim was Winona, the only woman at the table. She was tall, built, Black, and wore pink metallic eyeshadow that complemented the accents on her figure-hugging denim romper. Her hair was big and bold, just like her laugh, which she was sharing with the man next to her.
“Lucy, Lucy, Lucy,” she said. “When are you gonna learn not to bluff me?”
Lucian was the kind of handsome that made women wonder if he’d made some pact with the devil. Dark hair. Dark, smoldery eyes. Dark suit. He gave off hints of power, wealth, and secrets like a cologne.
He’d arrived later than everyone else, shedding his jacket and rolling up his sleeves as if he had all the time in the world. He took his bourbon neat and didn’t try to look down my shirt when I served it.
“Maybe when you stop distracting me with your wit and beauty,” he teased.
“Please,” Winona scoffed, elegantly stacking her winnings with long red fingernails.
I was in the middle of trying to figure out how much one chip was worth and topping off the pitcher of ice water in the corner when the door burst open.