Roman by Samantha Whiskey EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available For Free Download
- Authors: Samantha Whiskey
- Language: English
- Genre: Sports Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
WESTON
drenaline surged through my veins, making my knee bounce
underneath the poker table. Or the involuntary action could be
happening because I was heads up in a poker hand with none other than
Doyle fucking O’Brien.
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Not only was his personality as appealing as a viper’s, his presence at our
exclusive poker game was a monthly reminder about one of the rare times I’d
ever lost a bet with an outsider. A fucking Ducati race, at that. Jesus, when
he’d made the bet, I doubted a bike could even haul him uphill, let alone beat
me by a fucking centimeter.
“You should bet the Raptors,” Doyle said, his beady eyes locking on
mine from where he sat to Gareth’s left.
“Not a fucking chance,” I said, shaking my head as I scribbled another bet
on a white chip. I’d connected with the flop, boasting two pair and a straight
draw. I wasn’t going anywhere. Could it be because I wanted to bust Doyle
any chance I got? Probably, but I still had a good hand.
Not good enough to put my NFL team on the table, though, not that I’d
ever put it at risk. It was one of the only things my prick of a father left me
after he died that I actually loved.
“You sure?” Doyle asked. “I could really turn that team around.”
“You couldn’t turn around shit even if you were wearing roller skates,”
Crossland said, openly glaring at Doyle.
Cross never hesitated to get in a jab toward him, but in his defense, Doyle
constantly berated not only us, our guests, and our companies, but also his
daughter and any other female who happened to be within hearing distance.
Doyle was a bastard through and through. He once snapped at Brynn, my
longtime friend and personal assistant, but she shut that shit down faster than
I could blink. I’d been boiling over the situation, ready to finally hand Doyle
his ass, but Brynn had handled it like she handled everything—with a level of
grace I marveled at.
“You’re not in this hand, Crossland,” Doyle said. “Stay out of it.”
Cross flipped him off, returning his attention to the woman currently
draped over his shoulder, smoothing her hands along his chest.
I threw in my bet to match his, and dealt the turn. The fourth card on the
board missed me completely, but I kept my poker face rock solid.
Doyle shook his empty lowball glass, the half-melted ice clinking as he
shoved it behind him, not even bothering to look at his daughter dutifully
sitting there.
“Refill,” he demanded without a hint of pleasantry. Serenity hopped out
of her chair and headed toward the bar across the room in a hurry. The
response looked ingrained in her, as if in the past she’d hesitated a beat too
long and there’d been repercussions.
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