Page 2 of Texas Hold Em’ (The Devil’s Luck MC #3)

CARRIE

J ameson’s shower still smelled like his pine and glacier ice bodywash, whatever glacier ice was supposed to smell like.

I had to admit, it smelled pretty good. Soon it began to smell like my products—like my coconut conditioner, cucumber and mint exfoliator, citrus shaving cream.

When I was done, I dried off, twisted my wet hair into a coiled bun on top of my head, and slathered my body with moisturizer.

I padded around his apartment in my bra and underwear for the next half hour. I’d already spent three days there, but I was still getting my bearings and learning where everything was.

I had to admit, his place was nicer than I expected. The cinderblock walls were a bit drab, and the high-up warehouse windows, which could only be opened by crank poles hanging down the walls, left something to be desired, but his place was clean. Organized. Purposeful.

Nothing was out of place.

Everything had a home. His TV remotes sat in a stand on his coffee table.

He kept his empty beer bottles in the box they came in, tucked under his kitchen sink beside his garbage can.

His kitchen cupboards were fairly empty.

He didn’t own much dishware, only a handful of each item, but they too were orderly and in sensical places.

The whole place felt a little lonesome.

Maybe he likes it this way, I thought as I got dressed to go get coffee and bagels.

I needed something that wasn’t oatmeal, beer, or instant coffee, which were the only options I could spy in the cupboards or fridge.. I blamed Jameson’s compulsive smoking habit for ruining his tastebuds.

At the front door, I bent over to lace up my sneakers. “And I blame my compulsive need to win for landing me in a biker’s one-man den,” I grumbled.

For some girls, it might have been a dream come true.

For some girls, sharing an apartment with an undeniably sexy bad boy might have made their year, or hell, their entire life.

It would be this shining moment of rebellion they wrote about in journals for years to come.

Perhaps for some girls, they might have had the best sex of their lives while they crashed in a place like this.

But for me?

It was nothing short of cruel and unusual punishment.

Admittedly, I liked a good bad boy as much as the next girl, but I preferred them in fiction, not real life. If I wanted to hook up with a leather-wearing, Harley-riding, cigarette-puffing hottie, I wouldn’t have pursued a career as a Ranger.

I straightened, unlocked the front door, and stepped out into the humid hall that smelled like a back alley behind a McDonald’s. I sighed. “If you wanted to hook up with any guy, you wouldn’t have become a Ranger.”

It was true.

My career choice had torpedoed my romantic life. Men had no interest in dating a woman who wore a beige uniform and a Ranger’s badge seven days a week. The hat didn’t help my case, either. The gun on my hip might have made some guys a little tight in the pants, but most overlooked me entirely.

Unless it was a Friday night and one of my friends in Austin actually managed to get me out of the house for drinks.

My dearest friend, Kaylee, managed such success once every six or so weeks.

Most of my Friday nights were spent analyzing cases from the comfort of my own sofa with a glass of merlot.

And if I wasn’t at home, I was out in my squad car keeping my city safe. It was just how I was wired.

Kaylee said my badge gave me too much permission to isolate myself and not try when it came to men.

I wasn’t sure how true that was.

I left through the emergency exit door at the end of the hall.

Jameson, or Tex as everyone in the Devil’s Luck seemed to call him, had offered to let me drive his hunk of shit Chevelle if I needed to run errands while I was gone.

He didn’t seem too thrilled about the idea of me leaving on my own.

He said he thought it would be best if I laid low for the most part and kept my head down.

He was probably right, but every now and then a girl had to get out, stretch her legs, and get some real carbs that had a hell of a lot more calories than a bowl of oatmeal.

I slid into the front seat of the old car and stuck the keys in the ignition.

The leather seats were full of cracks and tears, and exposed foam along the seam of the seat smelled like my old gymnastics gym.

The car sputtered before lurching forward and the radio suddenly came on, blasting a rock song so loud I nearly leapt out of my skin.

I turned the volume all the way down and turned onto the two-lane road that led back into Reno.

“What a shit bucket,” I grumbled as I checked the mirrors. The car spat dark gray smoke out behind me.

While I drove into town, I considered what Jameson and the others would discuss today.

They should have included me in their plans.

I hated being sidelined like this. Without me, Mason would be dead. Admittedly, without Mason, I would also be dead.

I shuddered as I remembered the way Bates had turned his single blue eye on me when I intervened at Mason’s house.

Moss was kicking the shit out of him and I knew Mason wouldn’t be able to take much more, so I tried to buy him some recovery time by stalling.

We knew Jackson and the others were on their way and I figured Mason would survive if I kept Bates appropriately distracted.

Turns out I’d woefully underestimated the depth of Bates’s cruelty.

I remembered the vise-like grip he had on my wrist when he dragged me toward him and held the burning end of his cigar over the inside of my wrist. I could feel the heat of the ember as he smiled at me.

If Mason hadn’t intervened, I’d have a permanent circular scar on my skin.

I scratched at the inside of my wrist at the thought.

Some way or another, I would have to get Jackson and the others to trust me enough to let me in on their conversations about Bates. I was a resource for them to use, not a pretty face to be left out of the game.

What did they think of me?

Did they think I was weak? That I couldn’t handle myself? Did they crack jokes about my Ranger uniform behind my back? Did they think I was nothing more than a do-gooder?

I cringed at my own insecurity rearing its ugly head.

Why should I care what they thought of me? They were the criminals. They were the ones who got in over their heads and dragged me down with them.

Sort of.

I might have thrown myself onto the burn pile despite being warned to stay away from the Devil’s Luck. Repeatedly. By literally everyone.

Before long, Reno opened up before me. A few turns led me to a small bakery with windows full of hand-drawn pictures with window markers of animated bagels dancing together.

The shop wasn’t busy. There were only two other people in line ahead of me.

Both were middle-aged women wearing cardigans and yellow-gold wedding rings.

I studied the bagel options in the display case while the women waited for the employee to get their orders together.

“It was Ledger’s house, you know,” the woman in the yellow cardigan said. “My husband has been telling me that something bad was bound to happen with those Devils sooner or later. I guess I never expected it to be a shootout with the police in such a safe neighborhood.”

“Something has to change,” the woman in the coral cardigan said. She shook her head and clicked her tongue. “They’re giving Reno a bad name. We’ve come a long way. Now every other day there’s a headline about a shooting.”

“Or those hooligans are riding by on their monstrosities,” yellow cardigan said bitterly. “They’ve been disturbing the peace too long.”

Hooligans , I mused. I doubted these women would use such a casual word if they understood the true scope of what Jackson and his boys were up against.

The women took their bags of bagels and made room for me to step up to the counter. I ordered half a dozen and had no intention of sharing them with Jameson after his attitude this morning. They’d be my breakfast today and the next five days. He could settle for his plain old oatmeal.

I ordered a plain black coffee too and sipped it the whole drive home while the bagels in the passenger seat filled the Chevelle with the scent of salty goodness.

As soon as I got back to the apartment, I put one in the toaster, smothered it with butter, and devoured it.

I licked my fingers clean before tidying up after myself and doing what I promised myself I wouldn’t do.

I snooped through Jameson’s stuff.

He made me curious, and besides, shouldn’t I know as much as possible about the criminal whose bed I was sleeping in?

Easy answer. Yes, I should.

So I sifted through drawers, explored closets, and opened bathroom cabinets.

I found nothing of interest. Jameson was a normal dude with abnormal pastimes. That was all.

But one way or another, I was going to have to find a way to get close to him. Jackson wanted to keep me at arm’s length, but I needed a way into the fold, and since Jameson was the one I was closest to? Well, he’d be the pin I had to knock over.

I smiled to myself.

I saw the way he looked at me when I came out of the bedroom in nothing but a T-shirt this morning. Even if he didn’t want to admit it, he was already noticing my body. If I had to use it to my advantage?

So be it.