The battle of devastatio.., p.9
Dirty Savage Player (House of Cards Book 2), page 9
“Just texting my friends.” I slip my phone in my back pocket.
“Uh-huh.” Obviously, I haven’t convinced her. When I’m not at the poker table, I’m a shitty bluffer. I quickly change the subject. “Do they have us at the same table?”
Ria nods and points to a table in the corner. A few of the other players are already seated, all of whom I’ve played before. There’s Joe, a thick-set older guy famed for his insanely tacky shirts. Next to him, there’s Miguel, a prodigy in his late teens who’s usually backed by his real estate tycoon mother. Arthur, a guy in his 40s who often battles me for the top spot in tournaments, is walking over. He’s wearing designer athleisure that costs thousands of dollars, even though I could find identical shit down at Costco.
“Chomp, chomp,” Ria says. Her way of saying that we’re all sharks.
I grin. “Let’s put a little blood in the water, then.”
We take a seat, shooting the shit until our dealer comes to the table. As soon as he starts laying out cards, we go silent. Game faces on.
Normally, I love this part of a tournament—the hushed moment of possibility, where I can savor the thrill of competition. It’s where I get laser-focused, watching the other players’ faces, feeling like I can practically hear each card snap together as the dealer shuffles.
Tonight, all I want to do is check my phone.
Pippa’s going on another date, and I want to check her location again. She’s still at the apartment for now, but she should be leaving soon. Frankly, it pisses me off. Couldn’t she have waited until I was home? What if it’s another creep, like McMurder-Eyes from last night?
I check my hand, finding two spades, an eight, and a ten. Worth playing. I buy into the hand, trying to keep my focus.
One problem: I can’t stop thinking about Pippa's black stockings. When she knelt to zip up her thigh-high boots, I caught a glimpse of the lacey tops connected to a fucking garter belt. Which made me think about how it’d look attached to her panties.
And fuck me, when I threw her over my shoulder, I could have taken a good look if the elevator had a mirror. With that short goddamn skirt, I probably could have seen everything. God, stockings with a garter belt is so—
No. I draw the line at calling anything my stepsister wears sexy.
Ria kicks me under the table, and I realize it’s my turn to bid. I haven’t even looked at the flop. A quick glance shows me black, so I quickly knock the table.
Except now that I’m more focused, I see all the cards there are clubs, not spades. Shit, now I have to hope for a pair on the table with the next two cards. I haven’t been looking at anyone’s faces, checking their reactions. I’m playing like a fucking amateur.
The fourth card is a queen of hearts. The fucking irony. Nobody raises for the next two rounds, so I’m technically playing in the final hand, even though I’m drawing dead. Miguel tosses down a pair of queens, and I toss my cards face-down in the center.
While the dealer shuffles, I pull out my phone and check Pippa’s location. Her location is moving now, slow so I know she’s walking. Where is she going? I try to remember the restaurants on that street, but come up blank.
“Anything you wanna share with the class?” Arthur asks.
I glance up to see everyone staring at me.
“You’re not normally on your phone during breaks,” Joe says. “Get your head in the game.”
“But hey, if you don’t, that’s good for everyone else at the table,” Arthur says.
Fuck. I shove my phone back in my pocket. I won’t be able to face any of my opponents down at the next tournament if I don’t at least try to play like the total champion I am.
Pippa is fine. She’s just going to have dinner, and she’ll probably scare the guy off before dessert.
Nothing’s going to happen with him.
And that’s all it takes for me to turn the game around.
At least, that was the hope. I end up playing like shit for another five rounds, ending up the low stack on the table while I fixate on infiltrating my phone with my mind and looking at that fucking map.
I mean, what am I really afraid will happen? Pippa’s a fighter. Even if her date did try to hurt her, she’d probably take him out via a stiletto heel to the eye.
She still might take the guy home, though, and I really hate the idea of her hooking up with him in my own goddamn apartment.
I’m only able to focus once I order a shot of Twisted Devil. The burn of the whiskey down my throat makes me home in on the cards. Call it conditioning from all the shots I take during poker night with the guys.
I focus on Joe and Miguel, who are good, but I can see their tells. Once I’ve got their stacks running low, I aim at Ria and Arthur. Soon enough, I’ve gone from low stack to top stack, bullying everyone else into submission. Miguel even has to call his mom to get her approval to buy back in.
It feels good getting these guys to do what I want, playing right into my hand. If only I could play Pippa the same way.
By the time we’ve made it to the next round, only Ria has enough chips to join me at the top table. I leave my phone in my fucking pocket and beat down my opponents fast, no mercy. In under a dozen hands, I’ve won the tournament, and have my winnings wired back to my account.
It’s a cool two million, but it doesn’t give me the same victory high it usually does. When I finally check my phone, Pippa’s smiling profile pic is at some bar I don’t recognize.
Even worse, when I check my IG messages, I’ve got not one, but TWO invitations to meet up while I’m in LA, both from models I’ve had my eye on for a while now. We’ve been flirting through the DMs, but we haven’t been in the same city at the same time yet.
It blows that I have to turn them down. I’m just not in the mood, and I don’t think my ego could take another incident like the one in the pub after the party. I’m just not really in the mood. Hell, I don’t even feel like going back to the hotel room I booked for tonight.
I just want to go home.
I navigate to the Air Canada app to see if I can catch a late flight back to Toronto. When I see a flight that’ll get me home by midnight, I book it immediately.
Even though I doubt my stepsister will give me the welcome I deserve.
10
PIPPA
My feet feel like I took them on a walk through a broken glass factory. It’s only a short walk from my Uber to the House of Cards entrance, but every step feels like a punishment I don’t deserve.
“Ow, ow, ow,” I mumble to myself.
Normally, I pride myself on being able to rock four-inch heels through any scenario. Tonight, I can’t wait to strip my boots off and slip into my mercifully flat slippers.
I blame my date. When Alex showed up in a cowboy hat and shiny cowboy boots, I figured it was just a fashion statement. Instead, he dragged me out to a honky-tonk and accosted my poor ears with country music all night. I don’t care how much Beyoncé and Miley Cyrus try to convince me otherwise—country music sucks.
Still, I was determined to make the best of it. I’ve already written two articles about going out to dinner with wealthy assholes, and I don’t want all my 12 Dates of Christmas to be downers. So I took a few tequila shots and let myself get dragged out on the dance floor.
I had so much fun, I ended up staying out till 1:00 a.m. Getting up tomorrow is going to be a bitch, but it was worth it.
Once I’m in the lobby, I slump onto a bench and unzip my boots. I wince at the pain as my new blisters rub up against the leather, but once the shoes are off, I breathe a sigh of relief. Sweet freedom.
I shoot the doorman an apologetic look as I pad barefoot over to the elevator. He gives me a professional nod, completely unphased. I guess between all the guys who live here, he’s probably seen worse.
Maybe I should have invited Alex upstairs to talk a little more. He was nice enough, and didn’t mention crypto or give off stalker vibes once. I just don’t see us really dating. We had absolutely nothing in common—I love books, he only reads the news. I dream of traveling, he doesn’t care if he ever leaves Canada. I have a cat, he’s got three big dogs. If it weren’t for all the dancing, we would’ve just been sitting there awkwardly.
Still, it might have been nice to make out with him as a distraction. My first article from the new series goes live on the Belladonna site tomorrow, and I’m nervous as hell. I’ve never written anything that felt so personal, where I let my own, unfiltered voice free instead of using a polished, magazine-standard tone.
I just hope people don’t hate it.
When the elevator arrives, my finger automatically goes to the wrong button—number ten, Cat and Nate’s floor. I used to go up and visit her all the time, so it’s habit. I wish I could press it, so I could go up and tell her all about my night.
Since Cat got engaged, we’ve barely seen each other, and even our texting has gone down to a minimum. It feels like she’s always busy these days, and I don’t want to add more on her plate by being too demanding. Even if I’m dying to share my dating stories with a real friend and not my editor.
I just need to be patient. Cat’s always made time for me before, even when she was working two jobs. She’s not going to ditch me—even if I’ve lost some flaky friends before, Cat’s not like that. She’s too loyal. She’ll call me back.
The elevator arrives, and even though none of the lights are on, the ambient city light shining through the windows illuminates the outlines of the furniture in blue-ish white. My boots clunk to the ground as I drop them. After all the blisters they gave me, maybe I’ll just throw them down the elevator shaft.
My mouth feels dry, dehydrated from all the dancing and tequila. Padding to the kitchen, I grab a glass and turn on the tap.
“It was a good date, I take it?”
I jump, practically dropping my glass. Thankfully, my brain registers that it’s Ryan’s voice I’m hearing before I grab for a butcher knife. My empty hand goes to my chest, pressing against my thudding heart.
Ryan’s sitting in the living room, leaning back in an armchair with one long leg crossed over the other. I can’t see his face in the dark, but I can see him lift a glass of whiskey to take a sip.
“What the fuck, Ryan? Aren’t you supposed to be in L.A.? Why are you just lurking in the dark like a serial killer?”
He chuckles, but nothing about it sounds amused. “I needed to make sure you got home okay. It’s one in the morning, Pips.”
I shake my head. “Nobody asked you to play paranoid Daddy. You volunteered, apparently.”
The words feel sharp and raspy as they come out of my dry throat. I fill my water glass and take a long sip.
“Well, if I’m going to play Daddy, I should do it right.” Ryan drags out the word, taunting me with it. “Where did the young man take you?”
“Drinks and dancing. Some honky-tonk in the West End.”
This time when Ryan laughs, it’s warmer. “Oh man, you must have loooooooved that.”
I raise my chin. “I had a great time, actually.”
“Of course. Because you love country music so much,” he says sarcastically.
My shoulders tighten. Something about the way he’s so confident sets me on edge. He acts like he knows me, even if we haven’t spent real time together since high school. Well, screw that. I’m tired of him telling me how boring and stuck-up and humorless I am.
“You don’t have a clue what I like. Music or otherwise,” I spit.
“Oh yeah?” He pushes out of the chair and saunters over. Jesus, he’s still not wearing a shirt, because of course he isn’t. The dim light glints off the silver chain hanging from his neck. I swallow, my chest suddenly feeling way too tight.
“You love country music so much? Then name one artist,” he says.
My brain scrambles, throwing a thousand wrong names at me. Sheila? Garth? Reba?
“Reba McEntire!” I blurt out. I’m about 80 percent sure that name is right.
Ryan raises a brow, and for a second I think he might actually be impressed. Then he leans in toward me, his nose just inches from mine.
“What’s one song she sings?”
Fuck.
My lips part and I suck in a breath. Song names flash through my mind, but I can’t seem to grasp on to any of them. I can’t think with Ryan so close, taunting me with his dark eyes and his full lips curled into a smirk. No man should get to have lips like that—it’s not fucking fair.
Ryan smacks his lips, pure satisfaction pooling in his eyes. “That’s what I thought. Maybe say something like you might like the boots and hats, Pips, but you’ll never be a country girl and you know it. You’re rock and roll, through and through. Always have been. Always will be.”
My blood feels like it’s vibrating through my veins. Putting my hands on his chest, I shove him away. “You don’t know anything about me, asshole.”
His hands circle my wrists, grabbing them tight and yanking me forward. My hands land on his hard, leanly muscled chest. His bare skin feels hot under my fingers, his body like an inferno inches away from me. I can’t breathe as he glowers down at me.
“Yes, I fucking do,” he growls.
He buries a hand in my hair, yanking so hard that my scalp stings and I can’t hold back my whimper of pain. He swallows the sound as he shoves his lips against mine.
My whole body freezes. I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t think. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to use my arms to push him away. I’d fall if Ryan wasn’t holding me tight against him.
Is this really fucking happening?
Ryan’s tongue presses into my mouth, sure and demanding. He tastes like whiskey and bad decisions, and I can’t get enough. Dark heat rushes through me like wildfire, starting low in my belly and spreading relentlessly through my veins. I’m dizzy with how fucking good it feels to have his hard body pressed against mine, his warm musky scent surrounding me.
My traitorous body responds instinctively, fingers digging into his skin as I arch my back, pressing myself against him. I push up on my toes, trying to eliminate every micron of space between us.
Ryan’s mouth moves expertly over mine, hot and rough and furious. He uses the hand still tight in my hair to angle my head just the way he wants, plundering my mouth with his tongue. There’s nothing sweet or gentle about it, but that’s the point.
I like a man to be rough with me, and somehow he fucking knows.
Well, I give as good as I get.
I scratch my nails hard against his side, leaving marks as I trace from his ribs to his spine. He hisses at the pain, shoving me back against the kitchen counter. It knocks the breath out of me for a second. When Ryan’s hard body presses back against me, it makes me gasp at the sensation.
It’s my last breath before his lips are back on mine. Every brush of his lips is furious, all-consuming, and fucking devastating.
My body melts under the molten heat of his touch. Our bodies mold against each other, my breasts against his bare chest, our hips grinding hard against each other. A sharp ache spreads between my thighs, my clit already swollen and begging for relief. I whimper against Ryan’s mouth, wanting—
Meow!
Waffle cries out insistently, piercing the silence. Ryan and I break apart at the sound, hands, lips, and tongues to ourselves.
Pleased, Waffle purrs and winds around my ankles. I take a shuddering breath, still incapable of processing what just happened. At least it’s dark enough that Ryan can’t see my face. I don’t want to know what my expression is saying.
I crouch to pick up Waffle and push past Ryan to walk back to my room. I need to get away from him and just think. I practically run down the hallway back to my bedroom, Waffle wiggling in my arms.
Once I’m inside the door, I close it and slump against the back of it. Waffle eagerly jumps to the floor, off to find some toy to kick around.
I’m left to sag to the floor and confront reality. Ryan kissed me, and I didn’t stop him. Worse, I kissed him back.
I knew living with Ryan was going to be a disaster, but I never guessed this would be the fallout.
11
PIPPA
Ingrid leans over my cubicle wall, dangling a brown paper bag.
“Brought you a cherry danish. A little congratulations for your first article! It’s doing numbers.”
“It is? I haven’t checked the stats yet.” I only got to the office a few minutes ago. I had trouble sleeping again last night, and I had to drag myself out of bed this morning.
Ingrid nods. “They’re fantastic. The Belladonna forums are buzzing, and it really took off on TikTok. Women are dressing up like Dickface McCrypto and acting out some of his best lines.”
“Oh, I’ve seen those!” Ayoka, one of my officemates, chimes in from behind me. She crosses her arms to do an impression. “‘We have to drink some champers to celebrate, bro!’”
She and Ingrid cackle with laughter.
I share my cramped office with two other writers. Our desks are covered with free beauty samples, print copies of competing magazines, and extra office supplies. None of us are slobs—there’s just no extra storage space available.
Belladonna has always felt like the scrappy younger sister to the big women’s magazines, a little spikier and more independent. What we lack in big, shiny office spaces we make up with quality writing and editorial independence.
I’m lucky to have such a steady job in publishing. Belladonna’s founders were early internet adaptors, and started publishing our articles online long before Elle and Cosmopolitan caught up. We also have a moderated forum for women to discuss and challenge our articles, and we’re encouraged to reply to their comments. I love being part of the online community. I dreamed of working here all through college, and there’s no way overcrowded desks or last-minute article assignments could ruin it for me.
Ingrid sips her jumbo coffee, then launches into a rapid-speed update. “Your article on the stalker is going through edits now, and it’ll be up tomorrow. I want us printing three of these a week leading up to New Years, then we’ll assemble them as a longer piece for the print edition in January. If this keeps up social media steam, we can add in some pictures of the TikTok impressionists and reader reactions. Is the next one ready?”
