From a Jack to a King E-Book

Scotty Cade

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 350

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

New York Times best-selling mystery writer Bay Whitman leads the life of a celebrity—at least on the surface. In public he's self-assured and in control. Women hang on his every word, while men envy his confidence and swagger. But in reality, Bay is a loner. He's shy and introverted, and his life consists of sitting in a dimly lit room writing his famous Jack Robbins mystery novels. His one vice—gambling. Winning an escort in a poker game will change Bay's life in ways he never imagined. Matthew "King" Slater is one of the hottest tickets in gay porn. He spends his days in front of the camera and his nights as a highly paid escort to the rich and famous. Deep down, he craves romance and a real connection, but his past makes it hard to separate the needs of his body from those of his heart. For now, it's easier to think of sex as just a job. But while doing a shoot in Vegas, King is hired for a tryst at a famous hotel and casino, and his handsome client might blur the line between work and play.  

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Blurb

Dedication

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Epilogue

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Copyright

From a Jack to a King

By Scotty Cade

New York Times best-selling mystery writer Bay Whitman leads the life of a celebrity—at least on the surface. In public he’s self-assured and in control. Women hang on his every word, while men envy his confidence and swagger. But in reality, Bay is a loner. He’s shy and introverted, and his life consists of sitting in a dimly lit room writing his famous Jack Robbins mystery novels. His one vice—gambling. Winning an escort in a poker game will change Bay’s life in ways he never imagined.

Matthew “King” Slater is one of the hottest tickets in gay porn. He spends his days in front of the camera and his nights as a highly paid escort to the rich and famous. Deep down, he craves romance and a real connection, but his past makes it hard to separate the needs of his body from those of his heart. For now, it’s easier to think of sex as just a job. But while doing a shoot in Vegas, King is hired for a tryst at a famous hotel and casino, and his handsome client might blur the line between work and play.

To my husband, Kell. Without your love, encouragement, support, and patience, I would not be able to do this. My love runs deeper than any ocean, and each day I count my blessings that you chose me with whom to spend the rest of your life. I love you.

I would be totally remiss in my social duties if I didn’t properly thank Kimberly “Kimmers” Sewald for introducing me to Annie Maus, who helped me navigate the very sensitive topic of sexual addiction. Thank you both for the help and support. I hope I got it right.

Also, I’d like to thank Ned Miller for recording the original version of “From a Jack to a King,” which inspired this novel. It was one of my grandmother’s favorite songs, and I remember her singing it to me many times when I was a kid. The song was first recorded in 1957, but was unsuccessful until Ned persuaded his label to rerelease it five years later. Upon rerelease, the song became a crossover hit, charting in the top ten on the Billboard US country, pop, and adult contemporary charts. Thank you, Ned Miller, for being my inspiration.

Foreword

FROM A Jack to a King is a light contemporary romance that touches briefly on two very serious topics I would never take lightly. One is the effects of bullying on children and how it affects us as adults. Kell and I were both bullied as teenagers, so my research consisted of twenty years of conversations between us, comparing our experiences and how we dealt and still deal with the aftereffects today. Both of us have obvious scars that run deep and the raw emotions that accompany those scars. Bullying is an epidemic, and although a lot of attention has been brought to the forefront in recent years, not nearly enough, in our opinion, is being done to end it.

Secondly, one of the main characters in this novel is a recovering sex addict. That’s where the bulk of my research took place. I read everything I could find on the internet, communicated with a specialist in the field, and did the best I could to accurately portray the effect of the addiction while in recovery, Sex Addicts Anonymous (SAA), their 12-Step program, and the recovery process.

But please recognize I just skim the surface on both topics, and if I got anything wrong, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. It was not intentional, and I have the utmost respect for anyone dealing with the effects of bullying or sexual addiction.

One last thing. After reading this book, if you recognize any of the behavioral signs of a sexual addiction in yourself or someone for whom you care, help is always available. I’ve included contact information for Sex Addicts Anonymous below.

USA/Canada: 1-800-477-8191, Elsewhere: [phone]

Postal mail: ISO of SAA, PO Box 70949, Houston, TX 77270 USA

Email: [email protected]

https://saa-recovery.org/

Prologue

SWEAT POURED off King Slater’s body as he pounded the tight ass of the guy lying on the hood of a black Jaguar. The stranger was moaning loudly, his eyes closed, his head thrown back, and his arms spread across the front of the car almost as if he were being crucified. Listening to the odd sounds, King smiled inwardly. The poor guy sounded more like a wounded animal than a man enjoying the exceptional fuck being bestowed upon him.

King sighed. He’d been doing this a long time, and usually at about this point in any scene, he’d start to lose interest. This shoot was no exception, but like the professional he was, he knew he had to make it look good for the cameras. He repositioned his knees, pressing them against the bumper for more leverage and opened his mouth to speak, but stopped short. What was his costar’s name again? Jim? Jared? What the fuck, King? Think! He was about to come up with something generic to say when the guy’s name finally popped into his head. Josh? Yeah, Josh. That’s it.

In a deep, sultry, and velvety-smooth voice, King said, “That’s it. Take it, Josh. Take my big cock and take it deep.”

“Yeah,” Josh moaned. “Give it to me hard.”

King gripped Josh’s ankles and spread his costar’s legs wide to give the camera a good clear shot of King’s cock as he rammed it into Josh’s ass. Crucifixion or no crucifixion, King had to admit his costar was taking each thrust like a champ.

In an attempt to fend off boredom and not think about the sun baking his skin, King focused on Josh’s Adam’s apple as it moved up and down with each swallow. When that could no longer hold his attention, he counted the drops of sweat that slid down his nose and onto Josh’s torso. A few more minutes and you’re done, King. Just a few more minutes.

King had done the drill hundreds of times, and there was nothing romantic or heartfelt about it. The trick to his success was to make the camera think there was. To see how “into it” he was. Of course, it was nothing more than a fuck with a stranger on the hood of a car, but he drew from his years of acting in high school and college. From the sound of his voice to his facial expressions—and especially his body language—he had all the markers down to a tee. Right on cue, he summoned his orgasm, as if calling to an old friend. In preparation, he rolled his head back in faked ecstasy.

Although the car was positioned in the shade of a twelve-foot cactus, that did little to stifle the afternoon heat. By now both men were panting uncontrollably. Josh pumped his own dick enthusiastically as King slammed into him, releasing an even louder moan as he blew his load all over his abdomen.

If this kid is gonna make it in porn, he’s got to work on those sounds.

King pulled out, ripped off the condom, stroked his erection a couple of times, and emptied his release to mix with Josh’s. When he was totally spent and running on autopilot, King collapsed on top of Josh and kissed him passionately for the camera.

“Cut! Great job, gentlemen.”

King broke the kiss, stood, and stretched his back, the remnants of his orgasm still gripping him. He definitely felt like a prime candidate for dehydration, heatstroke—or both.

“Are all of your orgasms this intense?” Josh asked, looking up at King with puppy-dog eyes.

“Pretty much,” King said, still trembling a little.

“I mean—I noticed it in your videos online,” Josh gushed, “but to see it up close…. Man, I wish mine lasted that long.”

King smiled, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and looked around. “Whose idea was it to shoot at two o’clock in the afternoon in the fucking Nevada desert?” he asked teasingly, still panting.

“Sorry, man,” the director said. “It was the only time we could get the crew together.”

King and his costar accepted the bottles of cold water and damp towels the assistant handed them. Each downed the water and then wiped their faces, necks, and the combined semen off their abdomens.

King tossed his soiled towel to the assistant and offered his hand to the guy he’d just fucked on camera while acting as a guest star for Falcon Studios.

Josh accepted King’s hand, and King pulled him to a sitting position and then off the car. Josh’s ass squeaked, bounced, and skidded off the scorching hood. “Ouch!” he said, hopping from foot to foot when his feet hit the burning sand. “Damn, that’s hot.”

King opened his arms. “Here, let me help.”

“Thanks, man. At least you got to wear boots.”

King look down at his feet. “Yeah. Lucky me.” King, with his six-foot-four-inch frame, scooped Josh up easily and carried him all the way to the production van, where their clothes awaited them. “Better?”

“Much,” Josh said. “Thanks again.”

King smiled. “Good job back there, by the way.”

Josh looked up at him with that same puppy-dog expression. “Thank you. It was an honor to work with such a legend.”

King frowned. “Hey! Legend makes me sound really old. And dead!”

“Well, you’re a legend to me,” Josh said. “And trust me, you’re not old… or dead. How did you last so long? I thought you’d never come.”

King smiled. “Secrets of the trade, my young friend.” King didn’t tell the guy it was boredom or, at the very least, lack of interest keeping him from coming. He’ll figure that out soon enough on his own. “How many of these shoots have you done, anyway?”

“Counting this one?”

King nodded.

“Two.”

“Two?” King looked at the director.

The director smiled. “Hey! He got the highest ever ratings for a first-timer, so give the kid a break. Everyone’s gotta start somewhere.”

King shook his head. He had to admit the guy was damn hot and built like a brick shithouse, but it was really hard to get into sex with someone when the director was orchestrating your every move. But he was getting paid handsomely for the shoot, and besides, they paid all his expenses to and from Las Vegas. So if they wanted him to fuck the tight ass of a hot twentysomething newbie, he’d do it with no complaints.

His costar wiggled into his shorts and flinched. “Man, I don’t think I’ll be able to walk right for a week.”

“I hope it was worth it,” King said.

“Fuck yeah. So worth it. In fact, if you’re ever back in town and just want to… ah, you know, have some fun, look me up.”

King knew the chances of that happening were zilch, but he was polite just the same. “I’ll do that.” He put his underwear on and was about to reach for his jeans when his cell phone chirped. He dug his personal phone out of his jeans pocket, glanced at it, and slipped it back in. With anticipation, he fished out his other phone, the one he used for his escort service.

Earlier in the day, he’d tweeted and posted on social media that he’d be in Las Vegas for a few days doing a shoot if anyone was interested in his company.

“Sorry. Gotta take this.” He walked away from the production van and answered the call.

“King Slater.”

“Hi. Um. My name is Paul, and I was wondering if you were free tonight.”

King chuckled. “I might be available. But I’m certainly not free.”

“Oh right. Not what I meant. Sorry, I’m a little nervous,” Paul said.

“In fact,” King added, “not only am I not free, I’m five hundred an hour. So if you have that kind of money and you’re interested in a little fun, there’s no need to be nervous.”

“Uh… yeah,” the caller said. “I saw that on your profile. And don’t worry. I have the money.”

“I don’t worry,” King said. “You pay upfront by giving me your credit card before we even meet.”

“Will you accept cash?” the guy asked.

“When we meet, I can,” King explained. “But in case you don’t really have it, I put a hold on a credit card and then release it if you use cash.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“So. Are we on?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Hold on while I open my credit card app,” King said.

“I’m ready when you are.”

Paul gave him all his payment information, and King typed it into his phone.

“Okay. So that’s two hours at five hundred an hour. Where do I meet you?”

“At my hotel?”

“Sure. Which one?”

“MGM Grand. I haven’t checked in yet, but I’ll text you the room number as soon as I do. Say midnight?”

“Midnight it is,” King said. “Hey, are you into anything weird I should know about?”

“Na,” Paul said. “Just the usual.”

“Bottom or top?” King asked nonchalantly. “By the way,” he added, “I charge more to bottom.”

Seconds passed with silence on the other end of the phone. King was about to repeat the question when Paul finally spoke. “I’ll bottom.”

“Perfect. Just the way I like it. I’ll see you at midnight.”

Chapter One

BAY WHITMAN stood in the foyer of his suite at the MGM Grand Las Vegas Hotel & Casino and gazed into the gold-framed mirror. With shaky hands, he adjusted his bow tie one last time and slipped on his perfectly tailored midnight-blue Armani tuxedo jacket. He pulled his french cuffs down so exactly one-half inch of white was showing at the end of each of his dark sleeves, exposing just a hint of his black-onyx-and-diamond-encrusted cufflinks.

Adrenaline surged, same as before every big poker game, and he loved it. Gambling was like cocaine to him, and right now the blood was pumping through his veins as fast, steady, and powerful as the water flowed over Niagara Falls. In the early years, when he didn’t have a lot of disposable income, the quarter slots were what gave him goose bumps, but even though the game had changed and the stakes are much higher, the thrill was equally intense. Gambling was the only thing that made him feel alive. And like an addict, he desperately craved the high he got when he stared down his opponent and bluffed his way to a winning hand.

Bay stepped back from the mirror, took a nervous breath, held it, and closed his eyes. He focused on the backs of his eyelids until his lungs were about to burst. He exhaled, hissing through slightly parted lips. This was something he did every time he was about to go out in public. A ritual, so to speak, to help him navigate the life he’d unexpectedly created for himself. Can’t bluff with a sweaty brow and shaky hands, my boy. You need to be steady and sure. Always!

When Bay opened his eyes, he was finally beginning to see the signs of his calm, confident, and collected alter ego. “Not too shabby for a nerd.”

He chuckled. Nerd? That was only partly true. Yes, he was undoubtedly a nerd, but he was also a New York Times best-selling mystery writer with a large backlist of successful crime novels under his belt.

Surrounding his latest release, Bay had been scheduled for several personal appearances and book signings in Las Vegas, so he’d decided to jump on a plane a day early to treat himself to a little fun in his favorite stomping ground.

This little excursion wasn’t without merit. It was a pat on the back for not only making, but beating, a very important deadline. Yesterday afternoon, one day ahead of schedule, he’d typed The End on the second of a three-book deal with his publisher featuring his beloved main character—playboy private eye Jack Robbins. He’d learned quickly how difficult it was to manage the demands of a promotional tour while his head was stuck in a work in progress, so he’d always done his best to set his deadline a little before a release date, which afforded him a clear head for the influx of press attention that accompanied each new book. The three novels were already contracted to be made into a trilogy of movies, and the studio was touting Jack Robbins as a cross between Jason Bourne and the American version of James Bond. No pressure there!

A shiver ran up Bay’s spine as he contemplated what was at stake. The big screen. Jack Robbins is going to hit the big screen. A medium totally unfamiliar to Bay, one where he wouldn’t be able to hide. As soon as the you’re not good enoughs tried to creep into his consciousness, he pushed them, along with all the other feelings of inadequacy, from his mind and focused his attention elsewhere. In particular, on the exceptionally high-stakes game he was about to partake in. One with some pretty big hitters. Bay knew he needed to be on his game.

He looked in the mirror one last time and focused on his eyes. He sighed with relief when he saw no signs of the very successful but equally nerdy writer who was plagued by almost crippling insecurities and self-doubt every day of his life.

In his mind, all he saw was Jack Robbins. The personality his adoring fans were accustomed to and his opponents at the poker table were intimidated by. I’m ready.

He looked at his watch. Four forty-five. Better get going. The game starts at five, and I don’t wanna be late.

Bay left his suite and strolled down the hall to the elevator. By the time the doors opened, Bay Whitman had completed his mental transition from the shy geek to the debonair playboy. He’d become sophisticated, worldly, charming, and perfectly imperfect in every sense. A man’s man, with the combined swagger of Tom Cruise, James Bond, and George Clooney, all rolled into one. Bay Whitman, for all intents and purposes, was now Jack Robbins.

Of course Bay wasn’t delusional. For starters, he looked nothing like his main character. Jack was extraordinarily handsome. Six-four, an extremely muscular two hundred and forty-five pounds, with hazel eyes—the green almost emerald—a neat, close-trimmed beard, and medium brown hair streaked with shades of blond.

But in public, Bay borrowed Jack’s larger-than-life personality. And why not? He’d created the character, and he could hide behind him if he wanted to. It was the only way he could survive the world outside the confines of his New York apartment.

The elevator doors opened, and Bay stepped inside. He flashed a broad smile at the occupants, with a barely perceptible lingering glance at an attractive woman who appeared to be alone, and when he turned to face the front, he studied their expressions in the mirrored sheen of the elevator doors. One man elbowed an older woman standing next to him, probably his mother, and another quietly whispered to a companion as they recognized the famous author. This wasn’t ego on Bay’s part. In fact, he absolutely hated it when people recognized him. He was simply amazed that people knew who he was. Shy, nerdy Bay Whitman.

His discomfort grew as others in the elevator also started to figure out he was a celebrity, finally connecting the face in the reflective walls to the headshot on his author bio. He could feel their eyes on him and their delight at seeing him—or the man they thought he was.

As the elevator started its descent, Bay compared himself to the persona he’d temporarily adopted. If these people knew the truth, would they admire the shy, insecure, and antisocial introvert Bay Whitman really was? The recluse who was more comfortable alone in a dimly lit office writing his mystery novels than jet-setting the world doing press interviews and television shows, and being the center of attention at endless book signings.

Bay had created the handsome, confident, strong Jack Robbins as the man he wanted to be, wished he could be. It was an outlet for him. A way to be… well, more than he was. But when Bay’s first Jack Robbins novel unexpectedly hit it big, he was suddenly thrust into the public eye. Jack’s character became a necessity for Bay’s survival. The only way to handle his newfound stardom and cope with his shyness. A mask, so to speak, or… almost a second skin. He’d convinced himself it was no different from a clown or a drag queen hiding behind a costume or a face full of makeup.

Bay looked at his own reflection in the mirrored doors. He’d been called handsome on more than one occasion, but he couldn’t see it. All he ever saw was the tall, skinny, and extremely awkward introvert. The nerd with the big ears, horn-rimmed glasses, and unruly hair who was chased home from school every day by bullies. The kid who escaped his reality by reading about Sherlock Holmes and Lew Archer or sitting in front of the television watching reruns of Ironside and Perry Mason on TV Land.

But tonight, strangely enough, Bay had a rare surge of confidence and allowed himself to see, if just for a moment, what he was told the rest of the world saw. He studied his tall, lean frame, a bit shy of six feet, his muscular build, and the crystal blue eyes enhanced by tinted contact lenses. The halogen lights reflected off the hint of silver at his temples and caught his attention. The effect created a dramatic contrast against his jet-black hair, expertly coiffed courtesy of LeDoux Kesling, the wildly popular hairdresser to the stars. All that combined with his spray tan and gorgeous designer tuxedo, worn at the insistence of his stylist, made quite the impression. Even if it was only a façade.

The elevator slowed to a stop, and Bay took another deep breath and exhaled. When he heard the ding and the doors opened, Bay Whitman was on.

He marched across the casino and tried not to pay any attention to the heads turning. He didn’t have a vain bone in his body, and all this attention made him terribly uncomfortable. It was all so unbelievable. But deep down he knew none of this was for him. It was all for the man they thought he was. He’d been told his stature commanded respect and his confidence was something most men admired and most women swooned over. The swagger in his walk was unmistakable. But still, it wasn’t him. None of this was him.

Bay walked up to the velvet rope, showed his identification to the security guard, and was escorted to a private room where three men and a croupier were waiting. Bay’s heart raced as he walked through the door. The first thing he saw was an extremely handsome gentleman walking up to greet him.

“Good evening, Mr. Whitman,” the man said. “Welcome to the MGM Grand. I’m Marco Tonucci, and I’ll be your croupier this evening. Glad you could join us.”

Bay winked and smiled warmly. “I wouldn’t miss it. Thank you.”

Bay recognized Rich Devlin and Zeke Cambridge, the Academy Award–winning actors from the famous Hawkins Boys action-movie franchise, who happened to be best friends in real life and were currently filming their next movie in Vegas. The two men were chatting away at the bar, but the third gentleman was on his cell phone with his back to Bay. When Zeke and Rich saw him, they stopped talking, flashed broad smiles, and walked in his direction.

Zeke was the first to reach Bay and held out his hand. “I’m Zeke Cambridge. I love your work, Bay. Jack Robbins is the man.”

Bay accepted the outreached hand and returned the smile. “Thank you for the kind words. I’m a big fan of yours as well.”

Rich stuck out his hand also. “What am I, chopped liver? And what’s this I hear about a Jack Robbins movie in the works? If that happens, I think you might give us a run for our money.”

“I seriously doubt that,” Bay said with a chuckle as he accepted Rich’s hand and shook it firmly. “And for the record, I love your work too.”

Rich slapped him on the back.

When the third man ended his call and walked over, Bay thought he recognized him.

“I’m Paul Gilman,” he said, smiling.

Bay perked up, realizing he was right. “The professional poker player extraordinaire?”

Paul chuckled. “In the flesh.”

“You’re a legend in these parts,” Bay teased.

“I don’t know about that,” Paul replied. “But I’m a huge fan of yours. I like Jack, but I love your early stuff even more.”

Bay had written and self-published a half-dozen or so crime dramas before he made it big with Jack Robbins. And of course those had been rereleased between the Robbins novels and had become wildly popular as well.

“Thank you,” Bay said. “It’s good to know someone likes the oldies.”

Before Paul could respond, Zeke stepped back and looked at Bay. “Nice tux, by the way.”

Bay smoothed the front. “This old thing?”

Zeke smiled. “Hey! Someone get this man a drink so we can get this party started.”

Bay looked over his shoulder. “Flanagan on the rocks, please,”

“Hugo Boss?” Zeke asked, still admiring Bay’s tuxedo.

“Armani,” Bay corrected.

“Great taste in clothes and scotch,” Rich added. “A man after my own heart.”

“Shall we?” the croupier asked, gesturing to the table.

Looking at the other three men, Bay nodded. “I’m game.”

Bay took a seat to the far left at the table with Rich next to him, Zeke, and then Paul to the far right.

The waitress placed Bay’s drink in front of him, smiled, winked, and then quickly disappeared.

“What’s your pleasure?” the croupier asked.

Rich rubbed his hands together. “How about a little Texas Hold’em?”

“I’m in,” Zeke said.

“Me too,” Bay added.

Paul simply nodded.

“Here we go, gentlemen.”

The croupier spread the deck across the table and each man picked a random card and flipped it over. Rich had the high card, so the croupier slid the dealer button to him. “Mr. Devlin will act as our dealer for the first hand. And Mr. Whitman will have the small blind and Mr. Gilman the large.”

The croupier scooped up the cards, discarded them, and pulled another deck from the dealing shoe. “Gentlemen, we’ve already established that small blind will be twenty-five hundred dollars and large blind five thousand. Good luck.”

The croupier dealt the preflop, which gave each of the players a round of cards and then another. Bay held his hands over his hole cards and lifted his eyes slightly. He glanced around the table as Rich, Zeke, and Paul looked at their cards. None of them showed any detectible emotion, so he lifted the corner of his first card and took a peek. Not too shabby! An ace of spades.

Bay looked at his second card and smiled inwardly. Yes! A ten of spades. He eyed the other players again, and everyone still had the same blank expression. Hence the term poker face. The croupier gazed at Bay but didn’t speak. Since he was sitting to the left of the person with the dealer button, it was up to him to call, raise, or fold for the first bet.

“I’ll raise,” he said, which meant he was in for twice the big blind, or ten thousand dollars. He slid the appropriate number of chips to the center of the table and sat back.

“Damn, Bay,” Rich said. “Right outta the gate?”

Bay simply smiled confidently.

The next move was up to Paul. He looked at his cards again. “I’ll call.” He slid the same number of chips to the croupier and turned to Zeke.

Zeke glanced around the table. “I’ll call,” which meant he, too, was in for ten grand.

“Mr. Devlin?” the croupier asked.

Rich smirked. “I’ll call.”

The pot was now worth forty grand, Bay’s heart was fluttering wildly with excitement, and he could almost feel the hairs on his arms standing at attention.

Bay watched as the croupier started the flop by dealing the burn card, which is the top card in the deck and gets placed facedown on the table. He then dealt three cards faceup in front of him. The first was the nine of spades, then the ace of hearts, and finally the six of spades. It was now up to each of the players to make the best hand they could with the two cards they were already dealt and the three cards in the flop. It was time for the second round of betting.

With practiced ease, Bay kept his expression emotionless. He had a good chance of ending up with a flush, since he was already holding two spades and there were two more spades in the flop.

The croupier looked at Bay. Since all four players were still in the game and he was sitting to the left of the dealer, it was again up to him to raise, check, or fold. “I’ll raise again,” Bay said confidently.

Rich giggled nervously while Zeke and Paul eyed Bay without expression, apparently seeking a chink in his armor. Bay slid the chips to the center of the table and sat back in his chair again.

The croupier turned to Paul. “It’s to you, Mr. Gilman.”

Paul looked at his cards again and studied the flop. “I’ll call.”

Bay smiled as Paul slid his chips to the croupier.

“Mr. Cambridge?” the croupier said.

Zeke pushed a stack of chips across the table. “I’ll call as well.”

Before the croupier could ask, Rich slapped the table. “I’ll fold. I’ve got shit.”

Next was the turn. The croupier dealt a burn card facedown again and one more card faceup next to the other three.

Damn! Deuce of hearts.

But Bay was feeling confident. And he had a good run going, so it was time to apply his bluffing skills. “I’ll raise.”

“Oh man,” Rich said. “I’m glad I got out when I did.”

Paul and Zeke eyed Bay again, but neither said anything.

Bay slid another $10,000 in chips across the table.

“I’ll call,” Paul said, sliding his chips over.

“Me too,” Zeke said, following Paul’s lead.

Bay grinned to himself. Yes.Come on, Lady Luck.

It was time for the last card, or the river as it’s called. The croupier once again dealt the burn facedown and one last card faceup next to the other four.

Seven of spades. Hallelujah!

“I’ll raise,” Bay said, sliding ten grand more in chips over to the croupier.

“I’ll call,” Paul said, pushing over the equivalent in chips.

“Fuck,” Zeke said. “I’m out.”

Bay peeled back the corner of his first card, locked eyes with Paul, and then slowly flipped it over. This was where it always got interesting. As Paul looked back and forth between Bay’s card and the flop, his expression or lack thereof wasn’t what held Bay’s attention. What was happening behind Paul’s eyes told the real story—and tonight Paul did not disappoint. As soon as Paul saw Bay’s card and realized the possibilities of his hand, Bay picked up a little something in Paul’s eyes. And that simple little something caused goose bumps to form on Bay’s arms and made his heart rate steadily increase.

Bay smiled confidently as he flipped over the second card, eyes still locked on to Paul’s. He almost came in his shorts when he recognized exactly when Paul knew his goose was cooked.

“A flush,” Bay said.

Paul smiled weakly. “Nice hand.” He slid his cards to the croupier without even flipping them over.

A player who conceded a game wasn’t required to reveal his cards, but Bay would have liked to have seen the hand he’d beaten. He’d bet his life Paul had three of a kind or even a flush, but Bay’s flush was ace high, so that would have sealed the deal. Either way it didn’t really matter. Bay was up $40,000.

“Damn that was intense,” Zeke said.

“No shit,” Rich agreed.

The croupier stacked the chips, pushed them across the table, and deposited them in front of Bay.

Bay took a five-hundred-dollar chip off the top and tossed it over to the croupier. “Thank you.”

The croupier nodded, smiled, and dealt the next hand.

IT WAS just before eleven and they’d been at it for almost six hours. Rich and Zeke had excused themselves a little while ago, and Bay and Paul had agreed to one more hand. The night had been mostly in Bay’s favor, and he had over a half-million dollars in chips in front of him. On the other hand, the night hadn’t been as kind to Paul. From Bay’s best calculations, the poor guy was in the red almost as much as Bay was in the black, and he was down to four one-thousand-dollar chips.

Bay and Paul were at the river stage of the last hand. There was $80,000 in the pot, and Bay knew Paul must have an impressive hand since he continued to bet when his funds were so depleted. But Bay had an impressive hand as well. Very impressive.

Bay locked eyes with Paul as the croupier removed the burn and prepared to flip the river card faceup and add it to the flop. Already on the table were a six of clubs, seven of spades, ten of clubs, and three of hearts. Bay saw the makings of a straight and figured that’s what Paul was working up to. The croupier flipped the card and laid it on the table. Three of clubs. Bay saw a definite twinkle in Paul’s eye and figured he had the straight.

This time it was up to Paul to raise, call, or fold. Bay felt certain there would be no folding since Paul had come this far, but in order to raise, he needed $5,000. He had only $4,000 on the table, and unless he had chips in his pocket, all he could do was call.

“I’ll raise,” Paul said.

The croupier looked at Paul. “Excuse me, Mr. Gilman, but you need $5,000 to raise.”

Paul slid the four chips to the center of the table and looked at Bay. “I have an escort worth a grand scheduled to join me at the hotel in an hour. Will you take that as collateral for the final thousand?”

Bay thought for a second. He had no use for an escort. He was pretty inexperienced in that department, but what the hell? He was in Las Vegas—and what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Right? Besides, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex. He’d had offers, of course, but he’d turned them down all but a couple of times, never knowing if they were made because of his celebrity or, even worse, his Jack Robbins persona. An encounter with an escort should be pretty cut-and-dried. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

“Sure,” Bay said before he could stop himself.

Since Paul was out of chips, Bay had no reason to raise again, so he called.

Paul flipped over his two cards. One was a nine of clubs and the other was an eight of spades. “Straight,” he said, smiling.

Bay smiled back and flipped his cards over. “Four threes.”

The blood drained out of Paul’s face, and he hung his head briefly. When he raised it again, he was smiling. “Definitely not my night,” he said, standing. “But hey. You win some. You lose some.”

He offered his hand to Bay. Bay accepted it and the two men shook. “It was a pleasure, Paul. I hope we get to do it again.”

“Likewise,” Paul said. “Oh! I almost forgot. What is your room number?”

“It’s 3001,” Bay said. “Why?”

“Because your escort will be there at midnight.”

Bay was about to protest when he changed his mind. He was still undecided, but he simply said, “Thanks.”

Paul turned and walked out of the game room without another word.

“Can you verify your winnings with me, Mr. Whitman, before I call the cashier to cut you a check? Or would you prefer a wire transfer?” the croupier asked.

“Certainly. And a check will be fine.”

BAY HAD just returned to his suite and put his rather large check in the safe when he heard a knock at his door. He walked through the foyer and then stopped dead in his tracks. Shit! The escort. He nervously smoothed the front of his jacket, then opened the door. When he saw the person standing on the other side, his mouth fell open and stayed there. He blinked twice to make sure he wasn’t imagining things. He wasn’t, and he could neither move nor speak.

Chapter Two

WHAT THE fuck? Jack? Jack Robbins? The man on the other side of the door was the spitting image of the character Bay had created. He was leaning against the wall across the hall from Bay’s door in a fashionable dark suit, arms folded across his chest, feet crossed at the ankles, flashing a million-dollar smile. This must be some sort of joke. Jack’s not real.

Bay studied the guy in disbelief. He was extremely handsome, of course. And given the way Bay had to look up to meet the man’s eyes, he was definitely the same height as Jack. Not to mention possessing the same hair, same eyes, same neat beard, and the same muscular build Bay had written about. And that smile? It was definitely the sly, sexy smile Bay had created for Jack when he was trying to seduce a new conquest. This man is Jack Robbins. Wait! A new conquest. Am I the conquest?

Bay’s visitor cleared his throat, which brought Bay back to reality somewhat. He couldn’t stop staring, but he attempted to speak. “How… can I help you?”

“Damn, you’re hot. Please tell me your name is Paul?”

Paul? “Ah. No. Sorry,” Bay said.

The man’s smile faded. “Shit.”

The stranger checked his cell phone, looked at the number on the door, and shook his head with a disgusted expression. “My apologies, man. Must have gotten stood up.”

Bay was about to close the door when it hit him. Paul. Paul Gilman. The escort.Oh shit!

“Wait!” he called out. “Did you have an appointment with Paul at midnight?”

The guy stopped and looked back quizzically. “As a matter of fact, I did. And if you’re not Paul… how did you know that?”

Still in shock from seeing Jack Robbins living and breathing, Bay nervously beckoned the guy back. “Because I won you in a poker game.”

One corner of the man’s mouth curled up into a little smile, and his eyes twinkled with mischief. He took a few steps back and resumed his position leaning against the wall. “Now did you? That’s funny. I didn’t realize I was transferrable.”

“Oh jeez.” Bay realized what he’d just said. “I’m so sorry, I’m talking about you like you’re a piece of meat or something.”

The guy laughed, and his entire face lit up. “Hell, I’m not offended. I’ve been referred to as a piece of meat on more than one occasion.”

Bay suddenly wished he was back in the safety of his New York apartment writing about Jack instead of standing in the hall of a Las Vegas hotel talking to his likeness.

“So with whom do I have the pleasure of spending my next two hours? If I may ask?”

“Oh sorry. I’m Bay.” Bay stuck out his hand.

“Bay?”

Bay nodded.

“Odd, but nice.”

“Thanks. It’s a family name,” Bay said. “Look, you don’t have to stay. The guy thought he had a winning hand, but I raised and he was out of money, so he offered you up to even the pot.”

Instead of accepting Bay’s hand, the guy folded his arms over his chest again, smiled, and looked Bay up and down. “And his loss is definitely my gain.”

Bay smiled weakly and warmth crawled up his face. “Yeah. No… I mean—” He realized the man was flirting with him, as Jack did with so many of his conquests. This is uncanny!

Bay withdrew his hand, and the man took a step toward him. “I’m King Slater.”

He was so close now, Bay could smell his spicy cologne. “Nice to meet you, King.” They locked eyes, and King seemed to be waiting for some sort of recognition. But his name didn’t ring a bell.

King appeared amused by Bay’s nervousness and discomfort. “I’ll show myself in,” he said, still smiling seductively at Bay.

Bay watched in amazement as King walked right past him. He even had Jack’s swagger down to a T.

After quickly looking down the hall in both directions before closing the door, Bay followed King into the living room. King suddenly stopped, and Bay almost ran into his back. When King turned around, still grinning, he looked into Bay’s eyes, cupped the back of Bay’s neck, and pulled him close to press his lips against Bay’s in a slow, tender kiss.

A slew of reactions flooded Bay’s head. Stop him