Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 21

Eleven o’clock in the evening, Day Five.

At table four, Jack knew he had to get the hell out of there. Sally had her quota, she was gone already. He had nine thousand, six hundred in front of him. Lane was restlessly prowling the pit, pausing again and again at his table, his cold eyes eternally watching.

Okay, Jack promised himself fervently, okay, I split the minute Lane goes away. The very minute the sonofabitch leaves the table I leave forever.

But Lane didn’t leave.

He was obsessed now. He’d gone over the films of tables one and four again and again, searching for anything that would clue him in. It couldn’t be a hot streak, not a consistent losing streak on two tables to the same two people. Not almost exactly the same amounts, close to ten thousand a day. No fucking way in this world, Lane thought viciously.

That morning he’d gone down to the stock room and personally checked the seals on the cartons from Apex, measuring them in precise detail against others. They were genuine, no doubt about that. If the seals were genuine, then the cards had to be too because Apex was as solid as Gibraltar. He’d called Apex and the owner assured him after a thorough check everything was accounted for. He checked the shipping schedules, and they matched the deliveries, correct serial numbers and all.

Then how? Lane seethed. How in the fuck did they do it?

And why was this sleek bastard’s face haunting him, keeping him awake at night, nagging endlessly at his mind?

Jack dared not look at Lane, feeling his icy gaze. He was no longer sleek and self-assured. He was haggard, he’d aged twenty years from sheer tension. And the nightmare of constant sucking and fucking, keeping two lust-crazed women in line while his nerves threatened to explode momentarily. It was the booze that held him together, that and the counting of the cash in the black valise in his motel closet, counting the bundles over and over and over, dreaming of Easy Street, so close now, so fucking close, only a pussy-hair away.

Ah shit, go away, you death-eyed bastard, Jack seethed silently at Lane. Shit you cold-hearted mother. GO!