“No way. No fucking way,” one of them spat the words, spittle dribbling down his chin while his words slurred. I’d lost count of how many scotches he’d consumed over the past hour.

“Looks like someone had a few too many,” I teased. Probably a horrible time to joke. No one else smiled. Actually, a few faces turned an even darker shade of red.

“How do you do it?” Another man hissed. They were all convinced I was cheating. It was the only explanation that made sense to them. I gave a wide smile to each one of them. A storm of frantic intensity was exploding inside me. Fear, nerves, anxiety—my mind chewed them up and swallowed them whole because I was a thrill-seeker to the extreme. The tingling spine, the shaking fingers, the flipping stomach—I loved it.

Predatory eyes all faced me, hungry for savagery. My heart beat wildly in my chest, spurring me on. A taste of mania tickled my brain. I wanted to savor every second of this brewing storm. It made me feel electric.

Sweat blossomed on my forehead. The room was getting hot despite the AC rumbling loudly, trying to keep pace with the desert heat. We were in the back room of a small liquor store that was likely a front for money laundering. The room was nothing fancy but they’d made it comfortable enough with nice chairs, an expensive poker table, and top-shelf liquors splashing around in stout whiskey glasses.

One could almost forget we were in a shitty storage closet with the scent of pricey cigar smoke and all the gold jewelry on these men. It was upsetting they hadn’t felt the need to start gambling that gold away but these types of men didn’t get that desperate.

“How do I do what?” I asked with fake confusion. I smirked as I leaned over the table, ignoring my body’s protest to run, back away, and never come back to this den of human monsters. Crisp bills in neat stacks caressed my hand as I shoveled them into my duffel bag. Grumbling broke out around the table and I knew I had mere moments before anticipated danger made good on its promise.

My hand shot out faster, frantically grabbing the last of the money. It felt like dipping my hand into a basket of snakes, waiting for one to strike.

“You really think we’re letting you take that?” A smooth, teasing voice questioned in entertainment. My grip tightened on my heavy duffel and I looked at the speaker. My eyebrows pinched when I saw he wasn’t angry but delighted. His dark gray hair was slicked back and not a drop of sweat darkened his face. His clean jaw was angular, his cheekbones a little high–the bone structure reminiscent of someone with Eastern European heritage.

His hands were laced together on his knee as he sat comfortably back in his chair, shoulders straight and wide. Nice suit, nice watch, and one pinky ring. The guy had both class and money whereas most in here only had the latter. Dark sunglasses sat perched on his nose while a sly smile graced his face.