G-Ring Diana Gardin Contents Also By Diana Gardin 1. ACE 2. ACE 3. NAIMA 4. NAIMA 5. ACE 6. ACE 7. NAIMA 8. ACE 9. NAIMA 10. ACE 11. ACE 12. NAIMA 13. NAIMA 14. ACE 15. ACE 16. NAIMA 17. NAIMA 18. ACE 19. ACE 20. NAIMA 21. ACE 22. NAIMA 23. NAIMA 24. ACE 25. ACE 26. NAIMA 27. ACE 28. NAIMA 29. ACE 30. NAIMA 31. ACE EPILOGUE Acknowledgments About the Author Copyright © 2020 Diana Gardin. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be re produced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination. Front cover image by Avery Kingston. Book Formatting by Kate L. Mary. Printed by Amazon, Inc., in the United States of America. First printing edition 2020. Published by Diana Gardin Gardin Grows Press Also By Diana Gardin THE ASHES SERIES Out Of The Ashes Settling Ashes Ashes Adrift THE NELSON ISLAND SERIES Wanting Forever Ever Always Falling Deep THE BATTLE SCARS SERIES Last True Hero Saved By The SEAL Man Of Honor THE RESCUE OPS SERIES Sworn To Protect Promise To Defend Mine To Save THE DELTA SQUAD SERIES Lawson Ryder THE TROMA CHRONICLES The Lilac Sky THE BRING ME BACK SERIES Just Like Breathing Just Like Home Just Like This This one’s for me. It makes me happy. One ACE “Buy-in’s two G’s.” I rake a hand through my hair as I stare down the yuppie-looking dude standing in the doorway. He nods and pulls a black leather wallet out of his jacket’s breast pocket. Like two grand is nothing. A spoiled rich college kid just like the rest of ‘them. Then he has the nerve to slide out a black credit card. I glower at the card, and then snap my gaze back to him. “This ain’t Barney’s. Give me cash or get the hell out.” The kid shrugs, putting the card back in his wallet. And then he counts out twenty crisp hundred-dollar bills. I grab them from his outstretched hand, and then my associate, Borg, moves aside to let the client inside. Borg’s actual name is Brian, but we call him Borg because, well, he’s huge. Like a Cyborg. I turn and scan the dark, smoky room we use for the games. I do a quick count. My limit is thirty players a night. I’m getting close. Turning back to the door, Borg’s stocky frame is blocking the entrance of a face I’ve never seen before. Most of the guys who play here are regulars—them, and the girls they bring along. They’re also almost always college-aged. The G-Ring’s clients are rich boys who want to play in the big leagues, but don’t want their daddy’s friends and business partners to catch them playing in the bigger rings. That’s my market, and I’ve studied it well. But the dude standing at the door now doesn’t ring a single bell of familiarity. Tall, clean-cut, and tucked-in, he fits the description of a lot of guys in here. His hair is short and blonde, wavy across the top and falling over his forehead. But he’s not giving off college vibes. His appearance comes off as someone who’s worked in an office all day. There’s a desperate glint to his expression that screams trouble. I don’t need trouble in my ring. “We’re full.” My words are clipped, final. The blond man’s mouth curves into a grin that’s supposed to set me at ease. “For real? You turning away cash at the door?” He slides a stack of Benjamins out of the interior pocket of his blazer. Despite his shady expression, the dude is dressed nice. Not in the polos and khakis that most of my clientele wear, but in a dark suit. My eyes narrow into slits. “You a cop?” The question is pointless; I already know cops don’t wear shoes that expensive. The dude’s a suit. I’m just not sure if he’s the kind of suit who works in an office all day, or the kind who does his business at night in dark alleys. Either way, he’s too big league for my ring. I glance at Borg and shake my head. “Closed.” Borg’s deep, gravelly voice says he’s not playing around. The step he takes closer to our uninvited guest should shoot the point across in a way our words don’t. I turn my back, ready to spread myself around the room. “I’ll pay double your buy-in.” Pausing mid-step, I turn around slowly, schooling my shocked features as I study him for the slightest sign of bullshit. I can’t find any. Curious, I tilt my head to one side. “You want in on the game bets, or you want to play at the tables?” He nods toward the row of TVs lining one wall of my basic warehouse space. Rent is cheap in the warehouse, and the owner doesn’t ask any questions when I pay him in cash each week. “Games.” His response is short, his eyes on the rows of leather chairs set up in front of the TVs. Someone who bets on games is confident his knowledge of the sport is superior to the odds. They don’t feel there’s as much risk involved, contrary to the tables where the skills of the other players mix with the odds of the house. I hold out my hand, and against every ounce of better judgment I have, I close my fist around his cash. “You’re in.” Borg bolts the door behind us, and I enter the room, scanning to make sure my staff are all in palace. Every single one of us packs heat, but we’ve never had to use a weapon. The threat is there. Between Borg, my friend Kevin, an old buddy whose technology skills are unrivaled, and X, a man who doubles as a bouncer at my uncle’s bar, security at the G-Ring is covered. Whoops and hollers break out in the seating area in front of the flat-screens, and I smile, knowing that bets have been waged and the
