Chapter 2: "All In" - Julian POV

I’m still dealing cards, the night dragging on, when my mind slips back three weeks. It’s like a film reel kicking in, pulling me out of the casino and into our cramped little flat. Me and Marcus, alone, the air heavy with something I couldn’t name till I said it. I was pacing, boots scuffing the worn carpet, a glass of cheap whiskey sloshing in my hand. My heart was hammering, and I felt like a right prat, but I couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“I’ve loved you since the first sodding day, you git,” I blurted, stopping dead in front of him. Marcus was on the sofa, feet up, a beer halfway to his mouth. He froze, eyes wide, like I’d just tossed a live grenade. I stood there, waiting for him to laugh or tell me to sod off, my grip tight on the glass. Then he set the beer down, slow, and stood up. Didn’t say a word, just pulled me in and kissed me. Raw, tender, like he’d been holding it back too. I muttered “bloody hell” under my breath, half-laughing, and he grinned against my mouth. That was it, three weeks ago, we stopped pretending. Made it real.

Back in the now, the casino’s quieter. The drunks have thinned out, and my table’s empty for once. I’m stacking chips, fingers moving on autopilot, when Marcus comes over. He’s got that look, tired but warm, like he’s carrying the weight of the night but still has room for me. He leans on the table, close enough I can smell his aftershave over the smoke.

“Got something for you,” he says, pulling a slip of paper from his pocket. He slides it across the felt, a $5,000 casino voucher. My jaw drops, and I stare at it like it’s a winning hand.

“What’s this, then?” I ask, voice catching.

“For the rent,” he says, simple as that. “You’re worth it, Jules.” His eyes hold mine, steady, and I feel my face heat up. I’m not used to this, someone looking out for me like he does.

“Proper chuffed, mate,” I manage, grinning like an idiot. “Cheers.” I tuck the voucher in my pocket, but it’s more than just cash. It’s him saying I matter, and that hits deep. Marcus has his own ghosts, debts from back when he gambled too much, stuff he doesn’t talk about. Giving me this means he’s stretching himself thin, and I don’t know how to tell him what that does to me.

He claps my shoulder, lingering a bit, then heads off to check the floor. I watch him go, that steady walk, and my chest feels full. Three weeks in, and I’m still a mess over him. The voucher’s a weight in my pocket, real and fragile, like us.

The night drags on, and I’m back to dealing, small crowd now, just a few regulars. I’m flipping cards, keeping the patter going, when I catch movement near the bar. Claire’s there, juggling a double shift, her tray loaded with drinks. She’s been running ragged all night, blonde hair slipping from its tie, but she’s still got that edge, like she’s one wrong move from snapping. I’ve seen her like this before, especially since Marcus ratted her out for skimming tips last year. Fair play, she was nicking cash, but she’s held it against him ever since.

She’s close now, dropping off drinks at a table nearby. I don’t think much of it till I hear Marcus’s voice drift over. He’s by the cashier cage, chatting with Sam, the slot tech kid. “Yeah, gave Jules the voucher,” he says, casual, like it’s no big deal. “Rent’s sorted now.” Sam nods, all eager like he’s chuffed for me too.

I smirk, dealing a jack of spades, but then I see Claire freeze. Her tray wobbles, glasses clinking, and she turns her head slow, like she’s clocking every word. Her face changes, shock first, then something harder. Her eyes dart to me, then back to Marcus, and her jaw tightens so hard I swear I hear it click. She sets the tray down, hands shaking, and I don’t get it. What’s her problem now?

She grabs a rag, wipes the bar like she’s scrubbing out a stain, but her eyes keep flicking over. I deal another hand, queen of hearts, and try to focus, but she’s got me twitchy. She’s muttering something, too low to hear, and her fingers grip the rag like it’s a lifeline. Then she stops, dead still, and stares at the floor. I don’t know what’s going through her head, but it’s not good.

I shake it off, finish the hand. The table clears out, and I’m alone again, stacking chips. Marcus is off somewhere, probably barking orders, and the casino’s hum feels louder, slots ringing, voices fading in and out. Claire’s gone from the bar now, her tray abandoned. I figure she’s on a break, but that look she had sticks with me. Like she’d just figured something out, and it wasn’t anything nice.

Minutes tick by, and I’m wiping down the table when I spot her again. She’s heading for the back, moving fast, her shoulders stiff. She’s not carrying drinks anymore, just her phone, clutched tight in her hand. She disappears through a staff door, the one that leads to security, and I frown. That’s Victor’s turf, her uncle. He’s a grizzly old sod, runs the cameras and the muscle. What’s she doing with him this late?

I don’t have time to dwell. A new player sits down, some bloke with too much gel in his hair, and I deal him in. But my head’s buzzing, that prickle from earlier creeping back. Claire’s always been a bit off, but tonight’s different. Something’s brewing, and I don’t like it.

Later, must be past two a.m., I’m on a quick break, grabbing water from the bar. The place is winding down, just the diehards left. I’m sipping, watching the floor, when Claire comes back. She’s with Victor now, the two of them stepping out of the security office. He’s got his arms crossed, that hard look he always wears, and she’s right beside him, her face dark. They’re talking low, heads close, and I catch a snatch of it as they pass.

“Five grand for that Brit, while Ethan’s dying,” Claire says, her voice sharp and bitter. It’s quiet, but it cuts through the noise like a blade. Victor leans in, his growl rough. “Then we take him down.”

My water goes down wrong, and I cough, turning away quick so they don’t see me. My heart’s thudding now, loud in my ears. Five grand? Ethan? Who’s Ethan? And what’s “take him down” mean? I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s about me, or Marcus, or both. Claire’s rage is a live wire, and Victor’s in on it. Their pact’s sealed right there, and I’m standing frozen, glass in hand, watching them split off like nothing happened.

I head back to my table, legs shaky, and deal the next hand. But my head’s not in it. Something’s coming, and I’ve got a bad feeling it’s aimed straight at me.