Unstoppable

PROLOGUE

My daddy always used to say, you could never run out of second chances.

Even if you think the road is too hard to travel, even if you feel lost in the darkest night, there’s always a way through the storm; a hope that will take you through to see the pale light of morning.

People fail all the time, it’s what we’re made to do. We all have moments of fear and weakness, we all stumble on the rocks of bitter jealousy. There’s not a soul in the world who hasn’t been brought low at some point. What matters is what you do when you hit the bottom.

Because love doesn’t always last the first time, or the second. It’s a rare heart that makes it through life unscarred and unbroken. If you never pull yourself back up again, and find the strength to try again, you’ll never find that one true soul who loves you not despite those wounds and jagged edges, but because of them.

I was only a kid back then, I didn’t understand. My father’s second chances didn’t last forever. They ran out, the summer I turned thirteen. It wasn’t until years later that his words became my solace, something to hold on to when I felt too lost to ever dream of loving again.

He knew my heart was stronger than even I could imagine. He knew there was a future for me that would make the pain a distant memory.

Because in the end, the most important second chance you’ll ever have is the one you give yourself.

1.

RYLAND

I’m three hands into a round of Texas Hold’em when the dealer turns the last card and I realize: it’s over. Not just the game, but everything. My shitty job, my gig here in Vegas. This whole dirty chapter in my wrong-track life. Nobody’s laid a single card down, but I know.

I’m done.

“What’s it gonna be, boys?” My boss, Driskell, leans back in his chair so far you’d think he’s about to rest his black cowboy boots right on the poker table. He gives that famous shark’s grin, the one that spells trouble for anyone on the other end. “Who’s got the balls for this one?”

I can see the split-second decisions being made around me. This isn’t pocket change we’re playing for, there’s already seventy-five grand on the table, stacked in plastic chips. The high rollers lounge at the Bellagio doesn’t come cheap, and Driskell always likes to put on a show.

I tap my cards, trying not to let my feelings show. I’m not even supposed to be here. These guys are made of cash, all decked out in their designer suits and expensive Rolex watches, while I’m in jeans and a dusty pair of boots. My job is on the door, or the exit, wherever Driskell tells me to be. I’m just the muscle, making sure one of his many enemies don’t get close enough to try anything. And with his line of work, they always try. Last month a rival boss pulled a gun on him during a routine negotiation in Tampa.

He’s still breathing through a respirator.

But one of the players ducked out early tonight, and Driskell told me to take the open seat. Now he’s smirking at me like he knows just how far out of my league I’m swimming. “You sure you don’t wanna fold, kid?” He throws down another stack of chips, another ten grand at least. “You can walk right now, no harm, no foul. I’ll just add it to your tab.”

My tab.

He makes it sound like a couple of beers, but it’s the reason I’m here at all, working for a man like him. Two years and counting as his personal enforcer, and I’m nowhere near close to repaying the debt I owe.

It was worth it. It’ll always be worth it, but still, I feel a clench of anger when he rubs it in like this.

I shrug, taking a gulp of beer. “I’m good.”

Driskell snorts. He thinks I’m bluffing. They all do. And why not? They run this town, every dark, seedy corner, and me, I’m just some punk kid, here to crack heads and keep the peace.

One by one, the players around me fold. “My wife is gonna kill me,” one of them sighs.

“Screw your wife. What about my mistress?” Another guy makes a show of throwing down his cards. But my eyes stay fixed on Driskell, looking for some sign.

Until the door opens and she walks in.

I don’t know why she catches my eye. This is Vegas, and pretty girls are all over the Strip, wearing heels much higher and dresses way shorter than hers. But as she carefully weaves her way past the table towards the bar, I can’t help staring. A petite body poured into a simple black dress, her dark hair tumbling free. There’s something about the way she moves, an effortless grace as she slides up on a barstool and gazes curiously out around the room.

I can’t look away.

Our eyes meet; she catches me staring, but I don’t blink. Instead, I drink her in, memorizing her face the way I always do. It’s my thing, a way of keeping track. You never know when you’ll need to recall someone in a crowd, that split-second warning that could save your life.

But tonight, it’s not danger that has my pulse racing. This is all on her. Dark eyes, set in a small, pale face. Midnight pools, mysterious and guarded. In a room full of women tanned and made-up within an inch of their lives, laughing too loud, shrieking too brightly, she stands out just by virtue of her stillness. Her quiet.

“Alright, kid, you’re up,” Driskell announces, pulling me back to the game.

Damn. I try and shake off the moment across the room. Your whole future’s on that table, and you’re getting distracted, thinking about some girl?

“Time for the fat lady to start singin’,” someone whistles.