But it lived in him.

He unlocked the wide glass door of his room, stepped in, tossed aside his shoes. After flipping on the lights, closing the drapes, he took his winnings from his pocket, gave the bills a careless flip. With the current rate of exchange, he was up about six thousand USD. Not a bad night, not bad at all. In the bathroom, he popped off the bottom of a can of shaving cream, tucked the bills inside the hollow tube.

He protected what was his. He’d learned to do so from childhood, secreting away small treasures so his father couldn’t find and destroy them on a drunken whim. He might’ve flipped off any notion of a college education, but Gage figured he’d learned quite a bit in his not-quite-twenty-four years.

He’d left Hawkins Hollow the summer he’d graduated from high school. Just packed up what was his, stuck out his thumb and booked.

Escaped, Gage thought as he stripped for a shower. There’d been plenty of work-he’d been young, strong, healthy, and not particular. But he’d learned a vital lesson while digging ditches, hauling lumber, and most especially during the months he’d sweated on an offshore rig. He could make more money at cards than he could with his back.

And a gambler didn’t need a home. All he needed was a game.

He stepped into the shower, turned the water hot. It sluiced over tanned skin, lean muscles, through thick black hair in need of a trim. He thought idly about ordering some coffee, some food, then decided he’d catch a few hours’ sleep first. Another advantage of his profession, in Gage’s mind. He came and went as he pleased, ate when he was hungry, slept when he was tired. He set his own rules, broke them whenever it suited him.