My uncle, on the other hand...
I can't tell you how many times someone has said, "Yeah, right."
Uncle Harry gives me a discount, being that he's family, so coaching time with him only costs me $300 an hour. It's worth every penny. And I'm not unaware of what he's done for me, after my big win in Vegas I wrote him a huge check. He refused it, but I forced him. Ladies rights. He spent years coaching me for free. I think for the month after mom died, he, my dad, and I played poker and talked strategy, fourteen hours a day.
My mind back in the present, I played well for the first four hours of the tourney.
I had a bigger than average stack. We were on a break before round eight started and I had a coffee, did some yoga stretching, talked to a couple of fans. Good guys, even if they secretly think I only won because I got lucky, which is the attitude of many of the men. Let them think what they want...
A few hands into round eight I was dealt A-J suited. That's a pretty good hand, playable in most situations, and I'd been running well. The blinds were 300-600 with an ante of 100. We were deep enough into the tourney that a few players were short stacked and desperate, but it wasn't so late that anyone with a chip problem was going all-in willy-nilly. I'm cautious with ace-queen and ace-jack because I've seen a lot of players get killed with these cards. Any big pair or ace-king is real trouble.
I was in late position, so that helped. The player under the gun mucked, but the next-to-act player raised putting 2400 into the pot. An oversized raise to open, probably a big hand.
When you play poker at this level, you categorize players. Some experts give players an animal name to help remember their playing style. Mouse. Elephant. Lion. Eagle. Some experts make up nicknames to players. Harringbot, Flush Master, Old Lady, and Calling Station, for instance.
The raiser was a ‘young gun’ which is an aggressive player who enters a lot of pots. Young guns are hard to play against because he could be raising from an early position with pocket fours or medium suited connectors.
After he raised, two additional players called in front of me. That rarely happens, especially at this level of play, usually someone will re-raise if they are going to get into a pot like this. But, I suspect that what happened is the first player to call the raise looked at his cards and saw something like pocket tens. He didn’t want to fold, knowing the opening raiser was an aggressive player and could have a crappy hand. He also didn't want to go all-in either, it would have been too much of a risk.
So, the next player who called the hand probably had a drawing hand like mine. If he had a huge hand, say pocket kings or aces, or maybe even queens, he probably would have raised all-in.
Of course, like online dating, poker isn’t an exact science and people do weird—and sometimes stupid—shit.
Pot Odds is a term that means a player is getting good—or at least proper—odds on their bet if they call a bet, even if they don’t yet have the winner hand. I won't explain all the math for this particular hand, but basically, it worked like this: I was on the button, and as long as the blinds didn’t end up raising again, I would be able to see the flop for 2400.
Since there was already 9700 out there, so I was getting a bit over 3 to 1 odds, but more importantly, I acted last, so I had the potential to pick up a lot of chips if I hit the flop hard. That meant that the implied odds were greater than 3 to 1.
Anyway, don't worry about all the math. What it meant was that it was a good time to call and hope for something big to hit.
The flop landed and consisted of a two jacks and a ten.
A fantastic flop for me; I'd hit trips (that's three-of-a-kind).
The first player checked.
The second player checked.
The third player checked.
I had to consider whether or not a player was trapping--that term means a player has a great hand, but still checks as if they don’t have a good hand waiting for someone else to bet. In this case, I’ve probably got the best hand, but it’s always wise to take a deep breath and make sure you’ve considered all the possibilities.
Since I have one of the jacks, the best possible hand, called the ‘absolute nuts’ would be a player holding other jack and a ten, which would be a full house. But this was unlikely because I have a jack and there's only four of them in the deck. The way everyone bet, a jack-ten isn't super likely to be in a hand—but it was possible—you never can be sure in poker that someone isn’t doing something strange.
And, the young gun could have raised with jack-ten suited. I've seen him—and others like him—play that way.
In the position I was in I had to bet something, but I don’t want to chase out every weak hand here either.
I had a decent amount of chips. And, as I've said before, I'm a tight aggressive player, so betting here is my style, I want more chips in the pot, and I always want to know where I stand in a hand.
It’s very similar to dating. You always want information because being in the dark and getting blind-sided sucks.
The pot was around 12,000 so I bet out 6,000, figuring I could induce a drawing hand, or perhaps a big over pair to call.
The young gun called me—which was a bit of a danger sign—and the other two players folded. The call alerts me that he could have a monster hand—unless he's trying to intimidate me—and he plans on raising big next round. Hell.
The turn is another ten. That mixes it up, but it's mostly good for me. I have a full house, the nut full house. Even if he has jack-ten, we'll split the pot, only the best five cards count.
He checks as I expected.
There’s about 24,000 in the pot now. Any big bet will cause him to fold. I'm starting to suspect he has ace-king or ace-queen, for a straight draw. What else? A big pair? He's got to suspect I hit the flop, which means he knew I had a full house on the turn.
I check. If I bet, he'll fold, and I don't mind if he hits a straight draw. Even if he hit a backdoor flush, it would be no problem. I thought that maybe we'd split the pot—worst case—perhaps he does have jack-ten?
The river card was a seven of diamonds. There were three diamonds on the board, but that didn't mean anything.
I ran through all the possibilities.
The absolute nuts were two tens, which would give him quads (four-of-a-kind). These monster hands happen, of course, but they're rare, and you can't play a hand putting your opponent on quads and straight flushes.
Second nuts, or as they say, the worst possible hand to have, would have been tens-over-jacks, for a smaller full house.
My check on the turn was the smart move, I believe, if I make a large bet, he either folds, or comes over the top if he has quads…not likely, but I’ve seen it happen.
He bet out 15,000.
I’m going to have to call this bet, he could be playing the smaller full house, which would be awesome. He could also be betting out with the same hand, in which case we’ll split the pot. Not ideal, but better than losing.
We’ve played together before, and I know he knows I have a strong hand.
So I have a sixth sense telling me that he’s hit the nuts.
Fuck.
There’s an attitude you feel coming from a player with a monster hand, but I couldn’t have folded here—it's one of those things. If I folded--especially if he showed the tens full—I’d be perceived as a weak player. My bets would be seen as chum for the sharks in future bets.
I couldn’t raise, either, just in case you were wondering. It would have had no value because the only time he would call a raise in that position is if he had me beat.
I called his bet and he showed pocket tens.
Fucking hell—that’s how poker is sometimes.
It's not the end of the world to get knocked out of a tournament because of big monster hand. If you’re going to lose, it's better to lose to quads than to lose against two-pair.
Of course, winning is always preferred, but I guess that goes without saying.
I wasn't out o
f the tournament immediately after that big loss, but the end came soon after it. Being short stacked means having to gamble, and gamblers usually lose.
Afterward, I was demoralized and depressed.
Losing brought back thoughts of my sister, arguments about God, and about my mother.
I told myself I should quit playing poker.
That I wasn't a very good player.
Fuck...
I needed to call my dad.
I WAS NOT GOING TO DRIVE BACK to Hartford at that hour, feeling shitty, so I got a room. Poker does something to your brain when you lose. You doubt your moves. You think through hands; you wish for better luck in the future.
At one in the morning, I finally called my dad. FaceTime. He answered right away. It was afternoon in Thailand, so I knew he'd be awake.
"Hey Baby!" he shouted into the computer.
"Hi, dad. The connection is fine, you don’t have to yell.”
"You lost, I can tell."
"Fuck."
"You can't win them all, sweetheart. Honestly. Even I lose, and I'm the best player on the planet."
"I know. I know. It's just. Quads. Four tens over my jacks full…”
"Tell me about it."
My dad listened as I patiently reconstructed the hand. Poker players do this all the time—don't laugh—you and your girlfriends recount the same stupid story about your cousin's wedding over-and-over again. It's the same thing. Losing brings up a lot of emotions.
Life.
Love.
The future.
And, yeah, professionals don’t get emotional, I know…
But, I’m a girl, so fuck you.
Sorry, don’t mean that...forgive me?
Winning does the same thing--it brings up emotions and feelings about life--I like winning much better.
After I'm finished, and my dad gives me all the condolences he can, he tells me about his life.
It's about the same as the last time he talked to me: online poker, dive bars, and lots of women. He doesn't say anything directly about the females in his life, which is good. As much as I like to talk about sex, I’d rather not hear about my dad's sex life in Thailand. Eww.
"I got an email from your sister," he said.
"Fuck."
"Don't be like that."
"I'm not going to church, and I'm about to cancel going to her house."
"Don't do that. You're family. Work it out the best you can. Do it for your nephews and nieces."
My sister was like a farm animal. Two boys. Three girls. All for God, I'm sure. Hell.
"Okay, I'll go to her house. I'll be kind, loving, and I'll remind them of their grandmother. But I'll be goddamned if I let her guilt me into going to church."
We chatted for another fifteen minutes.
I hung up after we started talking about the weather. That was a sign that we'd both said what needed to be said.
After ending the call, I checked my email, there was a message from Kirk.
Jess,
I loved being with you last night. You're a beautiful woman and great lover. I hope your poker game went well. I know you have to go back to California and you have this quest. I hope I'm still in the running. You're a prize. If you're free on Sunday, I'm up for getting together?
Kirk
Cute. Nice of him. I decided to put the poker loss behind me and concentrate on things I could control. The man was a great lover, so tomorrow...
CHAPTER EIGHT
Don't put off till tomorrow anyone you could be doing today.
~ Emma Chase
Some people would rather skip sex than be late to a social function. No, I'm serious. I don't get it either.
~ Jessica
SUNDAY WAS CREATED for sleeping in late. I ordered room service and turned on the electronic pacifier and listened to Sunday Talk Show Banter. After an hour I was ready to jump from the balcony. Just kidding, but seriously, I needed to find a novel. I think television is like a parasite.
I sent Kirk a text message.
My text: Got your email. Yes, I would love to see you. Cocktails? Sixish? Dinner?
His text: Are you on the menu for dessert?
My text: :)
I dressed and went to the hotel gift shop for a novel, I wanted something to help me escape reality for a short time. Browsing the selections of paperbacks, I thought, no, no, no. No! God, how many sequels is this author going to write?
Maybe I should break down and get a Kindle or a Nook...but I have this weird--but fond--memory of reading and sharing books with my mom. The feel of a worn paperback, especially if she'd read it first and handed it down to me, made me happy.
What I settled on finally was T is for Tourniquet. A paramedic thriller series. I needed a beach book, although I was going to be hard pressed to find a beach in Hartford. I found a cozy spot to sit near the bar. I ordered a Bloody Mary. It seemed appropriate. I drifted into another world as I began reading.
PROLOGUE
Harry Huntington arrived on the scene of the worst auto accident in Los Angeles history, October 12th, 1974, after a frantic call from his superior. It was his day off, but the accident had occurred on the southbound side of Interstate 5, not many miles from his home in Glendale.
He approached the first victim, a young man, perhaps nineteen or twenty. He was going to die. A once beautiful woman, a girlfriend, a fiancee, maybe a wife, was already dead. The young man was trying to look at her face.
"Son."
"I -- "
"Don't speak, son," Harry said. "Lie down. It's going to be okay."
His hair was military short, and he wore dog tags. Maybe he was on leave; perhaps he'd already been discharged.
Vietnam had invaded the American psyche.
Harry held his hand.
"Are they sending anyone?" the young man asked.
"I'm here," Harry said in an authoritarian, but soft voice. He'd watched many young men die, and of those, a fair share had given him their last words.
"The LZ!" the young man shouted. He tried to move but had little control of his body. "The LZ it's hot. It's hot. Lieutenant, am I going to die?"
"I'm here son." Harry squeezed his hand.
The young man coughed blood, opened his eyes, and looked at Harry. His face displayed shock and fear. "Sir. The com, sir. The com. The com. The com." He pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Harry.
A scream, piercing the air, came from another smashed vehicle, and the sound of pain and helplessness brought Harry back to the nightmare of the situation.
There were other victims, perhaps people he could save. He was certain the boy would die in minutes. "Son?" he asked.
The boy didn't answer. If he had not bled out already, Harry knew his heart would stop at any moment.
He'd been to the Nam, and he knew.
Harry pocketed the blood-soaked note--the com the boy handed him before he died--had he know its contents at the time, Harry would have revived the boy, and choked him to death.
“WHAT YOU READING, SEXY?”The voice shattered my concentration.
"Oh, God..." I jumped slightly and looked up.
"Did I scare you?" he asked.
"I totally lost track of the time," I answered.
I'd been so deep into my thriller I'd forgotten about my date, the time, or even to eat lunch, although I'd certainly gone through some peanuts and pretzels.
"Come on, I'll walk you up, and we can figure out dinner."
"Sounds like a plan, I'm starving."
"So am I." He licked his upper lip in a delicious display of pre-debauchery.
I took his hand, and we walked together to the elevators. I like a man who can walk quietly with me, but still be with me. I'm not a jealous person, but if a man is with me, I like his attention. Kirk gave me that.
"You don't mind?" I asked him after informing him that I needed a shower.
"Hell no. Can I watch?"
I laughed. "Maybe."
I left the
door open a crack, undressed, and started the shower.
The hot water felt good. I like to do my part to save the planet, but the hot water and extra towels in a hotel?
I don't think they should count.
A girl's gotta pamper herself once in a while, am I right?
I didn't hear the shower door slide open, but I must have sensed his presence because I didn't jump when Kirk started washing my hair.
He used skilled fingers to massage my scalp and soap my hair. Heaven.
I stepped back from the stream of water, so it hit me between my legs, working up the nerves, sending tingling sensations up and down my thighs. Kirk didn't speak. He allowed me to enjoy the pleasure he was giving me without a hint of guilt, expectation, or any sense that he wanted to be anywhere else in the world except right there with me: touching, massaging, and pleasing me.
I'll be honest here: there's a sexy-as-fuck woman that does my hair on occasion. She's from West Hollywood, a wanna-be actress type with tattoos, a great talker, fantastic tits, and gorgeous lips. Her name is Stella. I've never been with a woman (no judgments), but when she does a scalp massage and shampoo, I get wet, and my nipples ache. She's a sex goddess. Maybe sometime in the future, with the right woman, and the right boyfriend, I'll experiment. As Kirk moved to my shoulders, working the tension in my muscles away and rubbing my skin, I thought of Stella--and how she made me feel--with nothing but shampoo, warm water, and her hands.
Some people have a gift. Kirk did as well.
I turned to him and smiled. I dropped to my knees, the water beating against my back, and took him into my mouth.
He moaned with pleasure, grabbed my hair, and stroked me, pulled me, massaged me, worked me, while I worked him.
There are goddess powers involved in giving good head. You have power, control, and a man at your mercy. I think giving head is the closest a woman becomes to being a like man because it's the one time she's in absolute control of a penis.
Fifty-Two Pickup: Aces (Jessica Rogers Book 1) Page 5