The Big Blind
By Nicolette Pierce
Published by Nicolette Pierce at Smashwords
The Big Blind is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Nicolette Pierce
Cover design by Lan Gao. Copyright © 2013 by Nicolette Pierce
All rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
For Lucas,
Your sweet smile and unlimited supply of energy makes every day a new and exciting adventure.
Acknowledgements
A huge thank you to Nikki Gavin for, once again, giving me excellent advice and guidance. Also, thank you for the suggesting the title to this book. Fantastic!
Lan Gao your cover design is brilliant. Thank you for your hard work and creative design.
Thank you to Judy Hanson for reviewing the novel and your wonderful advice.
Victoria Jacobson, a gigantic thank you for your help with the daunting task of editing. Writing would be so much more difficult without you!
Kathy and Bill, thank you for helping me with toddler duty so I could have a little time without sticky fingers all over my keyboard.
Thank you Lonnie and Amy for being the wonderful friends you both are and reading my book when it was in its most ragged state and not threatening to end our friendship. Love ya!
Books by Nicolette Pierce
Mars Cannon Novels
Deadly Dancing
Nadia Wolf Novels
The Big Blind
High Stakes
Please visit me on my website! Find book information, sign up for my book release updates on my newsletter, or “like” me on Facebook at:
www.nicolettepierce.com
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 1
Some of my earliest memories are of a wobbly makeshift poker table that my Dad and his loudmouthed, dirty-joke telling friends gathered around. They puffed on large cigars that, judging from the smell, could only have been made with donkey dung. I opted for a blue bubblegum cigar. It had all of the flash with none of the stench. I didn’t want pink cigars. Those were for girls, and I wasn’t a girl; I was a poker player.
My mother insisted they edit their language and jokes around me, which they did quite colorfully. Jokes became coded with “her maracas, his beef stick, and doing the humpty-dumpty dance”, and it didn’t take a genius to break those codes.
I found my niche at an early age. By the time I was a teenager, none of my Dad’s friends would play Texas Hold’em with me. They would make me sit out until they switched to Omaha or Stud. By that time, I had kicked the bubblegum cigar habit and got hooked on something much more sinister – pretzel rods. While my friends talked about boys and clothes, I talked about Doyle Brunson and odds.
My name is Nadia Wolf, and I’m a professional poker player . . . but some days are debatable. I’m twenty-eight years old. I wouldn’t say there’s anything remarkable about me, but I’ve been told I’m not terribly hard on the eyes either. I’m five-feet-six. My hair is long, brown and infused with copper highlights. I like my green eyes the best. My Dad jokes that my eye color must have come from the neighbor across the street with the suntanned skin and game-show-host smile. Mom stays tight-lipped when the subject comes up, but I think that’s because it’s an old and tired joke. She lost her sense of humor when MacGyver went off the air.
Poker is still a man’s game, but there have been plenty of women who have infiltrated the game and can rival any man at the table. I moved to Las Vegas a few years ago and have been earning enough money working the tables to scrape by. It’s been a slow journey and the life of high stakes still eludes me.
I was itching to further my poker career so I entered a tournament for which I had to scrimp and save. If I had any thing worthy of selling, I would have sold it in a heartbeat. The World Series of Poker is a tournament every serious poker player dreams of winning. The million dollar prize is worth it. A diamond bracelet is also awarded to the winner. The prestige of winning the bracelet is similar to a gold medal for an Olympian … at least in the poker world.
The buy-in cost was ten thousand dollars, and I was in my first day of the tournament and nearly on my last chip. My brain and checkbook were in agony as I narrowed my eyes at the man sitting across the table. He met my gaze and held it. His blue eyes were unreadable as they normally were. My pulse jumped.
His lips curled to reveal his straight white teeth. “Raise,” he said, shoving five thousand dollars worth of chips into the middle of the table as smoothly as his voice had called it.
Damn it! I’d been tangled in hands with Caleb Usher a few times before, and I’ve never escaped unscathed. Of all the tables in this damn poker tournament, why did I get stuck with him?
I fingered the corners of my two playing cards laying face down on the table and inspected my tiny stack of chips. If I called, it would be an all-in bet. I had a pair of queens, but it wasn’t enough for me to go all in. The risk would be too high. My ten thousand dollar buy-in could be gone the second he turned over his cards.
I have a gambler spirit like the rest of the players in the tournament, but I wasn’t relying on just luck. There were too many possible outs. Caleb could make a straight or flush and my pair of queens would be garbage. And he’s well known for his unbeatable luck. My personal theory is that he has secret leprechaun DNA. I nearly smirked at the thought, but I had to stay in control of my facial movements. Any small twitch or tick could be considered a tell. An uncontrolled tell is the death of a poker player.
The rest of the players gazed at the table in boredom after sitting hour upon long hour. Their hands busy, mindlessly shuffling their stack of chips waiting for the next round. I ignored the continuous clicking sound their shuffling produced.
My eyes cut back to Caleb. He sat perfectly still; his eyes bore into me. Anyone else would have looked down or hid behind their sunglasses. Caleb was serious and that wasn’t his nature. He gave me the tell I needed. He wasn’t toying with me the way he normally did. Throwing my hand to the dealer, I flashed a courtesy smile at Caleb.
“I’m out,” I said with only a hint of defeat that began bubbling up from my last round.
The dealer shoved the pot of chips over to Caleb and swiped the cards from the table.
It was the last hand of the evening. Even with the set back, I survived the first day of the tour
nament. I grimaced at my few remaining chips and sighed. Tomorrow was going to either be an extremely short day or a monumental uphill battle. I’ll have to go all-in to grow my stack, but going all-in is a one-shot play.
A redhead with long legs and a plunging neckline that showed off her ample cleavage bent over to give Caleb a long slow kiss; her skirt hitched up which caused the remaining men at the table to blink out of their stupor.
“Sugar pie, can we go now? I’m bored and the camera crew is on the other side of the room. They didn’t get one shot of me today,” she pouted.
He flashed a smiled at her. “Yeah, let me just turn in my stack.”
I busied myself and gathered my belongings. I stretched as I stood from the table and let out an appreciative sigh. It felt fantastic after hours parked at the poker table.
“Nadia.”
I gazed up. My hand shot up in time to catch the chip tossed at me before it breezed by my ear.
Caleb smirked. “See you tomorrow.”
“I hope not,” I said, and I meant it.
With him at my table, I was sure to lose. Winning against Caleb is like winning an art contest when all you know how to draw is a stick figure. The odds were grim at best.
I gathered my bag and made my way out of the tournament room. I trekked through the casino dodging slot enthusiasts along the way. As I turned past the Let It Ride tables, I caught sight of a familiar figure playing at a Blackjack table. I veered over to make my way closer to him.
“Hey, Roy,” I said.
Roy turned to me with a wink and a half-cocked smile. “You done already?”
“I made it through the day, but I’m seriously short stacked. I don’t know how far I’ll make it tomorrow.”
“You’ll do fine, kid.” Roy smiled. Tossing his cards on the table, he dropped a chip on the table for the dealer and pocketed the rest. “Let’s go. I’ll buy dinner, but if you win the tournament you owe me ten dinners.”
I chuckled. “Deal.”
I met Roy Scofield when I first moved to Las Vegas and lost miserably to a card shark. He detected what happened and stepped in before I made a mess of things. He’s at least thirty years older than I am and has the attitude of a 1970’s pit boss. He’s rough around the edges, but there’s a soft squishy center in him that he denies. My attempts to retire his gold-plated pinky ring and hubcap-sized belt buckle have failed. He’s old-school Vegas through and through.
Roy’s been my mentor and friend. He taught me the ropes and gave me the lay of the land. Without him, I think I would have packed up long ago and moved back home; sometimes after a day like today, I still think I should.
“I saw Caleb at your table,” Roy said as he knifed and sawed at his leathery steak.
“He nearly knocked me out on the last hand, but he gave me a tell so I folded.”
Roy eyed me as he chewed on a bite. “Caleb doesn’t give tells.”
“I know.”
The thing about professional poker players is they’re tricky. They like to make moves that will throw you off guard, or make you think you understand their playing style when actually it’s all for show. You can’t make a living off poker if you’re skating by on luck. Sure, there’s a lot of luck involved, but a player with experience in the game and an intuition about people will always have an advantage over pure luck. If you’re an expert bullshitter and enjoy messing with people’s heads, you’ll go even further.
Sitting at the poker tables long enough you begin to pick out the professionals and recognize them. A few are followed by fans and the games are televised. Caleb is one of them. He moves in different circles than I do, but we’ve been snarled in enough hands together to make the singe of each time I’ve been burnt by his unbeatable playing style that much more painful.
I poked at my wilted salad. Why did I order a salad? After a day of bad beats and horrible cards, I was ravenous. “Cindy,” I called the waitress. “Can I get a burger and onion rings?”
“You need to be careful,” Roy said. “Caleb can mess with a person’s head. Next time he gives you a tell, it might not be a tell but a bluff.”
I parked my clunker car in the parking lot of All Celebrities Chapel where I live in a small apartment on the third floor. Frankie Garza is the owner and celebrity impersonator who presides over the weddings. He lives on the second floor.
The chapel is in an old brick building that Frankie converted. He painted the outside bricks white and stenciled on gold bells which frame a mural of famous celebrities’ caricatures. Softball size marquee lights surround the mural and flash a rhythm through the night.
Most of the caricatures are unrecognizable. They’re mainly blob shapes with a few key features, and they all have large breasts … even the men. Frankie said the deformed caricatures were so that famous celebrities wouldn’t sue him by painting their likeness; but I think it’s because he gave the job to his no talent cousin who has a fondness for painting large breasts. In reality, I don’t think Elvis will be suing All Celebrities Chapel any time soon … even if he is painted with uneven pork chops and floppy breasts.
As soon as I opened the chapel door, I stopped in my tracks. A smile grew on my face. When Frankie named the chapel, All Celebrities Chapel, he meant it. He will occasionally rotate through his usual Vegas stars like Elvis, Dolly Parton, and Frank Sinatra, but he loves to add new stars to his lineup. Tonight he was dressed as Kermit the Frog. Lily pads paved the way down the aisle to the altar where a rainbow designed of tissue paper was propped behind him.
“You’re very green,” I said as I surveyed his bulging froggy eyes.
“I’m a frog. I’m supposed to be green.” He turned and posed for me. His flipper feet smacked at the ground. “Do you think every one will recognize that I’m Kermit?”
“Since I have to introduce you as Kermit, I’m sure they will. You could rent a pig. We could squeeze her into a dress and a blonde wig and name her Miss Piggy. She can keep you company at the altar. Maybe even oink her two cents worth.”
He narrowed his froggy eyes at me. “I could dress you up as Miss Piggy.”
I gulped. I wouldn’t put it past Frankie to dress me up one step beyond humiliation.
“Uh, I think Kermit is a solo kind of frog. We wouldn’t want Miss Piggy wallowing in the same swamp, would we?”
He smirked. “That’s what I thought.”
I rarely see Frankie out of costume. When he does finally shed his fictitious layers, he’s a handsome man. There’s a thin trail of Hispanic blood which gives him his dark eyes and hair. He’s a couple inches taller than I am and looks better in a dress than I do.
“Do you have a full night?” I asked.
“No, but you know how it gets later.”
I knew all too well. After too many drinks, vacationers who found love merely minutes before flock to the chapel to tie the knot. It’s on the following day when the hangover and sobriety clears the drunken fog to reveal a souvenir marriage certificate, plastic vending machine rings, and souvenir photo. Tonight their photo would include Kermit. A smile escaped to my lips.
In exchange for my low rent, I help out a couple of nights a week to assist the happy couples with the paperwork and to snap their souvenir photo. Even though I know the couple wakes the next morning to regret their actions, I get a little jealous. For one night they are the happiest, albeit drunkest, couple in the world. But I had to make an exception for tonight. I don’t think I would want my souvenir photo with Kermit. That’s like kicking a man when he’s down.
I won’t be stepping down Kermit’s matrimonial aisle any time soon. My love life is nonexistent. Perhaps that’s not quite true. I did go on a blind date a couple of weeks ago. A fellow poker friend set me up on a blind date and told me he was funny. He’s not funny unless you like an offbeat comedian who thinks slapstick during dinner is the way to win a girl’s heart. By the end of the meal, I was wearing my food and the restaurant manager issued a lifetime ban on us from ever returning to the restau
rant. It’s too bad . . . I loved their chocolate cake. Never trust a poker friend that you previously wipe out at the table.
“Frankie, call me when you need me. I’m going upstairs.”
“But you haven’t told me about the tournament yet.”
“I made it through the first day even though I was stuck at a table with Caleb Usher.”
Frankie tisked. “You made it through?”
“Yes, but I have a feeling I’ll have to play him again,” I said.
I had the uneasy feeling that even though it’s against regulations for Caleb to request a certain table, he’s known for getting what he wants. Right now it seems he wants to toy with me.
Who am I kidding?!
Why would he care about one insignificant poker player? Caleb toying with me was most likely wishful thinking from my lack of earth shattering sex . . . not that I can say I ever had earth shattering sex. Have I?
Frankie knew my battles with Caleb . . . I lost every one. In the poker world, he’s my enemy. He has phenomenal talent and luck which complements his ego. The televised poker tours and high stakes shows love him because he captures attention and draws people in. Some of the other televised professionals try to use cheap gimmicks and over emotional rants to gain spotlight time. Caleb is just himself. He is what every aspiring amateur and pro wants to be . . . cool, confident, and rich. Even I like to watch him play, but I wouldn’t admit it to any one.
I trudged up the back staircase and let myself into my apartment. Gus-the-cat was sprawled on the couch; he’s always on the couch. It’s one of the few places he can climb. When I adopted him from the shelter a year ago, he was the size of a potbellied pig; he still is. His stubby legs make him a low rider, and his watermelon belly barely clears the floor. I bought a doggie staircase for him to access the couch and another one for my bed.
The Big Blind (Nadia Wolf) Page 1