Fifty-Two Pickup: Threes (Jessica Rogers Book 3)

by Jayden Hunter

  “We’d go extinct.”

  “True. My wife wants to start trying next year.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “I want kids, too. Okay, I want at least one. But, you know, it’s a scary proposition. A new life, a responsibility, and this world...is it fair to bring a kid into this? I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know either.” I shifted in my seat, and our hands touched. He didn’t flinch or move, and I realized I’d grown so accustomed to feeling skin-to-skin contact that even with a total stranger, the sensation gave me a sense of peace.

  I’m not a cheater—nor do I like cheaters much—so I moved my hand into my lap.

  “You’ve never been married?” he asked me.

  “No. I’ve been in love, seriously, but never married. I’m not opposed…” I considered talking to him about my quest. He was a caring and empathic person, it seemed.

  Of course, he could have been a complete sociopath.

  Note to self: never mention the hotel I’ve booked to strangers on a plane. Maybe I’ve read too many serial killer books?

  “No serious relationship right now?" he asked. He smiled and said, "I guess being a professional traveling poker player makes it hard.”

  “True, but I’m actually seeing a couple of guys right now. Which is new territory for me.”

  “How’s that working?”

  “It’s difficult. I like things about both of them. Hell, this is going to sound like a cheesy love triangle story, but it’s not.” I decided to explain my quest, my plan—what the hell—maybe a top pro salesman going to Memphis, Tennessee could impart some wisdom on me. After fifteen minutes of yapping, I closed my lips and looked him straight in the eyes.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “Yes, crazy, I know.”

  “I respect what you’re doing. Hell, men have been doing this for years. I have friends—still today—friends I was single with once upon a time and ten years later they are still in multiple relationships. They just can’t commit to one woman. I’m not sure it’s healthy.”

  “I want to be in love. To settle down, but not settle, if that makes any sense?”

  “Yes, sure. It’s one of the things I’ve tried to make sure my wife and I never did, settle. No ruts. No taking each other for granted. No losing the spark. I still love her. She’s still my best friend and the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. I hope I’m not sounding cheesy and lame.”

  “No, it’s sweet,” I said. “It’s what I want. I think most of us, men and women—we want this—well, if we’re healthy and sane.”

  We talked for another hour, and eventually, he asked me if I wanted to have drinks in Memphis.

  I declined.

  Fucking men, at the end of the day, they are all children.

  I TOOK A LONG SHOWER.

  I felt a pang of guilt. Maybe I’d misjudged John—the happily married salesman—when he'd asked me to have a drink...

  Maybe a drink with a man doesn’t have to be a come on or a play?

  He did seem happily married…

  But, I know that chemistry is chemistry, and he was good looking and charming. Not that I would cheat, but why go down that road?

  I was frustrated with myself, why does the man-woman dynamic have to be so complicated?

  Do you have to be a frumpy old crone to have a platonic friendship with an attractive man?

  I wanted—needed—to get into the proper mood for poker. I’d planned to make time for playing in a couple of cash games before I played in the events I’d scheduled. I also had a date planned. Yes, I know, another long distance relationship wasn’t something I wanted to pursue, but I’d been exchanging emails with Ryan Mitchell for three months, on and off, and he seemed like a decent guy. That and he’d continued to pursue me, in spite of the long distance, in spite of the length of time it had taken to schedule our first date. That meant something to me, an effort is important.

  I decided I couldn’t play poker if I was sexually frustrated.

  I TRAVEL WITH A SMALL WATERPROOF VIBRATOR.

  It’s almost as important as a tooth brush. Maybe more so, any hotel will provide back up toiletries, but I don’t think the concierge at most hotels can provide a backup sex toy.

  Maybe in Hollywood.

  Not in the South. Definitely not...

  Did you know that sex toys were illegal in many Southern states until recently?

  As the water beat down on my body, I closed my eyes and imagined, to my surprise, being with the happily married chemical salesman. I know, but it’s a fantasy, and well, that’s kinda the point of fantasy, isn’t it? Something that you’d never actually do, but can still imagine doing?

  I began my fantasy back in Memphis.

  I imagined taking him up on his offer for drinks. We sit in the bar and continue to flirt. We go up to his room after a slightly awkward negotiation, and I put the idea of marriage, wives, husbands, children, responsibility, and faithfulness out of my mind.

  I saw him undress in my mind's eye. He took off his ring and his clothes. I watched him with anticipation. I imagined an erect cock, a muscular body, and a firm ass.

  As the water poured down my shoulders and breasts—in reality—he kissed my nipples in the fantasy. I imagined his hands on my sex. I plunged my sex-toy into wet and swollen pussy while thinking of his fingers inside me. I moved the vibrating toy as deep as I could while stroking my clit with my left hand. I pushed my tongue inside my mouth and thought of his eager kisses.

  Why not make him a fantastic kisser?

  It was a fantasy, after all, so he might as well be a brilliantly gifted lover. I wondered, briefly, if ever there was a time that a traveling salesman simply called his wife and asked permission to fuck a strange woman he’d met on a plane?

  Probably not...

  I went back to Fantasyland.

  He dropped to his knees in my mind and worked me with his tongue. I felt water pouring down my body. I began to pant. The heat and steam brought me to the point of light-headedness. I felt dizzy as I approached my self-induced peak.

  I wanted to come.

  I needed to come.

  I worked the vibrator up onto my clit, pressed it hard into my swollen, wet button and called out in a shout, “Fuck me!"

  My voice vibrated off the tile shower walls and echoed in my mind.

  “Fuck me harder,” I whispered. “Fuck me good.”

  With a final push, I came. Sweet release.

  I gasped and moaned.

  Changing the water flow from shower to tub spout, I filled the tub. With my eyes closed, I slowed my breathing. As the water floated my breasts, I drifted in-and-out of an uneasy sleep.

  I felt like a man must feel after sex, exhausted, spent, hot, tired, satisfied, yet in this case, not fulfilled. I wanted more.

  I began to fantasize about being held.

  My hair stroked.

  My face caressed.

  Self-pleasure is fun enough but lonely. I felt a little sad and decided that poker could wait until the morning.

  CHAPTER THREE

  After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.

  ~ Philip Pullman

  SOMETIMES WHEN YOU ARE SITTING AROUND listening to poker players talk about the game, it’s like listening to junior high girls talk about the crushes they have on boys. Why they went wrong—why they didn’t work—why so-and-so broke so-and-so’s heart. Humans like to relive the past.

  We tell each other the same stories over-and-over because they bring us comfort. Not just the good stories, but the bad stories, the embarrassing stories, the hurts, the disappointments, and the let-downs. I think we especially tell each other the horrible stories and tragedies over-and-over because it brings us comfort.

  Story telling is a form of catharsis.

  I WAS IN TUNICA PLAYING IN A WSOP EVENT.

  Late into the tournament, I was in the money. I had decent chip count—not a monster stack�
��but more than average. I received a pair of aces while sitting one-off the under-the-gun player. That meant I was second to act. The standard move here is a raise, somewhere from a min-raise, which is double the big blind, to four or five times the big blind. It’s always a good idea to maintain an inconsistent and random variation on your bets. If you’re a great method actor, maybe you can fool people if you act different ways when you bet, but for the most part, it's better to behave consistently in mannerism but bet inconsistently.

  If every time you have aces, you bet exactly five times the big blind, or if every time you have a mediocre hand you fold, the good players will know your hands.

  I was going to bet out three times the big blind, I’d decided, but then the player to my right made a flat call.

  A flat call from the under-the-gun player is an odd bet.

  Sometimes average players will throw in a call from the first position hoping that they’ll get to see a cheap flop. It could mean anything from a little pair to medium suited connectors. This player was one of the more tricky and experienced players, however, and I surmised that he had a big pair and was hoping for a raise so he could come over-the-top with a larger bet.

  Perhaps he wanted to shove all-in if someone raised.

  If this was true—my assumption—it meant he probably had a pair of kings or maybe queens. It’s always possible that someone else has pocket aces when you’ve got them, but it’s exceedingly rare. What I didn’t know at first is how I wanted to handle his flat call.

  Raise? If so, how much?

  Push all-in?

  Aces are tricky to play, they are the best hand, but like all things in life, the game isn’t over until it is. More people get hurt with aces than just about any hand. It’s easy to forget that poker is a game of chance, luck, determination, and skill. It’s a lot like romance in this respect.

  I decided to call. It’s a good move in this spot—or so I imagined—because I was confident that another player would raise, especially one of aggressive players in late position. With two flat calls, someone with a reasonable hand was going to attack, wanting those chips. There were two players at the table with small stacks, so I thought it was possible—likely even—that one of them would go all-in.

  Because I have aces, I wanted to reduce the field to a head-to-head situation before the flop.

  Two players down to my left I heard a softly spoken raise, one of the older guys, a tight, conservative player pumps it up to four times the big blind.

  Blood is in the water.

  Next, one of the small stacks goes all-in. The player to my immediate right shoved next. He had me covered, meaning the whole tournament is now on the line if I call.

  Of course, I insta-call. How can I not in this situation?

  The original raiser had the sense to get out of the ocean.

  So, what happened?

  The biggest stack, the first bettor, turned over pocket kings. I wasn't surprised. I showed my aces. The small stack had pocket jacks. Yes, when you play enough poker, you see these kinds of hands. Not often, but they happen.

  I was once in a hand where four players saw the flop, one had aces, one had kings, one had queens, and one had jacks. Life is strange, but it happens in relatively slow motion. Poker hands come at a fast rate. Play long enough, and you’ll see just about everything.

  In this particular hand, I had about a two-thirds chance of winning with my aces.

  The flop comes seven, four, two, mixed suits. I’m looking much better; it's now about eighty percent in my favor.

  Then the turn hit.

  A jack.

  I’m pretty screwed. My odds have dropped to under five percent. The small stack hit a set. His face shows a big grin, but it’s too soon, of course, as the poker gods are cruel. A king hit the turn, sending two of us to the rail.

  Set-over-set is not common, but it happens occasionally.

  The small stack guy whined and cried about his lousy luck, forgetting that he'd been way behind at the start of the hand.

  I smiled, got up, and walked away without saying a word.

  Poker can get to you.

  I had a strong hand—the best starting hand—and I lost. No matter how I’d played it, I was facing a cold deck. The kings weren’t going away, and the river card was going to crush me.

  That’s poker.

  I HAD A DATE THAT EVENING WITH RYAN. I’d met him for coffee the day before while taking a break from the cash games. The coffee date was short and sweet, enough to know I enjoyed his company and wanted to see him again.

  Although, at this point, I started to question my sanity with long distance things. But, hell, I had a ball rolling down the lane already, so I figured I’d play the game out and see what happened. That was a bowling metaphor, and I don’t know why I used it, I don’t bowl. Nothing against it, but I prefer the mental fucking you give and get at the poker tables.

  Maybe I’m insane?

  Bowling is hard on the back and the nails.

  I may play professional level poker, but I'm still a girl.

  Don't forget that!

  Ryan had picked out an upscale restaurant, so I dressed the part. Black dress, high heels, I did my hair up exposing my neck. It felt good to be all woman again, after hanging out with stinky, sweaty degenerates at the poker tables.

  “You look beautiful,” Ryan said.

  “Thank you.” I smiled and took his arm as we entered the bar. We sat for a drink. Our reservations were for an hour later as I’d not been sure how late I was going to be. In reality, we didn’t need reservations, but it made for a decent excuse to sit for a drink and detox from cards, betting, gambling, and thinking.

  “So, what’s it like being a professional poker player?” he asked.

  I was familiar with this question, and I usually answered it with the knowledge that the qualifier 'as a woman' was implied.

  “It’s a job,” I said. Then I laughed. “Actually, it’s a shitty job that you can’t easily quit. Sometimes it’s an incredible high, and you feel like you can conquer the world. It’s math, science, psychology, love, hate, strategy, war, and addiction. All rolled into one.”

  “Engineering is nowhere near that exciting.”

  “Yes, probably very true. That and you don’t lose money going to work.”

  “True. The check gets deposited into the bank every other Friday. I show up to work. They pay me. It’s consistent. I’ll say that.”

  I was thinking 'boring', but I didn’t want to say that out loud. Boring isn’t necessarily bad when it comes to employment, lots of people are perfectly happy avoiding jobs that have drama as a regular component.

  “So, have you lived in Memphis for a long time?” I asked.

  “Since elementary school. My parents met in college in Pennsylvania, got married, and moved to Tennessee after having a couple of kids because my dad got a good job offer. I think they were both happy to get away from their families, so they stayed. I barely remember anything else. I considered, briefly going somewhere else to college, but at the end of the day, I had to ask myself why.”

  “And you had no reason, so you stayed?”

  “Exactly. I was dating someone, too.”

  “Ha… There’s always a woman in these stories…”

  “I guess so. We dated for two years, but eventually, she left me for a more exciting guy. A jock. I won’t say I hate football players, but I did.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, I’m over it. So what about you, any broken hearts?”

  “A few, I guess. Nothing that killed me. I don’t know...sometimes I wonder if the difference between the edgy lifestyles and the moderate lifestyles that people choose also reflects the way they view relationships.”

  “You mean like safe and dangerous?” he asked.

  “Yes. Like that, but also how invested you get. How long were you heartbroken and sad after the football dude ran off with your chick?”

  Ryan frowned. He took a sip, wiped his l
ips, and set the glass back down. “It’s true.”

  “What’s true?”

  “Your assumption is correct. I was wrecked for nearly two years.”

  “See, I think that means you really cared. I generally get over things much faster. Doesn’t make me a better person; maybe it means I’m more disconnected. I don’t know.”

  We chatted for another half an hour and then moved to a table and ate dinner in a state of uncertainty.

  I think he was wondering how aggressive he should be.

  I was wondering if I was frustrated enough to have sex just to have sex. I don’t like messing with peoples emotions. I could see that long term, there wasn’t a future with Ryan and me...but he was attractive, polite, kind, intelligent, and sexy in a nerdy kind of way. I mean, he was an engineer, for God’s sakes. Sometimes I question my own sanity, does it really have to be this hard to know?

  Well, I assumed that Ryan would be polite enough, and I was right.

  OUR THIRD DATE WAS NOT SO FANCY. We ate, talked, and he eventually got around to asking me if we were going to have sex. No, he didn’t ask directly, he hinted, and I spared him the tension.

  “Come to my room for a drink?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. He smiled like a kid at a country fair who had been awarded a blue ribbon.

  We had gone to dinner in his car and on the drive back to my hotel we talked about the future. I hedged. I wasn’t sure there would be a future.

  No, that was a lie. I knew there wasn’t going to be a future. Does that make me a player? A slut? I don’t know… I knew I was horny by the time we got back to the room.

  I poured us each a glass of wine. We sipped without talking, and then Ryan kissed me. I was surprised. He kissed better than I’d expected. He moved his hands, one to my ass, the other to the back of my head. He kissed me with the strong confidence of a sportsman going for a goal. When he moved to the spot just under my ear, I felt a rush of heat and wetness. I needed more.

  “Let’s get undressed,” I said.