by Aubrey Cara
There’s a glimmer in his eyes that wasn’t there before. It’s the look of a cat toying with a mouse. He knows he’s scared the shit out of me, and he loves it.
He casually fingers a strand of my hair, as if it’s the softest most fascinating thing. “Oh, and my offer? The one you so graciously declined?” He brings the strand of hair to rub against his cheek before dropping it. “Letting you think you had a choice was just a courtesy on my part. You’ll make yourself accessible to me whenever and however I want you.” He winks with a triumphant smirk as he strolls away.
It shakes me out of my blind terror, and I straighten my spine as I methodically get dressed. I’m still trembling with nerves, but also a new resolve to find a way out of this.
In helping my brother, I’ve failed myself. This is never the life I wanted, and I’m not quite sure how I got here. Stripping for a man who still at some point may rape me. I’ve let myself down.
From a young age, I’ve watched the men in my life royally fuck up. I always thought I was better than them. It’s horrible to acknowledge, but I did. I was better than them, and I was going to be the Dawson who turned things around.
Now, I’m in the middle of a strip club, putting my panties on.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the men in the back of the club are now setting up for something.
Mr. Bald No-Neck with the flashy jeans and way too many muscles is unlocking the door for me and I’m surprised to see two men on the other side waiting to be let in. Both are tall, one is the epitome of a wealthy Texan. Clean-cut with a cowboy hat, blazer, and a Western bolo tie with an ornate silver and gold emblem of Texas on it. The other man is scruffy, with greasy, dark hair pulled back into a man bun, and a beard. He’s wearing a trendy but worn leather jacket, Henley T-shirt, dusty jeans, and brown biker boots.
I move out of the way so they can enter. They barely give me a glance as they head for the back of the club. Dom’s coming out of his office to meet them. I snatch hold of Mr. No-Neck before he can walk away. “What’s going on?”
He raises an eyebrow, and I realize I’m in danger of being the girl who asks too many questions. I’m pretty sure criminals are the people who invented the phrase, “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Still, like an old familiar friend, I recognize a poker game being set up when I see one. I counted cards for my old man for nearly seven years. He was the eccentric widower who brought his kids with him wherever he went, and I was the accessory to my father’s gambling addiction. No one suspects the little girl playing with her doll, is fleecing them of their money.
By the time I was old enough to draw unwanted attention, we’d been working together for years, and people knew of us. When I was fifteen, someone asked for me to be added to the pot.
My father shook his head and said I wasn’t for sale, but he hesitated before he said it. He thought it over. He actually thought about selling me into the pot of a poker game. I realized we weren’t a team. I was my father’s means to an end, and his gambling would never end. The price to play would never be too steep.
I haven’t picked up a deck of cards since then. My brother is really the only person I could play against, and he knows he can’t win. It takes the fun out of it.
Another man arrives. He’s fat and old, wearing a pinstriped shirt, and navy dress slacks with loafers. I’m still standing by the door, and from the impatient glare I’m getting from No-Neck I’ve overstayed my welcome, but I’ve got a crazy idea that’s keeping my feet glued in place.
Part of me is screaming to get the hell out of here asap. I should go grab my brother and get as far from Texas as fast as we possibly can. Just pack a bag and disappear. The other part of me, the part that’s keeping me from running for the door is telling me I have to get in on that poker game.
Before I think better of it, I’m wandering over to the table.
“Y’all playin’ poker? I love poker.” I make my eyes big, like I don’t have a thought in my head.
And maybe I don’t, because what I’m doing is suicidal.
15
CANDI
I’ve got the attention of every man at the table. Mr. Texas is amused, but the other two men appear annoyed, and Dom…shoots me a deceptively unfazed smirk, like it’s perfectly acceptable for me to be walking up to their very private poker game, when I know it’s not.
Though his features are relaxed his gaze promises retribution.
If Dom wanted the ambiance of beautiful women milling about or dancing in the background, they’d be here now. The fact that the club is empty means it’s supposed to be empty.
“Rick,” Dom says not taking his cold, threatening eyes off me. “I think Ms. Dawson has lost her way. Could you please show her the door?”
Mr. No-Neck takes a step toward me, the glare off his head and his bedazzled jeans winking in the ambient light of the back area.
I hold up my hands. “Wait!” All eyes at the table are on me. “I would like to play.”
“I think you’ve forgotten yourself, and where you are, dear.” Dom’s voice is so menacing, I take an involuntary step back.
Swallowing my rising urge to flee the premises, I trudge on. “I’d like a chance to play you for my debt.”
He’s playing with his stack of chips so they all clack, clack, clack together as he lets them fall into a neat stack under his hand. It’s a casual gesture to distract from the fact that he’s probably thinking of all the ways he’s going to slowly torture me. “You do know you have to buy your way into this game? Since you can’t even pay me—”
“I’ll front her the cash,” Mr. Texas chimes in. He smiles at me like he’s not been this entertained in ages.
“Trading one debt for another. Is that what you’d like to do, Ms. Dawson?” Dom tone suggests I’m playing a dangerous game and there will be consequences.
Should I have thought this through a little better? Absolutely. Should I get out while I still can? That’s another big fat, emphatic yes, but I can’t back down now.
“How much is the buy in?” My palms are sweating again and I resist the urge to wipe them on my skirt.
“One thousand dollars and two girls.”
My mind stutters. “Two girls?”
“These fine gentlemen before you are all local club owners. We’re meeting to change up some of our girls who are getting stale. Winner gets first pick.”
That’s when I notice there are pictures of women tossed on the table. Some are Polaroid type pictures taken up against a wall, the girl smiling like it’s her employee-of-the-month shot. While others are more professionally done shots of a girl in her “dancing” element. Huh, I wonder if the girls know they’re being traded, and if they’re offended.
Or maybe they’re like athletes, and this is just an acknowledged-and-accepted norm.
“I don’t have two girls, but I have myself.”
“Hmm, so if Mr. Tullson over there, generously fronts you a grand, you’ll offer yourself as collateral if you lose? How is that beneficial to me? I already have you, dear.”
“How much does she owe you, Serino?” Mr. Texas, Tullson asks Dom. I’m surprised Dom’s name sounds so Italian when he looks anything but.
“Three large.”
“I say put her debt marker in. I’d happily pay you for her. Let the filly play,” Mr. Tullson says as he snips the end of a cigar.
The older round man in the striped shirt looks me over appreciatively and shrugs. “Yeah, why not? I’d take her for three grand.”
My stomach twists, and my heart is racing. This is taking an unexpected turn. How ironic that I got out of being a card shark because I didn’t want to end up being wagered in a bet, only to come back and wager myself?
Isn’t there some saying about the known evil is better than an unknown? I don’t know any of the men at this table or what they’re capable of. I’m assuming if they buy my debt marker they will be wanting me to do a hell of a lot more than dance for them.
I have no idea how to
back out of this. I can dance and likely be raped by sociopath Dom, or be won and face similar scenarios. What these men will want…
The horror of this new realization must show on my face because Dom is smirking at me. His eyes are glacier cold, making his grin even more sinister when he says, “Fine. Let’s get on with this. Have a seat, Ms. Dawson.” He’s not happy I’m playing, but he’s delighted I’ve realized the stakes and no longer want any part of this game.
No-Neck Rick produces a seat between Mr. Tullson and the silent biker at the green felt table.
The biker’s sprawled back in his seat, and he scans me up and down as I sit. There’s cigarettes in his front jacket pocket, and I’m staring them down. They’re calling me. Hank would be so pissed if I had one, but he’s through with me, right?
I should have taken the money he threw at me last night. I could have bought a pack of cigs earlier, and I wouldn’t feel so damn edgy now, like ants are racing over my skin.
“Can I bum a smoke?” I ask the biker.
Silent and stoic as ever, he pulls a cig out. He lights it with a puff, before placing it at my lips for me to take with my mouth. I have a feeling this is silent biker’s way of hitting on me. He thinks I’m a bad girl, or some crap, and I intrigue him. I can tell by the glint in his eye as he watches me drag in and savor a breath of blessed tar and nicotine.
He just leans back into a slouched position, an arm thrown over the back of his chair. But his lips pull up a bit, and I know this is turning him on.
Whatever floats your boat, buddy.
Not to be outdone Mr. Tullson asks if I want a drink. He’s a bit more subtle in checking me out. He shoots me a wink from under his Stetson as he lights his cigar. “Sweet, pretty girls like you shouldn’t be smoking,” he says.
“So I’ve been told,” I reply, taking another drag. Being reminded of Hank, I have a moment of guilt and squash it like a bug. I’m not the kind of woman who’s going to quit a bad habit just because a man told me to.
Rick sets an ashtray at Tullson’s elbow and poker chips in front of me. They’re four white, three black, and one blue.
Tullson holds out a hand while Dom is opening a deck of cards. “Jethro Tullson, the third, at your service. You can call me Jet.”
“Candi.” I shake his hand, and will myself to relax as I take another drag off my smoke. I’m so jittery, I might as well have downed a triple shot of espresso, but I need to get my head in the game.
“Mmm, yes you are, sugar,” he draws. “I hope we have the chance to get better acquainted. I’ve always had something of a sweet tooth.” He pats my leg under the table, and I jerk in surprise.
“It’s a hundred dollar blinds, fifty small,” Dom explains, saving me from having to form a response to Tullson’s bold pickup line and roaming hands. “Your blue chip is worth five hundred, the black one hundred, and the white fifty. Winner gets first pick of the girls that are up for trade, and of course Ms. Dawson.”
Like I need that reminder.
Large blinds means the game is going to go fast whether bets go high or not. That sucks for me, but with single deck Texas Hold’em, running a count is pretty cut and dry. Nineteen cards on the table and thirty-three in the deck. Configuring the odds is easy. Winning in a short game when playing off odds is what’s going to be difficult. Counting cards is a science that gives me an edge, but I know it’s not foolproof.
There’s a commotion at the door, and my stomach drops as Hank strolls in. He has a certain swagger when he walks. It’s not exactly arrogant but he definitely commands whatever space he’s in.
He’s wearing the leathers of a biker over his jeans and black T-shirt. He looks like bad-boy sin. It makes me think of all the tattoos I’d seen last night on his arms and across his chest. The look suits him. Makes my heart skip a beat at the sight of him. But what the fuck is he doing here?
“Sorry I’m late.” He tosses two photos of dancers in the center of the table. That’s when he notices me. There’s an infinitesimal tightening of his muscles. His biceps twitch. His eyes go to my left hand holding a cig then the pile of chips in front of me before skewering me in place.
If he’s here to drag me home, I’m screwed. But he has pictures. Why the hell does he have pictures?
“You are?” Dom asks, as he shuffles the deck.
“Colin, Colin McGellan. Phillipe sent me. His old lady went into labor this morning. I’m his silent partner.”
That gets Dom’s attention. He eyes Hank up and down. “You’re partial owner of Muchachas?” It’s like Dom’s stolen the question right out of my head. Hank’s partial owner of a Latino strip club? What?
I’m trying to remain cool, like I have no idea who Hank is and my head’s not reeling. But I am reeling.
Hank. Is. Here.
Or rather “Colin McGellan”—whoever the hell that is—and about to join the poker game.
So much for not having any distractions.
“Yeah, it’s a new arrangement,” Hank says.
Dom’s eyes narrow a beat before nodding at the open chair to his left. “Well, take a seat. We might as well get started.”
Once Hank is situated, he pins me with a stony glare. Dom catches it. It was hard not to. I think he’s running through 101 ways to string me up and spank me raw.
“You familiar with my dear Ms. Dawson, Colin?” Dom puts an emphasis on my dear, and Hank’s jaw flexes. I’m sure Dom is trying to get a rise out of him.
It’s working.
For a second, anger practically crackles and sparks off Hank for a second before his expression goes hard and blank again. “Yeah, she owes me money,” he sneers..
This makes Dom smile. “Ms. Dawson, what a tangled web you have woven for yourself. Mr. McGellan, you may or may not be happy to know Ms. Dawson has wagered herself and her debts in the pot of today’s game.”
“Hm, is that so?” The question comes out with a deadly bite.
Not happy. Hank’s definitely not happy.
“I have to admit,” Tullson interjects, “our annual poker game has never been this entertaining. And we haven’t even gotten started yet.” He’s grinning from ear to ear but he’s made his point clear. Let’s get playing already.
He winks at me as he takes a sip of his whiskey, and I’m fairly certain he knows what he’s about.
The tension radiating around the table from Hank, Dom and myself is still present, but at least things start moving along. Dom deals, and I pick up my cards, taking comfort in the weight and scent of them.
My dad was the man at the tables and behind the cards, but we practiced every night at home, or in whatever dive of a motel room we were crashing at. Cards mean numbers, and numbers relax me. I can almost block the fact Hank is sitting across from me shooting me unnerving stares from time to time.
I get an ace of clubs and a two of spades. Everyone checks, and so do I. The flop is a five of clubs and two sevens. Hearts and diamonds.
The biker wins the first round but loses the next two. He’s got a lousy poker face. When he has decent cards he runs his hand over his beard. Just once. The big guy in the striped shirt purses his lips when he gets extra-lousy cards. He and I both fold the last two rounds.
Hank is playing like shit and will probably be the first one out, but I don’t think he cares. Gregarious Tullson has turned into Cool Hand Luke. He’s puffing at his cigar and has taken one sip of amber liquid from his tumbler, only after he won his last hand. If he has a tell, I’m not seeing it. He and Dom are who I have to watch out for.
The next two hands move fast. There’s no idle chit chat or comradery from these guys. The only sound in the room is the click of chips being tossed in the pot, the shuffle of cards, and a wheezing cough now and again from Mr. Striped Shirt.
They’re all obviously business associates who came here for the sole purpose of trading dancers. I wonder why they even bother with the poker. Men always say they don’t understand women, but men do weird things, too. Like this game.<
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I would think it would be easier and less expensive to just draw straws or roll a pair of dice for who gets first pick. Yet, here they are, blowing a grand in less than an hour.
The next hand, the biker raises at the flop. I call. So do Dom and Just Call Me “Jet” Tullson. Dom raises at the turn, and Hank, the biker, and I call. He raises again at the river.
Hank is all in. I know he has a good hand, but the odds are in my favor. I have a straight flush. I highly doubt either of these guys can beat that.
We flip our cards, and Dom is livid for a second before his face is again a blank mask. He has four fours. A damn good hand. Hank’s lips pinch as he sits back in frustrated disappointment. He had a full house. The best hand he’d played so far, but it just wasn’t good enough.
I win the pot.
Keeping a smile off my face isn’t easy. Winning, in general, produces a pretty euphoric high, but there is a special sort of vindication I get from cleaning out Dom and the biker. If Dom doesn’t win the next hand, he’s out.
A glance in Striped Shirt’s direction tells me he’s about a hand away from being out himself. And the biker, who just lost with three of a kind, is not far behind him.
Looks like Tullson is the only thing standing between me and freedom.
The cards are dealt. I get a six and eight of spades. The flop goes down, and there’s a five of spades, queen of diamonds, and a nine of spades. I have a good feeling about the turn. It’s a seven of diamonds, but it’s still enough for me to have a straight. It’s not the strongest hand, but I’ve seen bigger games won on less.
Dom’s out and so is Mr. Chubby Striped Shirt. The biker has scrubbed his palm over his beard twice now and clenches his jaw in agitation as he glances down at his cards again. He’s got nothing.
In my excitement, I feel myself smirk and wipe the expression off my face. It’s such a rookie mistake, I’m kicking myself.
Jet raises, and I’m so caught up in my own head I don’t notice at first. I call, and the biker goes all in. It’s a bold move, but he seems like the kind of guy who likes to live fast and loose. To him, this is just a game. What does he care if he loses?