In a couple of the alcoves were more sedate groups of people – an older woman and her husband, and another alcove with a young wife and a couple of eminently respectable friends.
“They’re the family of the professional players,” Ted explained. “They’re here for the game; not for the atmosphere.”
Sara had heard of ‘professional poker players.’ Men and women who travelled the country, making their living from winning huge amounts in major tournaments.
She just hadn’t expected them to look so ordinary – young guys in black t-shirts and shades. More like junior computer programmers than card-counting aces (although presumably being good at math was an important skill to have in this game.)
But while the professional players were resolutely unremarkable, the same couldn’t be said for the crew in the alcove next to Sara and Melissa’s – who were pumping loud and grating rock music, and roaring and jeering like they were at a football game.
“Oh my God,” Melissa’s eyes widened as she spotted them. “Get a load of those guys!”
Sara narrowed her eyes.
There were about six of them in the alcove – and they all looked like something out of Sons of Anarchy.
They were muscular, leathery biker types – wearing ripped jeans, t-shirts and leather. Loud and obnoxious – the sort of threatening people you’d cross the street to avoid if you met them in real life – they were popping the tops of beers and downing shots like they’d hit the bar for happy hour; not a high stakes poker game.
“Oh my God, look at them!” Melissa hissed, elbowing Sara in the ribs. “They’re the goddamn Hell’s Angels!”
Sara didn’t know much about biker gangs, but she had to admit that Melissa had a point. These guys looked like the real deal. All six of them were rippling with muscles, and their exposed flesh – bulging arms, thick necks and, in two cases, bare chests were all covered in tattoos.
Sara focused on the alpha of the group, the man who was obviously in charge. He looked like a Viking; six feet five tall, with arms as wide as Sara’s thighs, and long straggly blond hair that fell around his massive shoulders.
She shivered when she saw him. He was the sort of man she’d be scared of meeting in a dark alleyway, if case he threw her in a corner and ravished her. But from the looks of those muscles and that handsome, craggy face – he was also the sort of man part of her wouldn’t mind being ravished by.
“I see you’ve spotted The Knuckleheads,” Ted nodded, as he saw Sara and Melissa staring at the bikers. “They’re something of a Las Vegas institution – everybody round here knows them.”
Ted continued: “The big guy?” They were all big, but it was clear Ted was referring to the enormous guy in charge; the one Sara had been checking out. “That’s Flint Taylor – he runs the Knuckleheads Garage over in Pahrump.”
“I-I’ve heard of that,” Melissa interrupted. “Doesn’t he have a show or something?”
“The Discovery Channel made a reality show about his gang for a few years. Flint’s become a big time poker player off the back of it. This isn’t the first tournament he’s played in.”
But as soon as Sara had recognized the infamous biker, her attention had been diverted elsewhere – to the final alcove; all the way across the enormous open-plan suite.
It was even emptier than Sara and Melissa’s – with just a single, solitary character sitting on the sofa; hands neatly in his lap and back unusually straight.
He was a round-faced, Asian man in a thousand dollar suit; with a shiny, bald head and narrow, slanted eyes as deep and dark as coal. The first thing Sara did when she laid eyes on him was shudder.
“Ah, yes,” Ted seemed to acknowledge her response. “That’s Howard Chang. He’s the man who organized this event; a professional gambler from Shanghai.”
“Ew,” Sara hissed. “He looks like a toad.”
Melissa must have been sobering up, because she demanded: “What do you mean he’s organizing the event? Isn’t this a Monte Carlo thing?”
Ted shook his head.
“We’ll often host tournaments here,” he explained. “We take a percentage of the entry fees and lay everything on in style;” and from the suite he was indicating with a sweep of his hand, ‘style’ was an understatement.
“But why would anybody want to do that?” Melissa demanded. “Especially this guy.”
“Are you kidding?” Ted broke character for a second to explain. “If somebody like Chang there can get ten folks lined up to shell out a hundred grand each, we’ll put on this event for free – and if he wins the tournament, he’ll keep seventy percent of the winnings.” The hotel employee shrugged. “It’s risky, but I don’t know a better way to get a seven hundred percent return on your investment overnight.”
Sara whistled appreciatively, doing the math in her head (she was half-Jewish, after all.)
Melissa held up her hand.
“Okay then, Wiseguy,” she insisted. “If that’s the case, how come we’re playing? We didn’t shell out a hundred grand to sit at this table.”
Ted coughed nervously, and his cheeks turned red.
“The hotel reserved a place in the tournament for one of our most valued clients,” he explained, loosening his tie, “but he ended up being detained on business. So rather than lose face, we comp’d two lucky guests. We already get thirty percent back on your ‘entry fee’ – and we still make our cut on all of the real paying entrants.”
“Which covers your money pretty easily,” Sara nodded.
“Well, quite,” Ted looked flustered – like he’d shared too much. “It’s also pretty good publicity for the hotel – but I wouldn’t think too hard about it, if I was you.”
He gestured towards the bar and kitchen.
“For tonight, just pretend you are high rollers. You’ve got free bottle service to your alcove, plus private chefs who’ll prepare you whatever you want.” The charming hotel manager shrugged his shoulders. “Tonight, you’re on the same terms as any of these rich gamblers; so act like it and enjoy the experience.”
Sara didn’t need to be told twice. She nudged Melissa in the ribs and suggested: “Let’s go and get ourselves a couple of margaritas.”
Chapter Four
“Hey, sweetheart.”
The deep, growling voice came from around the corner of Sara and Melissa’s empty cubicle – where they were sitting on their lonesome, sipping margaritas.
“Hello?” the voice repeated – and this time it was followed by a tanned and handsome face, peering around the corner. “Why don’t you come and party with us?”
Sara and Melissa looked up. It was one of the biker gang from next door – a good-looking, bearded man in a tight black t-shirt, bulging to contain his muscles.
“I saw you girls sitting there all alone. Why don’t you come hang out with us?” From around the corner, the stranger produced an open bottle of Jack Daniels. He shook it ‘til it sloshed.
Melissa turned to Sara, her eyes lighting up.
“You wanna?”
Sara was unsure. Back in the day, she remembered that Melissa had not infrequently gone home with similar looking guys (although most of them couldn’t afford a real Harley) Pour a few drinks in her - approximately the same number as she’d already had that night – and Melissa turned into quite the aspiring biker babe.
But, then again, it wasn’t going to be much fun sitting in a near-empty VIP section all night; even if it was the most luxurious one she’d ever been in (with a free bar and chef, no less.)
So Sara reluctantly shrugged: “Alright,” adding, “but stay out of trouble.” While tonight was turning out to be quite the story for the grandkids, it was a far cry from the early night she and Melissa had originally envisioned.
Grabbing their bags, the two good-looking young moms sheepishly got up and rounded the corner – and were loudly welcomed by a raucous cry from the six burly bikers who’d been sitting in the alcove next to them.
“Hey, ladie
s!” cried one.
“The entertainment’s arrived!” cried another.
“C’mon, guys,” from the back of the room, the tallest and most intimidating of the bikers shouted up. Even with his long, dirty-blond hair covering his face, this muscular stranger exuded the kind of natural charisma that instantly suggested to Sara and Melissa that he was ‘top dog.’ “Be cool, you assholes. You don’t want to scare these fine young women off, do you?”
“Holy crap,” Melissa hissed in Sara’s ear, nudging her in the ribs with her elbow. “Look at that guy!”
And Sara was looking at the guy – she could hardly look anywhere else. The high cheekbones, square jawline and tanned, leathery skin made him look like a weather-beaten thoroughbred. Kind of like the sort of character who’d grace the cover of a romance novel, if you gave him tattoos and a criminal record first.
“Welcome, ladies,” the deep-voiced biker extended his hands, and embraced both Sara and Melissa’s outstretched fingers in his. “My name’s Flint. These here are my boys – the Knuckleheads.” He lifted Sara’s hand to his lips and – staring her dead in the eye – placed his lips against her knuckles. “We’re honored you’re willing to join us tonight.”
A little nervously, Sara and Melissa sat primly on the gleaming leather couches – and were immediately surrounded by the huge, hulking bikers – big, leathery men who seemed to have no concept of personal space.
“So hey, Mama,” grinned one of them, offering Sara a can of Budweiser and a plastic shot glass of whiskey. “You gotta name?”
Sara’s eyes narrowed.
“I dunno. Do you?”
If the big thug took offence, he didn’t show it.
Instead, the biker smiled broadly.
“Easy, sugar,” he purred. “I’m Horse – on account of being hung like one, you dig?”
Sara laughed nervously.
Horse jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards the two bearded bikers now sitting either side of – very closely either side of – a nervous looking Melissa.
“That’s Dog sitting to the left of your lovely girl there,” he was pointing at a younger, muscled guy in a tank top and shaven head. “So-named ‘cos he likes to “raw dog” it with the ladies.”
Sara shivered. That was slang for unprotected sex.
Horse clearly didn’t noticed her discomfort, and continued talking:
“My brother sitting opposite him is Fats.”
Sara narrowed her eyes. Fats did not live up to his name. He was probably the skinniest of the bikers; the only one who didn’t look they he spent his spare time pounding weights.
“He’s called Fats because of what he’s packing in his Hanes, if you know what I mean.” Horse explained, nudging Sara in the ribs as he did so, laughing uproariously.
The final two men were sitting either side of Flint himself; and Sara wondered for a second if they were twins.
“Yeah, they are,” Horse was clearly reading her mind. “Those two fuckers got born two minutes apart, at a jailhouse hospital down in Reno.” Horse answered the question Sara was silently asking. “The one on the left is Nate, and the one on the right is Jackson.” He leaned a little closer to Sara – giving her a lungful of warm musk. “They do everything together,” he grinned lasciviously. “Even share the same women.”
Sara shivered at the thought – in disgust, or excitement. She couldn’t tell.
Introductions over, the leathery biker turned his broad smile to Sara once again. “Okay, pretty Mama. So I’ve done the rounds. D’you have a name, or what?”
She felt herself relax a little: “I’m Sara.”
“Well, Sara – you’re beautiful.”
“W-why… Thank you.”
“Come and sit a little bit closer to ol’ Horse. Let me pour you another whiskey. We can even get the chef over there to serve us up some wings.” He made an exaggerated gesture of licking his fingers. “Finger lickin’ good, you dig?”
Sara was about to offer her glass and pass on the wings when the cheesy announcer, Ted, reappeared, and cleared his throat theatrically.
“The tournament is about to start,” he announced. “Will the players take their seats, please?”
Flint climbed up from his seat and strode past his homies with a confident, magnificent stride – giving high-fives and fist-bumps as he went.
Sara looked across the luxurious alcove to where Melissa was sitting – noting, with not a little concern, that Fats had already made her comfortable enough not to remove the big, heavy hand he’d placed on her leg.
“Melissa,” Sara hissed. “Are you playing, or am I?”
Melissa looked up, and cocked her head on one side. “You got us into this, Sara. Go knock ‘em dead.” And then she turned back to Dog, and howled uproariously at something he said.
Sara struggled up and brushed down the front of her little black dress – realizing, now she was surrounded by menacing, horny bikers, just how short it was.
She held out her hand, and Horse obediently filled it with a can of Budweiser.
“Go get ‘em, Princess,” he laughed. “I’ll be keeping your seat warm.” He patted his lap; hinting that was the seat he was referring to.
Cheeks burning, Sara stepped out of the alcove and down the steps. She followed Flint to the center of the room, and took her seat at the enormous poker table.
Chapter Five
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the croupier announced, as Sara joined the nine other players around the table. “The game is Texas Hold ‘Em.”
Sara wasn’t much of a gambler, but she knew the basics of poker, from one too many games of strip poker she’d played back in her days as a waitress (and one game of Blowjob Poker, which she generally didn’t talk about any more.)
Texas Hold ‘Em was a variation of the standard poker game. Instead of each player being dealt five cards, they all got two. The dealer kept three ‘communal’ cards –known as the Flop – and the winning player was the one whose two cards, when added to the flop, made the strongest overall hand.
For games with lots of players, like this one, it was a good choice because you could accommodate more players with a single 52-card deck.
Just like with the slot machines, when Sara sat down on the stool at the poker table, her mind automatically focused on the game at hand. She looked over her opponents, and immediately started analyzing their demeanor for clues about how they might play.
She barely registered $100,000 worth of chips being placed down in front of her – ignoring the fact that they represented the equivalent of three year’s salary for her.
The dealer passed out the first round of two cards – and the game began.
It took Sara three hands and almost ten thousand dollars’ worth of chips to get into her groove – first holding onto two tens to score an easily-defeated three of a kind, and then folding on two hands that could possibly have won her the hand.
But fortunately many of the other players were doing just as badly – and four hands in, the cowboy with the raucous friends went ‘all in’ and ended up being the first player to be dealt out of the game.
“With a good goddamn!” He roared, throwing his hat onto the floor. Kicking his seat back, the cowboy attempted to flip the poker table over – but it was solid mahogany and weighed three times what he did.
“Please sir,” Ted and two security guards ushered him away from the table. “You can watch the rest of the game quietly, or we can have you and your friends escorted out…”
The cowboy struggled out of their grip.
“Y’know what?” he hissed. “Fuck all y’all. We’ll go and spend our money elsewheres.” He hollered to his cowboy-hat-wearing crew: “C’mon, boys! Let’s go get laid!” And then the gang of them whooped and hollered and were led, not un-insistently, from the suite.
“Amateurs,” a voice hissed.
Sara turned to her left. She’d been so focused on the game, she hadn’t even noticed that Flint was sitting next to her.
“Amateurs,” the handsome biker hissed again, his voice emerging from his curtain of dirty blonde hair. “The kid’s spending Daddy’s oil money. The way he was playing, I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did.”
Sara’s lips curled.
“And if he’s an amateur, what does that make us?”
Flint scoffed.
“Honey, I’ve been playing poker since before I could read. My old man ran a gambling den out of our house back in Reno.” He cast his eye around the table. “I may not have played the so-called ‘pros’ like we’ve got here, but I can sure play.”
And then his eyes narrowed. Sara lost herself in them for a second – they were so dark and intense.
“And you’re not doing so badly yourself,” Flint purred. “I had a feeling you could have won a hand back there.”
Sara allowed herself to smile.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
And, indeed, he hadn’t. The game continued and Sara found herself a groove that worked pretty well for her.
She played extremely conservatively for the next two hands, and folded early – using that as an opportunity to read the other players.
The Japanese player was an obvious one. Loud and obnoxious – getting cheered on by jabbering pals in the alcove opposite – he was a little too enthusiastic on his good hands, and a little too despondent on his bad ones.
The only player who concerned her – not least of which because he’d won three of the last five hands – was Howard Chang.
Sitting like a Buddha at the top of the table, the rotund Chinese player was utterly impassive as he played. The beady black eyes in the middle of his round face barely even blinked; and there wasn’t anything Sara could tell about him which betrayed whether or not his hands were good or bad.
She narrowed her eyes – determined to crack him.
The next few hands saw Sara bleed a few chips, but finally circumstances offered her an opportunity. She held two sixes in her hand; and there were two more in the flop. Together, that made a nearly unbeatable Four of a Kind.
Naked for the Knuckleheads (erotic MC club motorcycle romance) Page 2