Naked for the Knuckleheads (erotic MC club motorcycle romance)

by Simone Scarlet

  The cards obviously hadn’t been so fortunate to the rest of the table, and Flint folded early; followed quickly by the professional poker players and Howard Chang himself.

  That just left the Japanese player and Sara at the table.

  Sara narrowed his eyes.

  It was clear the Jap was confident – really confident. He was stacking chips onto the table with almost no hesitation.

  Almost being the operative word.

  Because Sara saw through the Japanese player’s body language, and knew that while his confidence was genuine, it wasn’t overwhelming. He had a good hand – a really good hand – but it wasn’t unbeatable.

  And so Sara played her hand. Her other hand.

  Most people in poker talk about the psychology in a passive way – that players read each other for the “tells” – the subtle, almost imperceptible signals that a player is feeling good or bad about his hand.

  But Sara had won more than a few games of strip poker by doing the opposite – faking a “tell” of her own to feed the opposing players false information.

  And as she sat there, with the eyes of the Japanese player burning into her, that’s exactly the technique she employed.

  Sara deliberately cast her eyes left and right; as if desperately searching for clues in the cards the other players had discarded. Then she looked up blankly at the ceiling, as if searching for answers. Finally, to seal the deal, Sara pretended to nervously bite her manicured nails – and then threw her chips in anyway.

  “I’ll see you, I guess,” she added some hesitation to her voice.

  Hook, line and sinker. Like a shark scenting blood, the eager Japanese player read her deliberate signals as doubt, and decided to up the ante.

  “Honorable lady,” he purred in his heavily accented voice. “I am – as you say “all in”,” he pushed his pile of chips into the center of the table. “Can you match me?”

  Sara worried she overplayed her hand as she pretended to “um” and “er” – but eventually she pushed her pile of chips into the center of the table and made a theatrical gesture of crossing her fingers.

  And then they revealed the cards.

  As soon as Sara’s Four of a Kind hit the felt, the Japanese player knew he’d been beaten.

  He sat there, sullenly. Then, turning his useless cards over, he silently stood up from the table and headed over the the alcove, where his similarly despondent buddies were waiting.

  Sara watched him go with wide eyes.

  She’d beaten him.

  As if to reinforce that point, a croupier stepped up to push the pot over towards Sara. Her eyes grew wide as she took in her bounty – almost doubling her money in an instant.

  “Way to go, sister,” Flint leaned over and gave her celebratory fist bump. “You cleaned that Japanese sucker out.”

  Sara shrugged: “Gee, it was nothing,” she winked. “Now let’s turn our attention to Kim Jong Dildo over there.”

  Flint and Sara both turned to look towards the head of the table – at the sinister bulk of Howard Chang.

  Chapter Six

  Sara might have found her groove at that point, but so had the bald Chinaman.

  In the next few hands, Howard Chang slowly but surely cleaned out two of the other professional poker players – taking their chips without so much as a hint of emotion crossing his round, white face.

  The two players – professionals, Sara would later learn, who’d flown across country to complete – were classy as they left the table. They slunk away to their alcoves, to watch the rest of the game with their friends and family. A very expensive poker lesson, Sara shivered.

  Sara held her own, while Flint was clearly struggling. While he’d kept most of his chips, he was folding early in each and every hand – losing a few thousand dollars as an ante each time. Sara didn’t like to admit it, but she knew he was losing a war of attrition; and while he might hang in longer than the bolder players, Flint was as doomed as the rest of them.

  And it was all because of that damn Chang guy – who kept stacking up pile after pile of chips in front of him.

  Sara excused herself from the table for a minute, while they were shuffling the deck for the next hand. “I need to get a drink.”

  Her legs were stiff as she slid off the chair, and a wave of tiredness hit her. Glancing at her watch, she realized it was now nearly 3am; far later than either she or Melissa had anticipated staying up that night.

  For a moment, she got worried. Poor Melissa was stuck in the alcove with those leering bikers. She was probably thoroughly bored, or practically asleep by now.

  But as Sara climbed the steps and strode into the alcove, she found that Melissa was actually neither.

  In fact, her married best friend was lying back on one of the shiny white leather couches while one of Flint’s crew – Fats, she remembered – was making out with her hot-and-heavy.

  “Jesus!”

  He and Melissa were French kissing passionately, and Fats had even slid down the strap of Melissa’s sparkly dress and popped one of her large, pale breasts out of it entirely – he was squeezing it gently.

  But even that paled in comparison to what else Sara saw – because kneeling beside the couch, with one of Melissa’s knees slung over each of his shoulders, was Dog – face buried between Melissa’s pale thighs.

  “Melissa!” Sara cried, staggering to a halt. “What the hell?”

  Fats and Dog clambered off the blonde as soon as they heard Sara’s scream. Looking dazed and disheveled, Melissa struggled to sit up; awkwardly covering her bare breast with one hand and yanking down the hem of her dress with the other.

  “Oh, Sara… I… er…. This isn’t what it looks like.”

  “What it looks like,” Sara snapped, grabbing her friend’s wrist and pulling her to her feet, “is that my married best friend was five minutes away from having a threesome with two fucking biker dudes she just met at a poker tournament.”

  Melissa’s face went red.

  “Hey, I was just having a bit of fun,” she hissed. “We were just making out. That’s not technically cheating.”

  “Making out? That big dude there…” Sara pointed.

  “Dog, ma’am,” he winked.

  “…was eating you out.”

  Melissa’s cheeks turned red. “Well… I mean… It wasn’t like…”

  But before Sara could continue, there was a shout from the poker table.

  “Yo, beautiful,” it was Flint, yelling at Sara. “They’re dealing the next hand. You in or out, girl?”

  Sara scowled at Melissa, grabbed herself a cold Budweiser and stomped back down the steps towards the table.

  As she slid back onto the stool, Flint leaned over.

  “Hey, Sugar. Saw your pretty friend getting real friendly with my boys up there.” He winked. “Just so you know, when this is all over, I’d be just as happy to get down with your fine ass.”

  “I bet you would!” Sara snarled: “I’m sorry. I’m just here to play poker, thanks. The only way I’d consider “getting down” is if it won me that million dollars.”

  Flint said nothing – he just raised one eyebrow, as if to say: “Oh, really?”

  Sara ignored him.

  She forced herself to focus on the game – furious, but not entirely surprised by her friend’s behavior. She’d picked a sheepish Melissa up from one too many roadside motels during their twenties to be surprised what Melissa would think was a smart idea after she’d had a few drinks inside of her.

  She just hoped her best friend could behave herself long enough to get the game wrapped up.

  The reason for Sara’s sudden focus was a nagging suspicion she’d begun to have that she could actually win this tournament. It wasn’t just bravado, either – although the numerous drinks she’d had that night probably gave her a little boost of confidence.

  No, the way Sara had dealt with that Japanese player had told her that her feminine wiles – the ability to act, as well as to r
ead the other players – gave her an edge. Now she just had to leverage it.

  And that meant making a bold move.

  The opportunity came during the next hand. The dealer dished out their cards and, as Sara peered at them, she realized she’d picked a winner.

  The Flop was three fives – and Sara held two nines. That was a full house, and only two other hands could beat it (assuming none of the other players had higher pairs.) Emboldened in that knowledge, she started calculating just how much she could afford to risk.

  Sara’s strategy was simple – find out what Howard Chang’s “tell” was. Sure, the round-faced Chinese player was a master of remaining emotionless; but everybody had a ‘tell’. If she could just push him hard enough, she’d be able to spot it – Sara knew she would.

  The bets started coming in. Flint stayed in for the first round, and even saw the next raise, but folded his cards straight afterward. Despite all his bluster about playing cards in the bad, bad streets of Reno, it was clear the handsome, sexy biker didn’t have the balls to win at this game – probably as a result of playing people who wagered their rent money a few too many times.

  At the next round of betting, Howard Chang paused.

  His beady black eyes looked up – across the table to where Sara was sitting. It was almost as if they could see straight through her; and she shivered as she made eye contact with him.

  He was reading her, she realized. Just as she was studying him, this impassive Chinaman was scanning her face to see what “tells” betrayed her sudden aggressiveness.

  “I’ll see your raise,” the Chinaman spoke, “and triple it.”

  There was a hush around the poker table. The player next in line immediately folded his cards.

  Meanwhile, Sara and Chang remained locked, eye-to-eye. Sara was impassive, knowing she didn’t want to tip her hand one way or another. She wanted to see what he did.

  But that would come at a cost; and given how much he’d just raised the bet, it was a cost Sara wasn’t entirely sure she could afford.

  Nevertheless, she counted out her chips and pushed them towards the center of the table.

  “I’ll see you.”

  By her calculations, the pot now stood at more than a $400,000 - a staggering fortune if Sara allowed herself to think about it; but she tried not to. If she thought of the bet in financial terms – like, paying off the mortgage, or putting her kids through college – she’d be too concerned about preserving the money to stand any chance of winning it.

  Instead, she just remembered that none of this money was hers. It was all just a game. The chips were just pieces of plastic; and she was playing the game to prove how smart she was, not because of the enormous financial reward at the end of it.

  It was a good job she was thinking that way, because Howard flipped his cards over and Sara saw stars.

  Two Jacks – diamonds and clubs. A pair that trumped hers, and won Chang the pot.

  Sara’s head span. She suddenly had to grip the side of the table for support. She watched, dumbstruck, as her chips were piled up and slid across the green felt towards Chang.

  This was it, she realized. She was left with just a small pile of chips now; enough to maybe stay in the game for one more hand, but afterwards, that was it.

  And what made it so painful for her was that the fantastic price she’d paid had been worth it. It might have nearly bankrupted her – but she’d spotted Howard Chang’ “tell.”

  Chapter Seven

  The croupier called a forty-five minute break.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please take the opportunity to order some food before our chefs retire for the night, and visit the powder room.” From the way some of the other players seemed buzzed, Sara could guess what the “powder” they might be taking way.

  Stretching Sara slid off her stool – and was almost immediately joined by Flint.

  “Can I accompany you up to the VIP section, sweetheart?”

  Rolling her eyes, Sara allowed the handsome biker to take her arm and escort her up the stairs.

  In the “Flint House” Sara was very relieved to find Melissa sitting fully clothed; although she was leaning into Dog as he regaled her with a raucous story, and Sara could already imagine the excuses Melissa was going to try and sell her to let her “hang out” with the handsome biker when it became time to head home.

  Flint grabbed Sara’s elbow.

  “C’mon up to the bar with me,” he ordered – and at the mini bar at the back of the alcove, he opened up a bottle of Kristal with a “pop! “I prefer beer, but I figure a lady like you deserves champagne.”

  Pouring Sara a glass, he offered her his to chink.

  She looked up, into his dark brown eyes. Their glasses met with a ‘chink’. For a second, Sara felt butterflies in her stomach. Maybe it was the lateness of the night, or the numerous drinks talking, but Flint was a very sexy man; in an imposing, dangerous way.

  “So you’re nearly out of the game.” If that couldn’t bring her down to earth, nothing could.

  “Yeah,” Sara growled. “I think I can make it through one more hand and then I’m toast.”

  Flint shrugged.

  “I’m bleeding chips, too. I’m not going to be in much longer than you. Damn, but that Chinaman is good.”

  Flint narrowed his eyes.

  “Which kind of brings me to my point, sugar. I was thinking – after this is all over. How about you girls come back to Knuckleheads Garage with the boys?” He winked lasciviously. “I’m sure we could have enough fun to make up for our bad luck.”

  Sara’s eyes widened. She was being propositioned by the leader of a biker gang!

  And, looking over her shoulder – to where Melissa was sitting, sandwiched between two leather, lascivious bikers – she didn’t think she’d have any trouble convincing her friend to go along with it, if she’d been interested.

  But despite the excitable butterflies in Sara’s stomach, she reminded herself that she was married – and there were more important things to think about.

  “So listen,” Sara demanded, looking Flint dead in the eye. “I’ve had a thought.”

  “Oh? You interested in my proposition?”

  “I’m going to make one to you in return – I want you to give me your chips.”

  Flint’s brow creased.

  “You what?”

  “You said it yourself – you’re bleeding chips. But at the moment you’ve still got enough to play one or two really good hands.”

  “Sweetheart,” Flint hissed, clearly offended. “I was playing some damn good hands back there.” He sniffed. “It was just the luck of the cards, is all.”

  “Bullshit,” Sara snapped back – and Flint reeled back; clearly unused to getting this kind of attitude. He was a 6’ 5” biker with muscles like a wrestler. You simply didn’t speak to people like him that way.

  Well, Sara did.

  “You played gutless hands all night. You don’t have any balls. You could have won more than a few of those hands, I’m sure of it.”

  “Hey,” the biker narrowed his eyes, “when I want gambling advice from a Rachel Ray wannabe, I’ll ask for it, okay? If you were so shit hot at this game, how come you’re asking me for my chips?”

  “Because I’ve figured out his tell,” Sara hissed. “I reckon I can tell whether he’s bluffing or not. I can win this game now.”

  Flint cocked his head on one side.

  “Okay,” he murmured. “Let’s say I believe you. Why should I give you my chips? That’s $300,000 or thereabouts sitting on the table. What’s in it for me?”

  “We split the winnings,” Sara explained. “Fifty fifty.”

  “And what happens if you lose, eh? Then I’ll be out a hundred grand.”

  “You’re going to be out a hundred grand anyway, the way you’re playing.”

  “Yeah, but at least then I’ll have the pleasure of losing it my own damn self.”

  Sara fell silent. He had a point.


  But then Flint grinned dangerously.

  “I’ll tell you what. You want my chips? I’ll swap them.”

  “Swap them?” Sara narrowed his eyes. “For what?”

  “For what I suggested earlier: After the game, you come back to the garage and entertain me and the boys. ‘Cept this time, I’m paying for the privilege.”

  Sara went white.

  “W-what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I’m not sure I did.”

  “What I’m saying, sweetheart, is that you and that blonde fox friend of yours come back to the Knucklehead’s garage and let me and my boys make use of you until we can’t get it up any more.”

  He winked: “If you want my chips, I’ll gladly give them to you in return for that promise.”

  Sara balled her hands up into fists.

  “Listen,” she hissed. “I’m a married woman. And so is Melissa, over there.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of her best friend.

  “Oh, I saw,” Flint scoffed. “She’s so happily married, she’s letting Dog eat her out on the couch.”

  Sara’s cheeks turned red.

  “She’s just had a couple of drinks,” she stammered. “Melissa’s not responsible for…”

  “Shaddup,” Flint growled. “If she’s responsible enough to be ordering bottles of free liquor, and flirting with my boys over there, she’s sober enough to decide for herself whether she wants to get eaten out in the goddamn VIP room.” The handsome biker narrowed his eyes. “I think she’d be game. The question is: Are you?”

  Sara froze.

  “You want my chips?” He growled. “Are you really that sure you can beat that Chinese bastard out there?”

  She said nothing, her mind racing.

  “I’ll give you my chips, sweetheart. I’ll hand ‘em on over with a metaphorical fucking cherry on top. Whether you can wring a million dollars out of ‘em is up to you.”

  The beautiful housewife stood there in a quandary.

  She was questioning herself. Double guessing what she’d seen. Trying desperately to talk herself out of what she was about to do.

  But the fact was, she had seen Chang’s “tell.” It was unmistakable – and that knowledge, combined with her acting skills and a pile of chips, could win her the tournament.