Double Down: The most precious pot (Hot Kings and Curvy Queens of Las Vegas Book 1)

by Alice May Ball

  They’re never going to fit anything like your own uniform. So, after all of my effort and some expense, I get to start my first shift as a poker dealer in a blouse, vest and pants sized for three different people, none of whom are anything like the same shape or size as me, and with my hair scraped, tied, and pinned back tight.

  The pants are too tight, the vest is too small, and the shirt is huge. I’ve fixed my face the best I can, but I’m wearing very much more the au naturel look than I had planned for my first day in the poker rooms.

  As always, I pinmy name tag low on the vest. I always seem to set my tag to be hard to read. Over this huge shirt, it’s even harder than usual.

  As I step out, Saul is coming by. “Oh. Grace,” he’s looking me up and down, “I was worried how you were going to look, but,” shoot me now, “You could have been dressed by Stella McCartney herself. You look fantastic.”

  Is he being sarcastic? I’m completely thrown. Saul is not at all how I expected him to be from his reputation, and now I don’t know how to take him.

  I know this much though, he’s my pit boss, and that puts him about half a rung below God. Whatever he says, goes.

  He’s walking me along a hallway. “Angie will still get the overtime. I’ll put her in as a second on the private game that’s going on in the tower penthouse suite. She’ll probably want to stay on with the game for a few extra hours of it works out.” he tips me a wink, “That’s going to be a very high-earning table.”

  Saul stops with his hand on a door handle. He looks me in the eye. “You look fantastic, Grace. Really. You’re going to be terrific.” His lips even stretch in the start of a smile. He looks me firmly in the eye. “Ready?”

  I am so not. But, lips pressed together, I nod.

  I brought my go cup. By each door to a gaming room is a screen showing the scene in the room. Below the screen is a small table. None of us would leave valuables there as a matter of courtesy, but we all leave our go-cups and they’re treated as sacred.

  Saul and I watch the screen beside the door. It shows Angie standing at the table, and four players in the room. The last betting calls in a hand are going round. One player, a preppy-looking dude is out already, slumped in his seat. The next player is an older guy, a little on the silver fox side with a serious look. He quietly folds now. Just two men remain in. An extravagantly underdressed younger guy in shades with a baggy, skateboarder style. White kid in gangster rap gear, but without the big bling. The other man is dark-haired and immaculately groomed. They both sit behind impressive walls of chips.

  It almost chokes me to remember how stoked I was and how much I was looking forward to the start of this shift. Now, I look like a sack of marshmallows, squeezed into bags that are too small. Everything I dressed to downplay or conceal is on full display, and in the worst way possible. My reflection looks like a huge distorting magnifying glass is over every curve and bulge on my body.

  The rich aroma of the coffee calls back the feeling I got from that man’s eyes. Perfectly shocking and a deep, dark thrill. I have to say, it lifts the taste of coffee to a place I’ve never known it before.

  I figure that Saul must be trying to pep me up for the shift and get as much value as he can out of me, and be ready to bust me back down tomorrow.

  As a dealer, you need to make a good first impression on a group of strangers. My makeup is almost washed out and my hair’s dragged back so tight, I look like a murderously angry cat.

  Looking like this, if I’ll be lucky if I’m only busted back to dealing blackjack tomorrow. More likely I’ll be hawking freebie cocktails or running Keno.

  I know I have the skills it takes to make it in a top-line resort, but the thought of having to slide back down the ladder so soon and have to climb all the way back up again sure takes the sun out of my mood.

  Chapter 5

  Adam

  Some people might call it fate, but I don’t buy into any of that. Fate, luck, destiny, none of it. If I let superstition into my head, I’d be a dead man. It was a fluke. I had no way of knowing. I didn’t even know that she was a poker dealer. Not for sure. I had checked a lot of the roulette tables, though.

  I was thinking about her. Obviously. The fiery look in her eye when I took the cloths to her burned straight into me. Seared a mark on me like a brand.

  I have no plan to be playing in the regular public rooms. The stakes aren’t high enough for me. I only peeked into a couple of rooms out of curiosity.

  Chapter 6

  Grace

  Getting myself back in the right frame of mind, I’m going to enjoy commanding the room. It’s what I’ve wanted to do for so long, and now I’m going to take some pleasure, dealing the cards and interacting with the guests.

  I remember Dane Silver, my best teacher in dealer school, saying, “Running table games, dealing cards, all the croupier’s gaming skills are all for a single purpose. Never forget that we’re in the entertainment business. Your job is to give the players the best experience they can get.” And he added, “That’s easy enough to do as long as they’re winning.”

  Even if it is only for a day, I’ll have some experience to remember while I work my way back to it again.

  As I walk into the room, Angie looks up from the table and smiles. I hardly know her, but her smile is warm. The four players around the table are in a pool of low light. She introduces me as she’s about to deal out the hand. She tells the players my name and that I’ll be taking over from the next hand. I smile as I move to stand behind her, before she begins to deal out the hand.

  The neatnik preppy dude tells Angie, “I don’t want a new dealer now. I’m not happy about the change.” The player who’s doing the worst is often the one who makes the most trouble. Players have an unwritten right to object to a dealer and they’re never asked for a reason. But they don’t ever get to keep or choose the dealer.

  I smile and look around the table, making eye contact with all four players. “It’s time for Angie’s break now. I’m sure she’s taken good care of you,” My voice is firm, but quiet enough not to be aggressive. If one objected to me, it would be a bad start for me, but I’m not going to put the idea out there.

  I leave a short pause to give them all a chance to think about tipping Angie some more, then I watch and take note of who does. The older guy and the skateboard punk rocker. As Angie smiles around the table and heads for the door, I thank her and say, “And I’ll do all I can to take just as good care of you all. The game is Texas Hold ’em, gentlemen. Is everybody staying in for the deal?”

  The loser dude slumps but lifts his fingers from the table to signal that he’s in awhile but he chews his lip.

  “I’ll be in, ma’am,” the older guy twinkles, “And you can call me Carl.”

  Skatepunk just nods. I can’t see much of what’s going on behind his shades. The dark-haired man who lost the last two showdowns to him introduces himself as Mike. He lifts his hand, part greeting, part ‘deal me in’ signal.

  When I pass the cards across the table, I’m careful to give an acknowledgement to each of the players and particularly a small look of encouragement to the preppy guy. He could be a dark horse playing a long and deep game, but I seriously doubt it. I’m pretty sure he would have a better time and more luck if he just lightened up and played a lower stakes table. He might be able to enjoy the games.

  I can feel from his glower that’s not his way. He plays a tight, sulky game, betting the minimum to stay in and keeping his interaction to scowls and grunts. He takes the next pot, but it’s tiny. He had a great hand and he should have won a lot more money with it.

  As play goes on, other players come into the room, but the preppy guy is in the seat nearest the door. His whole attitude is off-putting, so people come, but they leave again quickly. He loses more, buys more chips, loses more again. Each time, his mood deepens and darkens. Carl is playing a skillful waiting game. Skateboard guy is as flamboyant in his play as he is nonchalant in his attitude, but h
e and Mike are more or less swapping chunks of their stacks back and forth, growing them both from the sulky guy.

  After a long run of slow hands, chips in rising piles moving back and forth, it’s almost time for my break. The cloud around the preppy guy is darker and deeper as he makes his fifth buy for more chips to lose. Mike and the skateboard punk seem to have kept up the same performances almost tirelessly.

  Carl looks tired as he matches a large bet. The preppy guy goes all in and I know he’s making a huge mistake. He doesn’t have the cards. Mike has at least two good pair, I’m sure. The skateboarder is betting big with nothing. I’m sure of that, too.

  Somebody slips into the room, but they stay in the shadows by the door.

  Chapter 7

  Adam

  Then I saw her.

  The thicker carpet in the poker room makes a faint shush under my shoes. The sight of her makes my breath skip. My heart hammers. I stay in the shadow by the door, and I have to keep still for a moment. I was just wandering around, biding my time before any of the serious players are out to play.

  I’m almost shocked by her appearance. It’s like she took a challenge to wear clothes that wouldn’t make her look fantastic. Of course, she totally failed. She looks completely different, but she’s still sensational. It’s almost like I’m looking at a different woman. That transformation is incredibly exciting.

  Her face had been perfectly brushed and blushed, now she looks practically scrubbed. Her uniform was immaculate. Now her clothes hardly even fit.

  Her huge, loose shirt could have me palpitating. She is still, obviously, a goddess.

  I have to have her.

  She commands the room and runs the table so effortlessly. She’s totally in charge, even with two players who are determined to be as challenging as they can. Why the kid in the pink cashmere is even playing is completely a mystery. He has no clue.

  The other three know what they’re doing alright, but the kid in the shades uses attitude as a game ploy. That’s tough on the dealer.

  She’s not even fazed by him. She’s a complete natural. I can’t tell whether she’s seen me here in the shadows or if she’s just being cool with me.

  I shouldn’t even go to the table. I can take everybody who’s there, but it’s a dumb risk. It’s like taking a formula one racecar into a street race or a Nascar dust-up. And I don’t take risks. Whatever’s making her have this effect on me, I have to root it out and beat it.

  Chapter 8

  Grace

  Suddenly it’s a four-way showdown. On the turn of the river, the last card, preppy guy is standing. Mike pushes in a huge bet. The skateborder matches it and raises. Carl checks. The other two bet more and I think they’re crazy.

  I’m pleased to see that I guessed it. Carl turns over a full house and sweeps the pot.

  The preppy guy hisses through his closed teeth, glaring from Carl to me and back. “She’s giving you some sweetheart deal.”

  Mike is on his feet, “That’s just fucking stupid and you know it. You know what it is? You’re just a fucking terrible card player. I can read your hand before you’ve finished looking at your cards. Before you put them down, I’ve called your bets, from the start of the hand to the end. You’re in the wrong game, kid.”

  The kid’s fists are balling. I know a pit boss, maybe Saul, will get with the kid in the next ten minutes. Soothe his cracked ego. Give him an upgrade on his room, maybe a voucher for a steak dinner. The house never wants to lose a loser. But that’s for then. This is now.

  The skateboard guy is moving to get to his feet. I know he’s been angry with the kid since before I came to the table. I don’t want him getting into it with him now. Not while they’re at my table. I lift a palm, inclining it toward the skateboarder. His eyes narrow, but he pauses.

  I look into the preppy dude’s eyes. Wait. Hold his gaze. My voice is quiet and steady.

  “That last hand was a tough deal for you,” I tell him, gently. “You played it about as well as you could have. Under the circumstances.” Three beats. Letting him off light. Giving him a graceful and face-saving way out.

  He scowls, then he slouches away, shouldering past the figure at the door. The skateboarder gets to his feet and turns to Carl. “Masterful, dude.” He smiles as he puts out a hand, which Carl stands to shake. Mike is gracious, too.

  Now I’m worried that when I take my break, I’ll be handing over an empty table, which is never a good look. But Carl gives me a very generous tip, and he sits back down. Mike tips me nicely as he leaves. The skateboarder stands and shrugs as he drops me a couple of chips. I think he’s a strict percentage player.

  I saw him tip Angie about the polite minimum, and he passed me a few chips after the first hand I dealt him.

  He and Mike leave, eyeing each other warily.

  Then, the dark figure steps out of the shadows for my last few hands of the session.

  He puts the Wall Street Journal on the table beside him like it’s a theatrical prop. He sits back as he tells me the massive amount of chips he wants to buy.

  I have to resist saying, “Ready, Player One?” And I still don’t know why. But it’s something about a warrior.

  Chapter 9

  Adam

  Crossing the floor to the table, I’m too aware of the sound of my feet on the rug, like the shush of the cards on the baize cloth and the swish of her clothes as she leans across to scoop them up for the next deal. The chair legs drag through the carpet. All of my senses are super-heightened.

  I’m aware of her eyes. They flicker and flash, and I catch a hint of her perfume. My blood pumps hard. All the time a part of my mind is recording the pinkness of her lips and the gleam in her eyes. And the heaving surge of her heavenly breasts.

  I try to read her name tag. Her eye catches mine and she sees that I can’t read it. She raises an eyebrow, like she’s daring me to keep staring at her breasts. That could work fine for me, but I can’t have it messing up my game. I’ll try not to be fascinated by the way her loose linen shirt fills and falls.

  I don’t want to play head to head this early in the day, especially not with a cool and canny player like this older guy. He’s serious, he’s tight with his bankroll, and he’s good. Luring his chips out could take long, steady work and a lot of patience and that’s not how I should open the day. A rumpus with spikier players like the three who just left would be better to get my motor running.

  But I’m in no hurry. Not while she’s dealing.

  If it came to it, I know I could sit and play all day with a table packed with boozed-up Father Christmases and septuagenarian Elvis impersonators on their annual vacation.

  I don’t believe in luck or fate, but I do believe in opportunity, and I’m not letting her go. At least not before I’ve had a chance to fully explore every one of those sensational curves and bulges. My simple plans are suddenly getting all messed up and complicated.

  I’m not a fan of complicated.

  “Welcome to the table,” her voice is low, like a moan, and soft, like fingernails on velvet. All my senses seem to have turned up to the maximum. She forces herself to hold eye contact with me, showing her authority. My heart bangs.

  “The ante is five dollars if you’re in.” Am I ever.

  She’s going to be my future, and I’m going to be hers. I know how to read my instincts and I trust them completely. That’s how it has to be.

  My voice is steady, “Give me five thousand.”

  Demanding the chips, I spread five bills on the table. I leave my hand on the money. Her fingers point to me as they twitch. She waits until I pull my hand away. But the corners of her eyes tug. The start of a smile. She puts out the chips.

  I’m itching to take her hand.

  This is like an electricity. It’s a huge distraction. Even worse, I love it.

  I need to be thinking about the older guy. Not about the soft curves moving in the dark, under her loose white shirt and her too-tight black pants.

 
; She passes me cards across the nap of the baize and she shows no sign at all, gives away no hint that she’s thinking anything like on the same lines that I am. I feel it, though. From the way she’s holding her movements in check.

  I play two hands, tight. Carl takes a small pot with a pair. I get the next one with a King high hand.

  We’re both playing a watching game. His eyebrows tighten and he conceals how he’s moistening his lips. His tells are all perfectly understated, polished and carefully practiced. Practiced to deceive. He’s good.

  When he looks at his cards and turns a ring on his finger, he’s telling me he’s afraid that he’s about to lose. Then he hesitates a fraction before he makes his bet. Perfect timing. When he gets a card and he presses the end of his pinky finger into the table, he wants me to think he drew a winner. He pitches his betting to lure me out. I’m loving this guy.

  I wonder, if the sight of her hadn’t set all my senses alight, whether he might even have fooled me. He reminds me of a close-up magician I know. He’s a man who can literally take your watch and your wallet and you’d swear he was nowhere near you. The only thing that gives this guy away to me is that he’s too perfect and too consistent. He does it all too well.

  Over the next few hands, bigger pots grow and move almost evenly from me to him and back.

  I can definitely learn from him. But first I’ll clean out his wallet.

  I play out to let him think he’s got me fooled and lead him to make bigger raises. Each time he does, he makes a tiny shake of his head and twinkles like a jolly uncle who’s had one too many. I love this guy. I could so easily fall for his smart-goofy ‘Oh, woncha look at me?’ act, I wish I could be writing all his moves down. I want to steal every one of them.