Double Blind

by Heidi Cullinan

  “If the betting gets too high, if you think you’re in danger of being beat, you fold. If everyone folds to you, you win, even if all the cards aren’t dealt. In this case, you don’t need to show your cards, although some people do. If you’re the last man standing, you get the pot, which is how you can win with absolute shit for a hand. If you bluff everyone into thinking you have the best hand, you win.”

  Randy saw it clicking in Ethan’s head. “This is why you’re good at poker. You’re good at bluffing, and you’re good at reading other people.”

  “That, and I’ve been playing the game since I was six.” He rocked on his heels. “So, Slick—you ready to give this a go?”

  Ethan didn’t seem too confident. “Couldn’t I watch for a while?”

  “Yeah, sure—grab a chair from the rail and sit off to the side of me, but be careful not to crowd the other players. I’ll show you my hole cards, and you can watch how I play. Sound good?”

  “Sounds good,” Ethan agreed.

  THE LITTLE OLD ladies were named Betty and Martha, and they were every bit as colorful as Mandy promised.

  They were round and plump and gray, wearing matching neon-pink shirts with their names cross-stitched across the front in a bed of flowers and playing cards, and it was a toss-up over which had gaudier dangly earrings. As Randy approached, they were actively charming the pants off Jones and the balding man to his right. Even the uptight-looking fat man on Jones’s other side, who absolutely had to be a used-car salesman, looked ready to fall for their charm. When the ladies saw Randy and Ethan, they smiled cheerfully.

  Betty introduced the pair of them and then patted the chair beside her. “Have a seat.”

  Randy set down the tray of chips he’d picked up before heading to the poker room. He nodded to the dealer and again to Jones. “How’s it going?”

  Jones tossed a salute. “Good. How’s the action at Herod’s tonight?”

  “Didn’t work the room, but I heard there’s some good games at the high tables. You might want to check it out if you get off in time.”

  “Thanks.” Jones glanced at Mandy, nodding before tossing a chip at the dealer and a smile at Betty and Martha. “Ladies, it’s been a pleasure, but duty calls me to another table.”

  Martha caught his hand. “You take care, young man, and I hope to see you tomorrow.”

  “I hope so too.” Jones kissed her hand and then Betty’s, making both ladies giggle again. But as Jones slipped past the dealer, the used-car salesman began to sputter.

  “He’s a prop? I’ve been playing with a prop?”

  “Oh, stop your fussing,” Betty scolded him. “You didn’t lose because of Jones. You lost because you’re lousy.”

  But the salesman was standing now and huffing from indignation. “I’m going to speak to the floorman about this.” He stalked off, leaving his chips in place.

  Martha rolled her eyes, and Randy leaned back when Ethan tugged on his sleeve.

  Randy whispered the answer before Ethan could ask the question. “A prop is a player hired by the casino to get games going or fill in tables if the action is low. They play with their own money, and the casino has no stake in them at all—in fact, if the action gets too good, they pull the prop.”

  “And you’re the prop at Herod’s?”

  Randy nodded, then leaned in closer and lowered his voice even more. “Keep that quiet. You saw how our buddy here reacted to Jones. Once he starts playing against me, he’s going to get pissed off enough without extra ammunition.”

  “How much are you going to pay me to keep the information to myself?”

  The comment so surprised Randy he turned his head and stared at Ethan, which only made Slick’s eyes dance even more. Oh, you beautiful, wicked man, Randy thought, bit back a smile, and reached for a fifty-dollar chip. He brought it slowly to his lips, kissed it, then held it out.

  Ethan took it with a curt nod. “That’ll do. For a start.”

  Desire curled in Randy’s belly. I am having this man in my bed by the end of the night.

  Ethan had been a lot better since Randy had gotten him onto poker. Randy would keep him at it all night if it continued to keep away the black hole he’d seen Slick slip in and out of between Herod’s and the Nugget. It was killing Randy not knowing what the hell this ex in Provo had done to corkscrew Ethan, but he knew Ethan wasn’t ready to talk about it. Randy felt lucky to have read what little he’d managed. His consolation was the more he needled Ethan, the more the man opened up. He’d gone from bristling and complaining to giving as good as he got.

  If he kept it up until they hit the sheets, Randy would have no complaints whatsoever. In the meantime, he’d be just as entertained to watch Slick handle his first real game of poker.

  Randy played tight once they got started, getting a feel for the other players. A few times he wanted to explain something to Ethan, but the salesman—Louis from Ohio—was still sore from the gentle but firm whipping Mandy had given him about the Nugget’s use of prop players, and he didn’t want to rile the man up just yet. He was a live one if ever there was one, and Randy had gotten attached to the idea of lightening the man’s significant stack of chips.

  After six hands, Randy had won two, folded four. On the seventh he ended up in a showdown with Betty, who surprised him by cottoning on to his bluff, and he folded before she could see he’d gone to the river with nothing more than a 2 and a 3.

  “I wondered what the hell you were doing,” Ethan murmured when Randy fished in his jacket for some money for drinks.

  “Hush your mouth, Slick.” When Randy moved, his lips grazed Ethan’s hair, and he startled. “Sorry. What do you want to drink?”

  Ethan didn’t appear affected by the accidental kiss, which only irritated Randy more. “Diet Pepsi.”

  Randy handed the waitress a five. “What he said, and a bottle of water.” Randy turned to Betty and Martha. “Ladies, can I get you something?”

  They giggled, ordered a daiquiri each, and Randy added another five-dollar bill and a ten-dollar chip to the waitress’s tray. They played two more hands while they waited for the drinks, Randy folding on both.

  As the drinks arrived, Randy decided it was time he did too. Slick had seen enough safe playing. Time for him to see some poker.

  “Poker is an art,” Uncle Gary had told Randy. “It’s about probability and statistics too, but mostly it’s about art. It’s combining your head and your heart and mixing them together with a little bit of magic. It’s a game of people as much as it is a game of cards.” At the age of six, Randy hadn’t understood a word of it—he’d nodded and pretended he did so he could sit on Uncle Gary’s knee, sneak sips of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and feel the warm safety of his godfather’s presence.

  But as he glanced around now at the table in the Golden Nugget, reading the faces of his fellow players, knowing the full range of how and when he’d bet before he even so much as lifted a single corner of his own cards, he thought of Uncle Gary and smiled.

  Randy liked to win at poker, yes, and when his finances dipped a little low, he was more than happy to play around the table and pad his wallet again. But what he really loved was the game—the chance to use his skill and his smarts to make sure even when he didn’t have much of a hand, he always had the best of it. It didn’t always work out, which was part of the fun. But more often than not he could control a game, almost any game, and this, to his mind, was the whole point of playing.

  Watch me, Slick.

  Randy went to work.

  Betty played aggressively, calling almost always and often past when she should have folded. She was one of those who called “to keep you honest, young man,” which had been her words exactly, right before Randy had laid down pocket rockets and cleaned her out of the seventy-five dollars she’d stubbornly put into the pot. She hadn’t forgotten the lesson, backing off from then on as soon as Randy raised aggressively past the flop. Martha, for all her gruff talk, folded on everything but pairs, aces, or f
ace cards, and Kevin, the bald man, was even more conservative. Betty, Martha, and Kevin were completely oblivious to everything but their own hands, and they either folded after the draw or went doggedly to the end because in their mind they were due to win.

  Then there was Louis.

  Louis was a real fish. He was clearly the big winner in his home pots, where from the depth of his strategy he apparently played zombies and coma patients, but this didn’t matter because in Louis’s head he was a winner. Randy didn’t like Louis. Even before he’d caught Louis curling his lip when Randy flirted with Ethan, he’d pegged Louis as a jerk, and Randy would bet his stack Mr. Salesman had plans to get himself a hooker with his poker winnings. He’d try a woman he didn’t have to pay for first, but he’d end up with a hooker because nobody but the downtrodden carpet in Ohio unfortunate enough to be Mrs. Louis was going to bed with this asshole without a paycheck.

  If Randy had his way, Louis would return to Ohio as pure as the driven snow and significantly poorer.

  Randy’s hole cards were a 9-10 offsuit, not that this mattered. He was the big blind, so he tossed in his chips and watched Betty call, Martha fold, and Kevin, his hands shaking, raise. Which meant Randy had been right—Kevin had his own rockets now.

  Louis, unfortunately, noted Kevin’s bold move too, and paused. But to Randy’s relief, he met the raise.

  Randy checked his cards again, tapped the rail absently with his fingers, then re-raised. Betty matched him, but she watched him carefully. Kevin matched him too, and Louis glared at him as he met the raise.

  The flop came down as ace of spades, 9 of hearts, and 8 of clubs.

  Randy covered his surprise by rubbing his nose as if to ward off an itch. He’d gone from jack shit to 8, 9, 10, and a pair as a spare. Huh. Well, his hand was unlikely to get better. Still, when it was his turn to act, he didn’t raise as he’d planned, just called and left the raise to Kevin, who of course did.

  “Didn’t get what you wanted?” Betty nudged Randy with her elbow. Randy shrugged and watched to see how Louis played. Randy crowed silently as Louis, with a smug smile, re-raised.

  Louis, Randy was sure, had Big Slick, and now he had what he hoped was top pair with a nuts kicker. He wasn’t even considering Kevin could have triple aces, because this was his game, he’d decided, and he was due a win. He’d almost gotten his head on straight when Kevin had acted so boldly, but Kevin looking like somebody who should be cowering under him on his showroom floor helped Louis convince himself this wasn’t possible. Now, with the ace on the board, he happily sailed to certain victory, and this time he wasn’t going to let Randy stand in his way. In fact, it was going to give him great pleasure to beat the slimy little faggot.

  Randy didn’t know the exact wording of Louis’s thoughts, but he was confident he had them pretty close.

  Randy played the man, feigning a hesitation any pro would have seen through right away but this packet of live ones didn’t even know how to unpack. This unfortunately drew Betty out a bit more than he preferred, but she’d confided to him after her second daiquiri she was “filthy rich”, so he didn’t feel too bad. She had a pair, but it wasn’t high. She was smarter than Louis and suspected something was up. She folded on the turn.

  Which was, of all things, a jack of hearts.

  Randy didn’t have to feign his discomfort this time, but it wasn’t for the reason his opponents were thinking. He was trying to decide how the hell he’d gone from bluffing his way through garbage to one card away from a straight. He didn’t have to bluff anymore, either. He could have mumbled “fuck me” under his breath and remained invisible as far as Louis and Kevin were concerned. Their game had taken on a life of its own, and they didn’t need Randy to egg them on. Kevin led the show.

  “You can’t beat me, not this time.” Kevin’s face was flush with his victory. “I’m going to win the whole pot.”

  “Go ahead and think that.” Louis tossed a re-raise down, smug as hell.

  It was this more than anything else that prompted Randy to re-raise him right back, egging it on until it went one more go-around. Finally, the pissing contest ended, and the dealer laid the river: 7 of diamonds.

  Randy had a goddamned straight.

  Louis raised, and Randy re-raised him in a sort of daze. Kevin boldly re-raised again. The pot was huge for a five-dollar game, three hundred dollars, a good chunk of the money being Randy’s own. The betting came around again, pushing the pot toward four hundred.

  Louis only had one hundred fifty dollars left, but it hardly mattered. Kevin, full of dizzy glory, shoved his remaining chips forward, because in his idiocy Randy had accidentally over-raised him.

  “I’m all-in.” Kevin shook with anticipation.

  Louis matched Randy’s re-raise, then got ready to gloat as he started to turn over his cards.

  Quick as lightning, Randy shoved his own cards forward into the muck. “I fold.”

  “You can’t fold when we’ve all called.” Louis turned over his cards, which as promised were ace and king, both diamonds, then pointed at Randy. “Dealer, I demand to see his hand.”

  “They were nothing.” Randy’s voice was sharp, partly from panic at being found out, partly from trying not to throw up over throwing a fucking straight into the muck on the river. “2 and 10 offsuit, okay? It was embarrassing.”

  Louis glared, clearly suspecting something, and Randy was ready to pull out the 10 and whatever card was next to it so long as it wasn’t another goddamned 9, but Kevin saved him by laying down his treasured aces and whispering, “I won.”

  Everyone turned to him, Louis too. “What?”

  “I won.” Kevin laughed, wheezed, then fumbled in his pocket and withdrew an inhaler. After he got his air back, he slapped his hand on the rail and hooted. “Oh my God, I won.”

  They all cheered him, and Randy gave him a chagrined smile, ducking his head to hide his real delight when Louis swore, picked up his remaining, paltry chips, and left the table.

  Randy’s joy was short-lived, however, because the next thing he knew, Ethan hauled him up from his chair and away from the table. Randy followed, bewildered, as he was led out of the room, down the hall, and around a corner into the shadows, where Ethan backed him to the wall and bore down on him like a sexy avenging angel.

  “You had a straight. I thought at first I must have been wrong, until you said you had a 2. You didn’t. You had a 9 and 10, and you had a straight. Which beats three of a kind.” Ethan hesitated. “Right?”

  Randy shushed him then glanced up the hall to make sure Louis hadn’t been around to hear. “Keep it down, Slick. Yes, I did have a straight, and yes, it does beat three of a kind.” He sighed. “Look. All I wanted was to clean out Louis, and if you must know, I wanted it to go to Kevin. I had no idea I’d pull a goddamned straight out of my ass.”

  “You could have cleaned Louis out by winning, but you threw the game. Why?”

  Randy shrugged. “I can win anytime. Kevin’s going back to Burbank to tell everybody in his cubicle how he won at the Golden Nugget. Sometimes the pot isn’t the money.”

  Ethan stared at him with an intense, searing look for a long moment before he spoke. “What time is it?”

  Randy pulled his phone out of his pocket and peeked at the time. “11:40.”

  “Good.” Ethan grabbed Randy’s face and pressed his mouth down on Randy’s own.

  All thoughts of thrown straights fled as the sharp taste of Ethan filled Randy’s mouth, and several brain cells melted as well as Ethan drew on Randy’s bottom lip before stealing deep inside. He could no more stop the groan rumbling in the back of his throat than he could keep his hands from sliding around Ethan’s hips to the fine slope of his ass. He drew in a long, deep breath of Ethan, then thrust his tongue against the one claiming his mouth, giving as good as he got.

  When they finally pulled apart, resting their foreheads together, both of them were gasping.

  “Jesus Christ, Slick.” Randy dug his finger
s into Ethan’s ass. “Please tell me we’re fucking later.”

  “That depends.” Ethan ran his fingers weakly down Randy’s chest as he paused for more air. “You were going to throw our bet, weren’t you?”

  Randy shrugged. “Already had the pot I was after. Figured I could get a cheaper kiss out of you after midnight. But you were right. This was better.”

  Ethan tipped Randy’s face up and looked him in the eye. “Don’t do it again.” There was a tightness in Ethan’s face, and no small amount of pain. “Don’t tell me we’re playing for one thing and then play for something else without telling me. I’ll fuck you in bed, but not if you’re fucking with my head out of it.”

  Randy wanted to argue he hadn’t been fucking with him, that he was too caught up in enjoying Ethan’s company to try and play the siren, but then he got lost in the hollow shadows of Ethan’s gaze. Jesus fuck, but that guy did a real number on you, didn’t he?

  Randy held up his hands. “Was never what I meant, Slick. But I swear—I won’t.”

  The pained edge eased in Ethan’s gray eyes, and after a beat, he gave a reluctant smile and touched Randy’s face, making Randy’s cock swell happily in his jeans.

  Oh Jesus, Randy thought, more blood rushing south as he read the heat in Ethan’s expression. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a hundred-dollar chip. “I can’t afford another thousand-dollar kiss unless I get to an ATM, but I’m curious to see what this will buy me.”

  A long, slender hand cupped Randy’s balls as a hot mouth closed, featherlight and open-mouthed, over his own. It was over almost as quickly as it started, and Randy was damn glad he was pressed against the wall as Ethan pulled away, because otherwise he’d have fallen over.

  Ethan took the chip and ran it lightly down the bridge of Randy’s nose. “I want to go play poker,” he said in the same tone another man would use to say, “I want to fuck you.”

  “Then let’s go play poker.” Randy stayed against the wall and watched Ethan head toward the poker room. When Randy thought he could walk straight or at least come close enough to count, he pushed off the wall and followed.