I continue to play, keeping a mindful eye on the cards and my stack of chips. Lots of low cards are coming out of the shoot, which means there is some money to be made. I decide to press my luck when I win a hand with nineteen over the dealer who had seventeen.
I bet bigger. Bigger than I have in any of the previous hands. Triple.
My heart is definitely pounding harder now than it was five minutes ago.
The cards are dealt, and my first card is a queen of diamonds. The red ink looks magnificent against the green felt of the table.
The dealer is showing a ten.
He flips my second card and it’s an ace of diamonds. Blackjack, baby. Tonight, diamonds really are a girl’s best friend.
I win two more hands with high cards out of the pocket. I’m up pretty big. Three thousand plus.
The next hand is just as nerve-racking as the last three. I bet triple again.
Watching the cards vigilantly, I’m dealt a nine of clubs. Okay. I can work with that. I hit. And am graced with a three of hearts. Fuck, I hate when the cards dribble out. One wrong decision and this hand will go bust. We need every penny we can get. Our lives depend on it. But I’m in a go big or go home kind of mood. I hit again, and it’s a four of spades.
They say you should stay on sixteen. That would be the smart move. But I’m not always the smartest woman. Just look at my spectacular decisions when it comes to Damon.
I hit again and my heart pole vaults into my throat.
Ned turns the card with everyone at the table anxiously watching.
It’s a fucking five of diamonds. I nearly pass out. Twenty-one — again.
Ned turns his second card to reveal his hand. I’m not out of the woods yet. If he hits blackjack, I lose.
He’s already showing an ace. One face card or ten and I’m done. It feels like slow motion as he uses one card to flip the other.
I nearly fall off my chair. Nine of hearts. One number away from me losing a third of my pot.
Ned pushes a huge stack of chips in my direction, with a grin. This table has been hot tonight. But I’m done. I’m taking my good fortune and my winnings and cashing out.
Six-thousand dollars up. I’ll take it, happily.
I find Damon and Knuckles in the exact same seats I left them in. Damon’s stack of chips looks healthy, which is a good sign. Knuckles looks like he wants to crack someone’s skull. Sitting around and babysitting a runaway MC member isn’t really his cup of tea. He likes action. Take care of business and be done.
But I’m paying him a shit-ton of money to be here, so he can brood all he wants.
“How was your walk?” he asks.
“Fruitful.” I smile.
He raises one eyebrow. He has no idea I went to gamble. Although, I thought it would be obvious being he knew my father.
The night closes in, and soon, I’m yawning and barely able to keep my eyes open. Anything past three a.m., and I’m toast. It’s my witching hour. It always has been.
Looks like it’s Damon’s, too.
“I’m burnt.” He drags himself over to us. There are bags under his eyes, and his skin is pale. He’s been playing nonstop for hours.
“When was the last time you ate anything?” I ask sympathetically. As much as I want to hate him for the mess we’re in, I know it isn’t his fault. He didn’t gamble the money away. He didn’t get involved with a dangerous loan shark. He didn’t have anything to do with it besides being related to the man who made all the bad choices. It’s Griller I resent. And I’m sure on many levels, Damon does, too.
“I think I had a bag of Doritos at like eleven,” he guesses.
“I think it’s time to put some food in your stomach,” I urge.
Damon shakes his head. “Not hungry.”
