A guy I don’t know sitting to my right buys the pot with a big bet. Looks like he has a little over five hundred in front of him, more than anyone else at the table. That would make him the bully, because at a poker table, there’s always a bully.
It’s been about an hour, and I’m a little over a hundred dollars up. I still haven’t said a word to MacLucifer, and he hasn’t given any indication that he recognizes me, but I’m curious about him. “I watched you at nationals last year, Mason. Second place was amazing. Are you still roping?”
He looks at his cards and calls. Without looking at me, he says, “Nah, shoulder won’t let me.”
The bully bets sixty, a big bet. Everyone folds around to Mason. I want to tell him to reraise, but that’s not allowed. Mason shakes his head and folds. He has about one-fifty in front of him. I have no idea if it’s from his first buy-in.
“What brings you back to Sweetbriar? Visiting Chelsea?”
He checks his cards, tosses them into the muck, then turns to me. “Yep. She and Zane are talking about building a small rodeo arena on their property to bring in some extra cash and they asked for my help. You know how Chelsea is.”
Everyone at the table chuckles at that because everyone knows his sister. “Yeah, you don’t tell her no.”
He gives me a grin that could almost be mistaken for a friendly smile. “No, you don’t.”
“Oh, great, look who it is,” Jake’s voice bellows from behind me. I turn enough to see two hundred dollars’ worth of chips in his hand. “Looks like my lucky fucking day,” he sneers in my direction.
I don’t respond, but I do eye his chips.
He takes the empty seat vacated by a gentleman who just left and glares at me like I’m the reason his sad little life is so pathetic. Yep, he hates me, but the feeling is mutual.
I decide I’m going to play the best poker of my life using every tip and trick my mother taught me. After about thirty minutes, it’s obvious my ex
wants to beat me so badly, he’s willing to take big risks. He calls all my big raises hoping to get lucky. It’s the dumbest way to play and he’s already had to rebuy another two hundred in chips.
Not willing to slow down, he continues making one terrible decision after another and I end up with most of his chips again. Then he rebuys another two hundred, which means he’s in for six hundred now—which, knowing him, is probably his rent money.
He loses half his chips to Mason, and now he’s in a hand against me and the bully. I have an ace-high flush. It’s thenuts, a hand that can’t be beat. Now I just need to get the rest of these two boneheads’ chips. I decide they’re dumb enough to call an all-in, so that’s what I do.
As expected, they both call and I turn my cards over letting them know they’ve just lost.
The bully says, “I was worried you had the ace.” He shows his hand. He has the flush to the king so it wasn’t a bad call on his part, and he’s being a true gentleman about his big loss.
Jake, on the other hand, slams his cards in the muck, clearly upset.
As the dealer pushes the pot to me, Jake pulls out his wallet and sets more cash on the table. “One hundred and twenty-three,” he calls out, letting the dealer know how many chips he wants.
It’s the last of his money. If he had more, he’d buy another two hundred.
“Lucky cunt,” he mutters under his breath.
The dealer looks up with surprise and yells, “Floor!” Profanity like that, especially directed at another player, is never allowed.
The manager doesn’t waste time coming over. If the dealer explains what just happened, Jake will be asked to leave, and if he doesn’t go quietly, security will escort him out.
“Hold on,” I tell the dealer before he can say anything. I quickly turn to the manager with, “Can you color me up?” That means I want to exchange my red five-dollar chips for black one-hundred-dollar chips. I have a little more than eight hundred in front of me, so I’m going to ask for five black chips in exchange for five hundred in red chips. It’s a legit reason for the dealer to call floor to have a manager come to the table.
The dealer isn’t sure what to do so I look him in the eye with the tiniest nod, hoping he’ll play along. It takes a second, but then the look he gives me says it all. He knows I want Jake to stay and everyone at the table knows why.
When the manager leaves with my chips to make the exchange, I call the cocktail waitress over.
“What can I get you, darlin’?”
“I’ll take a beer for my friend in the nine-seat.”
A few of the men laugh. It’s a humiliating gesture, and everyone knows it. Jake takes the beer as he tosses me a look like he literally wants me dead. He’s pissed, but he knows how close he is to getting kicked out, so he just holds his beer up and nods with a fake-as-hell grin as if to say thanks. I’m sure he wants to stay, too, so he can get his money back. That’s not going to happen.
The manager comes back with my five black chips. Including those, I have a little more than three stacks of red chips, eight hundred dollars and change, so it’s been a good night, thanks to my mother’s training.
