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Pops: Good. Can’t wait to see you.
Me: Me too, Dad. I’ll call you soon.
“The Secret Club?” a guy with a white beard and a worn-in cowboy hat asks from across the poker table, and I pull my focus away from my text messages. “Darlin’, what’s that mean?”
I set my phone facedown on the felt and flash him a little grin. “Well, it means exactly what it says. A secret club.”
The man chuckles at my sarcasm, but another older gentleman in a navy-blue suit adds to the conversation.
“Are those badges on your shirt?”
I glance down and smile. “Yes.”
“Like the Girl Scouts?” White Beard asks, and it instantly makes my cheeks pinken over the dirty truth.
“Well…I guess you could say it’s something like that,” I answer vaguely, and White Beard lifts his thick, caterpillar eyebrows.
“How do you earn ’em?”
“Sorry to disappoint, but what happens in The Secret Club, stays in The Secret Club.”
Both men just chuckle at my beat-around-the-bush answer.
Frankly, if these old-timers knew how I earned these badges or where I earned these badges, I feel like at least one of them would have a heart attack right at this damn table.
Ten badges, in fact. Each one ironed-on to my Secret Club T-shirt after Jude gifted me with an orgasm. Ten orgasms in less than twenty-four hours, mind you, and every single one of them was earned in a different spot, a different location, all over this wild town.
Four of them occurred in our suite—against the windows, in the shower, in the big-ass jacuzzi tub, and one on the plush king-sized bed while I rode Jude’s awesome penis reverse-cowgirl–style. That badge, ironically, actually has a cute little cartoon cowgirl on it and now sits at the spot just above my right breast.
The other six, though? Well, they are a whole other story, and if the Las Vegas police knew about the public spots where my badge-earning occurred, they’d probably have me arrested and confiscate this T-shirt.
Pretty sure Jude fingering me beneath my dress to a full-on climax while we were on the X-Scream roller coaster at the Stratosphere hotel would definitely qualify as indecent exposure.
Or the quiet booth at Tao when I sat on his lap during the whole meal with his cock all the way inside me.
Or at the Paris Hotel on the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower Experience.
Needless to say, I’ve never been this wild or spontaneous in my whole life, but somehow, it just comes naturally when Jude is at the helm of my desires.
The dealer begins to deal another round, and I decide this one will be my next move toward steamrolling these men out of some chips.
I peek at the two cards that are facedown before me—Jack of Hearts. Queen of Spades. Not that great of a hand, but that’s okay because I’m going to act like it is.
A big-ass smile pushed to my lips, I giggle. “Oh boy.”
Moustache and White Beard peer up at me from over their cards, but the other three men at the table don’t give me much notice.
“Uh…All in!” I shout before the dealer shows the flop and fumble with my chips as I shove them toward the center of the table.
Now, I have the attention of the other three men.
Navy-Blue Suit furrows his brow. Hawaiian Shirt runs his fingers along his chin. And the man I’ve nicknamed Mr. Buckteeth looks up and scrutinizes my face.
I lift up the edge of my cards to peep at them again and make sure my eyes go wide with delight.
“Fold,” White Beard and Moustache announce to the dealer, shoving their cards toward him.
Navy-Blue Suit and Hawaiian Shirt don’t hang in much longer either.
But Mr. Buckteeth mulls over his options for a good two minutes.
“All in, huh?” he questions, and his eyes observe my body language like any good poker player would do. Although, it’s more of a show than anything else. I can already tell he’s about a minute away from folding his cards.
And with a swift shake of his head and his beefy fingers swiping his cards toward the middle, he does, in fact, fold.
“Oh boy!” I let out a giddy giggle as the dealer shoves the chips back in my direction. “That was kind of exciting. But I was also so nervous at the same time. Is that normal?”
White Beard grins. “Yeah, darlin’. I guess you could say every hand can provide a bit of an adrenaline rush.”
I make a mental note to fold my next few hands to keep these men guessing, while occasionally asking questions like, “Is a straight better than a flush, or is it the other way around?”
The second hand I fold turns into quite the standoff between White Beard and Navy Suit, and while they decide their move at the turn, my phone lights up with a text notification.
