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I’m walking on my usual tightrope and toeing the line between victory and disaster. One wrong move and the stake I’ve built could disappear.
I see the wheels turning in the senator’s mind. He’s trying to read me, searching for any hint of weakness or vulnerability.Not today, you smug son of a bitch.My expression is inscrutable, and the stone mask I’ve perfected is firmly in place.
“Raise,” I say once more, pushing another stack of chips into the pot. The senator hesitates, his fingers drum on the table in a staccato rhythm that betrays his nerves.
“Call,” he finally says, throwing caution to the wind.
The dealer reveals the last card, and I feel a surge of triumph. “Four of a Kind,” I declare, laying my cards on the table. The table erupts into murmurs and whispers, but all I can hear is my heart pounding in my ears.
“Well played, Ms. Mercer,” the senator admits, offering a gracious nod of acknowledgment. “I underestimated you.”
“Many do,” I reply with little changing in my expression. I learned early on that gloating only leads to problems, so I react to winning and losing precisely the same.
With equanimity.
I stand, taking a moment to admire the neatly stacked chips that now belong to me. For some reason, memories of my days at Boston University return. My college experience wasn’t typical, but it did allow me to hone my skills in mathematics and probability into a sharp, deadly knife.
“Ms. Mercer, would you like a drink?” A smooth, accented voice pulls me out of my reverie, and I see a dapper waiter with slicked-back hair and a charming smile awaiting my response.
“Thank you,” I reply, giving him a flirty wink. “A dirty martini with extra olives, please.”
“Coming right up,” he says, already moving toward the bar.
I wander to a table near the bar and wonder what the kids I went to school with would think of me now. I was a scholarship student, and many people in my classes looked down their noses at me as if my presence was an affront to their privileged upbringing.
“Here’s your drink, Ms. Mercer,” the waiter announces, placing the perfectly mixed martini in front of me. I take a sip, savoring the taste of victory that lingers on my tongue. “Perfect.”
He slips away. I survey the room and decide the table in the center is the best place for my next victory since garnering invitations to high-stakes private games won’t happen if I hide in the corner all night.
Twenty minutes later, cards glide across the green felt, and my fingers itch to reveal their secrets. I slip them up from the table, feeling the weight of the stakes in the air. My mind races, calculating probabilities. Knowing the numbers isn’t enough to win – I need to read the table to gauge my opponent’s tells and spot their chinks in the armor.
The people filling the table are from every walk of life. A high-ranking politician with an apparent cocaine problem sits to my left. He’s twitchy as hell but meets my gaze with steely determination. A woman with a voice smooth enough to talk me into eating kale sits to my right. She gives nothing away and could very well be my biggest obstacle in winning the pot.
The seasoned gambler who sits opposite could also prove to be a formidable opponent. Like a chameleon, he blends into his surroundings, absorbing the energy of the room and using it to his advantage.
The one staring at me since I sat down is by far the most formidable, though. Mafioso, Bratva soldier or mercenery for hire? I can’t tell, but he clearly doesn’t play by the rules and wants none of us to miss the malevolence sliding off him in waves. His deeply tanned skin is carved by thick veins, and the biceps beneath his suit jacket look like two bulldozers on the brink of breaking free.
“Your bet, Ms. Mercer,” murmurs the dealer, his eyes impassive behind dark-rimmed glasses. The other players watch me intently, trying to get a read on my hand.
“Twenty-five,” I say casually, tossing a handful of chips into the middle with a clink. It’s a bold move but calculated – I want to see who will match itandwho will fold under the pressure. My gaze flickers around the table, taking note of each player’s reaction.
The coked-up politician hesitates, his knuckles whitening around his cards. Bluffing but determined to stay in the game. He matches my bet with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Poor bastard doesn’t stand a chance.
“Call,” says the woman with the great voice. She gives nothing away, but there’s a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. Is she bluffing, too? Or does she have something up her sleeve?
“Raise,” comes a deep voice from the other side of the table. Mr.I May Kill Youmeets my gaze with deadly calm. “Fifty.” The potential body dismemberer locks eyes with me, and for a moment, I wonder what disposal method he prefers. River, crows…perhaps something more creative like fluoride?
“Call,” I say at last, matching his bet and raising the stakes even higher. The tension is obvious now – a thick, heady fog that wraps itself around me like a lover’s embrace…or a noose’s rope.
My heart races like an overcaffeinated hummingbird, but my hands are steady as I lay my cards on the table.
“Full house,” I announce, feeling a surge of triumph as the other players groan and toss their cards down in defeat. All except forMr. Evil, who reveals his own hand with a dark smile.
“Four of a kind,” he murmurs, sweeping the pot toward him with a victorious gleam in his eyes. “Well played, Blondie.”
“Likewise, kil…er…sir,” I reply, refusing to let my disappointment show. It’s a setback – but one that might just save my life.
“Shall we up the ante?” he asks, his gaze locked on mine, daring me to accept.
