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Jeez, I’m a mess.
Not that I will let it last long.
I’m about to get my groove back and play a few hands before leaving for Vegas. The heavy double doors part before me, and I stride into the private club I haven’t been to in a year. My pulse pounds. “I can do this,” I quietly remind myself, scanning the room for an enticing poker game.
The room is like many of the other high-end clubs. Rich, deep hues of gold and burgundy drape the walls, while crystal chandeliers cast a warm, honeyed light over the room. The air is thick with the scent of Cuban cigars and the low hum of murmured conversation.
“Abby Mercer,” a smooth voice purrs from my left. “It’s been too long.”
“Francis,” I acknowledge him with a slight nod, refusing to be pulled into a conversation. The man is a notorious gossip, and the last thing I need is to be sucked into a black hole of tall tales. “I’m going to find a game.”
“Of course,” he replies, his eyes sweeping over me as if trying to discern a hidden secret he can twitter about. “The table to the left is running hot.”
“Thanks,” I tip my chin and walk away before he can say more. I approach a table near the center of the room and see a few familiar faces as I slide into an empty seat.
Accepting the cards the dealer slides my way, I’m soon lost in the intricate dance of numbers and strategy. My mind whirls with calculations, and I feel like myself for the first time in twenty-four hours.
“Nice play,” one of my opponents grumbles as I lay down my cards and claim the pot. Before I can enjoy my victory, the hair on my neck stands up.
I quickly scan the room.Damn it.TheSerpent’spiercing gaze is locked onto mine.
A shiver runs down my spine, but I maintain eye contact. Do I dare leave? Or will that fuel his desire to chase me?
Staying as still as possible despite the storm raging inside, I watch the dealer expertly flick cards across the green felt for the next game. I keep my expression neutral as I pick up the cards I’ve been dealt, my mind calculating the odds of making it out here in one piece.
“Raise,” one player announces, stacking chips confidently onto the growing pile in the center of the table. The other players glance at their cards, then at each other, gauging reactions before making their moves.
“Call,” another replies, meeting the raise without hesitation.
“Fold.” Another player tosses his cards onto the table, letting them slide face-down across the smooth surface.
“Raise,” I say, pushing my stack of chips forward. My pulse quickens as the other players size me up, trying to determine whether I’m bluffing or holding a winning hand.
“Call.” It’s the first player again, his eyes never leaving mine as he matches my raise.
“Fold,” the remaining player murmurs, tossing his cards onto the table with a sigh.
The dealer reveals the next card. The numbers align perfectly in my mind, confirming that my calculations were correct. Not that I give a flying fig.
I just want to avoid another confrontation with Rodrigo. “Check,” I announce quietly.
“Bet,” my opponent counters, his voice smug as he piles more chips into the pot.
“Call,” I reply calmly, meeting his bet and raising the stakes even higher.
“Showdown,” the dealer declares, flipping over the final card. As we reveal our hands, the room seems to hold its breath, and I watch my opponent’s face fall.
“Full house,” I announce, laying down my cards for all to see. “Queens over sevens.”
An icy shiver creeps down my spine as Rodrigo stalks across the room and sits across the table.
The sound of shuffled cards and hushed conversations play in the background as I scoop up the chips.
“Deal me in,” he commands, his voice low and dangerous.
“Of course,” the dealer replies, quickly shuffling the deck and dealing the cards to each player.
What kind of distraction can I create?
