“So we want the dealer to flop?”
“No one is flopping. Forget the word ‘flop’. Pretend I never said it. The dealer is going to deal three community cards, then we’ll bet again. If you want to stay in, you can call or raise the bet.”
“Call who?”
“Oh god almighty, help me.”
I slap my hand down on the green velvet table, burying my forehead into the crook of my arm.
“More whiskey, hun?” The bartender asks, popping gum between her teeth, and I hold up two fingers, asking to make it a double this time. We’re at The Bellagio, sitting at a small bar at the edge of the casino floor. Since Mabel has never played Texas Hold ‘Em—or any poker, for that matter—I thought it would be best if we got some practice at a virtual game. I’ve been trying to teach her the rules on a tablet installed in the bar top for twenty minutes, but no matter what I do, she can’t seem to get the hang of it. Watching her try and fail to grasp the concept of the relatively simple game should probably be driving me insane, and while I’m playing the role of exasperated companion, I’m just pleasantly surprised she’s here next to me.
When Mabel spent twenty minutes in the bathroom after dinner—probably on the phone with her best friend, Danny—I was convinced she’d only agreed to hang out with me to appease our parents and was finding a way to ditch me while I waited outside the ladies’ room door. So even if she is butchering my favorite card game beyond recognition, I’m pretty goddamn happy that she’s here.
“Okay, so now there’s five cards on the table, so I bet one more time, right?”
“Right, but if I were you?—”
Before I can advise her to fold, she’s pressing buttons to raise the bet, even though she’s got a 7-2 offset in her hand. The virtual dealer and players continue showing their holes, and when the round ends, the tablet plays a sad little song to indicate Mabel’s big loss.
“Dammit,” she mutters under her breath, pouting at the screen while bringing her champagne glass to her lips and tossing it back like a shot of cheap tequila. “This game is stupid. Poker is stupid. I can’t believe I’m out fifty bucks now.”
“Marshmallow, you were gambling with my money. I’m the one who is out fifty bucks.”
“Yeah, but if I’d won, I was going to keep the winnings and your fifty bucks, so really I lost double.” Mabel harrumphs and slouches back in her chair, and I grind my teeth together to suppress a smile. She’s so fucking adorable when she’s mad.
“C’mon,” I say, tossing a few bills down on the bar top and snagging my fresh glass of whiskey. “The computer version can be confusing. When we get to the real table, you can watch for a few hands, and then once you get the hang of it, I’ll buy your first round in, okay?”
“Fine,” she sighs, mumbling something about her bed and chocolate cake as I help her off the bar stool. She doesn’t protest when I palm her elbow to helpsteady her as her heels hit the shiny marble floor, which is a little unsettling. But I do feel her stiffening just a touch when I risk placing a hand on the small of her back to lead her to the high rollers club, and that semblance of normalcy calms my nerves.
Sort of like manning a big ship on a calm sea, eyes searching for icebergs from the Crowsnest, an amenable Mabel has me rattled. Without her ire, how am I supposed to anticipate impending doom?
When we reach the room manned by a dude who looks like aMen In Blackstuntman, I flash him the card that identifies me as a member of the club, and he lifts the velvet rope and pulls the heavy curtain aside.
The inside of the high roller room is Old Vegas to its core, draped in leather and luxury. The walls are a deep burgundy color, highlighted by gold accents in the moldings and in the paint when the dim light hits at just the right angle. The chairs are deep and lush, brown leather with high backs, giving just enough space for a person to relax without showing their hand. The dealers are dressed to the nines in gold silk vests, their hands moving like water as they deal cards to gamblers. Men and women in sleek pants and fringe dresses sip martinis and puff on cigars, and Frank Sinatra croons through the hidden speakers.
In some ways, it should all appear a little bit tacky, but in Las Vegas, it just fits. The urge to light a cigar hits me, but I’m not cool enough to pull that off. The first and only time I tried a Cuban with my dad on my eighteenth birthday, I took one puff and barfed in my lap.
That’s not something I need to repeat tonight.
The skin on my palm burns hot where it touches Mabel’s hip as I lead her across the room towards the Hold ‘Em table, but I don’t dare move it and risk breaking the spell.
“Mr. Finch, would you like me to deal you in?” The shimmering dealer—Lindsay, according to her name tag—asks, her blonde ponytail swinging behind her. In my peripheral vision, I can see Mabel look up and quirk an eyebrow in my direction.
“And Miss Quinn, will you be playing as well?” Lindsay asks Mabel, saving me from having to explain that she knows us by name because we’re on the list for the evening, not because I’m some peacocking gambler who has bedded every croupier in Las Vegas.
“No, just me—” I start, at the same time as Mabel says, “Yes, deal me in.”
Now it’s my turn to raise an eyebrow to the woman at my side.
“The buy-in is eight thousand bucks, Marshmallow.Are you willing to shell out eight grand for a hand of poker?”
“No, but you are.” she smiles, pulling out one of the oversized leather chairs and settling into it. “Mr. Finch here will buy the both of us in.”
I chuckle as I pull out the chair next to her and take a seat.
“Mabel, why don’t you watch a hand or two first? It might help you get a hang of things quicker than the computer game could.”
A server comes over and takes our drink orders—another whiskey for me and a gin martini with a twist for Mabel—and then she looks at me with a pout on her face.
