“Layna’s a professional poker player,” an older man at the table—if I wasn’t mistaken, an oil executive with a watch that cost more than the whole pot—said, glancing up at the podcaster. “You were in over your head the second she sat down.”
I finished stacking my chips and passed a toke to the dealer, who was professional enough not to look shocked at the amount.
He had a granddaughter with a lot of health issues and was the kind of grandpa who would use the money to help with the bills.
“See that? She bribed him!”
“Have a little pride, man,” another player said.
Then, from another, “Winners always tip the dealer.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked, leaning back in my chair, looking casual even as I went ahead and rubbed salt in his wounds. “Do you need money for the valet?”
He went a shade of red I’d never seen before.
“Shut up, you stupid bi—”
Security at casinos were silent shadows that moved swiftly when the slightest bit of tension popped off.
The podcaster was grabbed under each arm and led away. He didn’t go quietly, either. I felt secondhand embarrassment watching him being dragged from the room.
“Seat open?” another voice asked as he righted the podcaster’s chair, then waited for a nod from the dealer before sitting down.
Well.
This guy was certainly an improvement from the podcaster bro.
This one at least knew how to dress for the honor of being allowed in the most exclusive high roller room in Vegas.
Where podcast bro had worn a see-through knitted button-up andkhakis, this guy was in a full midnight-blue suit, complete with a pocket square, cufflinks, and the air of confidence that said he dressed like this often.
Add in the fact that he was insanely, almost disarmingly, good-looking, and my night was looking up.
Tall, fit, with his dark hair in a long slick back, stormy blue eyes with thick lashes, and all of that in a classically handsome face with a stern brow, a generous mouth, and a strong jaw. And that stubble on his jaw? Hot. Not so much in a cultured way, but in a ‘I’ve been too busy to shave’ kind of way. Which, obviously, was better.
“Harrison,” the oil exec greeted. “Been a while.”
“Haven’t had much time for leisure.”
“I know that feeling well.”
“Blinds,” the dealer called before the sound of the cards whispering together drifted to my ears.
We each tossed chips into the pot and waited for the cards to be dealt.
I never looked at mine first, preferring to watch everyone else take in their hands.
And since I already played a hand with the others, my gaze settled fully on the Harrison guy.
As close as I watched, though, he gave nothing away.
Damn if that wasn’t hot too.
Especially for someone who clearly wasn’t a professional player. But, I guess, in its own way, big business was a different sort of high-stakes game to play.
My hand was alright. Not something I’d risk five-thousand-dollar chips on, but it was possible to get somewhere decent if the deck was friendly.
Near him, the cocktail waitress made her way to the table, standing there silently in her tight, short black dress and stiletto heels. Her feet must have been killing her. But I saw how these men tipped the waitresses; it was worth the blisters.
