The thing was, it wasn’t directed toward the man behind me. Or the one outside who’d just watched me trying to fight off my new “owner” without doing a damn thing to help me. No, the anger was directed only at myself, because I had no one else to blame for this predicament.
Just me.
In a desperate attempt to distract myself from what was happening, I let my mind wander, distancing myself from the sound of skin slapping on skin and the feel of Gino’s pudgy fingers digging into my hips as he fought to breathe. I’d gotten pretty good at doing this over the years. My body’s been the main moneymaker for me and—unbeknownst to him—my younger brother since I was fifteen, when I first discovered that men would pay for the opportunity to touch my blossoming curves. Thanks to my foster father and, eventually, his friends.
When I was eighteen, I started dancing at a strip club and moved my brother and me out of our last foster home with an advance on my first paycheck. Our foster parents didn’t fight me about leaving. And once I was old enough to move out and would no longer be there to be his whore, Mr. Phillips had no incentive to keep Logan there.
I liked dancing. It paid a hell of a lot better, and I didn’t have to let the customers fuck me. Not unless I wanted them to because I needed the influx of cash. And, sometimes, I did. Especially when the rent was due, or my brother Logan needed books for school, or if his financial aid was late hitting his account. At those times, I did whatever I had to do to make sure he stayed in school. My life might be fucked up after the way we’d grown up, but I refused to allow his to be. My little brother was going to finish his degree, get a great job, and live his best fucking life if it killed me.
So, I did what I had to do. But this time, it wasmychoice. No one forced me to do anything, either. The club I worked at now was a decent place. The bodyguards watched out for us, and we didn’t have to share our earnings with anyone. Everyone from the manager to the busboy was paid very well.
My best-earning nights, however, were actually Thursday nights. Not because we had more customers than usual, but because on Thursday nights the club owner opened up the secret back room where the high-stakes poker games took place. On those nights, my tips nearly tripled.
For the first few months, I worked the private room strictly as one of the “girls.” Our job was to look pretty, keep our mouths shut, and bring the players good luck. Sometimes, that meant sitting on one of their laps. Sometimes it meant serving them drinks and lighting whatever they were smoking. And we were always topless. Usually, it was the same group of guys. All dressed in suits. All very well-mannered with me and the other girls. Only a few of them ever stayed after the game for a little more intimate time with us.
Which gave me the perfect opportunity to observe the players.
Over time, I started to learn their tells. It was pretty easy since we were almost always in the room, and none of them bothered to hide their hands from us. I admit, it was stupid on their part, but not an oversight I was about to point out. Let them think we were all a bunch of brainless whores. Nothing but boobs and asses and pretty smiles.
Then one night when I was helping the busboys clean up after a late shift, I overheard Jeff, our manager, on the phone discussing a special game night for that coming Monday.
I set the dishes in the sink to be washed and wiped my hands on one of the dish towels. “Do you need any extra girls Monday?” I asked when he ended the call. “I could use a little extra cash this month and I’d be happy to work the game.”
He shook his head. “Thanks, Luna. But there won’t be any girls for this game. This is gonna be a high-stakes game with a few esteemed guests who’d rather their attendance here be kept on the down low.”
I raised an eyebrow. “High-stakes? Then what the hell do you call the Thursday night games?” I’d watched tens of thousands of dollars get won and lost over and over again every week.
He smiled. “For those guys? That’s what you call well-off businessmen with gambling problems. But for these guys coming Monday? Those Thursday night bets are nothing. Pocket change for fun with the boys and to get away from the wives for a night.”
Pocket change. Ten-thousand-dollar bets were considered pocket change?
My mind started to spin. Imagine being in on a fucking game like that. If I won, I could set myself and Logan up for life.
My heart pounding in my throat, I asked, “Can I play?”
Jeff didn’t react at first, then he barked out a laugh. “Good one, honey.”
“I’m serious,” I told him. “I know how to play. My…foster father was a big poker player, and he taught me when I was fifteen. I played against him and his friends for years.”
He stared at me for a few seconds, and from the look on his face, I got the impression he wasn’t sure whether or not to believe me.
“I’m not bullshitting you,” I told him. “I can play. And I’m really good.”
With a shake of his head, he said, “Nobody gets into these games without an invitation.” When I continued to stare at him, he shrugged. “But a few of the guys know you from hanging out in the club, so let me ask. Maybe I can get you in on a Thursday game. I’m not making any promises here, though. So don’t get your hopes up too much.”
I gave him a big smile. “Thanks, Jeff. I appreciate it.”
“But if they let you play, don’t show these guys up too much, Luna bird. I doubt they’d handle losing to you very well. You know, with you being one of the girls and all.”
“Got it.”
And that’s how I started playing with the boys. The following week, they greeted me at the first game with patronizing smiles and smug attitudes, their eyes wandering over my skimpy dancer costume that I purposely hadn’t changed out of, hoping it would distract them. Or, at the very least, making me appear harmless. But by the third game, no one was looking at my boobs anymore. And the smug smiles had turned into flared nostrils and sharp looks. Heeding Jeff’s advice, I threw the last game. I still came out ahead, but narrowing the gap between our winnings made them much more amiable.
Calling my winnings “beginner’s luck,” they invited me to the following week’s game to give them a chance to win back what they’d lost. And the week after that. And the week after that. Until my reputation as a player made it around the club and into the ears of the Monday night players.
A month later, when my boss told me I’d been invited to sit at the table with the big boys, I was shocked. And terrified. So far, I’d won a nice little nest egg for me and Logan, but I’d need my entire life savings to play with these guys. With that kind of buy-in, I could lose everything I’d won with a couple of bad hands. These guys were in a completely different league than the guys I’d been playing with, and I honestly didn’t know if I was good enough for a seat at their table. But damn, it was tempting.
Because all I kept thinking was, what if I won?
