‘Their distraction is our win,’ she stated emphatically as if her win would be his too. She could be right. Sean waskeen to witness his workmates “poker king” egos brought down a peg or two.
Thankfully, the cask warehouse – a lowly lit store stacked with whisky barrels and smoky corners – where they would hold their game was cool and still, which should keep the testosterone at a decent temperature.
‘Mmm, I love the smell in here.’ As they entered, Cherry breathed in the temperate air long and deep. It was far too arousing.
‘You like the smell of manky wood and sweaty blokes.’
‘I’d call it oaky and manly. Where are these “idiots” we’re playing?’
‘They’ll be here. They went to get something to eat.’
Moments later, the deep sound of male laughter and the salty and sharp vinegary smell of chips permeated the cask warehouse, and Sean saw his colleagues through Cherry’s eyes.
There was Billy MacDonald, a young apprentice with floppy black hair and a bravado that made Sean cringe, because he recognised it from his own younger years. Tommy Donaldson was of a similar age to Billy, shy but cocky in familiar company. Sean would have to watch him. Albie Donaldson was Tommy’s brother and worked as a painter and decorator in the local area. And there were a couple of lads – Kyle and Rhys – around Sean’s age, who hopefully knew how to behave themselves.
‘Did anyone bring the cards?’ Sean asked as everyone settled themselves on stools around the table.
‘What? We thought you’d be bringing them.’ Billy’s eyes rounded.
‘Why would you assume that, Bill?’
‘Uh, ’cause your missus is a pro.’
‘A pro.’
‘Aye, like a professional, I mean. No’ a prostitute.’
Sean had to fight to keep a straight face.
‘Aye, alright, Billy. Thanks for clearing that up.’
Kissing. Poker. Sex. Sean knew what Cherry was like at one of those and suspected she’d be as skilled at the others. Tonight, she’d leave them all in the dust, like the day she’d walked in here with a sandwich.
And he wasn’t wrong. But it happened so subtly that it was easy not to notice it happening at all. As Sean dealt the cards, Cherry disarmed them by warming into chatter about coopering, holidays, whisky. And once the hands were being played, she gave out tips, such as telling Billy to cool the hard betting on every single hand. ‘It’s not bingo,’ she told him.
Amidst the chat and tips, she won hand after hand. At one point, she trapped Tommy by comparing his tone of voice when talking about his summer holiday to that when talking about his hand and worked out he was bluffing. It was a clever move.
Sean tried to work out her style but concluded that it was impossible to follow. She was like a cat – friendly and rubbing against you one minute, detached and staring you down the next. You thought you were her friend, then realised she was playing you.
Cherry never offered Sean any playing advice in front of the others, possibly not wanting to emasculate him. He’d take her advice anytime, anywhere. This was her domain, and her commanding the hell out of it was hot as fuck.
That didn’t mean he would submit to her when he had a strong hand.
That time came when Sean faced Cherry heads upwith king-jack, suited. Twenty-four percent win rate, he remembered. And the flop came ten, nine, two, so he just needed a queen for a straight.
Cherry checked, suggesting she could have a straight as well. Or possibly something bigger.
But he decided she didn’t and checked back.
The turn brought a queen and his desired straight. Sean stayed calm. Confident but not cocky. Not giving away his cards.
Cherry tested him with a small bet. It was a no-brainer to call it.
When the river brought the four of hearts, she bet even bigger. Still, he raised significantly.
In silence, Cherry studied him. Then slid all her chips in.
Sean met that raise then flipped over his king-jack. When she smiled, he thought he’d lost, but she turned over a pair of queens showing that she had three of a kind. Not enough to beat his hand. Her smile was for him – for beating her.
