That’s exactly what happens in the next hand when my mouth parts with fake surprise as I slide the massive pile of chips I’ve just won to my stack. My opponent shakes his head, thinking I just got lucky.
This will be a piece of fucking cake.
Five hands later, I’m sitting pretty, with my stack practically up to my chin. One of my opponents quit two hands ago, while the other’s forehead sports a vein that pulses so hard I’m afraid he’s going to have a stroke.
Funny enough, I’m not a wiz with cards. I’d say my poker-playing abilities are slightly above average at best. But I spend enough time in casinos to know how to read people. And peopleare way easier than cards. For example, I couldn’t tell you the odds of me currently holding the winning hand if you paid me. I could, however, tell you that the chances of the already raging man across from me folding when I push my chips all in, intimidated by the sheer size of it, is a hundred percent. I’d also put good money on the fact that he will let out a curse, and/or kick the table with his foot.
“You fucking cheat,” he bites out after folding, slapping his hand on the marble surface of the table.
Huh. One out of two is pretty good, I guess.
He continues spewing shit at me, but a bouncer is already escorting him out. I hope they’re equally effective when it’s not their boss on the other side.
Where the fuck is my brother?
The thought pops in unannounced, uninvited, and so fucking uncomfortable. I need more to pull my focus away. I signal to the dealer, and he grabs a chip rack from underneath the table.
Not bothering to organize them, I place the chips inside and rise from my seat. My gaze trails the room, stopping at a table that has accumulated quite an audience. My legs start in that direction, desperate for any distraction.
Is there a huge hand happening?
But as I reach it, I realize the answer is much simpler. Like a vision in red, a stunning woman sits in one of the four occupied chairs, stealing attention from every hot-blooded male in the visible distance. Her copper hair falls down her shoulders in loose waves, framing a face that must have been sculpted by gods. Gorgeous blue eyes, soft pouty lips, and the perfect button nose. Her ruby-red dress is low-cut and reveals a delectable inch of her cleavage every time she slides her chips forward, eliciting an audible sigh from everyone watching. It’s obvious she has them eating out of her palm, even though she acts like she doesn’t notice it.
There’s only four people at the table, so I slump down into anempty spot across from her. This is just what I need. She might have them all wrapped around her finger, but I see right through her.
I see her eyes catch on my stack of chips as I line them up in front of me, and the corner of my mouth lifts.Game fucking on.
My strategy is the same. I start with horrible bets to lower their expectations of me. I overbet, losing to a monster hand from the guy on my right. Then I underbet a bad hand, making everyone, including the woman in red, call it. The woman gets a measly two pair on the river and wins the dreadful pot.
She jumps to her feet, squealing with delight, her breasts bouncing with the movement. The other guys at the table look as happy as if they’ve won. This should be an easy game.
I start actually playing, reeling the suckers in like planned. Everyone jumps on it, blinded by the stack of chips they want to win. But nother. No, she calls when I’m bluffing, and folds when I’m not, and a part of me would think it’s an accident until she shoots me a devious smirk after winning a big hand against me. A hand I thought I played to perfection. No one else notices the smirk, and my exhaustion could be deluding me, but something in the upturn of her red lips and the focus in her light blue eyes tells me it’s not.
Have I read her wrong? Is she playing the people, not the cards, just like I am?
A guy loses his entire stack in an all-in, and departs from the table, leaving just the four of us. I win chips left and right, but they’re not the ones I want. I wantherchips. She might fool all these men, but she isn’t fooling me, and I want her to know.
Her stack rises, quickly reaching the height of mine. One more player leaves the game. The dealer slides out the cards, and I peek to see what I have.
Pocket aces.
The other guy folds immediately and gets up from the table with a loud sigh, but the woman calls the big blind.
“You have an excellent strategy there. Sorry it doesn’t work oneveryone,” I tell her, low enough so that it stays between us and the dealer. My mouth drops in a show of fake sympathy as I use my position to raise.
“Whatever do you mean?” She bats her eyelashes exaggeratedly and calls my bet again. Perfect.
The flop reveals a three and a five of diamonds, and an ace, giving me three of a kind.
“You know… Your whole ‘I have no idea what I’m doing, I’m just here to have fun and look pretty’ spiel.”
Her arms squeeze together almost imperceptibly, but it pushes out her full tits enough to make my gaze catch on them. “What I’m hearing is you think I’m pretty.” She overbets with a satisfied smirk.
It’s an attempt to get rid of me, but I call, knowing I have the better hand. The turn is a three of clubs, meaning I’m now the proud owner of a full house.
“Not my point,” I respond, though she got me there. You’d have to be blind not to find her pretty.
“I never said I didn’t know how to play. It was you who made that assumption.” Her tongue darts out to lick her lips, a move too slow and sensual to be spontaneous.
