“That’s right,honey.”
“Thank you for clearing that up for me. I was reallyconfused.”
“Surething.”
I drop a thousand bucks on the table and push it in the direction of the dealer. I never gamble at a table with a minimum of less than a hundred, but I need to keep a low profile. I know without a doubt that Tristan would be furious if I gained the wrong attentionhere.
According to the stats in my head, it’s time for the next hand to give a probable advantage to the dealer. I have to take some losses with the wins, so I only bet twenty-five dollars. And I lose aspredicted.
“Well, shoot. So much for ladyluck.”
“Don’t fret, little lady. It’s only your firsthand.”
I play with my chips, picking them up and then dropping them intostacks.
“First time inVegas?”
“Is it that obvious?” Lie. I was born here. And I don’t even know how many times I’ve been back since we moved to the Mississippicoast.
“Just a littlebit.”
“Are you up or down?” I giggle. “That’s gambling lingo,right?”
“It is. And I’m down threethousand.”
I widen my eyes. “Yikes. I can’t imagine losing that kind ofmoney.”
The man winks. “Losing three thousand dollars is nothing for me,sweetheart.”
He wants me to know, or think, that he has money. Might as well feed into his trap and make him feel good about himself. “What do you do for aliving?”
“Manufacturing.”
That could be one of a million things. “What do youmanufacture?”
“Bed liners for pickuptrucks.”
That sounds boring as fuck. “Ooh…exciting.”
“Not really but I make a lot of money doingit.”
Damn, I hate when a man brags about his income. Makes me want to tell this asshole that he makes chump change compared to myboyfriend.
My boyfriend.Shit, did I really just refer to Tristan Broussard as my boyfriend? Because that’s not what he is. Not even alittle.
I need to think about the game. About the cards. About thebets.
Not TristanBroussard.
I allow myself to win a few hands with some minimal bets before placing my first five-hundred-dollarbet.
“I wouldn’t advise you to bet five hundred dollars on thishand.”
This bastard who seems to have nominated and voted himself into the position of my gambling advisor is getting on my fucking nerves. “I think it’ll be fine. I feel lucky thistime.”
“Wouldn’t you feel more comfortable betting less? Like maybe a hundred?” heasks.
“I’m actually very comfortable with my bet.” My voice drips with sugary sweetness, but I’m annoyed ashell.
