But now was not the time to get distracted by a hot guy who smelled like—dammit. Of course he smelled like cedar.
“I’m a paying customer just like everyone else,” I said with a huff that was one degree removed from stomping my foot.
He bent at the waist, putting us eye to eye in the most patronizing way. “Go home.”
I rolled my eyes. “Does being a killjoy make you happy?”
“Yes,” he deadpanned.
I groaned and tried a different angle. “Please?” I cooed, clasping my hands together as I batted my lashes.
He grimaced. “Does that usually work for you?”
“It did when I was five.”
“Nice try,” he said as he straightened to his full height. “But I’m not your parent.”
I checked him out, up and down, in the most obvious way, then looked him straight in the eyes. “I’ll call you ‘daddy’ if you want.”
That left him stunned and slack-jawed just long enough for me to slip by him and get through the doors.Jackpot.
A group of drunken middle-aged men filed in behind me, blocking the bouncer from dragging me out. I’d call them “the divorced dads.”
They seemed like the type to listen to a lot of Nickelback.
Instead of immediately heading for the cashier, I took a seat at the bar and ordered a drink.
“Whiskey on the rocks,” I said to the bartender.
He looked me up and down. Suddenly, I felt bad for doing that to the bouncer. It was creepy.
“Starting a tab?” he asked.
I nodded.
Truthfully, I didn’t even plan on finishing the one drink I had ordered. I hated whiskey. But it was what John had ordered at the table, and I wanted to fit in. Ordering a lemon drop at a seedy casino was a sure way to stick out like a sore thumb. Besides, I needed to stay mostly sober. Whiskey was a surefire way to get me tonotdrink.
I grabbed the glass of brown liquor he slid my way, tipped him appropriately, then turned and surveyed the room as I pretended to sip my drink.
From the research I had done, most card counters played in teams. One person was the counter, and the other was the spotter. The spotter would watch the tables while placing mediocre bets on a completely forgettable game. Their goal was to break even while watching the other dealers to see which tables were hot and which tables were trouble.
Since I was playing solo, I was already at a disadvantage. But my disadvantage still meant I was slightly better than the average player.
The divorced dads left the cashier, chips in hand, and split between two tables—one of which had just added two decks of cards to the stack, stretching the count.
The other table was one round into a fresh game, playing out of three decks. Three divorced dads had taken seats at that table, leaving one empty.
That was my table.
I made a mad dash for the cashier and traded five hundred dollars for a stack of chips. I needed to play more aggressively tonight, but I couldn’t get in over my head.
I thanked the cashier and turned to head to the table that held the New Balance 740 fan club when a brick wall stepped into my path.
“Ugh. Are you for real?” I groaned.
He glowered at me. “Yes. I am, in fact,for real.”
“Don’t you have anything better to do? You know, like keeping the real estate agents from downing all the gin in this place?” I pointed at the table of women who sported matching name tags from a local agency and looked like they were, collectively, one showing away from setting a few houses on fire.
