Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
* * *
I avoided the back room and Lance and Rick’s questions. I busied myself with refilling the ice, taking water bottles to the security, and making sure that every person in my section was taken care of. I tried my best to avoid Dario, delivering his cigar in the most perfunctory way possible. Still, he haunted me. I was hyperaware of his presence, of his scent, of his eyes. The knowledge and feel of his attention was a heady mix of endorphins and arousal.
He bet recklessly. I watched his action out of the corner of my eye, every deal a new clue to the man. He participated in every hand, used side bets with no regularity whatsoever and never bought insurance. He split nines, doubled down on fifteens, and seemed to will the dealer to bust, over and over again.
An hour after he sat down, he was up four hundred thousand. Ten minutes later, I braved the back room. I walked in, and Rick and Lance looked up from the monitors.
“Holy shit, B. Can’t you go distract this guy?”
I shrugged, grabbing a soda from the mini-fridge. “Trust me, I’m giving him all the ‘go away’ vibes I can.”
I walked behind them and looked at the monitors, watching as his table busted. He tossed in his cards and leaned back, his eyes moving over the room.
“He’s looking for you,” Lance said.
I didn’t move, watching as he scanned the floor. From this black and white image, his magnetism wasn’t palpable, I couldn’t smell his scent or feel his dominating presence. I felt safer in this room, locked away where my weak subconscious couldn’t make stupid decisions. Next to him, three of the men stood, handshakes and goodbyes offered. I watched the dealer reshuffle and wondered if Dario would also leave, take this opportunity to stand and count his chips. He didn’t. If anything, he settled deeper into the chair.
Rick nodded at the monitor. “Go out there. Try to get him drunk. Maybe that’ll fix things.”
I took a sip of the soda and glanced at the clock. “We’re closing in twenty minutes. That’ll limit the damage.”
“And I’ve never been so happy to close. I’ll call the cage, let them know he’s cashing out large.”
I moved back onto the floor, the room quieter now, most of the crowd thinned out. I glanced toward table four and noticed Conner and his father had taken their stripper and left. Their absence was a relief, one less thing to worry about. I looked up to the top table and Dario tilted back his glass, holding my eye contact. I climbed the steps to his level and stopped before him, speaking at a volume only he could hear. “Did you need something, Mr. Capece?”
“I think we both know what I need.”
He swiveled away from the table and patted his thigh. “Come here.”
I ignored the invitation and picked up his water, eyeing the low level in his glass. “Want a real drink?”
“No.”
He watched me clear the trash from his cigar. I glanced at the end of the cigar, the expensive Cuban only half smoked. I grabbed the matchbook and flipped it open, dragging the match across the surface and holding it to the end of the cigar, letting the flame lick up the thin paper ends. I put the end in my mouth and sucked on it, my eyes on Dario. The corner of his mouth lifted. He reached out for me and I let him pull me onto his lap, his arm curving around my waist. The dealer paused, a card in hand, and Dario nodded.
I watched her distribute cards to him and the old man at the end, the only other player left at the table. I took a drag off the end, the dry taste reminding me of Sunday afternoons at home, my father sprawled over the end of the couch, football on the television. Once he stopped drinking, cigars had been his vice. Cigars and the Steelers.
Dario tilted his hand up. Queens. Two pale faces, both with crowns, sitting ducks in his hand. I looked at the cards and saw myself in one of them, Gwen in another.
“Should I split?”
I shrugged, looking away from the queens before I ripped them in half. “You don’t want my advice. I’m terrible at cards.”
It was half true. Poker was my game. Blackjack was my curse.
He flipped over the second queen and divided the cards, sliding five purple chips to match his original bet. And just like that, the stakes were doubled. Fifty grand. I drew on the end of his cigar and felt a little dizzy. He took it from me and brought it to his lips, his eyes on mine, his face close enough to kiss. It was erotic, the way he closed his mouth around it, the way his eyes glowed when he inhaled.