Chapter 3
Ace
Swirling my straw in the watered-down vodka tonic, I shift awkwardly in my seat.
Damn, this dress is uncomfortable.
It’s red. And short. And about two sizes too small.
Casually, I glance to the blackjack table a few feet below. The bar is set up in the center of the casino on a platform that gives me a crazy good view of the entire floor plan––including the blackjack tables.
My gaze zeroes in on the dealer as he lays down the cards face up.
They’re playing with six decks, which means I can lazily count the cards as he puts them on the table instead of waiting for the players to throw them in once the round is over.
Regardless, my focus is wicked-sharp as I watch from my perched position.
Rule #5: Be a machine. Don’t allow distractions. They’ll only break you.
Two. Two. Seven. Four. I watch as he slowly turns over one low card after another. The deck is hot.
Hell, it’s scorching. The more low cards that come out of the deck raise the probability of high ones begging to be played, which means it’s go-time.
Without thought, I pull out my phone and set a timer then slide off my stool and stumble down the steps, making sure to splash a little of my drink for good measure.
I can feel the dealer’s eyes on me as I set the scene.
Perfect.
Looking around the room without a care in the world, I stop when our gazes connect and give the dealer a dopey-eyed smile. “Hi. Ooo…” I step closer to the table. “Blackjack. Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.” He scans me from head to toe before remembering he’s at work and checking out the players is slightly frowned upon. His neck snaps to the player on his left as I take a seat and fumble with the clasp on my clutch like a pro. Pulling out a roll of fifties, I toss ten onto the table.
With a smile, the dealer exchanges the cash for poker chips. “Here you go, miss.”
“Why, thank you,” I quip, making sure to keep track of the cards he dealt from a moment before.
Nine. Three. Five. Six.
Seriously, this couldn’t be a better time to play.
I can almost feel the heat radiating from the scorching deck as I wait for him to finish collecting the used cards then discard them into a pile.
Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I lean forward and motion to the empty chair next to me.
“Mind if I play two hands? My boyfriend loves blackjack, so I like to play a hand for him too.” My red-tinted lips tilt up flirtatiously while the little tidbit of information I just dropped makes it clear I’m off-limits.
He deflates a few inches at my mention of a fake boyfriend then offers a quick, “Sure,” before motioning to the table.
“Perfect.” With a wink, I place the chips in two separate piles to show I’m playing two hands––two hundred each.
The dealer furrows his brows. “Miss, the minimum bet is fifty. You’re welcome to play that much, but I just want to make sure you’re aware of the rules.”
It’s far from appropriate to question how much a player gambles, but I must be nailing the scatterbrained sorority chick act because he takes pity on me.
Chewing my lower lip, I take a second to look at my watch before giving my attention back to the dealer.
“I lost track of time at the bar and only have time for a couple of hands. Am I allowed to play more than fifty? My boyfriend said I could go crazy, so….” Batting my lashes at him, I channel my inner Gigi and give him my best puppy dog expression.
He caves like a champ.
“Of course, miss.”
The dealer starts making his way around the table, laying a card face-down in front of him before turning to his left and placing them face-up to everyone else.
Nine. Four. Six. Ten.
My turn.
A king of clubs is placed in front of my first hand, and I dig my teeth into my lower lip to contain my excitement.
For my second hand, he turns over an ace of hearts.
The dealer places a six of diamonds in front of him before he goes around again.
I couldn’t ask for a better set-up. It’s practically a card counter’s wet dream.
Ten. Six. Three. Eight.
Again, it’s my turn.
A rush of adrenaline spikes through me as I watch it unfold.
Ten of spades for my first hand, which means I’m at twenty. It’s damn-near perfect. The only thing that beats a twenty in blackjack is twenty-one. Any more than that, and you bust.
I nibble my fingernail to contain my anxiety before glancing at the dealer’s face and smiling nervously.
It’s an act. I’m not nervous. I’m going to win. Hell, if I could put another five grand on the table, I would. But I can’t, so my measly four hundred bucks will have to do.
Next, the dealer slides a card off the top of the deck to pair with my ace of hearts. With bated breath, I watch as he flips over a king of spades.
Yes!
“Yay!” I clap my hands in front of me while bouncing in my chair. After all, I’m playing a peppy ex-cheerleader who loves spending her boyfriend’s money. Might as well have fun while I’m at it. “That’s good, right? I mean…it’s twenty-one!”
The people surrounding the table laugh.
“Yeah. That’s really good, miss,” the dealer confirms. “As long as I don’t beat it, then you’ll get paid three hundred for it.”
“But,” I play dumb. “I thought I put down two hundred?”
“If you get dealt blackjack, then you get paid out three to two, so it looks like it might be your lucky night.”
Or it’s statistics. But sure, we’ll go with luck.
I grin widely.
The dealer flips over his card on the bottom, displaying a six to tag along with his other six. He takes the top card from the deck and turns it over to reveal a queen of spades.
He busted.
“Yes!” With a squeal, I clap my hands again as he hands over five hundred dollars worth of chips.
I risk another hand and win another six hundred bucks when the alarm on my phone vibrates.
With an innocent smile, I lift my forefinger to the dealer and silence the alarm before pretending to read a text.
“It’s my boyfriend. Apparently, he had too much to drink and needs me to take care of him.” I roll my eyes. “You know boys. Thanks for the fun night!” I wave my fingers his way then gather my chips up from the table and head to the information center to cash out.
It feels super crowded for a Thursday night as I weave between sweaty bodies toward my destination. When I’m shoved from behind, I stumble forward, nearly twisting my ankle.
Damn heels.
“Shit,” I mumble under my breath. With a clenched jaw, I look over my shoulder to find the culprit with his hands in the air.
Asshole.