Chapter Ten — Alex
I can tell Callum is surprised by my negotiation skills. He probably expected me to roll over and accept his demands immediately. Playing stupid for the past few days has allowed me a bit of leeway. He’s not on guard; he’s not expecting much from me.
But the longer I keep this up, the longer I keep pressing him, the less time I’ll have before he figures out that I’ve been putting on a facade.
I need to crush him. And I need to do it fast, because it won’t take him long to catch on to the fact that I’m much smarter than I’ve made myself out to be.
Still, I have to strike the right balance. Pretend that I don’t know what I’m doing for at least the first few rounds. So I knit my brows in confusion after picking up my cards.
“Is ace high or low?” I ask, despite the fact that I don’t have any aces in my hand.
“It depends,” Callum says slowly, smiling. He loves this. Loves feeling like he’s so much better than me. It makes my blood boil, but I have to keep up my facade. I force my mouth into a sugary smile.
“Right,” I say. “Depending on what kind of hand I’m trying to get.” I pause, contemplating my next line. How far can I push this? “And what’s the highest hand again? Five of a kind?”
I put my hand over my own mouth to keep myself from laughing. What I just said was ridiculous, because there are only four of each card, obviously. Was that too far? Will he buy it?
Callum chuckles. “No, sweetheart. The highest is a royal flush.”
“And what’s that?” I ask innocently.
I nod along for the next few minutes as Callum patiently explains to me things I already know. I can’t blame him for mansplaining, though. I pretended not to know anything and then asked him to explain it. So I can’t hate him too much for this.
Although, as I watch him explain concepts I learned years ago, I start to hate myself more and more. Use that as motivation to kick his ass, I tell myself.
“Any more questions, sweetheart?” he asks.
I grit my teeth when he says “sweetheart.” It’s endearing on one hand, but also grating. I shake my head.
“Okay.”
After he places his bet, he looks at me. “So what’s it gonna be?”
“What are my options again?” I ask, pretending like I don’t know.
“You can bet, fold, or call,” he says.
“Call what?”
He pauses. “Do you really not know what that means?”
I open my eyes wide and shake my head no. Am I pushing it too far right now?
He closes his eyes for a split second like he’s exasperated, and then explains. I’ve got him, I think to myself.
When he’s done explaining, I glance down at my hand once again.
I have a two of hearts and a six of diamonds.
It’s a bad hand. The two community cards that have been drawn so far are a nine of spades and a jack of diamonds.
Callum has bet a considerable amount, and I’ve been matching him.
I’m guessing he thinks I’m copying him because I have no idea what I’m doing.
It’s hard to get a read on how good his hand is, but it’s clearly good. He’s smiling, and I don’t feel like he’s trying very hard to hide his emotions. He feels like he doesn’t need to because he’s playing with an idiot.
Which is understandable, given how I’ve been acting.
But wrong.
I hate what I’m about to do, but it’s necessary in order for my strategy to work. I take a deep breath. I’m going to call, and we’re going to reveal our cards. He’s going to win, and I’m going to look like an idiot for not folding on such a terrible hand.
I need to lose this hand badly. My goal is for him to think I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.
I want him to become so confident that he acts sloppily and places big, risky bets.
If he thinks he’s playing against an idiot, he’ll place stupid bets without blinking an eye.
He’ll think he can always win the money back because he’s playing against an idiot.
Then, when I do have a good hand, I’ll swoop in and take him to the cleaner’s.
He places his last bet, and I match him once more by calling. We show our hands, and sure enough, he had a great one. He has a straight and he wins easily. I pretend to look sad. I mean, I don’t actually have to pretend too hard, because it kind of sucks.
This is part of the strategy, I remind myself.
I still have plenty of chips left. “Chips or clothing?” he asks.
It doesn’t matter either way as long as I still have both, but I decide to remove my vest and sweater. I know that’s what he wants to see, and intuitively I feel like he’ll start to play worse if he gets distracted.
“Clothes,” I say..
“Good choice,” he says, nodding.
I can’t help but feel a small glow in my stomach as I watch his eyes light up when I remove my vest and then my sweater. The turtleneck I’m wearing underneath, while it covers my skin, is quite fitted and shows off my figure. I notice his eyes widen again and feel a small flare of pride.
For the next few rounds, I play smart but make sure to avoid a showdown scenario at all costs. I don’t want to give him any more information by showing him any of my hands. Basically, that means folding early. I fold every time until I get the hand I’m looking for — the golden hand.
And now it’s time to play.
I get the golden hand, but I pretend like I’m confused. As the community cards are flipped over, I get more excited but I don’t show that. I know I’m going to win, but I have to act like I’m confused. I ask some stupid questions and go back and forth between raising and calling.
At the very end of the round, I raise by a huge amount, pushing forty chips towards the center.
Callum raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
I bite my lower lip. “It’s good as long as my hand is okay, right? I mean, if I lose, it’s okay, because I can still win it back. You have to take a risk sometimes, right?”
I’ve been getting the vibe throughout this round that Callum has a good hand, too, judging by the way his eyebrows raised when the community cards were flipped over. I’m guessing he might have a full house… but I have a flush.
This round is mine.
I want him to think that I have a middling hand. An okay hand. A hand he can beat easily. I want him to think that I’m being stupid right now by going all in on a middling hand.
“Actually,” I say, pausing and pushing more chips forward, “I want to add in my clothes too.”
“Oh really?” he says. “How many of them?”
“All of them,” I say.
“Really?” he says, his eyes going wider.
I try to suppress my smile. I know I’ve got him.
“All right then, sweetheart,” he says. “I’ll match you.” And just like that, he pushes all of his chips to the center.
Foolish, foolish man, I think to myself.
“All right,” he says. “Shall we reveal?”
“We shall. On the count of three: three, two, one.”