Page 71 of Underground Prince

The sounds of the room disappeared, my focus so intense my body ached with strain, my shoulders almost up to my ears and my stomach taking up residence in my throat. My mouth was dry, and I sipped on my drink sparingly because it was damn strong and the last thing I wanted was to be a drunk fish.

I studied the hands closely. I might have been conservative, yet these men weren’t. But through their routine maneuvers, the rankings came back to me. Royal flush: ten, jack, queen, king and ace of the same suit—the rarest, strongest, and most coveted of all hands. If it graced me with its presence right now, I’d bet my chips, Jowls’s chips and my remaining three years of college tuition and run out of here throwing riches. Straight flush: five of the same suit, in numerical order, such as a four, five, six, seven and eight of spades. More likely to achieve, but with the way I was playing, there were better odds that I’d stand atop this table and strip. Four of a kind: self-explanatory. Full house: couldn’t remember. But I knew these hands, and that gave me something to go on as these men bet, folded and raised around me. Turned out a queen-high flush beat a jack-high flush, as Spectacles and the young guy who sat down later taught me. I listened.

I was an hour in and I played only two hundred dollars worth of chips. Kai had yet to make an appearance and I’d accepted he wasn’t going to about as soon as a ruby lady came to get me from the depths of a fridge, and so I was ready to give up and leave.

Until…

No way.

I flicked up my two cards as soon as they were dealt. And then again.

I had the king and queen of hearts.

These were strong-ass cards to start with. I let the corners go and the cards went flat on the table, my hand still on them, as the dealer cleared her throat and gave a leisurely yet obvious glare in my direction.

Right. I was the small blind again, meaning I had to place a forced bet of ten dollars. I did so, and Jowls beside me played the forced big blind, twenty dollars. The young guy beside him folded and sat back, placing no bets. Angry Man also folded, and Spectacles called, putting in enough to match the big blind. The old man who reminded me of my grandfather folded.

Only three were left in this hand, including me, but my cards were good. Very good. I stayed back against my chair, my hand draped casually over my cards, as if this were any other hand and I was going to be timid as always.

The dealer laid out three cards to add to our hands—a ten of hearts, a jack of hearts, and omigod a king of spades.

My breathing quickened, my heart racing to catch up, but I kept the explosion inside and left no outward traces of the rush of psycho that just entered my system.

I could have top pair, since I held a king in my hand and there was one on the table. Right now I had four hearts, meaning if another heart fell—if the dealer flipped it over—I’d have a friggin’ king-high flush. I also had four cards in numerical sequence (a ten, jack, queen and king). And, to continue dreaming big, I had the chance of getting a straight, a flush, a straight flush, and of course, a rare, amazing, unbelievable-to-behold-at-a-rainbow-haired-novice’s-fingers royal flush.

There was a term I’d heard before, one that applied more so in this instance than in any other point in my short-lived poker life: I had a monster fucking hand.

Eight hundred dollars sat in front of me, in columns of gorgeous blue-hued chips. Two of the best cards I could possibly have lay underneath my hands, unobtrusive but luring me with a Siren’s call.

Do it. For the first time in ever, you could win this.

I did it. I threw in a bet.

Moderate, of course. I wasn’t going to burst out of the gate with not only the obviousness of a good hand but also the mistakes of fresh meat. I kept my cool and bet a mere seventy-five. Jowls matched my bet by throwing in the same amount and calling. Spectacles, the only other player in this round, also called.

The dealer flipped over a fourth card, and I worked not to appear anxious, not to really get a gander at the card about to fall. It was a four of hearts.

DsklfjsdljdfslkjgIhaveaflush.

I couldn’t breathe. I had five cards of the same suit. With a king high! My heart was trying to squeeze through the cracks of my ribcage, but the only reaction I gave was a slight tensing of my fingers on the table. There was still the (small) potential of a higher flush. Someone could have the ace. Or maybe a straight flush, depending on the last card—there was still the final flip to go. But the odds were vastly in my favor. And now I didn’t have to worry about a straight because my flush beat that. And most other flushes out there.

Stop over-analyzing. Go with your gut.

Jowls considered my bet. It was his turn to make a move, but he took his time, assessing me, surveying the pile of chips in the middle. I didn’t shift, or bite my lip, or do anything to cause him to think I had something. But then I remembered that I was the new girl, betting low and checking at every opportunity, and my lack of fidgeting would clue him in. And so I shook out my shoulders, closed my eyes and exhaled and appeared as if I was pepping myself up, ordering myself to make a move already and stop being a wimp.

I bet. And I did it big, almost a third of my chips—two twenty-five.

Jowls knew I had a hand—there was no getting around the fact that I suddenly bet more than I’d thrown in in an hour. He just didn’t know how good it was. After one last squint, he reluctantly called, meeting my bet and bringing the chip count in the center to seven hundred and thirty-five dollars. Spectacles folded, leaving me and Jowls to duke it out.

With one card left to be dealt—the “river”—the seven of hearts appeared.

Oh. My. God. The river was laid out; there were no more cards to be dealt. The possibilities, probabilities, chances and luck were done. And there was only one card that could beat my hand. Out of a deck of fifty-two. One. Single. Card. The ace of hearts. Otherwise, I had my king-high flush. I knew this—how I knew this, how my brain turned on and remembered the rules, I would forever be thankful for. I was going in strong so I thought, why not finish strong? Why not show Kai that throwing me to the sharks could backfire? And not through luck but through skill. I had it in me.

I played my last bet, one-fifty. The chips clacked as I pushed them in, the brushing sounds of my hands on the green felt seeming to be ten times louder than usual. The room was silent to me, even though people still played at tables, drink orders were placed and cigars distributed…but nothing mattered. No sounds were relevant except my own movements.

Jowls grinned. He directed it at the table, but my stomach clenched instantly, a bodily knowing before my mind caught up.

“I’ll raise you, honey,” he said. “Three fifty.”

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