Page 11 of Take Me, Sir

I glared at the cocky son of a bitch running the game. “I'm here to play, asshole.”

“Sure you are, sweetheart.”

I took another step inside. “I got the buy-in. You want the money or not?” I didn't like the grin I got in return, but I didn't move.

“Check her for weapons.”

The bodyguard didn't even pretend that he wasn't leering at me, but I held up my hands and stayed still as he ran his hand over me. He squeezed and pinched, lingering longer than he needed to, but I put up with it. When his hand brushed the inside of my thigh, I gritted my teeth.

“You go any higher,” I said, “and I'm going to twist your nuts so hard that you won't be able to get it up for a week.”

The hand on my leg paused.

“Just thought you'd want to be treated like one of the guys, since you're here to play,” the asshole said with a smirk.

“If this prick grabs those men's crotches like he's grabbing at mine, you might want to consider letting us charge him.”

The wandering hand went straight up to my panties, and I grabbed him before he could react. One quick twist and he was cursing.

But his hand was no longer between my legs, so I was taking it as a win.

The pat down in the room took place just inside the door, but there was no funny business. When I stepped past the bodyguard, I took a moment to look at each of the other players, including the man who was clearly in charge.

Early forties. Blond, with cold green eyes. Jan said the guy's name was Stanley Maverick, like I was supposed to know who that was. I hadn't asked for details though. That was a surefire way to make everyone think I didn't belong.

I didn't mind letting people make assumptions regarding my intelligence based on my age and appearance, but I didn't do the whole 'play dumb' thing. I already put up with enough dumb blonde jokes that I didn't need to add any fuel to the fire. If they couldn't tell by the way I spoke that I was smarter than them, that was their own fault. I wouldn't be blamed for them not taking me seriously.

Some people might've thought that was arrogant, but it wasn't arrogance if it was a fact. I'd been the smartest person in any room since I was a kid.

I walked toward the table and tried not to scowl at the way Stanley's eyes crawled all over me. I'd been dealing with creeps like him for years, and I wasn't about to let it throw me off the game now.

“You sure you're in the right place?” Stanley asked as his gaze landed on my chest. “My boy tells me you're here to play, but you look more like entertainment.”

He patted the ass of a scantily-clad waitress as she walked by. The expression on her face didn't change, telling me that she'd gotten used to Stanley's touch and that his hands probably did a lot more wandering than that.

It pissed me off, knowing that more people would have a problem with me gambling than they would with me working as a waitress at a place like this. It was one of the reasons I'd chosen poker over other forms of employment. It pissed me off that, often, the only way women could make as much money as a man playing poker was to take off her clothes or put up with unwanted attentions.

“I have the buy-in.” I dropped the money on the table and waited to be told to take the empty seat.

It was a fine line to walk, that balance between giving respect and not letting the men walk over me. One of the things I'd learned quickly was to ignore ninety percent of the sexist remarks that came out of their mouths, especially at the beginning.

Stanley counted it, then gestured to the seat. “We aren't going to go easy on you just because you got a nice set of tits.”

I shrugged. “I wouldn't want you to.”

A laugh went around the table as I sat down. That was okay. I'd be the only one laughing at the end of the night. I arranged my chips in front of me as I watched the other players, making note of each little tick and gesture. Some people with a mind like mine would've done straight card counting to win, but I'd always combined my math skills with my observational skills. It tended to help when playing with less scrupulous people who might want to cheat. I'd caught more than one dealer who'd been paid off to deal favorably one way or the other.

Then the cards went out, and I began to count. It was second nature now to keep numbers running in one part of my mind, so much so that I wasn't sure I could play without doing it automatically.

I started slow, low bets where I cared more about learning the others' tells and making sure my count was thorough than I did about winning. It also looked good to win a few and lose a few before I got to the big bets. While a casino would kick a person out for counting cards – which I thought was a bunch of bullshit if they weren't using technology to do it – games like this went by a different set of rules. My arms were bare, so it was clear I wasn't hiding cards, and most men wouldn't even consider that someone like me could be smart enough to run a game with only my brains, but if someone did figure it out, I risked more than simply getting kicked out.

So I purposefully let myself lose a hand or two, never going all in or betting so much that I made anyone suspicious. My usual pattern allowed me to double my money with every game and walk away without anyone being the wiser, but I was having a difficult time keeping my temper tonight. Stanley hadn't shut up since I'd come in, and his comments had gotten more and more vulgar as the night went on. Most of the guys ignored him, but at least two looked uncomfortable as things got worse.

After nearly three hours of listening to his shit, I'd had enough. I knew better than to physically or verbally attack him here. This was his place, his game.

So I hit him where it hurt. Disregarding my usual restraint, I began to play more aggressively, placing larger bets and forcing him to match, relying more on my ability to know what cards came next than I typically did. One by one, the other men dropped out, until it was just Stanley and me.

Despite the air conditioning, a faint sheen of sweat beaded on Stanley's forehead, and I could feel the moisture on my own skin. The room had taken on that musty sort of smell that came with overheated bodies in close proximity to each other, and when Stanley lit a cigar, the smoke only made it harder to breathe.

Finally, I knew we'd reached the point where I had to make a choice. I knew that if I traded in two cards, I'd have a straight flush, and no matter how many cards Stanley asked for, he wouldn't be able to get any higher than four of a kind. I could go all in and clean him out, or I could fold now and take my winnings. I'd made more than what I brought in, and this was a new game in a new city. That'd be the smart thing to do.

“Don't feel bad, sweetheart,” Stanley said. “It's nothing personal. It just takes balls to win at this game, and you don't got them. If you'd like, after the game, I'll let you get up close and personal with mine.”

I gave him a tight smile and slid two cards toward the dealer. “Two.”

When he called, I bit back a smart remark as I laid my cards on the table. The men around me cursed as I leaned forward to sweep my winnings toward me. Stanley just stared at me, the look on his face unreadable. I wasn't gloating or even celebrating, but I had a feeling Stanley was taking my winning as a personal insult.

“Let's get you a bag for all that cash,” he said as he stood. “And then I'll get you a ride home, princess. We can talk about your game on the way.”

Shit.

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