Page 2 of Crown Jewels
His silver eyes snapped my way. “I have a great hand.”
No he didn’t. If he did, then he wouldn’t look like a junkie itching for his next fix.
Sweat dripped down his brow, while his hand twitched, and he had ran his fingers through his red hair so much, that it was standing on end. I wouldn’t be talking him into folding, let alone convincing him to leave. I could always throw my fist in his face and drag his unconscious body out.
“Is there problem?” Edgar’s thick Armenian accent led me to think that English was not his first language. I doubted that it was even his second.
I looked into his cold dead eyes, and said, “No.”
He was a little surprised by my eye contact. I didn’t know if that was because most people didn’t like looking at him, or because I wasn’t afraid of him. Edgar was a scary guy, and the scar that cut diagonally across his face only added to that. He definitely didn’t have a face one would want to put on a magazine.
“Are you in, or do you fold?” Armen pipped in, eager to get on with the game.
Looking over at him, I thought back to something my grandfather told me. Every hand is a winner and every hand is a loser, it all depends on how you play the game. The game in this case was getting Mitch and myself out of this bar alive. And that would only happen if I won enough to pay off his debt.
Don’t get me wrong, money wasn’t a problem for me. But Mitch didn’t know that. To him I was just another college kid trying to make ends meet.
I loved the man like he was a brother, but when people found out you came from money, they treated you differently. And I couldn’t be no one, if the people I was closest to thought I was someone.
So, I gave up my penthouse, shared a shitty apartment with Mitch and his sister, and made porn to pay the bills. That part of my persona was thanks to his sister Emma, who made her money by doing cam shows. Most of which she used to cover her brother’s gambling.
I thought about getting rid of him, but the guy grew on me. Besides, my career not only allowed me to keep an eye on Emma, but I got to fuck for a living. My uncle Logan would be proud. My dad not so much, and my mom would just kill me. Thankfully they would never know. I always wore a mask on camera.
I took a few seconds to size up my opponents.
Hayk and Ruben had folded, leaving Armen and Edgar. Considering Armen was puffing large clouds of smoke in ourdirection, I was going to say that whatever he had might be enough to beat Mitch’s hand, but not my full house.
Edgar, I wasn’t sure about. He was an empty slate. My psychiatrist grandfather would be fascinated by him. He spent his life studying human behavior, and spent most of mine teaching me how to read body language. Of course that didn’t help much when one was dealing with a psychopath.
“Alright,” I sighed resigned to my fate and tossed my chips in the pot. “I call.”
There was nothing else to do but play the hand I was given. Although I couldn’t help but think how odd this situation would look to someone walking past. Four Armenian gangsters in suits, sitting at a table in a dive bar with two college kids in jeans and t-shirts, playing poker. It almost sounded like a bad joke.
“Oh yeah,” Mitch declared while laying down his hand, displaying a pair of nines.
Nines? Really? That was the amazing hand he was betting our lives on? Throwing my fist in his face was looking better and better. Thankfully Armen had a pair of jacks, and Edgar three fours. None of which beat my hand.
“Sorry guys,” I grinned at Edgar and shot him a wink while laying down my full house. “Better luck next time.”
Mitch let out a hoot of celebration. The other players on the other hand, were not impressed in the least. Especially Edgar, who narrowed his glare on me and said something in Armenian to Armen.
Reaching out, I pushed the chips in the pot over to me and said, “miayn kortsatsnerek meghadrum en mardkants keghcik’I mej.”
Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned my way.
That’s right motherfuckers, I understood you. One of the bonuses of my last name was a top tier education. Someone elsetaught me Armenian though, along with various other criminal underworld languages.
Armen’s glare narrowed. “You speak our language?”
“Yes,”you fucking prick, “and no one calls me a cheat.”
“Ha ha,” Mitch slapped me on the back. “That’s my boy.”
He was too excited about my win to realize the danger we were in.
“Why you hide this?” Edgar asked, as if I had some ulterior motive.
They were the ones who invited an obvious gambling addict to join their game. Mitch was salivating when he saw the table in the back. Probably thought we were easy marks. To be fair, Mitch was.
