Page 68 of Scarred by You

I FINISH THE Scotch in my glass, and through the plume of cigar smoke that hangs in the room, I beckon the waiter. He stands by the door of the secret poker room with his hands folded behind his back, always focussed on the table, waiting for the next order, and the accompanying tip that’s probably as much as his weekly salary.

Just over an hour ago, I had a showdown in here with Dayna. Which is, incidentally, the reason I’ve had a few more glasses of Scotch than I’d intended to have tonight. I have no intention of getting pissed, not when there are so many crazy bastards who are shit at poker and willing to throw away pots of cash by the tens of thousands. But I needed a couple of drinks to take the sting out of everything that’s going on at the moment.

Teddy’s been bleating on at me all day to withdraw from the tender process for the well. Honestly, I’m hearing him. I did want this well to prove something, but he’s right. If I win this well and it turns a loss, I’ll only prove that I can’t do a better job than my father

The waiter takes my empty glass and breaks the silence of the room. “Another, sir?”

I nod. This will be my last one.

“I’ll take another.” Mark Strathford waves his empty brandy glass in the air, eyeing me as he does. Of the six suited men around the table, seven including the dealer, there are only three of us left in this hand, and we’re going down the river. Four cards out, one to come.

I know Mark has a decent hand. He does this thing with his right thumb when he gets excited, flicks it through his index finger quickly like he’s sparking a lighter. It’s not a bad tell; he can hide it behind his left hand. But once you know he does it, like I know, you can see a subtle movement in his covering hand.

The other player still in is Dominic Castini, a good-looking man in his early forties. Nice tan, still hanging on to his dark hair, and he’s in good shape. It’s damn fortunate he’s got those things going for him, because his business skill is non-existent, and that’s only marginally below the standard of his poker bluff.

Right now, there’s eighty-five grand in the pot, and the cards on the table are four of clubs, ten of hearts, eight of spades and jack of diamonds. I’d be willing to bet Dominic is praying for something to come down the river and the buffoon has come this far with nothing. But who knows, maybe he’ll surprise me. Mark, on the other hand, he’s exactly the opposite. I’m nursing a pair of tens and a pair of jacks, which I got on the last card. Mark has been smug from the off, so whatever he has, he got it in the first three table cards. There’s no opportunity for a flush, not even with the fourth card. It’s unlikely he would have been flicking that thumb after the first two cards thinking he had a straight. He couldn’t have thought he had a full house. So, my money is on three of a kind or two pairs. Three of a kind would beat my two pairs but if he’s riding on two pairs, he couldn’t have anything higher than my tens and jacks. I’m pretty sure he didn’t get anything on the last card.

“Mr Layton?” the dealer asks.

“I’m in.”

The dealer turns the fifth card. Ten of diamonds. I keep my face straight, but Mark smirks. He got something on the final card. My mind jumps quickly through his possible hands. Full house is my best bet, and there’s no chance it can beat mine if he’s using the four or the eight.

Dominic turns first.

“Two pair, fours and tens,” the dealer announces.

Fucking muppet. He came all the way on a pair of fucking fours.

Mark. He turns his cards, slowly, one at a time. What a dick.

“Full house, tens and fours,” the dealer says.

I turn my cards together and push them along the green velvet to the dealer.

“Full house, jack, ten. Mr Layton wins.”

Now I smile.

My buzz is cut short by the vibration of my phone in my pocket. The dealer is collecting cards and stacking chips — my chips —so I can look this time. Dayna’s name dances across the screen. It’s been four years since her name flashed up on my mobile.

“Deal me out,” I say, throwing down the small blind and sliding a five-thousand-dollar chip to the dealer before pushing out from the table. The money will be wired electronically, nobody carries chips in or out of the room except the dealer, who does so in a discreet black case.

“Sir, your drink.” The waiter holds a tray with my Scotch on it in front of me.

“He looks like he could use it,” I say, inclining my head to Mark, whose eyes are so bulging with fury it amuses me.

I answer my phone as I close the door behind me. “Dayna?”

At first I think she sighs, then she sniffs, and I realise she’s crying. “Clark,” she croaks.

“Are you crying? Dayna, what’s wrong? Where are you?”

“I don’t know what to do. I’m scared. Can you come to my room?”

My heart rate doubles in an instant. “Yes. Yes, which one?” I start running to the lift.

“Five-six-one.”

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