The tall dealer with slicked-back hair announced, “Five minutes. Last chance to use the facilities until the scheduled break.”
People scattered. Some darted to the restrooms located in the far left corner while others casually made their way to their seats at one of the two poker tables. As the area thinned out, the door opened, and in strutted blond-haired, big-bellied Terrance Malden with a short platinum-blond woman at his side. He glanced around. I couldn’t say for sure if he would recognize me. Bee had done my makeup. Allie had coiled my hair off my shoulders in a fancy twisting up-do. Anytime I’d met with Terrance, I’d been plain Jane—no makeup and hair down, wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops.
“That’s him,” I said.
Kelton agreed. “He’s looking quite haggard these days.”
I’d forgotten that Kelton knew him.
“You know, maybe if we hit him up now, we could get the hell out of here,” Kelton said.
Dillon shook his head. “That will only start a shit-storm. Remember, no trouble. Let’s stick to the plan.”
We couldn’t waver from our plan since Dillon and I had money on the line.
“Mr. Malden,” the tall dealer said. “Nice to see you.” They shook. “Why don’t you take your seat? We’re about to begin.”
Terrance nodded then kissed the short woman before finding his spot. Those exiting the restrooms claimed their seats.
“Is it assigned seating?” I asked, hoping that I was at the same table as Terrance.
“Yeah.” Dillon focused on Kelton and Kross. “You two strike up a conversation with the blonde. See if you can find out where he’s staying in case we can’t get anywhere with Terrance.”
At least someone was thinking of all the angles.
Kelton drew me to him. “Remember: bluffing is the game here. And”—his lips feathered over mine—“kick some ass.”
Laughter escaped me, skittish and high-pitched, as anger and fear crashed in tidal waves through my stomach. Dillon grabbed my hand and ushered me to the tables. The players seemed to be in their own worlds, checking their phones one last time or lighting up fresh cigars.
Beads of sweat began to form on my forehead. I took in one breath of cigar smoke then released it. Then I repeated the process as I found the tent card with Reardon typed on it. I was at the same table as Terrance.
The butterflies in my stomach perked up as I took my seat. On my left sat a large man with a comb-over and body odor, whose name card read Oscar. The brunette with short hair from the bar sat on the other side of Oscar. I couldn’t see the name on her card. Next to her was Dillon, followed by Terrance, who sat across from me. He was reading something on his phone. I straightened in my chair, glancing past him to the bar where Kross and Kelton were, though the light above us made it difficult to see them.
The tall dealer walked up to stand next to me. “Okay, let’s begin. Each of you has a tray of poker chips with twenty, fifty, and hundred-dollar chips. We’ll begin by dealing first to Ms. Reardon.” The dealer motioned to me with a flip of his hand.
At the mention of my name, Terrance whipped up his head. His hazel eyes went wider than the poker chips. I kept my expression impassive—at least I hoped I did—and pictured kicking him under the table, handcuffing him until he confessed, sticking out my tongue, screaming at him, or even punching him square in his hook nose.
My imaginary fun was shattered when the dealer continued. “The game is five-card draw. Once the cards are dealt, the bet will begin with Ms. Reardon. You can’t replace more than three cards unless you have an ace. Breaks will be on the hour. Once your money is gone, you’re out. Any questions?”
“I have a problem with Ms. Reardon,” Terrance said, his voice gruff as though he’d smoked one too many cigars. “She doesn’t belong here.”
The dealer glanced at me then back at Terrance. “Her money is as good as yours.”
“She can’t be but twenty.” Terrance’s jaw flexed.
The man knew exactly how old I was. He knew more about my life than anyone else at the table.
I narrowed my eyes. “And you don’t need to be gambling my money away.”
The dealer studied me for a long minute. “Do you have an ID?”
“Are you kidding me?” The gambling age in Massachusetts was eighteen. “He’s just afraid I’m going to take his money.” I lifted a shoulder. “Which I am.” Don’t get cocky, girl.
“You tell him, honey,” the brunette said.
Terrance glared daggers at the woman, who reminded me of Halle Berry.
“Milt,” Terrance said to the dealer, about to stand.
Dillon put his hand on Terrance’s shoulder. “What’s your problem? We’re all here to play.”
“In an underground illegal poker game, no less. Therefore my age doesn’t matter.” My tone was neutral, even though I was shaking inside.
“Again, her money is good,” Milt said. Then he dealt the cards.
Terrance scowled.