2

Suddenly, the clinking of chips and whirring of machines fade into the background and become white noise. Peter leans forward, waving his hand in front of my face, his leering gaze raking over me, and then he grips my hand, forcing my attention back to the table. I stare at Peter Pervy, startled, before remembering I am supposed to be dealing cards. For the first time, I’m grateful to have Peter’s attention as I force myself to focus back on the game at hand. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing here on a Sunday night?” he slurs drunkenly like he doesn’t see me every day. I fight the urge to roll my eyes while his eyes linger on the cascade of my long, wavy, blonde hair that tumbles freely over my shoulders, stopping just below my breasts. Peter’s gaze then hones in on my chest, and he licks his dried-out lips, making me want to slap him. “Dealing cards and breaking hearts, Peter, you know exactly what I’m doing,” I reply with a wink, serving up the charm with a side of sass. It’s part of the game, after all. My deep green eyes meet his unflinchingly as I deal out the next hand, seeing the desperation in his. Whether you’re a male or female dealer, Peter always turns flirty, believing it will improve his odds. The man is delusional. “Blackjack!” a woman at the far end of the table cheers, her voice slicing through the soft chatter. “Congratulations, ma’am,” I say, pushing the chips her way with a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. Inside, numbers tumble and turn; I’ve tracked every card, counting as each one hits the table. It’s a dangerous game if caught, and I played for stakes. Yet, necessity is a relentless teacher, and card counting has become second nature to me. Half the time, I don’t even realize I’m doing it. Blackjack has always been my game of choice. Counting is straightforward because it relies heavily on watching the suits and keeping a running tally of the high and low cards dealt. This shows me when the odds swing more favorably. However, each shuffle resets the dance, and the count begins again. In Texas Hold’em, counting cards is less about memorization and more about understanding game dynamics. Unlike blackjack, where you track exact cards, here you observe the flow—high, medium, and low cards and suits that surface. Noting how many of a certain suit appear after the flop helps gauge the likelihood of a flush around the table. I usually avoid that game if I can help it, but if not, I always have other ways. Like at Verdigris the other night, I used a riskier tactic—hand mucking. Holding a high card in reserve, like an Ace or King, I’d wait for a moment of distraction, then swap it in. High stakes, high risk. In those underground games, I’ve seen severe consequences for getting caught, but desperate times call for desperate measures. My fingers sweep the cards, ready for the next round. To any onlooker, I am just another dealer among the sea of green felt tables. But beneath the surface, my mind races, tallying suits and values faster than a roulette wheel spins. “Hit me,” comes the gruff command from Peter. “Are you sure, sir?” I ask, knowing the odds are not in his favor after turning cards for the other 5 people at the table. But it isn’t my place to argue, only to serve cards, and I hope I make enough tips to play the underground games tomorrow. I’m still short, even after my win at Verdigris last night. If I don’t, I risk borrowing or selling my soul for the chance. I used to only play the smaller games, mainly wannabe gangsters or small league dealers. It’s how I supplement my income, but lately, my eyes have been on the bigger games. Those are the games people bet their lives on, their families’ lives. Mine, I’m willing to gamble, but my family’s definitely not. Over the past five years, I’ve learned every game here, from 3 to 5 in hand poker, blackjack, and roulette. I know the cards, which sides of the dice are weighted, and the chances, just as I remember Emma’s medications. Unfortunately, these players are locals and gambling addicts who barely have a few cents to rub together tonight. Meaning my tips will suck unless they win. “Damn straight,” Peter shoots back, though I don’t miss the desperation in his gaze. Another thing I’ve learned is that I’m good at reading people, the subtle twitch of someone’s lips, and the flick of their eyes as they scan a table or the cards. I can tell when their hand excites or disappoints by how they sit or breathe. Everything is a sign of a winning or losing hand, and by the look on Peter’s face, this hand decides if he goes home or plays another round. And I know he’s going home. I flip the card and watch his face crumble. The card I flip adds to his ruin, and his face falls. “Fuck!” he mutters, throwing his hands up before storming away, his drink sloshing recklessly onto the plush carpet. Peter should have walked away. I shouldn’t have warned him by asking him if he was sure, but I know Peter has a family at home, a family that’s on the brink of losing everything because of his gambling addiction. With a heavy sigh, I watch Peter storm off to the exit and leave before my eyes flick to the floor above. I suck in a relieved breath when I notice my boss no longer watching me. However, that feeling of relief lasts about two seconds. I am about to deal the next hand to a new patron who slides onto the stool across from me when I feel a presence behind me. The heat of them seeps into my back, and I’m suddenly alert to my surroundings as I stare in horror at the man who just took Peter’s seat.