All In Page 7

  The river was the ace of hearts, and the corners of Taylor’s mouth twitched as he pushed four purple chips into the center. Two thousand dollars. Damon took just a moment to consider before pushing all of his chips into the pot. “All in.”

  Nova gasped. Taylor cursed and leaned into the table as if getting closer would grant him magical insight into Damon’s hole cards. Damon had bought in for fifty thousand dollars, same as Taylor. The pot had been less than three thousand dollars before the all in. This was a serious over-bet by any standard. The Norwegian was flexing his muscle early. With a long, drawn-out sigh, Taylor tossed his cards face up into the muck. He was folding but he wanted to show everybody that he’d hit two pair, aces over queens, when the river came. Someone clapped. Damon simply shrugged and raked in the chips without showing his own cards. His aggressive play didn’t surprise her. She’d watched him on television many times, and he always played that way.

  Davenport passed the button clockwise to Claude, which meant it was Nova’s turn to pony up the big blind. She tossed a black, hundred-dollar chip into the center and prayed Lady Luck would grant her a decent starting hand with which to defend her money. She had learned long ago to play more aggressively when the rules of the game forced her to commit to the pot.

  This time, Delilah dealt her both the jack and ten of spades. Something to work with. Careful not to betray even the slightest hint of her satisfaction, she watched the other players. Mac raised, Kris, and Davenport called; the rest folded. Damon’s decision to fold inspired such a surge of relief that she gave herself a silent scolding. He might be one of the most aggressive players in the world, but he wasn’t the only dangerous one. Kris and Mac had won plenty of tournaments, too. They just weren’t quite as flashy.

  The flop revealed the two of hearts, eight of diamonds, and queen of clubs. She had a decent chance at drawing an inside straight, and the pot was a beautiful rainbow, making it unlikely that anyone would be able to put together a flush. That queen might prove to be problematic, of course, but there was a fifteen point four percent chance of either the turn or the river being the nine that would almost certainly make the pot hers. Her pulse trip-hopped at the thought.

  She had expected Mac to bet, but when he slid two black chips into the center, Nova had to work hard not to express her confusion. Two hundred dollars was just less than half the value of the money in the center—a clear underbet. The sweet spot for most professional players hovered between two-thirds and three-quarters of any given pot, and Kris surprised her by calling instead of raising. When Davenport did as well, she debated only briefly before doing the same. Re-raising on an inside draw would be aggressive, and she would be playing her table position well to do so. But the game was young and she hadn’t quite gotten a bead on the other players’ betting patterns yet. Holding her breath, she watched Delilah flip the turn card.

  The three of hearts smiled serenely up at her. No problem. There was now a flush draw on the table but it was unlikely any of the remaining players would have stayed in the hand for a runner-runner flush draw. Mac bet three hundred dollars, another underbet. Kris folded. Davenport looked at Mac, then back down at his cards. Nova wondered if that meant he was unsure of his next move, since he obviously hadn’t forgotten which two cards he was holding. Finally, he called. Nova pushed three black chips into the pot. Her chance of a nine had fallen to seven point seven percent, but as long as the pot odds remained decent, she was going to see this through. The pot now held two thousand one hundred and fifty dollars.

  Delilah met each of their eyes before revealing the turn card. When Nova saw the nine of spades, she fought not to react. The straight was hers, and the threat of a flush was neutralized. She had the “nuts,” the best possible hand, and now all that remained was to coax as much money as possible out of her opponents. She wasn’t sitting alone in her bedroom, Swedish House Mafia blaring from her laptop’s speakers. She couldn’t talk trash at the computer screen or spin triumphantly in her swivel chair. Instead, she reached for her water and sipped with what she hoped appeared to be nonchalance, praying that one of them would lead out with a sizeable bet. When Mac dropped three hundred more into the middle, she clutched hard at her pant leg beneath the table, and when Davenport called, she had another drink of water. It took all her self-control not to fling all of her chips triumphantly into the pot. She had to make a careful raise to maximize her winnings. Too much and the two men would fold. Not enough and she would squander a perfect opportunity. Carefully, Nova pushed nine black chips into the center. Nine hundred dollars. The six-hundred-dollar raise represented approximately twenty percent of the pot, too tempting to pass up. Davenport called immediately. Mac squinted at her for a moment, sighed, and then reluctantly called as well.

  “Let’s see ’em,” Davenport said.

  Mac flipped over a queen and a ten of hearts to make top pair. Nova murmured a silent thanks to Lady Luck for avoiding the flush on the river. Davenport grinned widely as he revealed the eight and nine in his hand—two pair. Nova did her best to contain a smug smile, but she felt the corners of her mouth twitch as she laid down her jack and ten. The exhilaration was a thousand times sweeter than any of her small-time victories over the past few days. This was a landmark—she could feel it. Her first live hand won against professional players.

  “Damn.” Davenport raised his snifter in a rueful toast.

  Mac only shrugged and said, “Nice stroke of luck.”

  That soured Nova’s mood a little, but all she said was, “Right?” as she raked in her winnings. The orange fifty-dollar chip she sent spinning toward Delilah before stacking the others atop her own piles.

  As she waited for the next hand to be dealt, Nova forced herself to rehash her previous decisions. One major difference between online and live poker was the speed with which the game was played. She had been accustomed to juggling multiple hands simultaneously, which didn’t leave much time for postmortems. But in live poker, she could second-guess herself until the metaphorical cows came home, and right now, she was seriously questioning the wisdom of underbetting. Big wagers were aggressive, a way to gain information about your opponents while going on the defensive. So why had someone like Mac been content to bet three hundred when he should have been betting at least five times that at the end?

  The pattern became apparent as the night wore on: Kris, Mac, and Ice Man were courting Davenport. Every time he stayed in a hand, they underbet, but each time he folded, they allowed themselves to play aggressively. Clearly, they wanted to maintain their friendships with him, along with all of its many perks, and Nova was content to follow their leads. She was playing well. Why bite the hand that was helping to feed her?

  By midnight, she had doubled her money and was second in chips. When Davenport called for a break, she wandered out to the suite’s balcony far above the Strip. Beneath the canopy of stars, its lights glittered frenetically. Curling her hands around the metal railing, she inhaled deeply of the crisp desert air and felt the tension ebb from her shoulders. In the distance, the Luxor’s shining apex gleamed like a second moon. Up here, she felt none of the claustrophobia that always began to fog her brain whenever she sat for too long at the casino tables. Maybe these private games could be her niche in the live poker world, once she had built up enough of a bankroll. They were probably played all over the Bay Area, too. She would make a name for herself at the World Series, sign a new contract with Royal Flush, and play private games in between tournaments.

  Within a year or two, she might even have enough saved up to buy a new house. Whether the girls would be interested in moving in was an open question, of course. It was only a matter of time before some of them left to start careers elsewhere, or paired off into exclusive couples. Sandra and Liz hadn’t spent so much as a night with anyone else in months, and this wasn’t the first time Nova had wondered whether they were destined for a U-Haul.

  She caught herself making a face, but at least it was safe to betray emotion ou
t here, where none of her competitors could see. As much as she loved her best friends, she couldn’t imagine a permanent relationship. Not with them, not with anyone—not even with Vesper Blake, whose image continued to pop up in her mind’s eye during unguarded moments. She should reach out to Vesper to thank her for including her in this game, shouldn’t she? Or was that just a shallow excuse?

  The sliding door opened behind her, and Nova turned to the sight of Delilah, backlit by the bright room. “Ready for more?”

  “Always.” She took the same seat and briefly joined in an animated discussion between Mac and Damon about the latest blockbuster action flick while the others settled in.

  “Something to drink?” the waitress asked.

  All night, Davenport, Jerry, and Taylor had been drinking Johnny Walker Blue. She had never tried it. Surely, two fingers of ridiculously expensive scotch wouldn’t hurt. She had doubled her money, proving she could keep pace with the pros. There was nothing wrong with relaxing her guard, just a little.

  “Scotch, please. Double.” She rolled her shoulders as Delilah began to shuffle, wondering whether a massage would be too extravagant an expenditure.

  Her drink arrived as she made a risky decision to call a thousand-dollar bet of Damon’s. She had been dealt the king of diamonds and the ten of clubs, and another king had appeared on the flop. Davenport had folded early, and Damon was bringing the big guns on this hand. A pair of kings was hardly a monster holding, but it was decent, the board didn’t offer much else, and she didn’t want to let Damon steamroll her. Gunn folded, but thankfully, Claude followed her lead. The prospect of playing heads up against the Ice Man sent a chill right through her.

  Moments later, when the board paired on the turn with a second nine, Damon pushed two thousand into the center. Two thousand dollars—more than a tenth of the chips arrayed before her. Nova’s mind raced. If she waited too long to make her decision, he would pick up on her doubts. She pushed her chips into the middle and prayed she wasn’t wrong. If Damon had three of a kind, there was nothing she could do. But he’d placed a sizeable wager before that nine had materialized, and his raise was proportional to the size of the pot. She had two pair, and a ten beat a nine any day.

  Claude folded, leaving her to the showdown. A dry wind blew across her mind’s eye, rattling the broken slats of a saloon door. In a different time and place, that wind might have been real, but tonight, all she felt was the memory of a cool night breeze brushing up against her face like a cat.

  The river was the four of spades, and Nova couldn’t help but frown when she saw it. Felicia, who was Chinese American, had drilled the symbology of the unlucky number four into her head. Its pronunciation in Mandarin was nearly identical in sound to the word for “death,” and the association had remained strong over centuries. Some Chinese buildings didn’t have a fourth floor, so strong was the superstition. And now death had appeared on the table, bearing a shovel.

  When Damon bet five thousand, Nova wasn’t surprised. Did he have three of a kind? Or four? A full house? Or was he bluffing? If she bowed out now, having already sacrificed thousands of dollars, would she regret it?

  Yes, she told herself firmly. Folding was not an option. Damon’s style of play was notoriously aggressive, and if she so much as sneezed right now, he would probably perceive it as weakness. Statistics weren’t going to help in this moment. Her decision would be based on instinct, and she wanted to believe he was bluffing. He had nothing. And even if the opposite turned out to be true, at least she hadn’t lay down in the dirt and allowed him to run roughshod over her.

  She called and promptly flipped over her cards. People might call her a loser after this hand, but they’d never be able to call her a coward. Damon’s glacial façade didn’t crack as he laid down a king and a nine, his full house running roughshod over her two pair. That four on the river had been a true omen.

  “Good hand,” she said, watching him scoop up seven thousand dollars’ worth of her chips. In a matter of minutes, he had reduced her winnings by two thirds. But that was the nature of the game. What had been lost could always be won back. Taking a quick sip of her scotch to steady her nerves, she focused on the next hand.

  But that one she lost as well, when she narrowly missed an open-ended straight. Wanting to cool off, she folded her two next hands and tried to practice watching the mannerisms of her competitors. Gunn licked his lips a lot, but was that a tell or a personal habit? And Jerry was tracing the circumference of his glass with a thick finger, but was that a sign of nerves or boredom? She raised her own glass to her lips, only to find it empty. When had that happened?

  The waitress was immediately at her elbow. “Would you like another?”

  She did. Oh, how she did. “No, thank you,” she said with a Herculean effort.

  When the big blind returned to her, she clenched her jaw and vowed to defend it. But Delilah dealt her a three and an eight, unsuited, forcing her to fold when Kris led out aggressively. On the next hand, she played the small blind to the end with a pair of queens when no higher card materialized on the board, only to discover that Gunn had been dealt pocket kings. She sat out the next hand and was subsequently dealt a pair of aces, but everyone folded when she bet out three hundred to start. Murphy’s law, of course—no one wanted to play the one time she was holding pocket rockets.

  After losing twice more, she was down to three thousand in chips. Her only consolation was that Claude had tanked already. Of course, he had laughed it off and bought himself back into the game for another ten thousand. Nova patted her pocket, tracing the outline of her money clip. She had cashed out downstairs earlier in the evening, and it held the two thousand she’d won from the tourists. If she lost the remainder of her chips, she could always… No. Refusing to let her brain finish the thought, she looked down at her latest hand. With smart playing and a bit of luck, she could regain all she had lost, and more.

  But as the night wore on, the stacks in front of her continued to dwindle. Whenever she held a halfway decent hand, the pots remained small, but whenever she tried to bluff, the pot value quickly escalated beyond what she could risk. The lower her chip count became, the faster her pulse rose. When Davenport finally forced her to go all in with her last five hundred, she watched the remainder of the hand unfold in slow motion, heart hammering against her ribs. And when his two pair defeated her single, her stomach dropped into her shoes.

  Show them nothing. It was the only thought she could cling to. The rest were as slippery as her palms. Show them nothing.

  “You got me,” she said, the words sounding strange on top of the heartbeat echoing in her ears. “Nice one.”

  “Would you like to buy back in, Nova?” Delilah asked.

  She shrugged in feigned nonchalance. “Why not? I’ll take another two thousand, please.”

  As she counted out the bills, the sour taste of fear overwhelmed the residual smoky sweetness lingering in her throat from the scotch. Her new stack of chips was woefully small compared to everyone else’s, and she sat out the next three hands in an effort to regain her composure. When the big blind returned to her, she tossed a black chip into the center, only to be dealt a two and a seven. As much as she hated surrendering her blind, defending it would be folly at this point.

  But on the next hand, her seven and eight of hearts proved worth hanging on to when the flop revealed the six of hearts, the nine of hearts, and the jack of spades. If a five or a ten appeared on the turn or the river, she would have a straight. If either of those was a heart, she’d have a straight flush. And any heart gave her a flush, albeit a middling one. This hand had more potential than any she’d played all night, and the surge of hope made her head spin.

  Claude bet out three hundred. Jerry and Kris called. Davenport folded and Damon eyed Nova’s stack shrewdly as he re-raised to three thousand. Black spots appeared before Nova’s vision as she realized that to stay in this hand, she would have to go all in again. Was Damon toying with her, or di
d he have the better cards? His features, as always, were inscrutable, but Nova suspected he was laughing at her behind his mask.

  In a rush of anger, she flung her chips into the center, earning a warning from Delilah about “splashing” the pot. Mac called, but everyone else folded except the Ice Man. When the turn revealed a five of clubs, Nova clenched her jaw so hard she thought her molars might break. A straight! She had done it, and the river gave her one more chance to make it an even stronger hand.

  Mentally shoving away the surge of relief, she focused on the numbers. Statistically, there was a very good chance she had the winning hand. It wasn’t unbeatable, of course, but this was as good a place as any to make her Alamo. Damon bet out one thousand, pulling his bet down now that Nova was already all in. Delilah made a second stack of chips with his bet and Mac’s call. The men would be playing for both piles.

  There was no use in hiding her emotions now. Leaning forward eagerly, she watched as Mac called and Delilah flipped over the river card. The eight of diamonds. Nova cringed. She had been hoping for a two or a three—something that would have eliminated the possibility of a higher straight demolishing her hopes. Damon led out with five thousand, and Mac laughed as he mucked his cards. Either the pot had gotten too rich for his tastes or his draw never came.

  “Worth a try,” Damon said in his clipped, accented syllables. He looked at Nova and arched one brow toward the pale dome of his head. “Shall we?”

  She held her breath and showed her hand. Damon cocked his head as he looked down at the cards, his mannerisms reminding her of a raptor inspecting its prey. Suddenly, Nova knew she had lost. The certainty was a hook of pain in her gut, pulling and twisting. Her breath let out in a rush as he turned over the ten of diamonds and seven of clubs. His straight was higher, and her money was gone.