Heir & Pain

“Four of a kind,” I said, placing my cards down on the
worn felt table in the underground wine cellar. I kept my face neutral because
even though I was doing a little touchdown victory dance in my head, I wasn’t a
sore winner on the outside. But I also knew that nobody at that table had a
better hand than my four of a kind. Four queens and ten of spades.

Groans echoed around the table, as well as from some
spectators who were betting on me not
winning.

Not a wise move.

This filly races to win.

The dealer, Damon, nodded and I scooped my winning
chips forward, already coming up with at least five ways I intended to spend my
winnings tonight. First and foremost, though? A Greek pizza with feta and extra
Kalamata olives for me and my best friend, Gemma, who stood behind me telling off
some guy who was making noise about me cheating.

Fuck him.

I was no cheat.

I didn’t even count cards.

I just had this deep-seated intuition about the other
players that not even I could explain. I knew when they had a crappy hand. I
knew when they were bluffing, and I knew when I needed to fold. Of course, I read
their tells; but it was more than that too. It was almost like I read their
minds. I read their energy, their indecision, their confusion, their
confidence. I felt their emotions like they were my own.

And by leaning into this . . .  talent, for lack of a better word, I won
nearly every game I played. To the point where players came from all over the
country—and from other countries—to try to beat me.

I wasn’t banned from places like Vegas and Monaco, but
if I went, I probably would be. But I didn’t give two shits about those glitzy
idiot-magnet type places anyway. I liked the local underground circuit better.
It was more my style.

“She’s cheating,” the loud, obnoxious, and slightly
drunk guy continued to say to Gemma. “She has to be. No girl can be that good. She’s counting cards. Or she’s—”

“Just
a girl that kicked your friend’s ass?” Gemma retorted. 

I snickered and gave Gemma’s bare knee a loving little
pinch. As always, she wore a short skirt with a schoolgirl pleat, even though
it was black and leather. Her combat boots hid her black socks decorated with
little hot pink cats. Her hot pink crop top covered by a dark denim bolo jacket
completed her “I don’t give a fuck” look.

“Buy in for this next game is five grand,” Damon
announced. “We’ll begin in fifteen minutes.”

Gemma leaned down. “Are we sticking around for another
game, or heading out?”

“What would you rather?” I asked, indifferent to
whether we stayed or left. I knew I’d win the next game. I could read the
over-confidence and hesitation of every person letting the dealer know they
were in. Easy marks. The next game would be child’s play.

She yawned. “I do have an early morning shift at the
coffee shop tomorrow.”

I shrugged. “Then let’s go. Just make sure you order
the pizza from Mario’s on Fifth this time, not Mario’s on Douglas. They
scrimped on the olives last time.”

Gem nodded and pulled out her phone.

I stood up, preparing to take my chips to cash in.

“What? Is the big baby girl leaving now?” taunted a
square-headed man with a thick Eastern European accent. He had a buzz cut and
one lazy eye. Or maybe it was a glass eye. He’d just finished paying his buy-in
to the dealer. “Afraid to play against real men?”

I grinned at him. “Yep. That’s exactly it. You terrify
me and I’d rather cut my losses and go home with some money.”

He wasn’t expecting that kind of response. When people
around him chuckled, he quickly caught on that I was fluent in sarcasm and
every syllable I said dripped in it. His face went red and his nostrils flared,
reminding me of a bull stomping the dirt and preparing to impale the matador.

“You making fun of me, Big Baby Girl?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“Because it sounded like you were making fun of me.
Nobody makes fun of Ivan Novák.”

I glanced around. “Who’s Ivan Novák? Is he here? I’ll be sure not to
make fun of him.”

The man surged to his feet and pointed at himself with a thick sausage
finger. “I am Ivan Novák and you are making fun of me.”

“You’re Ivan Novák?” I asked, continuing to play dumb and enjoying the chuckles of
entertained spectators around me.

“I am.”

“Oh shit! Well, I will be sure not to make fun of you then.”

His brows bunched and his face scrunched. Then one of his minions, or
lackies, or whatever leaned over and whispered something into his ear. His face
flushed red again, and he glared at me like he wanted to rip my head clean from
my body. “You are making fun of me.”

With her arms full of the overflow of chips I couldn’t
carry myself, Gemma whispered in my ear, “Maybe you should leave him alone.
He’s getting a little scary. Do you see the vein sticking out in his forehead?”

I
did see it. But I was a button-pusher by nature, and something about this guy
just irked me. And it wasn’t the fact that he called me Big Baby Girl either. I mean, yeah, that was annoying as fuck, but
it was the way he’d come into the wine cellar with his entourage, barking
orders and leering at the waitresses. Then I saw him reach out and grab one
girl, Danielle’s, ass. She giggled and smiled at him. Because what else could
she do in a place with so many criminals and dwellers of the city’s seedy
underbelly? The tips were
good. She needed this job to pay for medical school.

I made a point of getting to know all the staff at all
the venues I frequented. They were human too, and deserved kindness and respect.
And Danielle was in her second year of med school and drowning in student loan
debt.

So she put up with the handsy guests because she knew
she had a better life coming to her and her son soon.

“Is Big Baby Girl going to stay, or what?” Ivan asked.
“Or is it her beddy-by time? Run home to your mommy, Big Baby Girl. Waa! Waa! Waa!”

“Don’t bite,” Gemma gritted.

Too late.

“My mother’s dead,” I deadpanned, keeping my gaze
locked with Ivan’s as I put down enough chips to buy in for the next game.