3 3. The Queen

Ten players.

One-hundred thousand dollar buy in.

One-million dollar pot.

Five players down, four to go.

Olivia McNamara didn't have a gambling addiction; she had a determination to win.

The illegal cloak and dagger tournament was nearing its end. She was in a suite with celebrities and producers from the entertainment industry, who put the "executive" in the "executive" suite. There were two thugs armed with sub-compact machine guns guarding the prize money bundled up on the kitchenette counter. Next to the heap of cash was a mound of cocaine.

The contenders were fat cats who ate well. Olivia was a bank manager salaried at forty-three thousand dollars a year. If she lost one-hundred thousand, it'd ruin her. It'd only sting the others. To them, the buy in was chump change. To Olivia, it was enough for a chump to change her life.

Gaining entry into the game was no easy feat. Olivia endured six-months of heavy grinding at casino's and private cash games. She maxed out her credit cards, and the bank loans were long overdue. Most of which Olivia kept from her trash heap of a husband. By grit and gusto alone, she made it. There was no way in hell that she'd allow herself to lose. Olivia was better than these donks and she knew it.

She had to be better.

She had no choice.

In poker, Olivia was solid. Well, at any strategic card game. She played a nasty game of Yugi-oh. By her ideals, she was too old to continue an education. She'd rather be dead with a feather duster rammed up her ass, and chip clips on her nipples, then in a classroom. A thirty-year-old surrounded by a mob of whoresons not old enough to drink, prepared to shit on her as soon as she raises an inquisitive hand.

Fuck no. No, thank you.

Olivia hated high school, and higher learning wasn't her bag. No Limit Texas Hold Em' was.

Olivia's world was a truculent shamble. Her position at the bank was a laugh; the bank itself a joke, and the dominant banking behemoths were hungry, and the meager credit union gobbled up. It was inevitable. The manager, Jackson Jackson, "just call me J.J.", was a grandiose and overweight cuckold. If the guy had a spine, it was Crisco.

And thus there was Scott.

Fucking Scott.

Olivia's husband.

Scott McNamara was a self-righteous fitness asshole who had established a franchise of lucrative gyms. Their success always baffled Olivia because Scott was a fucking idiot. He was handsome, toned, and had a hard body. She presumed it played a part.

Most of Scott's constituency were rich ne'er-do-well housewives with more money than time, and they had plenty of time. They had maids to cook and clean, and high-priced daycares to raise their children. And absent husbands fucking their "barely legal" assistants in their still-tight pussies.

These blase well-to-do "housewives" paid Scott to be their personal fitness trainers. They fought for time-slots. It was harder to get an hour with Scott than it was her doctor, and it took Olivia three months to get her last appointment. The Jezebel hussies pranced around the gym in expensive work-out attire, the best money could buy, smearing their slug trail sludge wherever they sat.

Menopausal harlots.

Olivia didn't stress over adultery. Not because Scott was upright and honest, but because she lacked empathy. Scott could shove whatever, wherever he wanted, but her apathy stopped at children and animals. Try as they might, Olivia doubted the strumpets could even get a rise out of Scott. She couldn't. Scott was bisexual leaning toward the homo-side. Not that Olivia cared. People were born to want what they wanted. Blond, brunettes, or redheads. You had no say in your taste. Who was Olivia to judge? She gets off on being tied up, choked and spanked. Scars were sexy too. Olivia was a sexual being. It was that need, Scott's wealth, and soda can girth that drove her to answer yes to his wedding proposal. But when the guy she married lost interest in women, it left her nether-parts craving.

Olivia? When you wed a guy for his bank statement and genital significance, you're left with is a scant allowance and a drawn out twat. Say one thing for Olivia McNamara, say she has class.

In the honeymoon state of their marriage, they were good. Scott knew how to present a lady with a satisfying time. He laughed, danced, and sang. The monetary prosperity was the whipped cream, and the face embedded in the pillow howling orgasms were the cherry. Scott McNamara knew how to fuck. Olivia never confirmed it with Scott, but she once spotted him in the mirror and he was counting his thrusts under breath because dumb. One day, Olivia awoke, and lying next to her was an alien whom she no longer recognized. It made sense. She scarcely knew herself anymore. People have a tendency to linger in failing relationships, and Olivia was no different. Call the reasons to stay comfort, security or custom, but Olivia called it was fear.

The fear of change, and it was time for a chump to change.

This game was the catalyst.

And the dealer pitched the cards.

Olivia was out of position, the small blind, and drew her cards early, but she didn't look at them, she was reading the faces of her rivals as they glanced at their cards. They offered so much intelligence at this vital juncture, and it bewildered her that none of the other players, none of them, had taken this up too. That was lovely. She kept it to herself. She knew her game. A player gained superiority over ninety percent of the other competitors they'd meet if they read even one book on poker.

Olivia loved to read.

Next to her was Charles Taylor, a hog of a man and the games curator. In her head she called him Jimmy Dean because he had fat fucking sausage fingers. He covered his mouth to stifle a belch, but didn't temper its effervescence. It stank of scotch, sauerkraut, and regurgitated kimchee. It was disgusting. The reek and memory of his porcine gut, slapping as he pounded away on her, made her want to retch. Jimmy Dean glanced at his cards and liked what he saw by the breadth of his dung masticating smile.

The dip shit probably had a pair of fucking twos.

Olivia hated twos.

She'd fold even if she had one.

Fuck twos.

The guy under the gun, the opponent to the left of the big blind, Jimmy Dean, was a serious-eyed dude with a fierce, dissecting gaze, one that could hack you into ribbons with a glance. The light above the card table glistened off the grease and sweat of his shaved head. He had a beard worthy of a Viking lord. He was a man in black: jeans, a band shirt with a scribbled name she'd never read, eight eyelet Doc Martin's, and a leather vest riddled with patches, studs and spikes. The only band patch she recognized was Metallica. An ex had compelled her to listen to them. They were all right. And Iron Maiden sounded familiar. The most imposing article on the vest was the one engulfing his back. It had three-sixes arranged in a circle, and above it was a hefty second patch that absorbed the upper shoulders. It read: Deicide. And for that, she gave him the sobriquet, "Godkiller", which he appeared he could be.

Olivia presumed Godkiller was a form entertainer. Godkiller had remained reserved throughout the game, except on two separate occasions when he managed to strong-arm his heads up opponents into folding with a forked tongue. Now, he was in a fatal state of ennui and was flipping a coin, a metal card guard with a skull engraving, over his knuckles while shuffling chips with this right. The chip lead was his, yet he was laconic and broody.

And he horrified her.

Even still Olivia didn't read at her cards.

In the cut off seat was a salt-and-pepper bearded elderly fellow in an ancient yellow turtle neck. She hailed him Gorton on the account of him resembling Gorton fisherman, the frozen fish sticks guy. Old Gorto snuck a quick gander at his cards, rolled his eyes, and hissing out an agitated sigh. His hand was trash.

And then there was Billy Slade, a panty-dropping hunk. He was an Internet phenomenon. A country music sensation, and a fresh celebrity. Every horny tween had posters of him plastered to their bedroom walls, unearthing the marvels of pillows and friction. Billy glanced at his cards and beamed.

"Well, now. Ain't these a vision?" He announced in a charming, southern drawl.

The action was on Godkiller. The dealer motioned to him with a well-practiced wave. He shielded his cards with both hands and peeled the edges up off the felt. Olivia followed his eyes. Up and abroad often showed an inferior hand, and eyes darting for the chips suggested a dominant hand, a hand worth betting. At first he maintained his eyes on these cards, holding his gaze there for a spell and thus stared straight up, and into Olivia's eyes.

Dissecting.

Hacking.

Maiming.

And goddamn, he intimidated Olivia.

And he winked.

"Call." Godkiller said, eyes locked with Olivia's. Without breaking contact, he tossed his chips onto the table, and returned his skull card guard over his pocket cards.

He's good, and not just lucky.

"Call," Gorto said.

Billy's turn, "Call."

The action was now on Olivia. She slackened her jaw, mouth breathed, and forced her face go limp. A skill she had filched from Tom Dwan, aka Durr. It's inconceivable to study a barren page unless we compose the mysteries in invisible ink, and you have the key. Olivia never presented the cookies for free.

And she peeked at her cards.

Pocket-aces, one heart, and one club.

It wasn't the hand that thrilled her. Pocket-aces were enormous, but poker legends have taken home bracelets with a high-card. It wasn't so much the cards, but how you played them, and against whom.

You won poker in the gutters.

And Olivia was a filthy girl.

Olivia cleared her esophagus and played with her wedding band. She had the potential to earn. This was it. The hand one waits for, 220:1 odds. A clean exit from her husband. Buy a fresh lease on living. She had to triumph.

Chill. This is poker. Be. Cool.

"Raise," This move was to drive out and shun any limpers.

The action was now on Jimmy Dean and his sausage fingers. "I prefer it when you're feisty, honey."

Pig.

Olivia first met Jimmy Dean at an event a month ago. She took a severe beat. Jimmy sought to buy her a drink to curtail the blow. She complied. Other than being a viscous, fat fuck, Jimmy Dean was a well-paid moron who adored to brandish his worth. She guessed he was pleasant enough, and she a fatist. Jimmy blew cash as if there was a giant meteor blazing straight for earth. That's when she discovered his clandestine tournaments, and he was operating another the next night. He had her buy in if she were "nice" to him.

"Nice" was fellatio.

The matter with Olivia was that when received a 'bad beat', she got drunk, and when Jimmy Dean presented his offer, she was drunk. When she was drunk, she made poor choices.

Olivia sucked him off.

A dick is a dick is a dick.

If you sucked one, you've drained them all.

Or so she explained to herself.

To Olivia, five-minutes of discomfort for ages at the table was a favorable trade. She didn't regard herself as a whore, but she kinda was, and she was okay with it.

Oldest profession in the book.

And she triumphed. She won big.

Jimmy had games going every night that week. Greater stakes, much greater. The buy in's doubled each night. And Olivia could gain a seat at the table is she were "a scant nicer".

"Scant nicer" was a fuck, so Olivia let him screw her. She was so far removed from the act she didn't considerate cheating, she didn't consider it sex.

A dick is a dick is a dick.

Or so she explained to herself.

As far as her boss knew, she had developed a severe case of food poisoning or something, and that she was all shits and no giggles. Olivia covered for Mr. Jackson Jackson aka J.J., when he received gastric bypass surgery a year ago, and Olivia worked double shifts for him. The new cadre of employees being fucktards. As Olivia was a salaried agent, there wasn't overtime compensation. J.J. owed her.

So he covered for her.

The harder task was disclosing to Scott why she wasn't coming home. Scott humored Olivia and her gambling, but considered a squandering of time and money. Scott didn't have any faith in Olivia. Her craving to be the finest female poker player in the world, was "adorable", to Scott. There was no end to his grief. He told her she'd lose and to come home. Not that he missed her, he'd miss his money. She explained to Scott that she had found a sponsor and wasn't competing with his money. And if she, "played her cards right," could win big.

Scott responded with, "whatever. I guess I'll be seeing you around then." And had hung up the phone.

Olivia only lost a few games that week. She was up and up large. One-hundred thousand large, to be exact, which was the buy in to the biggest game yet, this game. But entry into this game required her to be "extra nice".

"Extra nice" was an extra dick.

A dick is a dick is two dicks.

Olivia had a threesome with two guy's fantasy. She had alluded to it to Scott, but his asshole was exit only. And there was only enough space in his bed for his dick, and his dick alone, which was true. In hindsight, this homophobia was an undertaking to keep cover.

At first Olivia shook her head.

Hell no. No way. No deal.

But later, she discovered Billy fuckin' Slade was the second party to be.

The night before, Olivia was in her comped hotel suite, high on a success, and feeling frisky. The hotel flat screen was an anchor of naughty glory, enticing, and Olivia had a hankering for raunchy porn. She had an issue with the porn rabbit hole and dug further, and darker, into the remote territories (usually Germany), to get a rise, to awaken. The smut formula of oral, vaginal, anal, and face, bored her and she found it vulgar. She considered ordering a group porn video, three chaps and one air tight chick. Olivia was in the spirit of modesty, when up popped a Billy Slade advertisement.

Billy Slade, live at Harrah's. She clicked a link with the remote to one of his music videos. In the video Billy wore tattered blue jeans and a short sleeve white button-up. A lot of good the buttons did because he had no use for them, exposing his tanned and tone bare chest. She busted out her Hitachi, she never left home without it, and came. The video had done the trick.

A girl's got to eat.

Billy Fuckin' Slade.

So, Olivia had conceded to the menage trois.

"All in." Jimmy Dean pushed his stack.

At first Olivia put him on Siegfried and Roy, the two queens. Maybe cowboys. He was short stacked, in more ways than one, and a nitwit. He'd push if the game irritated him. Fucktard had frog eyes, pocket eights or another low pair. He'd bleed out before he drew a playable hand.

Other than Olivia, Godkiller was the only player at the table with any actual intelligence. He and Olivia were the chip leaders, him with the slim edge, but by his expression you'd assume he was losing. To call, he'd risk a third of his stack.

He risked it. "Call."

And pushed.

Interesting. Pocket pair.

Billy cackled. He could find happiness anywhere, and good in anyone. He had the charm of McConaughey, the looks of Pitt, the promiscuity of DiCaprio, was John Mayer romantic, and needed to rehab of Downey Jr. And country music was his passion. Not the pandering stadium trash of Urban or Shelton either. He lived for Hank Williams, Roy Orbison, Johnny Cash and Dolly Parton. A rundown trailer in North Carolina was his home and his longest relationship was with his six-string, his 'best girl', "because the only girl a boy can trust is his guitar". With a spark of genius, he posted a moving rendition of "Amarillo by Morning" and it blew up.

Billy fuckin' Slade.

He was missing his two front teeth. When reports asked him why he didn't get his teeth fixed now that he had money, he'd say, "Well Ma'am (or Sir), these missin' teeth of mine I lost in a fight I don't reckon I'm willin' to forget." And said in a North Carolina drawl.

Billy fucking Slade.

Lottery winners are poor money managers. They soon go broke after the massive influx of revenue. People who manage money well don't play the lottery. Billy played the lottery. In a figurative sense, Billy had won the jackpot. He'd be back to broke in five years as soon as the world forgot him. Though when it did, he planned to remind it with a King Kong of sex tapes.

"Well now," Billy chuckled, "Fuck it. I'm all in."

And Billy pushed.

Olivia had low expectations for the three-way rendezvous, but she left beyond satisfied.

Jimmy Dean wasn't much of a lover; fat, short-winded and only good for a few pumps. Though she'd lumbered through worse in highschool. Her aim was to let Jimmy Dean spend his load and thus she'd have Billy to herself, and Billy she'd fuck for free. But it didn't go as prepared. Little did she know, Jimmy Dean had a raging case of coke cock. To retaliate, he snorted a fatty line of Cialis. He was a Chevy, "like a rock."

As the trio disrobed, Olivia found the experience unpleasant, but as soon as she was nude, and on the bed with the two men crawling after her with insatiable lust in their eyes, she became overwhelmed and soaked. She was upright and on her knees as they came to her from all angles. Billy came from behind, cupping her left breast with his left hand, and her ass with his right. With tenderness, he traced his tongue along her collarbone, up her neck, and suckled on her earlobe, finishing with a hard nibble. His hardness pressed hard into buttox and she felt it pulse. She closed her eyes and percolating.

She relished each sensation.

And Jimmy Dean was next.

He clutched her throat with a thick right hand, massaged and squeezed, silencing the gasp in her larynx with a rasp. He caressed her inner thigh with a firm and brawny hand, wandering upward toward the crux. With two skilled fingers, pointer and middle, he sketched an insignificant circle over her clitoris. She inhaled with a sharp moan and arched her back as Jimmy tightened his influence on her throat.

And she surrendered.

She was theirs.

They plundered her, Hyenas on a fresh kill.

Melt.

Billy brought his left hand to her cheek, gave it a slap, and craned her head backward to face him. His ring finger slid into her mouth and she suckled on it and bit, and Billy was all kisses. He traced her lips, and with deft flicks of his tongue, made the tip of her tongue the world's smallest ice cream cone. He squeezed and wrenched her nipple and an acute twinge rushed through her.

She offered a moan.

And arched her back.

As Jimmy slid his thick fingers deep inside her, he pulled them out against her vagina wall, urging into her engorged chestnut. They found their mark, and she was a fish on his hook. He encircled her clitoris with the second joint of his thumb. A surge of fluid flowed from within her, her muscles contracted over his fingers. And she expanded.

Jimmy Dean and his fat fucking sausage fingers.

Silent ecstasy.

Billy nibbled her lip and Jimmy extended his two fingers into a Y accommodation for the third. He withdrew his fingers, wrapping the ring and pointer beneath the middle, and jabbed into her, stopping at the third knuckles. He repeated this with the dialed-in flow of a well lubricated machine. Pull out. Stab. Slide out. Stab.

Billy leaned over her shoulder and kissed Jimmy Dean on the mouth with ardor.

She wasn't for man on man, but they were hard for her and not each other, and was hot.

And in slid the forth.

Gaping.

Stab. Stab. Stab.

The thumb tucked under the forth.

And in slid the fifth.

Stab. Stab. Stab.

But never past the knuckles.

"She's ready." Jimmy Dean told Billy.

"Are you ready?" Billy whispered into her ear.

"For what?"

"For both of us?"

Olivia shook. Scared. Her heart fluttered.

"I don't know."

"We won't hurt you."

"Okay."

"You're ready?"

"Yes."

Billy drew his knees together, perched on his heels, and leaned backward. He then arranged himself beneath her, planted an arm around her, and pulled her back and against his chest.

Jimmy Dean rubbed the tip of his penis against her clitoris and entered her vagina.

Billy's turn.

Anal hurt and Olivia didn't care for it, but maybe a slight suffering was the torment she deserved.

"Are you ready?" Billy said.

She nodded.

And Billy too slid himself into her vagina.

Olivia's eyes grew wide, "Oh."

Anal penetration wasn't the aim.

Was this even possible?

In and out, just two lads on a see-saw.

It was.

The sensations were extraordinary. Different, but not awful. And then good. Goody, good.

If a woman wondered how it felt to have two dicks in the front hole, and she'd let a man in there before, she should imagine the same, but with a dick much larger than her boyfriend's. She'd feel full. It's not that outrageous.

And she moaned.

And arched her back.

"Tell us when you're close." Billy said.

"It's too much sensation. I need a distraction."

Billy choked her. "This work?"

She nodded. "Faster."

And they sped up.

They kept pace.

"Harder."

And they pounded harder.

They kept pace.

"Yes. Yes. Right there. Just like that."

Billy whined. "I'm gunna' come."

"Come in me."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, just fuck me."

And they fucked her.

Olivia's breathing sped up. In and out through clenched teeth.

"Fuck me. Jesus fuck. Yes."

"I'm getting close." Billy said.

"Don't stop."

"Yes, Ma'am."

But he did. His cock grew harder and pulsed inside of her.

The flex did the trick.

Olivia squinted and let out a deep and powerful vocal release.

Billy pulled out and said, "Get her, Boy."

And the Cialis did its business.

And Jimmy Dean focused on himself, scrambling up the peak toward climax. Olivia moaned louder with each jab. She was in tears. Jimmy Dean climaxed.

They finished.

They didn't communicate, and the guys left, allowing her privacy.

But she craved more.

And found her Hitachi.

She slept well that night.

There was a shout and Olivia snapped back from thoughts of debauchery.

"I haven't had a single face card all goddamn night!" Said Gorto. He mucked his cards, crisscrossed his arms, and sulked.

Olivia realized that she had been rubbing herself and stopped.

Captain Gorto huffed. He was a sensation for one of those filmed in Alaska reality shows. Deadliest Ice Haul Fish Road Trucker. Absolute bullshit you'd never convince her to watch. America kept its worker drones mindless.

The wagers were even.

The dealer pounded the felt, burned the top card, and snapped three face up.

The flop: Queen of Hearts. Jack of Hearts. Two of Clubs.

The flop did nothing for Jimmy Dean. Billy was on a straight or flush draw, she reckoned. At this point in the game, their hands didn't matter. They sealed their fates. Even if she lost to them, she could earn from Godkiller. Heads up from here on out.

Olivia v. Godkiller.

Olivia studied his face, searching for any tell of strength or weakness. His posture was rigid, yet shoulders relaxed. His arms crossed, and his face was slack and emotionless. She had to make a move.

The flop hadn't helped her much, but it hadn't hurt either. She couldn't peg Godkiller's hand, but she assumed strength. Godkiller played a wide range of hands, but was a tight player. He had something. At worst he was drawing, and if he flopped a set he'd have her beat.

If he wished to see more cards, he was paying for them. As the pre-flop aggressor, she carried out the standard continuation bet. Half the pot.

Fuck. He better not have a set.

They locked eyes. He craned his head to the side and beamed.

Godkiller creeped Olivia the fuck out and she preferred to look elsewhere. This was an aggressive male dominance power-play, and she'd been playing men's games her entire mature life. This was the game within the game. The actual game. In poker, you don't play the cards; you play the players. If she broke eye contact with him, she could feign weakness. Or she could smile or sneer and get him to fold, but she didn't want him to fold, she needed him in the game. The chip lead was hers. Olivia refused to give in and didn't do a damn thing.

Godkiller smiled, "You have aces."

Olivia's soul plunged. She flinched and then was a force majeure.

"Goddamn, Olivia. You're marvelous." He wielded a shame-on-you finger at her, "You're stronger than these donks, without a doubt." He plucked up and analyzed his cards, something he had hadn't done before, it was a show, he knew what cards he had in his hand. There was no fooling her. He returned his cards to the felt.

"Fuck." He cracked his neck.

"Fuck." He propped his elbows on the table and rest his jaw on his fists.

Godkiller was drawing, but to what? A straight? A flush? Both?

"Fuck." He passed his hands over his oily bald head.

If he had a big slick, an ace-king, he had four outs to a straight with the prevailing four-tens. He could have an open-ended straight draw with a king-ten, giving him eight outs, less the two aces he inferred she held. The two of hearts on the board. He could be on a flush draw. She couldn't fathom Godkiller calling pre-flop with lower suited cards, even if they were connectors, unless he had the king. If he had the king of hearts, then the only accompanying card that made any sense he'd be playing was a ten. She didn't see him playing king-x-suited lower than a ten, so he had to have the ten too. She put him on a king-ten of hearts. That gave him nine outs to a flush and another six to a straight, less the hearts.

"Fuck it." Godkiller said, "Call."

King-ten of hearts.

The dealer collected the chips into a side pot, burned a card, and flipped.

The turn: two of hearts.

The board: Queen of Hearts. Jack of Hearts. Two of clubs.

Fuck, yes! Nut flush! Play it cool. Play it safe. Bait him.

Godkiller clench and shook a winner's fist and beamed.

He was drawing for the flush! King-ten of hearts! That's his fucking hand! I knew it. He has a king high flush. I have the ace. But to him I could have a two non-heart aces. But, I have him beat!

Wait! Shit! The nine of hearts. If he has a king-ten of hearts and he gets the nine of hearts on the river, he has a straight flush. He'd never play a king-ten off suit, no way. There is only one card in the deck that can fuck me.

The nine of hearts.

Wait! Is he shining me on?

Shit! If he had a pocket pair, he had a boat now? Goddamn it. No, he hasn't played that way. He was drawing for sure. Goddamn it! I can't read this fucker.

"Goddamn it! Are you fucking with me?" Said Olivia.

Until that point in the game, Godkiller had been closed mouthed. She didn't think he was acting, but then again, she was at a table full of producers. He could be an actor.

Is he playing me?

"Are you an actor?"

Godkiller's eyes widened, "Who? Me? Fuck no."

Jimmy Dean grew bored and accepted his loss. He thumbed a finger Sue's way and scoffed.

"He's no actor."

"A musician?" Olivia said.

Godkiller growled. "What the fuck do you mean by 'He's no actor'?"

"I meant nothing by it."

"The fuck you didn't."

"Calm down. I take it back."

"You'll take the backside of my hand if you keep running that fat fucking mouth."

Jimmy Dean's fat mouth hung agape.

The armed guards glanced at each other.

"Boss?" One guard said.

Jimmy Dean wave a "not yet hand" with a raised "keep watch" eyebrow.

Olivia noticed this and didn't need any male Mickey Mouse bullshit fucking up her win.

"How did you get here?" She said.

Godkiller faced Olivia. "Repeat."

"How did you get to this table? Who are you?"

"Me? I'm nothing. An old war dog and a poker rat. An animal. No more. No less." Godkiller shrugged. "I met Billy at a Karaoke bar."

"Can we get a move on? I have a three a.m. flight to L.A." Jimmy said.

Billy dismissed Jimmy Dean with a wave. "Hold on. Calm down. This is enormous for them."

"How do you keep roping me into letting these people play?"

Godkiller craned his neck at Jimmy Dean. "What the fuck do you mean 'these people'?"

Jimmy Dean pointed with both hands at Olivia and Godkiller. "You people. Poor people."

Godkiller flared and stood.

Billy stood up and snapped at Jimmy Dean as if he were a child. "Go. Now."

"What?"

"Get. Sit the fuck down. Do a line of blow, ya' cunt."

"The fuck you call me? You think you will tell me what to do in my own goddamn suite."

"Yeah. I will. I called you a cunt, but I apologize for that and rescind that moniker. Allow me to correct myself. You're sandpaper snuck into my fleshlight. Ya' Jabba the Hutt looking sumbitch."

Jimmy Dean couldn't help it. He let out a guffaw deep from his belly and everyone else smiled and laughed. Everyone, but Godkiller.

"And, if I say no?"

"I get off your goddamn money train, walk away from the album, and tomorrow's show."

"You're under contract."

"You think I give a shit?"

"I'll ruin you."

"I don't give two wet shits! I ain't standing idle and letting you insult these wonderful people, these 'poor people', because you have a checkbook. It ain't right. These're my people. These're your people. We're all just people. No more, no less. And your checkbook ain't gonna' to stop me from grabbin' you by your ring of necks and draggin' your self-righteous lard ass down to the lobby and teachin' you a lesson in humility your daddy never did."

Jimmy Dean sighed and knew he meant it.

Billy snapped at him and pointed to the pile of cocaine on the kitchenette table.

"Go. Now."

"Fine." He shrugged.

Jimmy Dean slithered across the room and snorted a line of cocaine. Feeling better, he said, "My apologies to the room. That was unnecessary. I'm tired. High. And a shitty loser."

Billy eased Sue back into his seat with a hand. "Chill, M'love."

"Now everybody chill." Billy nodded to the armed guards. "And you two dickheads with the pea shooters, chill. Think happy thoughts. Like kickin' puppies or whatever the fuck gets you fascists to squirt."

The guards laughed. "Yes sir, Mr. Slade."

And the guards relaxed.

With the ordeal resolved, Billy sat down and looked at Olivia. "Olivia, I met Sue at a karaoke bar, as he said. He speaks true. To the best of my knowledge, he's neither an actor nor a musician. He's a veteran and a full-time gambler and a wonderful one at that. That's why I covered half his buy-in."

Jimmy Dean cackled. "You did what?"

Billy shrugged. "I covered him."

"Oh, you sweet marvelous idiot."

"I'm down fifty-k. I'll go get another fifty-k. It's my way of thanking Sue for his service. Lord knows the damn government ain't. The money's his to do with as he pleases. No forms. No strings. I ain't the government."

"I fold. Goodnight." Jimmy Dean tossed his hands in the air and headed toward his room.

"What? Two years ago I was living in a leaky trailer eating ravioli from a can."

"You'll be back."

Billy laughed. "Hell, with my sexual promiscuity and drug and alcohol intake, I wager I won't be around in two. I'm a hedonist. I live for earthly pleasures."

Jimmy Dean laughed, "You better be on that goddamn stage tomorrow."

Billy waved him away. "If I'm not there, It's cuz' I'm dead. And it was nice knowing ya'."

"Goodnight, ya' queer fuck."

"G'night ya' fat piece of shit."

And Jimmy shut the door to his bedroom.

"All right you, you sons a' bitches!" Billy said, clapped his hands, and rubbed them together. "Let's play some fuckin' cards! Whoa! That was intense. My dick hard!"

Gorto cleared his throat. "All right, kiddos. I want to see this hand. Hope you win, Sweety."

And he winked at her in a non-creepy, endearing way.

Olivia liked Gorto, loved Billy, but disliked Sue.

What an odd fucking name.

"Your move, Yugi." The dealer told her.

"Yugi? Bitch, I'm Yami." Olivia said.

The dealer smiled, glad somebody got his joke.

What does he have? I can't read this asshole.

"You know what I have…" Sue Godkiller said.

I do?

"And I know what you have." He continued. "If you push, I push. If you check, I check. I'm not ready to go home. Just check."

King-ten of hearts. That's what I'm going with. He has a king high flush. I have him beat. Unless…

No, nine of hearts.

Please, no nine of hearts.

No, nine of hearts. One card.

Less than a two percent chance.

One card.

Olivia grimaced and rapped her knuckles on the table. "Check."

Burn and flip.

The Lemmy special: the Ace of Spades.

She hit.

A boat.

Full-house.

Aces full of twos.

Olivia was ecstatic. She could leave her pillow bitter husband, abandon Nevada, and flee to Montreal. Playground Poker Club and health care, here she comes. She curled her toes, barely able to control her excitement. This win was everything.

"Goddamn, Olivia." Gorto said.

"Good shit!" Billy laughed.

Sue hung his head and stared at the felt.

Olivia snuffed a creeping tear away. "All in. Sorry, Sue."

Sue didn't move, didn't react. Stupefied. He looked up, head cocked to one side, and smiled. It was no ordinary smile. It was the smile you'd find on the face of a naked podophiliac pedophile hiding at the bottom of the ball pit at a children's play place.

A wicked thing.

It sent chills down Olivia's spine.

And then Sue cackled.

A vicious thing.

Sue had been wearing a mask, and this was his genuine face.

"Sorry for what?" Sue croaked and shoved his chips forward with a splash.

She fucked up, and she knew it.

Sue stood and flipped his cards, but she didn't need to see them, she knew what they were.

Sue was raking in the chips before his cards hit the table.

Four-of-a-kind.

Pocket-twos.

Fuck twos.