“Oh,” I say, still not getting it. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t know we had plans.”
“Shannon,” she says. She grabs me by the shoulder and looks into my eyes. “We. Did. Not. Have. Plans. But you could have called to check on me. That’s what friends do.”
“Oh,” I repeat. Um, I didn’t know Mackenzie and I were friends. Otherwise I would have been happy to call her. Maybe not to take her out to a bar (apparently drinking is not good for me), but definitely brunch. I could have totally used some brunch yesterday, maybe eggs Benedict and French toast with lots of syrup. “I didn’t know we were friends,” I try.
“Of course we are!” she says. “Why do you think I invited you to come with me to see if Lance was cheating on me?”
“Because you didn’t have anyone else to go with?” I ask. I move past her to my locker in the corner and shove my bag in. My shoes fall out and clatter to the floor, and I pick them up and shove them back in. They really need to get bigger lockers around here. You’d think that with all the money they’re making every night, they could afford to treat their employees a little better.
“Well,” Mackenzie says, “that is true. That I didn’t have anyone else to go with. But I still wanted to go with you. I mean, I could have gone by myself.”
“Okay,” I say. “So we’re friends. Thanks for clearing it up, and next time, I will be sure to take you to brunch. My treat, even.” Why not? I mean, I’m about to be rich, right?
“Shannon,” Mackenzie scolds, “now that we’re BFFs, we’re supposed to support each other, especially when it comes to guys.”
Hmmm. “Don’t you already have a BFF?” I ask.
“No,” she says, sighing. “You’d think that I would, but honestly, most girls don’t like me.” Surprise, surprise.
“Look, you don’t need Lance,” I say, trying to make up for my lack of support yesterday. Better late than never, right? “You’re way better than Lance, with his dumb tattoos and his dumb wallet chains! I mean, how 1999 can you get?” Hopefully they don’t get back together. I could never hang out with Lance again after all this bad-mouthing. Too embarrassing.
“Really?” Mackenzie perks up a little.
“Totally,” I say. “I mean, you have tons of guys hitting on you every night. You could have any guy you wanted. Lance is going to rue the day he ever broke up with you for that ridiculous …” I search for a term Mackenzie would love to hear applied to Ashley King, and settle on “skank whore.” It rolls off my tongue surprisingly well.
“Well,” Mackenzie says, cocking her head to the side and thinking about it, “I did meet a guy at the party before I found Lance upstairs with the skank whore.”
“You did?” I ask, pleased that she’s deemed my term worthy enough to add to her vocabulary.
“Yes,” she says. “What did you think was taking me so long?”
“I wasn’t sure,” I say truthfully, not mentioning that I really didn’t care since I was enjoying having Max all to myself.
“Anyway, his name is Filipe, and he seems really nice.” She wrinkles her little nose. “Definitely not a cheater. We’ve been texting all day.”
“There you go!” I say. “See? You’re already back in the game!”
Mackenzie grabs me in a hug. “Thanks, Shannon.”
“You’re welcome,” I say into her hair.
? ? ? ?
Work. Goes. By. So. Very. Slowly. I’m completely scattered and unfocused. I spill two drinks and forget to add the alcohol to one of the players’ Diet Cokes. And he is not happy. At all. (“How could you forget the rum? The rum is what keeps me going! Where’s a comment card? I think I need to fill out a comment card!”)
But by the time my shift is over, I don’t even care that my feet are killing me and that Adrienne has been on my back all night. (“Move it, Shannon, this isn’t an old-age home!” “Shannon, my grandma could move better than you!” “Shannon, where are the drinks for table eleven!”) Honestly, it’s verging on verbal abuse. Plus when I gave her my fake birth certificate, she acted like she didn’t even care, like she hadn’t been practically hounding me for it. But like I said, I don’t even care. I’m too nervous about the fact that I’m going to be back out at the tables soon.
“I’m going out with Filipe tonight,” Mackenzie offers up when we’re in the dressing room after our shift. “He texted and asked me if I wanted to have a late dinner.”
“Really?” I say. “That’s great.”
I open my bag and survey its contents.
Here’s what I packed:
• red dress of Robyn’s that is too big for her, so it might fit me
• tight black pants
• tight white T-shirt
• black dress with flippy skirt, also taken from Robyn’s closet, also too big for her
• curling iron
• straightening iron (Obviously I can’t decide how I want to wear my hair.)
• black boots
• everything I could find in my makeup drawer
I look at the mess and contemplate whether I should just change back into my jeans and pink hoodie. I know Cole said to dress sexy, but that can’t really make any difference, can it? It’s going to depend on how well I play, not what I look like. I’ve decided I don’t want to win because guys are underestimating me, anyway. I want to win on my own merits. With my own skills. Plus won’t it look weird if I end up out on the floor all dressed up and ready to play? What will the people I work with think? Then again, they probably won’t even notice, since no other waitress besides Mackenzie has ever spoken to me, and when I played the other night, the pit boss didn’t even recognize me. Sigh.
And then a picture of Parvati flashes through my mind, and she’s at Wellesley, talking with a bunch of girls, and they’re all deciding which literary society to join (because you just know she’s that type), and Max is up for the weekend and she’s so happy to see him, and I’m weaving through the tables at the Collosio, still working here so that I can make money for gas to get me back and forth to the community college. And so I decide I need any advantage I can get.
“So then I said, ‘Well, I’ve never been to that restaurant,’ and then he said, ‘Well, a beautiful girl like you definitely needs to go there.’ Isn’t that so sweet?” I realize that Mackenzie has been talking to me this whole time, her voice coming over the door to the private dressing area I’m standing in. I haven’t heard a word. I really need to do a better job of being a good BFF.
“That’s really sweet,” I say, opening the door. “Listen, Mackenzie,” I say. “I need some advice.”
Mackenzie gets a serious look on her face, grabs my shoulders, pushes me over to the little sitting area in the corner, and plops me down in a chair. “Is it about Max?” she asks. “Spill.”
“Uh, no,” I say. “It’s not about Max.”
“Oh.” Mackenzie’s face falls. “Then what is it about?”
“Um, well, it’s kind of about fashion,” I say. I open my bag and show her the contents. “If you wanted to be, uh, sexy and revealing, what would you wear out of this stuff?”
Mackenzie surveys the contents closely and frowns. “Shannon, you really shouldn’t treat your clothes like this. If you leave them all bunched up, they’re going to—OHMIGOD, YOU HAVE PRADA BOOTS!” She screams and holds them up. Then she kicks off the shoes she’s wearing, a pair of silvery heels, and shoves her feet into the boots. “Where did you get these?”
“Christmas present from my aunt,” I say. “And they’re not real. They’re knockoffs.”
“Oh.” Mackenzie’s face falls again, and she pulls off the boots.
“They’re still good,” I say defensively. “You couldn’t even tell they were fake.”
“Of course they’re still good,” Mackenzie says soothingly, and pats my head.
I sigh. I’d better not have to dress revealingly forever. Just until I become a kick-ass poker player and people know not to mess with me. “So, uh, what do
you think about this stuff?”
She surveys my belongings. “Well,” she says, “I’d wear this”—she holds up the black dress—“with the boots, of course. And you should blow your hair straight with a round brush to give it volume at the bottom, and then some smudged eyes with a nude lip.”
She lost me with the nude lip. “Okaaay,” I say slowly. “But what if I needed to, you know, get into this stuff now, and I didn’t have any round brushes or nude lips?”
“Then you’d borrow it from me,” she says, frowning. “I keep all that stuff in my locker for when I go out after wo—Wait a minute! Shannon! Where are you going this late and why are you getting all vamped up?”
“Vamped up? I’m not getting vamped up, I’m just trying to—”
“You are going out with him, aren’t you?” she says. She leans across the table and she’s so close to me I can see the sparkles on her cheeks that have flecked off from her eye shadow.
“Who?” Please don’t say Cole, please don’t say Cole, please don’t—
“Max!” She sighs. “Shannon, I’m a little upset that you haven’t told me.”
“Oh, no,” I say. I’m so relieved she doesn’t know I’m hanging out with Cole that I almost don’t even mind that she brought up Max’s name. “I told you, we’re just friends. I’m, um … I’m going out with another guy.”
“Ooh,” she says. “We both have fun nights planned, just the way we should.” She nods. “I’ll help you get ready.” I follow her obediently to the side of the room, where she reaches into her bag and pulls out a pair of black stockings. “You,” she declares, “are going to look hot as hell. Now, tell me all about this guy.”
? ? ? ?
Twenty minutes later, I realize that Mackenzie’s right. I do look hot as hell. I’m wearing Robyn’s black dress (which is a little tight on me, but in a good way, because it shows a lot of cleavage and looks like it’s tight on purpose), a pair of black patterned stockings, and the fake Prada boots. My hair is free and flowing around my shoulders, and my eyes are smoky and smudged with some gray and black eye shadow of Mackenzie’s, along with three coats of black mascara. My lips are covered with a light pink gloss, making my eyes pop even more, and Mackenzie dusted my shoulders with some sheer sparkling powder, and my face with some bronzer. I’ve never looked so good in my life.
“You,” Mackenzie says, “are going to totally wow this guy, whoever he is.” She gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Have fun,” she says. “Text me if you need anything.”
She’s nice, I think as I walk out of the dressing room. I make a mental note to text her later and ask her how her date went. And then I head to the side of the casino and take the elevator up to room 2123.
I knock on the door to Cole’s room. Nothing. I knock again. Still nothing. Is there some sort of secret knock? Or a password I’m supposed to shout out? I try beating a little rhythm on the door, one knock, then wait, two knocks, then wait. Still nothing.
I’m debating whether I should call him on my cell to figure out what’s going on when the door finally swings open and Cole’s standing there wearing a towel. A TOWEL. Around his waist. And nothing else.
He’s … very built. He has a six-pack. I try to avert my eyes, but it’s hard.
“What took you so long?” I ask haughtily, trying to pretend it’s every day that a half-naked guy opens his hotel room door for me.
“Sorry,” he says. “I was in the shower.” Obviously. He looks me up and down, and suddenly, my sexy outfit, which seemed like a good idea back in the dressing room, seems silly. What was I thinking? This isn’t me. I’m not sexy. I wear jeans and hoodies or maybe a V-neck sweater if I’m feeling daring.
Cole leans in close to me. “You look really hot,” he whispers. His breath is warm on my ear, and it smells like something dark and sweet. Maybe rum. My first inclination is to pull away, because his nearness is making me feel a little weak, but instead, I just say, “Thanks,” and push past him into the room.
My stomach does a flip, and the old familiar feeling of being in a weird place with a sketchy guy I hardly know washes over me. I take a deep breath. It’s okay, I tell myself. If he wanted to kill and/or maim you, he’s already had tons of chances to do it.
Cole goes into the bathroom and reappears a few minutes later, wearing a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. His hair is still wet, and it flops onto his forehead.
“So,” he says. He sits down at the table in the room and motions to the seat across from him, and I sit down. “Are you really in?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, suddenly nervous.
“I mean,” he says, “that you can’t just pop up every time you feel like being a badass, or when you need a little extra money. You’re either in or you’re out.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I say, trying to sound surer than I feel. I mean, this is kind of serious. Deciding to join a secret poker society? Major.
“So I convinced you,” Cole says. He breaks into a huge grin.
“You didn’t convince me,” I say. “I decided it all on my own.” Which is true. He didn’t convince me to do anything. In fact, if anything, he’s pushed me not to join, by acting all shady.
“Because of me convincing you.”
“Nooo,” I say. “Because of me deciding all on my own.” The way he’s looking at me is making me uncomfortable, so I pull my eyes away from his gaze and focus on the wall behind him.
“Then, what happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“Usually when people say no to joining Aces Up and then decide they want to, it’s because something in their circumstances has changed.”
“Nothing in my circumstances has changed,” I say. It isn’t technically a lie. Just because I found out that Parvati wants to go to Wellesley and I tried to kiss Max and he didn’t respond and my dad is now consumed with selling off all our possessions, it doesn’t mean my circumstances have changed. I mean, I’m still working at the casino. I have the exact same financial situation as I did before.
“You don’t have to tell me.” Cole shrugs and reaches for a deck of cards sitting on the table. He starts shuffling them fast, back and forth from hand to hand.
“I told you, there’s nothing to tell,” I say.
He shrugs again. “I don’t really care either way.” Shuffle, shuffle. “You know, usually we don’t let people in who have said no first,” he says. “But we like you.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Who is this ‘we’ you keep talking about, anyway? Like, where is everyone else?” I kind of expected that there’d be group meetings. You know, PowerPoint presentations, maybe dinners out … like in that movie 21.
“They’re around,” he says. “But you’ll mostly be dealing with me.” He’s still shuffling. “We’ll play every night, and I’ll coach you every night here in the room.”
“Coach me?” Sounds like … work. Besides, I thought I was a natural. “I thought you said I was a natural.”
“You’re good,” he says. “You’re great at running some of the numbers in your head. But intuition is important, too, and you also need to understand the importance of pot odds.” He sits up straight. “You need to start calculating all the odds in your head, not just of winning, but of how much you’d be risking to make what, so that you can combine that with your intuition and the card combinations.”
He gets up and flops onto the bed, where he shuffles the cards and then deals two hands onto the fluffy white comforter. He looks at me, clearly indicating that I should sit next to him. I hesitate. I shouldn’t even be in this hotel room, much less sitting on the bed with him.
But I sit anyway, and we spend the next hour and a half going over percentages and odds. He’s right that there’s a lot more to it than I originally thought. Not only do I have to take into consideration what I have in my hand and balance that with what’s on the board and what other people might have, I also have to pay attention to how much is in the pot. If I’m almost sure someone has
beat me but I’ve already invested a lot of chips, sometimes it’s worth it to throw in a little more on the chance that I might win a big pot. It’s all about risk versus reward.
The good news is I’m lighting quick at doing the math in my head, so it doesn’t take me long to look at a hand, look at the board, look at the pot, and calculate the odds. The hard part is trying to guess what the other people’s odds are based on what they’re doing. Especially since you have to make pretty quick decisions, and there can be eight other people at the table.
I’m so caught up in what Cole’s teaching me that when I finally look up, it’s already almost midnight.
“Holy shit,” I say, looking at the clock on the table near the bed. “It’s already twelve.”
“Past your curfew?” Cole asks, smiling. I’m about to say, “Um, yeah,” but then realize that’s probably not the best way to shake my reputation of being naïve and childish. I start to freak out a little, but then figure if my parents were really looking for me, they would have tried my phone. Besides, they definitely should both be in bed by now, and ever since that night when my car broke down, my mom hasn’t been checking in on me. Just as I thought, my phone has only one text, from Mackenzie. It says, “Have fun! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, can’t wait to hear all about it.” That’s followed by a smiley and about six million x’s and o’s.
“You ready to go down to the poker room?” Cole asks. He’s gathering up the cards, and one of them falls out of the stack onto the bed, and as he reaches for it, his hand brushes against my arm. He’s really close now, and when he pulls back, he keeps his face near mine.
“Yes,” I say, trying to sound calm. He’s so close that I can feel his breath on my face, and his lips are like two inches away from mine. I start to get nervous, figuring that if I can see his lips so well, then he can see mine, and I wonder if he can tell that my lips are chapped, because my lips tend to get chapped really easily, and usually I keep Chap Stick on them, but I couldn’t this time because I put on all that lipstick, and I’m wondering why I even care, because I don’t even like Cole, and then all of a sudden he’s moving closer and his lips are on mine.