Still standing at the corner of the street with my hand up, I continue to look for another option.
The rush of people passing by, all appear eager for the weekend to start. With smiles on their faces, some are talking on the phone as they move around me, making plans I’m sure.
Must be nice, but unfortunately, I have no place to go.
Normally, I’d have a hot date, but I’ve been too busy with work to set one up. Also, I’m not really feeling like making plans with any of the women I know.
No. I need a change of pace tonight.
Something different.
I rack my brain for someplace, anyplace. But since I can’t think of anything off the top of my head, I look down at my phone and start scrolling again.
When I get to the T’s, I see potential.
Trent.
Good old Trent.
Trent and I have been friends since we went to school together. His family’s wealth rivals my own.
But unlike me, he doesn’t work. Well, that’s not true; he works, but only when he wants, and when he doesn’t want to, he’s been known to take long breaks from his job as a hedge fund manager and live off his trust fund.
How he manages to have any clients at all with his lack of professionalism is beyond me. Guess he has nothing to prove.
Unlike me.
The good thing about him not working all the time is that he always has something going on.
We don’t hang out as often anymore, not since I claimed I wanted more responsibility, but desperate times and all.
I’m bored.
I hit the call button.
“What’s up, man? I was wondering when you would call,” he answers.
It’s good to hear his voice. Reminds me of better times, when I could fuck around and sleep until noon.
“It hasn’t been that long.” Lies. It feels like it’s been forever since I’ve gone out.
My free hand reaches up and runs through my hair, tugging on the strands. The mere thought of the shit and hoops I’ve jumped through to prove myself, and for what?
Nothing.
No one respects me.
“It’s been at least a month,” he deadpans. “You quit this crazy pursuit to be taken seriously?”
He’s right; it is crazy.
Fucking nuts, if I’m being honest. Sometimes, I’m not even sure why I care.
But I do. So, I’m fucked.
“I wish. But . . .” I trail off. “I figure everyone needs a break.”
“And that is why you called me.” He laughs, and as I chuckle back, a group of people rush by me. They’re trying to make the crosswalk, and I’m in their way.
Time to move.
Standing in the middle of the sidewalk on the phone is probably my biggest pet peeve, and here with my desire to find a distraction for the night, I’m everything I hate.
“Exactly. If anyone has plans, I would be interested in, it’s you. Obviously.” With no cabs in sight, I walk toward the subway. I should probably figure out this shit before my call drops.
“Well, it so happens I do. That is, if you want to spend some money.”
That makes my feet halt as I lift my arm once again to grab a cab. The stairs to the subway are only a few feet away, and once I’m inside, I won’t be able to hear him, and this I need to hear.
“Now you have me intrigued,” I respond.
“Poker game.”
My mouth parts as a smile spreads across my face. Poker. One of my favorite pastimes.
This sounds promising.
“Okay,” I answer because it’s a no-brainer for me.
“But not your typical poker game. This one is high stakes and very exclusive.” Now he really has me interested. I’m always one for high risks, but when he says exclusive, I need to know more.
“Details,” I ask because as much as I’m all for playing poker, and as much as Trent is cool, he can also be shady as fuck sometimes. As long as it’s not some sketchy game, I’ll be down. But you never know with him.
“Do you know Cyrus Reed?”
“Cyrus Reed,” I respond. “The name rings a bell.” I try to remember why. It hits me. Reed. He’s related to River. A cousin or something. “I’ve met him before. Banker, right?”
“Amongst other things.” His voice dips lower in that sentence.
“Such as?”
“His portfolio is spread amongst many different business ventures.” His answer is vague and raises red flags, but the thing is, I’m bored.
“And one of his many business ventures is hosting an underground poker game?” I’m not saying I won’t go, but I like to have my cards on the table.
“Exclusive poker games,” he corrects.
“What’s the difference?”
“It’s not illegal.”
He can’t see my face over the phone, but if he did, he’d know I wasn’t buying it. The thing is, I don’t care. It wouldn’t be the first time I dabbled in something illegal.
I highly doubt the United States government would feel too favorably about me hacking into their government records, and I do that shit a minimum of five times a week. What’s one poker game?