It’s for the best really. He wasn
’t a good poker player anyways if he couldn’t even keep his anger in check.
Calmly, the man stands and places his cards down. Royal Flush.
He would’ve won that round.
I keep my face blank, not unveiling the smile that’s threatening to emerge. I would feel bad for him if he didn’t get off on hurting women.
Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t feel bad at all.
While Mark was burning his cigar on the waitress’s flesh, this bald man over here was adjusting himself. He wasn’t the only one, though, and I made sure to note every one of their faces for later.
The man gives Mark and me one last look before walking off without a word.
The valuable little lesson that came out of that embarrassing spectacle was that Marky-Mark here has power. Whatever weight he pulls, it’s enough to give him superiority over the common folk.
Wonder how many little boys’ and girls’ lives it took to get that far.
“What’s your name, boy?” he asks.
“Zack Forthright,” I lie easily.
“Name’s Mark Seinburg. I’m sure you already know who I am, though. How long have you been playing poker?” Mark asks as they restart the game, brushing over his narcissism like the notion of me not knowing who he is isn’t an option.
I know exactly who he is, but not for the reasons he thinks.
“Since I was a kid,” I answer truthfully.
My father was a professional poker player, and he taught me how to master a poker face. Something that has been crucial to my field of work.
He’d sit me on his lap as a little boy, teaching me the game, and then show me his cards as he played with his friends. Testing me to see if I could keep a blank face. He lost a lot of games doing that.
But he truly believed I wouldn’t learn how to master a poker face unless I knew what it meant to play the game. He’d whisper in my ear, point out my tells, and teach me how to not only read and understand facial expressions but micro-expressions.
During that time, my father never truly lost any money. After my lesson, I’d run off and play, and he’d win all his money back plus some. It took me a couple of years to master a poker face and even longer to master the game itself, but he made me play against him once I did.
I beat him in the first game, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen pride in a man’s eyes shine brighter since that day.
“Well, boy, let’s see what you’re made of then.”
He’ll find out what a bullet is made of when it’s lodged in his throat. But I don’t say that.
Throughout the next several hours, I purposely stay neck-in-neck with him. I understand a narcissist’s ego enough to know that it would’ve only angered him if I cleaned him out. And if I’m horrible, he won’t respect me. So, I keep the playing field even.
You win some, you lose some. Back and forth until he slaps his cards down with a hearty laugh.
“I’ve met my match,” he chortles, taking a drink out of his whiskey glass.
I smile prettily at him. “You’re a lot better than I gave you credit for,” I praise.
He offers me a cigar and I take one, but I’d let Detective Fingers finger blast my ass before I put it out on a girl’s arm. I’ll have to figure out a way to stop him without breaking his neck if he tries it again.
“How come I haven’t seen you here before?” he asks, eyeing me closely as he lights his cigar. Not necessarily suspicious, but every man in these types of clubs looks at a new member with an air of wariness. “I’d recognize those nasty scars anywhere.”
That was fucking rude. But he’s not wrong.
I shrug a shoulder. “My money is new,” I lie.