Date: January 3
Time: 6:34 a.m. PST
Me: I’m still waiting for my first real dick pic.
Date: January 3
Time: 6:35 a.m. PST
Me: And by the way, I’m changing your name to Best Phone Sex Ever.
Date: January 3
Time: 5:00 p.m. PST
Me: Are you working late? If so, call me.
Date: January 3
Time: 8:13 p.m. PST
Me: I’m home if you’re around. Call me.
Date: January 4
Time: 10:09 a.m. PST
Me: I left you a few messages, did you get them?
Date: January 7
Time: 11:10 a.m. PST
Me: Where are you?
Date: January 10
Time: 9:44 a.m. PST
Me: What happened?
Date: January 15
Time: 11:17 a.m. PST
Me: Talk to me, please.
Date: January 17
Time: 9:08 p.m. PST
Me: Was this even real?
Date: January 24
Time: 10:43 p.m. PST
Me: You’re such an asshole.
Date: January 30
Time: 9:51 p.m. PST
Me: I’m deleting your number. Have a nice life, ASSHOLE!
Keen
The faces on the original LeRoy Neiman painting seem to be glaring down at me with disdain. I wipe the sweat from my brow and try to focus.
Thirty hours without sleep—or is it forty?—make it hard to concentrate. And all the scotch isn’t helping.
Lyle Berman, Bobby Baldwin, Doyle Brunson, and Chau Giang aren’t giving me any guidance either. Then again, the mouths of the most famous poker players in the world can’t offer up advice when they’re painted on a canvas.
The confine of the glass wall that surrounds me makes me feel like I’m in a fishbowl with all eyes on this Wall Street wolf. Technically ex, but why spill what no one needs to know?
Pulling strings got me in here. Unraveling them will get me kicked out.
“Blue Suede Shoes” is playing overhead and I think to myself, now Elvis, he was one hell of a man. Good with the ladies, and according to legend, one hell of a card shark. And let’s not forget he could hold his booze.
Seconds tick by and all I can do is stare down at the dwindling pile of thousand-dollar chips in front of me. I’d roll up my shirtsleeves to ease the stress, but I did that eight hours ago.
All or nothing.
It’s all or nothing.
The hot little cocktail waitress is making her rounds again, and even though I raise my glass to indicate a refill, she still saunters behind me and presses those big tits of hers up close and personal. “Another?” she purrs into my ear.
I nod with a dip of my chin and give only the slightest glance into that ample cleavage of hers.
Under any other circumstances, I’d excuse myself from the table and take her into the bathroom to fuck her against one of the stall doors.
But right now, getting laid isn’t on the top of my list.
Winning is.
All or nothing.
It’s all or nothing.
Shifting the jack of diamonds next to the queen of diamonds, I try to study the tells on the players’ faces. They all seem like professionals, though, and they don’t have many tells.
What the hell am I doing here?
Bobby’s Room at the Bellagio hosts the highest-limit poker action in the United States, with $20,000 minimum buy-ins. And although I’m good, I’m definitely not a professional player.
Still, I had the cash, and the connections, so the higher Vegas powers that be extended an invitation.
And I figured, why not?
You see, after I quit my job on Wall Street because my prick of a boss pushed me to the edge, he insisted on firing me. Fuck him, I let him, and then I cashed in all $500,000 of my severance and decided to let the chips fall—literally.
That fucking job was my life.
I didn’t give a shit about the money. I was making double that in a year. For five years, I worked my ass off. And the last two years I was working seventy-hour weeks. All that for it to come down to a would I or wouldn’t I—cross the line, that is.
I’ll be honest: I thought about it. Long and hard. The FANG market is blowing up. No one would question me. Facebook, Amazon, Netflix, Google. Everyone wants a piece. All I had to do was what he said. The problem? You can’t come back from insider trading.
I might be a dick, but I’m not stupid.
As the air fills with another Elvis Presley tune, it’s the shuffling of cards that sounds the loudest in my ears.
I shift the king beside the queen. Blink. Focus. Concentrate. Or try. I’ve been out of it for a while now, and I think it’s finally sinking in. I lost my fucking job. My fucking life, and—oh right—Maggie.
Maggie.
Right girl.
Wrong time.
After that day, I couldn’t think about the possibility of a relationship—my life was in a million pieces. I gave everything to that prick. That firm. Everything! And when I said no, he fucked me, right up the ass.
The dealer’s hands are flying around the table, pushing chips and flipping cards, and then his round eyes are fixed on mine.