The Stranger Just One Night Part 1(2)

A man walks by me and runs his eyes up and down my body without even making a thin attempt to hide his desire. My blush deepens and I turn away. The way he looked at me . . . does he think I’m a hooker? I’d have to be a pretty successful one to afford this outfit. I glance over my shoulder and realize that he’s stopped to watch me as I move away from him. He looks slick and arrogant. I don’t want him . . . but I like that he wants me, and even that small pleasure makes me feel a little shameful . . . and scandalous.

We stake out a blackjack table that has a $100 minimum. That doesn’t exactly make it for high rollers but it’s so much more than I would normally risk.

As I sit down, my hem inches up and I’m reminded of the thin thong, the only undergarment I’m wearing.

What am I doing here?

I swallow hard and focus on the table. I’m not exactly an expert at the game but Simone proves to be much worse than I am. She places huge bets and then keeps trying for the twenty-one even though her attempts lead her to bust more than once. Eventually she gives up and tells me she’s going off to the craps table. I stay where I am. I can handle adding up cards but I have never mastered the art of rolling the dice.

“This looks like a good table.”

I turn just as a man wearing dark jeans and a brown T-shirt sits beside me. His sculpted arms are an odd contrast to the salt-and-pepper hair . . . but I like it. He looks over at me just as I’m taking him in and I quickly look away. It was an obvious dodge and I inwardly cringe at my awkwardness.

A woman with a clipboard walks over and smiles at the man now by my side. “Mr. Dade, so good to see you.”

“You too, Gladys. I’m going to start with five thousand.”

The woman nods and after he signs a slip of paper, a pile of black and purple chips are placed in front of him.

This is not the way people normally get their chips.

I put down a $200 bet and the dealer doles out a few cards. I start with a five and an ace. It’s not a bad beginning. Mr. Dade isn’t so lucky with his ten and six.

I tap my finger next to my cards and am given another. Mr. Dade does the same.

My card’s a four. I smile to myself. I’m on a roll.

Or at least I thought I was until Mr. Dade is handed a five.

Twenty-one.

No one says the words but chips are pushed in his direction.

As the dealer adds a few chips to my pile, a smaller acknowledgment of my win against the house, Mr. Dade leans toward me, ever so slightly. “Care to make it interesting?”

“I thought that’s what we were doing.” I contemplate my chips, not because I need to count them but because I’m a little too unnerved to look directly at him.

“More interesting,” he clarifies. “If I have the better hand, we’ll leave the table and you’ll have a drink with me.”

“And if I have the upper hand?” I ask, twisting the words to my liking.

“Then I’ll have a drink with you.”

I laugh. Between the excitement in the room and my new, albeit temporary look, I’m already feeling a little lightheaded. I can’t imagine what a drink will do to me.

“If I win, we’ll have a drink right here at the table and keep playing,” I say. From an economic standpoint my plan is probably the more risky one but from every other perspective it’s decidedly safer.

“A negotiator,” Mr. Dade says. Although I’m still not looking at him, I can feel his smile. The energy he’s exuding is sexy, but also a little mischievous.

I like it.

The dealer doles out a few more cards. I get a three and a six while Mr. Dade gets a king and a four. It’s anyone’s game. It all depends on what we’re dealt next . . . a nice little metaphor for life.

But I keep that thought to myself and quietly tap my blood red fingernails against the felt green table. Mr. Dade gestures to be hit as well.

This time he’s the one who gets to twenty. I don’t even get to eighteen.

He stands up, offers me his hand. “Shall we?”

I collect my chips and hesitate as I mentally plan out how to get up from the table without exposing more than I’d care to display.

Again, I can feel this man’s smile. An old song pops into my head, “The Devil Inside,” and I mentally play it as a soundtrack while I carefully get to my feet. He doesn’t rush me as he escorts me first to the cashier, where I can cash out my chips, then to the escalator. People are still looking, but now they’re looking at us.

But there is no us, I remind myself. This is a fantasy. A fleeting and insubstantial encounter. We’ll drink, we’ll flirt, and then we’ll vanish from each other’s lives like smoke from a controlled flame.