by Nell Stark
Nova spun in the stool to look at her head on. She had cleaned up a bit from the afternoon, exchanging her stained cargo pants for a low-slung pair of jeans. Her blond hair hung down in layers that extended just past her chin in front and gradually lengthened in the back. She was attractive. Very. And an ass, Vesper reminded herself.
“I know this is awkward,” Nova was saying. “But are you really going to hold what happened earlier against me? Didn’t you see the drunk guy who started the whole fiasco?”
“Security spoke with him. The spilled drink wasn’t the problem.”
“No, apparently my lack of respect for the game was the problem.” Nova fixed her with an intent stare. “Tell me the truth. You know just how much of an edge the house has. Do you really respect the people who walk in here and throw their money away, night after night?”
Vesper was through with niceties. “Are you even listening to yourself? You’re a professional poker player. You do the same thing.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong.”
“And you couldn’t be more infuriating!” Vesper knew she was allowing herself to be baited, but she couldn’t seem to help it. She raised her glass and took a sip before she completely lost her cool and threw it into Nova’s face. “You wager money on hands of poker. You’re a gambler. That isn’t up for debate.”
“Is there an element of luck in poker? Yes.” Nova pushed a stray strand of hair away from her mouth, and Vesper suddenly couldn’t look away from her lips. Wet from the drink that shared her name, they shimmered tantalizingly. As her stomach pitched and rolled, she sipped from her own glass. Was this some kind of hormonal quirk? Mentally, she began counting the days backward, only to lose her focus when Nova’s tongue darted out to apply a fresh sheen of moisture.
“…game of skill,” she was saying. “For those who can calculate the odds, at least.”
Vesper took another sip, wrestling with her composure. If she so much as betrayed a hint of attraction, Nova would torment her for as long as she was staying at Valhalla. Deliberately, she injected her voice with scorn. “Knowing the odds isn’t foolproof.”
“Of course it isn’t. But neither is a quarterback’s throwing game or a pitcher’s fastball. No one debates that football and baseball are games of skill, even though luck plays into the outcome.”
She was good at arguing. Vesper didn’t want to admit to herself that she was enjoying their verbal sparring session. “But what about the other parts of the game? Bluffing. Reading people.”
For the first time since the beginning of their debate, Nova hesitated. She tried to mask it by drinking deeply from her glass, but Vesper could sense the anxiety that sharpened her movements.
“True.” Nova took another sip. “In online poker, there is no body language, only patterns. So it still comes down to math—even the bluffing.”
“And that’s why you respect sports bettors, but not baccarat players?”
Nova braced one arm on the bar and leaned closer. “I respect sports bettors who do their research and poker players who know their numbers. I don’t respect idiots who roll dice or flip a card and expect to win something for nothing.”
Her speech struck a note of sympathy in Vesper. Entitlement. That’s what Nova was critiquing, and her words held more than a kernel of truth. Unbidden, memories flashed across Vesper’s mind like a 3-D film, inviting her to reach out and touch: the prickly armrests of the white cane chairs in the Chelton family’s solarium; the vast expanse of perfectly manicured grass outside floor-to-ceiling windows; tall, sweating glasses of pink lemonade doctored with the contents of Samuel’s flask.
It was a scene she had enacted a hundred times: Samuel lording it over them all at the head of the glass-topped table, flanked by his twin, Sabrina, and their younger brother, Simon. Vesper and Horatio, the butler’s boy, rounded out the group. The game was always Texas hold ’em, because as Samuel often said, All the other versions are gay. The Monopoly money they played with was falling apart, the dollar bills more tape than paper. No amount of air-conditioning could ever adequately cool that room, and their playing cards were always slightly damp with sweat and condensation.
Vesper could feel the ghosts of those cards between her fingertips, the quiet rustling sound they made, as though she had captured a butterfly in her palms. She was the best shuffler of them all—even better than Samuel—and whenever it was her turn to deal, Sabrina would stare at her hands.
An echo of the confused desire she had felt back then set her heart to pounding, and she raised her glass again only to realize she had reached the bottom of it.
“Vesper?” Nova’s voice was soft, the brush of fingertips against her shoulder even softer. No trace of her abrasiveness remained. “Are you all right?”
No. She wasn’t all right. She had thought herself beyond the reach of those memories. Dead to them. A flashback that strong hadn’t happened in years. But as she signaled Jim for another drink and felt Nova pull her hand away, it suddenly made sense. Here she sat, next to a woman she didn’t want to find attractive, discussing the game of poker. What could be the more perfect trigger?
The fresh G&T arrived, and Vesper clutched at it, downing half the glass in two quick gulps. She turned and plastered a smile onto her face. “I’m sorry about that. I just remembered something I neglected to do up at my office. I’ll need to be going.”
Nova frowned, opened her mouth, and then closed it again. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Well, it was nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Vesper extended her hand and tried to tell herself she didn’t feel anything when their palms slid together. “Every Monday night, a group of poker pros—live poker, I mean—play a cash game in one of the Celestial Palaces. No limit hold ’em.” She released Nova’s fingers and took a step back. “I’ll tell them to expect you next week.”
Her obligation fulfilled, she turned and strode briskly away. At ten paces, the urge to glance back over her shoulder was overwhelming, but instead of giving in, she ducked her head and walked even faster.
Chapter Five
Nova tried not to betray her awe as she stepped onto the swirling marble floor of the Morningstar Palace. She had known it would be lavish and was no stranger to luxury herself, but this defied even her expectations. The domed atrium was two stories high, its walls painted in shades of gold and blue. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their light reflected by large, gilt mirrors. The dome itself was a darker blue than the walls and had been painted with an image of the evening sky, its stars joined by thin golden lines into foreign configurations. The Norse constellations, if she had to guess.
Matching pairs of French doors on either side of the room were closed and curtained, and Nova briefly wondered where they led. But what commanded her attention were the twin staircases curling up toward a balcony at the far end of the hall, their marble steps covered by a crimson runner. At the top, two men were having a conversation. The one leaning against the balustrade and holding a snifter half-filled with bronze liquid looked vaguely familiar. Both were dressed casually, and Nova felt a rush of relief that her black chinos and green collared shirt wouldn’t be out of place. As she followed the butler across the room, the soles of her Doc Martens echoed beneath the dome, and the men glanced her way.
Ryan Davenport. That was his name. She had seen it in the credits of many an action-adventure film. One of her roommates—Liz, if she was remembering correctly—had enjoyed putting on those kinds of movies as a pretext for sex. They would start lying side by side on her bed as the opening credits rolled, but the action, both on screen and off, always escalated quickly. Dimly, she remembered Liz saying something once about Davenport enjoying poker. He must be their host tonight.
The memory made her chest ache. She missed Liz. And Emily. And Felicia. And Sandra. And even Monique, who had stayed angry the longest after the snafu with the bank. They were good friends who always had her back, and comfortable lovers without many expectations. Of course, there had
been drama at times, but they’d always worked their way through it. Here, no one was looking out for her, and if she wanted to blow off steam, she’d have to do it with a stranger. That held no appeal whatsoever.
Vesper Blake, on the other hand, held plenty of appeal. Nova didn’t think she had imagined the nascent chemistry between them, but she hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of her since their aborted conversation last week. She had received only one message—a handwritten note delivered by the concierge, which read simply: Monday night, 9 p.m., Morningstar Palace. You’re on the list. Best, V. Not exactly the warmest and fuzziest of missives.
“Mr. Davenport,” said the butler, jerking Nova out of her own head. Silently, she chastised herself. She couldn’t afford any lapses in concentration tonight. “This is Nova.”
He frowned, and Nova felt her heart sink toward her feet. Had Vesper been lying about the list? Or worse—had she tricked Nova into making a fool of herself? But then his face cleared. “Oh—you’re the online poker player, right?”
“That’s me.” Nova hoped she sounded confident.
“Welcome.” He nodded toward the double doors beyond the stairs. “We’re gathering in the sitting room.”
Nova ascended the stairs briskly, keeping a firm hand on the small backpack slung over one shoulder. In it were a tin of Altoids and an envelope containing ten thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills—almost a quarter of her liquid assets. It felt heavy, but she knew that was just her imagination playing tricks.
She stuck out her hand toward Davenport when she reached the top. “Thanks for having me.”
He looked her up and down and grinned faintly, radiating a GQ sort of charm that doubtless appealed to every straight woman on the planet. “Good to see you.” His shake was firm and brief, but Nova found herself gobsmacked with screaming gaydar. Struggling to maintain her composure, she nodded as he introduced the other man as Kevin Gunn, lead singer of a popular band she didn’t like and a “close friend” of his. Sure, he was.
“We’ll see you inside,” said Davenport, leaving her to face the tall double doors alone.
She took what she hoped was an unobtrusive deep breath and let her palms come to rest on the ornate gilt handles cast in the shape of sinuous dragons. The doors themselves were made of dark wood carved into ornate interlocking knot patterns that made her dizzy when she looked too closely. She tested the handles surreptitiously before giving them a strong push.
The doors swung open, silent on their hinges. Nova moved forward into a room dominated by its large, stone fireplace in which flames crackled merrily, offset by the low whir of cool air blowing through the vents. Luxury and waste were synonymous here, apparently.
An oval table with a surface of blue-veined marble occupied the center of the room, surrounded by chairs upholstered with golden leather. Six of the ten chairs were occupied, but as she moved closer, the raven-haired woman seated halfway along the far side was the only one to rise. Her three-inch stilettos put her eye to eye with Nova as she moved forward with the confidence of a tightrope walker.
“I’m Delilah, your dealer for the evening.” She held Nova’s hand twice as long as Davenport had.
“Nova. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Delilah cocked her head. “Shall we get you settled?”
Nova heard the unspoken request. In order to take a seat at the table, she had to hand over her money. Ten thousand dollars, just for the privilege of playing. As she let the backpack slip from her shoulder, she flashed back over the past several days. By forcing herself to sit in the poker hall for hours on end, she had managed to make almost two thousand. Now, she was about to risk five times that in a single night. If she won, she could potentially multiply her earnings tenfold or even more. If she lost…
Nova reached into the bag and closed her hand around the envelope inside. “Here you go,” she said as she forced her suddenly stiff fingers to release it into Delilah’s palm.
“Thank you.” Delilah swept a pale arm toward the table. “Please, sit.”
The prospect of sitting down between two strangers was never appealing, and it hadn’t gotten easier with practice. The people in Valhalla’s poker room were mostly tourists, and they tended to be both chatty and clueless. But right now, as she looked around the room and recognized three of the best live poker players in the world, she found herself oddly nostalgic for the company of amateurs.
They were all men, but that was where their similarities ended. Damon Magnusson was tall, whip-thin, and completely bald. He had won the main event at the WSOP two years in a row. The year before that, he had claimed a bronze medal for his native Norway as a biathlete in the Winter Olympics. The press had dubbed him “Ice Man.” Kris Winston, aka “Kris Kringle,” sat next to him, hands clasped across his prodigious belly. His poker career was as long and illustrious as his white beard.
Across from Winston, Jonah “Mac” MacArthur was hunched over his smartphone. Mac had gotten his start on the Internet, and he had parlayed that fame into a highly successful live career. Pudgy and pasty, with thinning mouse-brown hair and chunky glasses, he might not seem like much of a role model, but Nova would count herself lucky if she could emulate even a fraction of his success. Like her, he had a head for numbers, and when he wasn’t playing poker, he was playing the stock market. Over the past month, she’d read every interview of his that could be found on the Net in the hopes of picking up a few tips on how to make the transition from online to live poker. Would her name be familiar to him, she wondered. There was only one way to find out.
She slid into the chair next to his, but when he didn’t look up, she was obliged to make eye contact with Ice Man. His stare felt like a laser, dissecting her with cold precision. Forcing herself not to look away, she surreptitiously wiped her palm on one leg before extending it across the table.
“I’m sure you get this all the time, Damon, but great play last year at the final table.”
His hands were as cool as his mannerism. “And you are?”
“Nova.” His expression remained blank, and she hurried to add, “Until just recently, I’ve been playing online.”
Finally, Mac raised his head. “You took Royal Flush’s hold ’em tournament last year, right?”
“That’s me.” Nova didn’t know whether to feel relieved or apprehensive. Mac had just laid out her credentials, proving she belonged. But with credentials, came expectations. Mentally shrugging off her insecurity, she swiveled to face him. “Good to meet you, Mac.”
A blonde wearing a white blouse and a short black skirt interposed herself between them. “May I get you anything to drink?”
Nova desperately wanted to have a double of whatever Davenport had been drinking, but social lubrication would also dull her wits. She had to stay sharp tonight. “Sparkling water, please.”
“Same.” Mac watched the woman walk away before turning back to face her. “So, you’re entering the World Series this year, I take it?”
“Unoriginal, I know.” She gave him a quick smile, hoping it smacked of confidence and not nerves, and looked across the table. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Kris.”
“Hello.” He seemed disinterested but shook her hand anyway.
Delilah appeared at her elbow, then, with a rainbow of poker chips. As Nova arranged them within easy reach of her left hand, she realized that most of her fellow players had bought in for more than she had. She would begin the game short stacked, playing catch-up and vulnerable to all in moves.
Swallowing hard, she hoped her dismay didn’t show. The Ice Man could sniff out weakness like a bloodhound. Fortunately, everyone’s attention shifted away from her when Davenport entered the room with Gunn and another man in tow. He paused at the head of the table.
“Welcome, all. Let’s have introductions before we start trying to take each other’s money.”
After the low rumble of laughter, Kris began, followed by Damon. Nova paid careful attention as the others took
their turns: Claude, a soft-spoken filmmaker from France; Jerry, brash chef of a restaurant she’d never heard of; and Will Taylor, a retired NBA star whose name was dimly familiar. As each presented himself, she took note of their mannerisms to compare to their behavior during the game. This was the part of live poker that gave her headaches. She was used to calculating pot odds and for watching her screen for patterns in others’ play. But monitoring their body language while trying to control her own wasn’t part of her skill set. Over the past few days, she’d been practicing on the tourists with some success, but this group would prove much more challenging to read.
“Shall we get started?” Davenport looked to Delilah once the introductions were finished.
“The game, lady and gentlemen, is no limit hold ’em. Fifty-dollar, one-hundred-dollar blinds.” She held up a small white disk. “The button will begin with our host.” She slid it along the polished surface of the table, and Davenport caught it expertly just as it slipped off the edge.
Delilah’s lacquered nails caught the light as she began to deal. Nova trapped her two cards beneath her fingertips, dragged them toward her, and took a peek. Five of hearts, eight of clubs. Not the worst of hands, but nothing to brag about, either. There was a slim chance she might be able to build a straight, but when Taylor promptly bet another hundred into the pot, folding was a no-brainer. Most everyone else folded as well, except Jerry and Damon, who called. She watched them closely as the flop came nine of clubs, queen of diamonds, and two of clubs. Taylor didn’t hesitate before throwing in five hundred dollars, nearly doubling the pot. Jerry folded immediately but Damon re-raised to a thousand and Taylor called. When Delilah produced a turn that was the four of clubs, Taylor checked. Damon immediately checked behind him.
Nova couldn’t help but lean forward in anticipation. Much had been written about Damon Magnusson’s loose-aggressive style. He played a variety of starting hands and was notoriously difficult to read. Damon’s re-raise after the flop could have been a sign of a strong hand. Two pair or trips. Then again, he could have been overbidding a draw hand such as a straight or flush to try and stay Taylor’s betting and buy a free card while the pot odds were still cheap. The raise also could have been an exploratory bet to ascertain just how strong Taylor’s hand was. Damon’s check after the turn was interesting indeed. Was he still waiting for his straight to hit or was he nursing a monster hand?
