Fifty-Two Pickup: Aces (Jessica Rogers Book 1)

by Jayden Hunter

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Funny how women are ashamed of their inner fairy whereas men are forever proudly displaying their inner cowboy or fireman.

  ~ Dawn French

  I drive a convertible, and I sing out loud. If that bothers you, you're an ass.

  ~ Jessica

  GLEN BURNS was a fireman with the city of Long Beach. Yes, he's heard it a million times. I like Long Beach, especially Belmont Shores, a little community with restaurants and shops running along both sides of the main drag a block from the beach. So that's where we met, at Starbucks.

  I like Starbucks for coffee dates, for one, they are easy to find. For two, they are everywhere, and for three, the familiar atmosphere (they feel like being at home) is comforting for two people meeting for the first time.

  I don't get nervous so much, but that's because I'm usually the prey, like a zebra hunted by hungry lions that need to feed or die. For me, I expect most of these things to end up like a bad investment, a little time and money lost. No biggie.

  Glen was anxious.

  "Hot or Cold?" he asked, clarifying my order of a salted caramel Frappuccino.

  "A Frap. That's the cold one. Blended."

  "Oh, right. Salted Caramel?"

  "Yes."

  "Two Salted Caramel blended cold drinks, please," he told the young woman behind the counter.

  The Starbucks barista didn't roll her eyes. I would have.

  "What size?" The barista held her hand over the grande stack. Playing the odds.

  "What size?" Glen looked at me.

  "Grande."

  "Two Grande size."

  Her guess was right. "Name?" she asked.

  "Oh. Glen. Jessica." He pointed at me when he said my name.

  Maybe he'd never been in a Starbucks before? I don't know. We sat. He was a good talker once he got over his nerves. Hell, I'm good looking (I believe) but I'm not fucking Kate Upton or Milo Kunis. Honestly. I do work hard at not being intimidating. I like friendly, and I act that way. But I understand nerves. I have empathy, too, so I withheld judgment. But, between you, me, and the Starbucks barista: lack of confidence is a major turn off.

  "So, how was your trip to Connecticut?" he asked.

  "It went well. I lost. So that sucked."

  "That's too bad."

  "Yeah. That's poker."

  "The guys at the station house have a regular tourney. I've won it once and came in second twice. But, of course, it's just a friendly game."

  "Friendly games are fun."

  "So is that your real career? I mean, going forward in your life?"

  "For now. Not forever. The travel is a killer. What about you? Don't you firemen work twenty years and then retire with full benefits?"

  "Almost. It's a good job, that's for sure. My other work is day trading."

  "Really? How's that?"

  "Kind of like poker I guess. Gambling if you don't know what you're doing, but a grind and a moneymaker if you do."

  "You any good?"

  "I do alright."

  Doing 'alright' at anything that involves money usually means you're getting killed. Or at least losing. So I didn't press. I keep records. I can tell you to the dollar where I'm at for the year at any given time. This year I was up $83,450 playing cards. Not a fortune. Not even enough to live in LA comfortably, but like I said, the Vegas money bought my house, my car, and lots of goodies, and there's still a big chunk of change sitting in the bank. I should probably move it to mutual funds or gold or bitcoin.

  Maybe I should give it to Glen to day trade?

  Ha-ha, that was a joke, in case you're not paying attention.

  Coffee dates should be reasonably short, and I'd told Glen before we met that I had a thing. Which was the truth, I was having dinner with my sister and Ray to try and patch things up between Eve and me. If possible. You never know with siblings like the two of us, the night could end with one of us at the bottom of the pool.

  In any case, Glen and I talked and chatted until I said I need to head out. He stood and said, "It was a pleasure meeting you in person."

  "Likewise," I said. This part is always awkward.

  He reached out and shook my hand. Fair enough. He had a good handshake, strong hands and kind eyes. He was good looking, but in a different kind of way than Kirk was, and I wasn't sure when I left whether I'd go out with him again.

  You might be thinking: Would he ask?

  Yes, they always do, trust me.

  RAY GAVE ME A LONG HUG, smashing my tits. He's mostly harmless, but creepy, too. No, not creepy-creepy...you know what I mean, don't you?

  I imagine he watches a lot of porn because he's married to my sister. It's not that she's ugly. I mean, shit, she and I look a lot alike. And five kids. So, yeah, they fuck.

  But five kids.

  Five!

  So, yeah, there's the reason the neighborhood's bandwidth availability drops when she goes to bed. Ray's a banker too, so that's another tick against him. But he's family, and I know he means well, and he's a good dad.

  Ha-ha, people always say that, don't they?

  A serial killer is caught, and people say, "Oh, he was such a good dad."

  In any event, Christians like Ray and my sister, Eve, they're usually nice, even when they disapprove of just about everything about your life.

  "Eve is upstairs. May I fix you a drink?" Ray had finally stopped hugging me and my tits, but his hand was still on my shoulder.

  "Red?" I asked.

  "Merlot or Cab?" he replied.

  "Pinot?"

  "Of course," he answered in a smug voice.

  I didn't give a fuck about what red he served me, but he gets off on showing me all the different wines he has in his collection, so yeah, if he wants to pour me a glass of Pinot Noir that goes for forty bucks a bottle wholesale, fine by me.

  "Auntie Jess!" a young voice shouted.

  Abigail was the youngest at five-and-a-half. The ‘half’ was important to her. She started kindergarten last September and it amazed to me how fast she’d changed in such a short time. Evelyn had her first child at twenty-one years old. Basically a kid herself. God, not me. I'm barely able to manage myself; I think I'll wait until forty to have kids.

  "Abbbbbbby!" I grabbed her and kissed her. I do love kissing the cheeks of rugrat-brat-kids, even if they are my sister's offspring, and probably have defective DNA. It's about as close as you can get to cuddling with a puppy. I'm sure if they're your kids, it's better--but maybe not--I'll let you know in seventeen or eighteen years.

  Ray handed me a glass of wine, then looked down to his five-and-a-half-year-old. "Abby, honey," he said in an authoritative voice.

  She ignored him.

  "Abby," he said using a firmer tone.

  She was a strong-willed child. I like that in a kid.

  Christians, however, are instructed to break them, like a horse.

  "Abby, listen to me. Right now. I mean it."

  She finally looked up at her father as if she were a queen and he was a lowly peasant about to have his head removed. I like that in a kid, too. What good is the world if you're not the ruler?

  "Go tell your mom that Auntie Jess is here," he said.

  "Say please, Daddy," she commanded.

  "G-- Please."

  "Okay." She waddled off towards her mother, presumably. She was cute, probably too cute. Little girls like her--youngest child syndrome--often end up being incorrigible. If I could have a heart-to-heart with her and explain life...but five-year-olds don't retain advice, do they?

  DINNER WAS EXCELLENT. Crab legs and rib eyes.

  I give that to my sister, she's a damn good cook. And Ray's bankster's salary allows her to go to Costco and spend a thousand dollars as if she was buying a pack of gum.

  "More wine?" Ray asked me.

  "Thanks, Ray. No. I have to drive."

  "I want some daddy."

  "Eat your broccoli."

  My sister and I had barely spoken since she came downs
tairs. Sure, we'd half-hugged, said hello, exchanged pleasantries, but she still hadn't forgiven me for hanging up on her. It was nearly impossible to have a serious and thoughtful conversation at a table with five children, and that's exactly why I brought up the baptism during dinner.

  "Zack?" He was looking into his lap. Text messaging. Facebooking. Instagramming. Looking for Pokemon or something...

  I don't know. Kids these days!

  "Zack! Your Aunt is speaking to you," Eve scolded.

  "Oh. Sorry."

  "Sorry, Aunt Jessica." My sister had this thing about respect. Which was fine, but if the kid wanted to call me Jessica, Jess, or Aunt, or even 'Hey, Bitch! I wouldn't care. Well, 'Hey, Bitch!' needs to be in the proper context, but you get my drift--I hope--I’m not endorsing disrespect, but respect means different things to different people.

  "Sorry, Auntie Jess." He found a way to obey her, but not literally. Already looking for loopholes, I like that in a kid, too.

  "I'll be at your baptism party on Sunday. But, I'm coming straight here. I'll help set up. So, I hope you don't mind if I miss the service."

  "I don't care,” he said barely looking up.

  "Zack, be respectful,” his mother said. “Jess, can we talk about this later, please?"

  "There's nothing to talk about."

  Eve went back to picking at her crab. I knew she was upset, but I wasn't giving in on this.

  "I wanna be ba-tiz-emed," Abby said, her request made as if it was a Presidential Order--then she returned to her milk.

  "You will, honey. When you're older," her mother said.

  Most Protestants don't have infant baptism as the Catholics do, they wait until some older age, the idea being the child needs to be of an age that allows them to understand what's going on. It's a cruel irony because most adult Christians can't explain the complexity and diversity of their own belief system. I was baptized at twelve, insisting that I knew what it meant. My mother asked me a few questions and then said something about how I was mature for my age. I wonder if it's revocable?

  Probably not…

  Forgive me if I’m too disrespectful myself, I’ve been damaged by religion and it comes out in my attitude. I sometimes wonder if my sister is totally oblivious to this fact--I guess so--but I can’t see how she’s so blind to my position and feelings.

  Her answer is always to, “Trust and obey.”

  My life isn’t so fucking simple.

  AFTER DINNER, I helped Evelyn clean up. We put dishes into the dishwasher. We put away leftovers. Ray was upstairs; I think helping the kids get ready for bed, it was a school night, after all. He wasn't a bad husband, all things considered.

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  "I just think you could put your family ahead of your own needs for a few hours."

  "It's not my needs, Eve. It has nothing to do with what I need. It has everything to do with my principles."

  "You have strange principles."

  "You want to go to a lesbian bar in West Hollywood with me on Saturday?"

  "Of course not."

  "But it's important to me."

  "You're twisting things."

  "It's the same idea. You have a principle. You don't go into lesbian bars. I don't go into churches. It's the same thing: we both don't want to be part of something we don't agree with."

  "You're saying that lesbian bars are something you support?"

  "Of course."

  "You're not...?"

  "No. But if I were, I'd still be the same sister. And I wouldn't guilt you into coming to my lesbian wedding either; you'd either come or not. It's the same idea. I'm not trying to force you to accept things you don't like or approve of, and I don't want you to do that to me."

  "I don't get you,” Eve said. She was exasperated, I could tell, but she also needed to learn to see things from my perspective--at least if she wanted me to have respect for her.

  "That's because your Christian worldview gives you myopic vision,” I said.

  "What does that even mean?"

  "Myopic. It means you have -- like tunnel vision -- you see the world as if your way is right and everyone else is wrong. It's arrogant."

  "You're saying I'm arrogant?"

  "I'm saying you see life through a narrow lens. Which is fine, if you're happy, fine, but I don't see it that way. Just, let me be, okay?"

  "I'll try. I only want what mom would have wanted."

  I finished loading the dishwasher in silence. I turned it on, hugged my sister without speaking, and left. I didn't want to fight anymore, and bringing up mom in an argument was a below-the-belt tactic.

  The air was fresh, and a slight salty breeze brought a little cleansing to my soul. Assuming I had one... My sister and brother-in-law lived in Newport Beach, down the coast from me, in conservative Orange County. I didn't automatically reject men if they were from the OC, but I didn't have as many hits there with my online dating profile set as it was than I did in Los Angeles. I'm sure my sister is internally happy, even though I haven't seen much joy on her face in over a decade. Well, not sure, but I think so. She has beautiful children and a decent enough husband, but I wouldn't trade places with her even if I were homeless.

  THE DRIVE FROM NEWPORT BEACH to home can take anywhere from about an hour to two hours, depending on the time of day. It was well past evening commuter traffic so the freeways would be open, but I choose to take PCH along the coast instead.

  The night air was chilly, but I still put the top down. I cranked up the heater full blast and played music to soothe my mind.

  I do love family.

  But sometimes...

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  She's a poker player's wet dream. Sorry, sweetheart, you can't bluff for anything.

  ~ Katherine McIntyre

  You can't fake it 'till you make it very long in poker. Unless you have a money tree.

  ~ Jessica

  WEDNESDAY NIGHTS, when I'm not traveling, I play a cash game at the Hustler Casino in Gardena. I've told you a bit about tournaments I play in, let me explain what a cash game is like.

  In No Limit Texas Hold'em, you can bet as many chips as you have in front of you. You've heard the term all-in unless you've been living under a log in the Alaskan wilderness. It works like this: If you have a million dollars sitting in front of you, that's the amount you can bet. The problem is you cannot win more money from a player than he (or she) has in front of them.

  So the game would not work if someone could sit down at a table with a million dollars while all the other players were starting with hundred bucks. They guy with the huge stack of chips would win almost every time, even if he was a terrible player.

  Imagine this: you or I cannot get a date with Brad Pitt. Okay, okay, sure, it's possible. It's also possible that a guy could sit down with a penny and play a guy with a million dollars and win. It's just not very likely.

  Double a penny about twenty-seven times and--Bam!--you've got over a million bucks. Good luck!

  I like Brad Pitt, by the way. If you know him, could you pass along my 411? Thanks.

  So--back to poker---awww, Brad Pitt---no, seriously--if someone in Hollywood can---never mind...when you go to play in a cash game, as opposed to a tournament, you have to pick from a selection of starting buy-in amounts. At the Hustler, you can buy-in for fifty dollars, for instance, or for three hundred, or at the biggest cash game table you can sit down with a hundred grand. I don't recommend this unless you're a real pro (or just want to throw money away).

  I usually play at the 5/5 game, that's $5 blinds, with a buy-in from $300 to $1000. This is a deep stack game, meaning that you have a five dollar bet in the blinds (that's a forced bet you have to make each round) and a stack that can start at a thousand dollars. So you have 200 blinds when you start. If you play a $40 game in Hawaiian Gardens (yes, that's a city in Los Angeles County -- it bears no resemblance its namesake--believe me) the blind is $2, so you have only 20 blinds. That game is mostly for fun seekers and is
nearly 100% gambling.

  Even if you're a good player, it's nearly impossible to cover the rake: that's the cut the house takes for setting up the game, providing dealers, paying the electric bill, and hiring security.

  Mostly the house wins a lot consistently; a few good players make huge amounts, a good amount of people like myself grind out a living, and the rest (the vast majority) just bleed and bleed money. It's a sickness for some people.

  SO I HOPE YOU ARE STILL WITH ME. We'll get to some more hot sex talk soon.

  I like flirting with the guys at the table, I know it's a distraction for many of them. Not the pros, mind you, but the average player.

  Women generally--and I mean this with all due respect--misplay poker. Of course, there are stars and exceptions, women like Victoria Coren, and I hope to help inspire a new generation of younger women to learn to love the game.

  Poker is not that complicated.

  It is sort of like relationships.

  They aren't that complicated, either.

  But the complexity involved in that not complicated formula leads to permutations that outnumber the stars in the sky.

  So, about my play that particular night at the Hustler, I was able to do some play acting.

  I had a shitty hand in mid-position, and it had been checked around to me. I was about to muck (that means throw them away) when I realized I'd been acting like my cards were shit. Really acting. Actually, I wasn't acting. But it seemed that way.

  Stay with me here.

  In poker, especially when you're playing with semi to moderately skilled players, they all know that acting is a sign that you have the opposite hand.

  A player acting weak is strong.

  A player acting strong is weak.