by Jenna Kelly
"His poker got you out here, Natalie," Marissa's soft voice wasn't taking sides, just trying to keep the peace. Until recently, David had been good for her sister and she hated to see it end this way.
Natalie shook her head. With a sigh, she calmed herself, but the coldness in her voice confirmed the finality in her words. "Don't! I know you're trying to help, Marissa, but you're not. It's over between David and me; it has been for some time. The only question is when."
For a few seconds, the two sisters stared at one another. Then Natalie's features softened. "And in the taxi," she murmured, "you can tell me all about this donkey complex of yours—"
***
The World Series had left the rundown Binion's Horseshoe Casino in 2005, the first time in its thirty-five-year history it wasn't being held at the place where it all began. But the choice of the former venue as the host for today's pre Main Event tourney was a delight. Sampling both venues in David's Vegas visit was almost too much to ask for.
The time it had taken since registration had come as a shock. He'd assumed he'd quickly be in action, rather than filling time wandering around Fremont Street, just taking everything in. Eventually growing tired of people watching, the coffee shop had killed another hour and now, with the innocence of poker youth, he guarded his chips closely as he wandered across to table fifteen.
He'd expected the whole experience to be more fulfilling somehow. In what way, he wasn't sure. But surely it should be more glamorous than this? One hundred or so badly dressed individuals, all making their way around the room as they closed in on the noon starting time.
He was the second person to reach the table. The old, thin guy looked in his eighties. Wearing a button up shirt, blue jeans and a white Stetson, he fitted into the environment, every bit as much as David didn't.
"First event," the old-timer asked after David introduced himself.
The young poker hopeful gave a rueful smile. "It's that obvious?"
The older man grinned as he put one hand on David's shoulder and shook his hand with the other. "It shows, but then we've all got to start somewhere, son. Make sure you stock up on food and fluid," he instructed rather than suggested. "Not too much, but enough. It'll keep you alert."
"Thanks, I will. I take it you're a regular."
The old-timer's grin changed into a wry smile. "I've played one or two. Not so much nowadays, though." The wrinkles spoke volumes. Unlike the Stetson wearer at the Practically Poker party, this one was sitting as if it'd been made for this very man. Below it, the greying eyes smiled reassuringly at the novice. "Better rest my legs," he said, indicating his seat across the other side of the small table. "Good luck, young 'un,"
David shook the gentle hand yet again. "And the same to you, sir. Could I ask your name?"
"Slade. Just call me, Slade," he said.
It was half an hour later, in the middle of a hand, when it hit David. He stared again at the old guy across the table. For fuck's sake! He'd been taking to the legend that was Amarillo 'Slade' Preston.
***
Big Jack had enjoyed his oysters. But they were always wonderful at the Paris hotel, and the Mon Ami Gabi restaurant was one of his favourites. Oysters increased his libido and the only thing on his mind was which of his girls he was going to fuck. Early afternoon, his club easily could spare someone for a couple of hours.
That redhead was as cute as hell. And had a body to die for. Reagan. Yes, that was it. Reagan. Then there was the Brazilian. Dolores looked like she'd be as dirty as hell. As for the new Swedish blonde—
Fuck! So many women. So little time.
The young kid dropped the stolen purse as he ran straight into the well-fed man. "Hey," the gangster growled, catching him by the hood of his light grey jacket. The unfortunate youngster couldn't have timed things more badly.
The spiky haired woman was on the two of them in an instant. As she bent to rescue her purse from the pavement, the young kid flung out an arm, catching her across the left side of her face.
Big Jack's grip tightened on the scruffily dressed hoodie, painfully twisting one of his hands behind his back. The woman took advantage, raising her black stiletto and with surgical precision, kicking the young kid between the legs. When he bent over, her hand crashed across his cheek.
"Tit for tat," she triumphantly sneered, her normally soft, hazel eyes blazing at him and then at the gangster. "Are you with this little bastard?" she asked.
His laugh answered the question. "Lady, do I look like I'm with him?"
For a few seconds, her eyes continued to spit venom, before softening into a grateful smile. "In that case, thank you. You saved me a couple of minutes."
"I saved you a couple of minutes?" the gangster repeated, cuffing the youngster until he stopped struggling. "Just explain that one to me."
"That's how long it wudda taken me to catch up with the little bastard," she muttered, "My first day in Vegas and I have to endure this crap."
"First day? Tourist?"
The spiky haired woman shook her head. "Looking for work, though," she said, holding her hand to the red mark on her face, "if this turns into a black eye, I don't think that's very likely, do you?"
The gangster's eyes ran across her body. The red blouse and low rise jeans looked liked they'd been sprayed on. This one would have no trouble finding a job - that was for sure. "What kind of work?"
"I'm a dancer."
"I have an idea," he told her, pulling the young kid back as he tried to make a run for it. "But first, what do you want doing with the kid?"
"Let the little bastard go," she snapped, glancing at their captive and hoping he wasn't too badly hurt. "I'm not interested in dealing with any cops."
The youngster speeded down the street as soon as Big Jack let go of his hood. The two of them stood for a moment, watching him go. Her idea of using her nephew was a brainwave. So much for Samson thinking it would be difficult for her to work a route into meeting the gangster.
"What's your idea?" she prompted, wiping a bead of perspiration from her brow as she turned back to her target.
"I'll give you a job," he told her, straightening his tie in a way she presumed he'd seen at the movies.
"You?" she grunted, playing her part to perfection. "What sort of job?"
"Dancing," he responded. "You said you were a dancer. You can start later tonight. See what you're made of."
A hand swept through her spiky hair. "See what I'm made of? And who the fuck are you?"
Big Jack laughed, his eyes sparkling as they ran across her again. "I'm a club owner who offers jobs to ballsy women."
Carrie took a step back, letting him see she was sizing him up. Samson hadn't told her he was this impressive. Overbarbered perhaps, but she liked the effect. And that goatee! She'd always had a thing about goatees.
"If you're interested, follow me," he told her, turning on his heels.
She liked the take it or leave it approach. His shoulders and chest were so broad they swayed when he walked, in that sort of rolling gait peculiar to heavy men. It took a few steps to catch up with him.
This could be more interesting than she'd anticipated.
***
Being invited to Samson Smith's mansion had been a surprise. Natalie had expected their first meeting to take place in his office. Not that it mattered. With a chance of fame at stake, she'd have met him in a downtown brothel if he'd asked.
She and Marissa had spent some time deciding what she should wear, eventually settling for the dark blue suit and a snug white blouse.
The professional look suited her circumstances, while the short, tight skirt gave her the sex appeal Samson Smith was probably expecting. She quickly undid another button of the blouse, making sure her tanned cleavage was on full display.
Glancing around the large living room, she wondered what was keeping the club owner. Her sigh reverberated around the room as she pondered on what had brought her here. Lindsay Wellson had been as good as her word. Like her
sister, she was so close to the big time. It was impossible to describe how much she wanted this.
"So good to meet you at last, Natalie." Samson Smith's voice was warm.
She hadn't even realised the club owner had entered the room. She released her thoughts and turned to the voice. She hadn't expected him to be black. Crossing her legs, making sure to give the smirking man an eyeful, she mumbled, "Thanks… er…"
"Samson. Just call me Samson."
"Thanks, Samson. Let me tell you how appreciative I am for this opportunity."
He nodded. "Good," he began, taking and lighting a large, Havana cigar, "I have this feeling we'll be good for one another."
Natalie's almond coloured eyes ran across him as he poured two glasses of bourbon. Despite his lack of height, there looked to be an impressive muscular frame under that suit. He nodded at the glass as he handed it to her. She took the cue and sipped at the amber coloured liquid.
It burned her throat.
"To business, Natalie. Understand that what I'm about to say, I told Lindsay Wellson before you. And Dorothy Jackson before her. And Connie Melrose before that. You've heard of them all?"
Heard of them all? He was talking about some of the biggest selling diva's of the last decade. "Of… of course."
"D'you know what they have in common, Natalie?"
The baffled woman shook her head. She hadn't expected the man to be all business so quickly. Maybe after a few pleasantries? She'd planned out what to say and now she wasn't being given the opportunity.
"They all started at Samson Smith's," he went on. "How about that. I gave them their chance here. But not only that, Natalie, I set up record contracts for them after they finished their spell here. Guaranteed them success, Natalie."
He threw back the rest of his bourbon and poured himself another. Natalie sat quietly, unsure whether a reaction was required. It wasn't.
"I made them an Angel, Natalie. Do you know what an Angel is?"
"Well, Lindsay explained that—"
He wasn't interested in her response. "An Angel, Natalie," he said, continuing to pace back and forward in front of her, "is the seal of approval. Once a woman becomes one of Samson's Angels, success is guaranteed. You hear that, Natalie? Guaranteed." He threw back another throatful of bourbon. "How much do you want to be an Angel, Natalie?"
"More than anything, Samson. I want it more than anything."
For a moment he stopped pacing, holding her eyes as he took a long drag on the cigar. "But there are two sides to the bargain, Natalie. Don't you want to know what's expected of one of Samson Angels?"
Another sip of the bourbon helped her dry throat. Lindsay had told her this question would come. Just say no, she'd cautioned her. Let him see it doesn't matter to you what it takes.
"No, Samson. I don't need to know. I'll do anything."
His face turned from a question mark to a beam of delight. It was clear she'd given the right answer.
"Good girl. Because if you had, you'd have been out of that door before I could finish the rest of my drink." He threw it down his throat to emphasise his point. "All Angel's do exactly what they're told, when they're told. That's the deal. So it doesn't matter what, does it, Natalie?"
"No, Samson." She made her voice sound much more confident than she actually felt. A feeling of being out of her depth started to overwhelm her, but that was exciting, too.
"Once an Angel, always an Angel, Natalie. Understand?"
She nodded. "Yes."
The look on his face sent a shiver through her. "Drink up," he told her. She did, fighting back the tears as the liquid burned the back of her throat. Even as she choked it down, he was refilling their glasses. "Have you heard of Tina Ferragmo, Natalie?"
"Yes. Of course." Everyone had heard of the rock chick who so tragically died from a drug overdose two years ago.
"Tina was an Angel, Natalie. Then she decided she wanted out. She hadn't listened properly when I told her an Angel is an Angel forever. Tragic." He sent a plume of smoke skywards, allowing the implication to sink in. "So, I'll ask one more time. I can guarantee you fame and fortune, Natalie, but are you sure you want to be one of Samson's Angels?
The shudder that ran through the brunette was unlike anything she'd ever felt. A mixture of deep fear, but there was an intense arousal in there, too. Her body grew moist even as her heartbeat began to settle.
"Well?" he asked, watching every flicker that passed across her face.
"Yes, Samson," she answered, taking another drink for additional confidence. "Yes, I'm sure."
He smiled at the young, hot singer. He knew his power was a turn on for women. This one looked incredibly tempting in that saucy little power-suit of hers. Long legs, shiny, loose dark hair. And tits large enough to push open her blouse. His cock stirred at what came next. The opportunity to sample the goods.
"I've already got the news out to some important business contacts. They're looking forward to hearing you tonight. From what Lindsay tells me, you could be the best of them all."
He stood, looking down at her. Towering above her confirmed he was in complete control. When her eyes displayed that growing realisation, he slipped off his jacket and began to unbuckle his belt.
"This is the start of a wonderful adventure, Natalie," he manipulatively confirmed. "The opportunity to reach the very top." As his slacks dropped down to his ankles, he pulled his black cock from his boxers. Even semi erect, he was impressive. "Now why don't you show me how much you want this?"
His hand went to the back of her head even as he took a step towards her, slowly pulling it to his thickening shaft. As expected, there was no resistance. She was a sensible girl.
***
David knew his continual folding wasn't lost on any of the other players. It wouldn't have been on him. But playing tight had been the secret to his success so far. Four hours, and two sessions, in, his chip stack was healthy. Not enough to take liberties, maybe, but sufficient to give him space to wait for premium hands.
One of the benefits of his tight play was the opportunity to watch the other players, pick up on their styles and possible tells. The other was that when he did attempt to steal, it had worked perfectly. So far.
When the bland, conservatively dressed bespectacled character on his right raised yet again in early position, David called in the small blind. The man belied his appearance and had been pretty loose and very aggressive. Mid range suited connectors didn't often hit, but when they did—
The flop came Five--Six-Nine. Bingo!
He checked, allowing Mr. Loose and Aggressive to raise. It was smaller than David expected. Half the pot.
Easy does it. Just call.
The King on the turn was safe enough. He hoped it helped his opponent. This time, he decided to represent it, betting just over half the pot.
His opponent pushed up his sunglasses, allowing his eyes to focus on David. "Hit the King?" he asked.
David kept his head down, trying to put a tremble in his voice. "No."
He heard the grunt. "You wouldn't lie to me wud ya?"
Glancing up, he allowed the man to see what he hoped looked like an embarrassed smile crease his lips. "Would I?"
His opponent grunted, falling for the trap. "Yeah, you would, kid. All in." The man cursed as David insta-called and turned over his Six-Seven. When he showed his pocket Kings, a gasp ran round the table. Another King, or a paired board, would still see the Englishman lose the hand. "One time," his opponent shouted as he jumped up, his chair clattering to the floor behind him.
The two of hearts brought David's overloaded heartbeat back to normal. He hadn't quite doubled up, but it wasn't far short.
***
Samson Smith moaned as the hopeful young singer continued to work on his cock. His tightened hand behind her head was unnecessary—her low growls confirmed that. When her tongue began to flick along his hardness like a snake searching for its prey, he knew how much he was going to enjoy this one in the coming mont
hs.
She took him as far inside her mouth as she could. One hand dug into his ass, whilst the other dropped to caress his balls. The African American moaned again. The fingers he dug into her scalp displayed his growing pleasure.
Encouraged, she took even more of the thick cock down her throat. As she sucked on him, her long tongue created a wonderful friction all along the underside of his shaft. Both of her hands gripped his ass now. Her fingernails dug in as she made it her mission to get him there.
