Page 2 of More With You

“I’d like you to meet Joey and Vinny Romano, who just flew in from Atlantic City,” Sandra gives me a discreet knowing nod before she leaves to get their rooms sorted. Comp’d, I’m sure.

They’re around the same age as me. Old money, I’d guess, with expensive haircuts that wouldn’t budge in a category five hurricane. Their suits are tailored, their cologne is overpowering, and they’re looking hungrily at the table.

“What’s your name?” one asks.

I tap my name badge. “Summer.”

“Nice. Lucky season.” He smiles, flashing veneers.

I smile back. “Let’s hope so.”

After a thorough inspection of my cleavage, pushed up between the triangle of my open collar for the sole purpose of putting more chips in my tip packet, they settle in. My hackles rise a bit when they click their fingers to get the attention of a waitress, but money has a way of unruffling feathers. They tip her healthily before she even brings the drinks, so I let them off.

That done, they waste no time lining up a colossal range of chips in front of them, resembling the skyscape of a metropolis. I like guests who get straight to business, without the need for idle chit-chat. From the looks of it, it’s going to be one of my more interesting Saturday nights. Even Levi looks antsy in the presence of such enormous wealth.

What’s the matter, Levi? Intimidated?

Over the next few hours, cocktail waitresses come and go, keeping the newcomers watered and well-tended through a chorus of, “hit, stay, push, split, double, bust.” The chip skyscrapers have reached the stratosphere and I’m starting to sweat a bit. My table is fiery hot, for the players at least, and I’ve busted more times than usual. Still, winning hands mean winning tips.

“I knew you were the table for us,” Vinny remarks, rolling a chip over his knuckles. I suppose he thinks it looks impressive and I’m not going to tell him otherwise.

Whether it’s the lack of clocks or the thrill of massive bets being tossed onto the table like pennies, I’ve got no idea what time it is until I feel a light tap on my shoulder. I turn to find John, the pit boss for this section, giving me a knowing nod to wrap things up, finish this shoe, and close out for the night.

“Last hand for me, Gentlemen. Good luck,” I say, a touch disappointed that this run is ending already. But I’m praying it ends with a bang as I deal the cards.

The collective groan lows through the casino like we’re at a cattle market as I turn an ace. Levi has a blackjack, but it appears he’s lost his nerve and his instinct for recklessness. He takes even money, and I check my bottom card. There’s no face.

“I don’t have it, Gentlemen.”

Clive, sitting pretty with his two kings, chooses to stay. So does Joey, with a hard sixteen, which brings another groan from the table. To them, it’s cowardly, though I’d wager that only Vinny would dare to say so, and he’s sticking at seventeen, so he’s not much better. Everyone eyes my cards in breathless anticipation; the casino suddenly turning so quiet I could’ve heard one of their beads of sweat splash onto the pleather of the elbow rest.

I turn a five. “Six or sixteen, Gentlemen.”

“Bust, Summer. Come on, you’ve got to bust,” Joey mutters under his breath, running a nervous hand through his pristine hair.

Clive has turned as white as a sheet. I can feel the heat radiating off him. Levi’s the only smug one, watching the twists and turns with amused interest, but that’s no surprise.

I take a breath, noting everyone’s chips. There’s got to be at least a hundred grand on the table right now. Honestly, I feel sick, knowing the next card could see me rolling home with plenty of cash in my pocket, or send these boys packing with their tails between their legs and my tips looking thin.

Let me bust. Please, let me bust. I send up a quick prayer to the casino gods, but they have a tendency to do whatever the heck they like.

You could slice the tension with a knife as I reach for the next card, turn a king of hearts and say, “Sixteen.”

Playing with them a little, since I might as well get some enjoyment in case this doesn’t go my way, I decide to get cheeky when I draw the next card—my final card of the night. I turn the card so only I can see it and put on a disappointed face that would give soap operas a run for their money.

“Sorry, Gentlemen.” I sigh and throw the card down, face up on the table. “It’s a bust!”

The second they see the eight of spades, the table erupts into cheers and back slaps and high fives. Stools are knocked over, drinks are sloshed, roars of triumph bellowing across the near-empty casino; the relieved celebrations exploding in the way that only rich men know how to ignite after hours of tense play.

“It was a pleasure, Gentlemen.” I scoop the cards up and put them in the discard pile, trying not to show that I’m waiting for their show of thanks. It doesn’t take long for them to catch on.

Each man except Levi flips a few yellow chips my way. Not bad for a Saturday night. Definitely better than counting dollars in a dive bar, my hands sticky with too many squeezed limes and spilled drinks. In a handful of hours, I’ve made enough to cover my grandma’s bills in Wisconsin, pay my rent, and get a new tail light to keep the cops from pulling me over. Again.

“It was my pleasure,” Levi purrs, downing the remainder of his bourbon, and placing it next to the row of empty tumblers he’s already consumed.

Creep. I cringe inside but offer a polite smile on the outside. “Good night, everyone, and good luck.”

I walk away from the table as Michael, the next dealer, steps in to take my place. My quartet of guests look disheartened, but only Clive and Levi gather their chips. I guess they’re cashing in for the night. That’s the beauty of being a regular—they’re not on a deadline, so they’re in no rush to lose what they’ve won.

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