A/N: Hey All. Sorry I haven't posted for my other story in a while. I've been having computer troubles. I wrote this short story over a year ago and hadn't planned on publishing it, but I wanted to give you something while I finish up the next chapter of In The Details. I hope you enjoy it. It's quite different than what I normally write.

The Card Shark

There's just something about a Casino: alluring, suggestive, full of promises while at the same time infamous, allusive, and dubious. Designed with a single purpose: keep you playing. Air is filtered through every room to keep you awake, windows are tinted—zero clocks to keep you absolutely unaware of the time, and the sounds of bells, chimes and whistles are constant to make you think that there is always someone winning. Some are mesmerized, caught, trapped while others see the truth through the ostentation, keep their distance, stay safe.

A short, square vodka glass, swiveled, cold in my hand, half empty, seventh glass, lime wedge—water—false security. My mind is clear, my pockets full, the bells ring for me.

There is only one great difference between the casino and myself—empathy and it's my greatest curse, a curse I never display. I'd stop, I'd be honest and respectable, but I can't. I fear what I don't know, I fear not being able to define myself, not being able to feel my power, and I know that if I did stop I would be nothing more than a safe without a lock, a whale without a wallet, a dealer without a deck.

I sit at a poker table in Harrah's Casino, wisps of smoke swivel around me, the smell of cigars is strong, felt under my palm—a crush of people around me. I travel, go around the state, move from city to city, casino to casino, high stakes table to high stakes table. Vegas is the obvious place to go if you want to win big, but Tahoe is where I always return. The emerald bay, evergreens, and California—Nevada border hold sway over me like nothing else does and no one can.

I raise my glass at a passing waitress. "Could I have another please," I wink at her—she grins. "I can still see straight."

"What a shame," the elbow scratcher says.

I smile at the men playing with me, they smirk back—icy, ruthless intent mixed with the tiniest bit of sympathy.

I'm not shaken.

Another game is dealt.

Chimes and flashing lights are followed by the sounds of coins hitting metal and gleeful cheers yelling, "I've won! I've won!"

The others look to the floor, I don't.

My strategy: Lose a game, win a game, win a game, lose a game. My game—respectable enough—perfect. Their eyes—bloodshot, their confidence secure, their hope is the first thing I've won. They grin at each other as if to say, "silly fool," then return to the game.

I take my hand—wait, they watch, I tap my cards, lean back, show them my "tell," lie. Smiles. My mouth is dry, my palms sticky. It's nine a.m. The one to the left twitches, the one to the right takes a deep breath and purses his lips, both stay in the game, bluffing. The elbow scratcher, doesn't scratch, instead he holds back a smile—his hand is good, best hand he or anyone else has had all night, except mine. He raises the stakes, the bluffers drop out, a waitress brings me another "vodka." I push the whole of my winnings to the center of the table.

Gasps, quick frown, followed by a cocky smile. "You're trying to scare me out of the game, Mr. Jane…"

"You can call me Patrick," I say as I place an elbow on the table.

"Patrick," he complies with a cocky grin. "You're not as good a player as you think you are."

My lip twitches. "So," I raise my brow, "all in?" I down my drink then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and smile.

He opens his jacket, pulls an envelope from his inside pocket, opens it and sets its contents on the table: a title.

Excitement flares, guilt sparks, they fight for control. My face stays impassive. My stomach flips, I lean forward. His shoulders broaden. He thinks he can't lose, he doesn't know that my hand is unbeatable. I smirk. Guilt loses—again. Still not entirely gone, just pushed to the background. I stack my cards face down on the table.

He calls, lays his cards out—four of a kind. No surprise. My face drops. His smile broadens. I don't think of what I've done, of what I'm about to do, because this is who I am. He reaches for the winnings, smile on his face.

"Wait," I whisper. He looks up at me, cocky expression, expecting me to beg.

I flip my cards slowly, one at a time.

Ten.

Jack.

Queen.

King.

My smile grows as his shrinks.

"No, it can't be. That's impossible."

I flip the last card.

Ace.

"I win."

Silence.

I gather the pile. He leans back, his face is white, his hands clamp into fists. The loot disappears slowly into my pockets, bulging them further. The title is the last to go. It fits snuggly next to my heart on the inside of my jacket—mirrors the place where he'd kept it. I look him in the eyes, I must.

He's gone.

I button my jacket and leave.

I'm alive, I have purpose and meaning. The guilt plays part in that and I welcome it. The bells ring for me.