Rolling on the River

Michael has to admit that Lopez has had a point about the get up. Also a point that who doesn't want to help themselves to a ton of a gas tycoon's money, like the bastard will miss it. In Michael's mind, so far, he has always separated hunting and gambling. If he had to go out and take care of needs and stave off his shoulder spasms, then that was expedient, and he might, as needs dictate, at least wear a lower cut tank top or those jeans he never threw away even if they were too tight when he shoplifted them from the Goodwill. However, for gambling, it was more about comfort. It never occurred to him till Lopez's master plan tonight that he could have mixed and matched all along a bit.

Played poker with a lot more bait.

Because this is like a cakewalk. Granted, when you can read someone's fears as easily as a human can notice someone else breathing or, well, amp them up, poker's not exactly a hard game. Tells that might be unnoticeable among seasoned players might as well be displayed on fifty foot billboards for him. And he is, of course, gifted at getting people to fold even with superior hands.

God-given talent…etc.

However, as much as he still leans on his powers to rake in hand after hand, he did not expect decked out like this how redundant that would actually be. The poker players at this table are all men except for him or, more accurately, present as such. Lopez is off on the other end of the riverboat's grand deck, and Michael is sure with that savant brain of hers, she is making the Black Jack players very sorry. He's not even human, and he knows better than to go head to head with her there. But the men around him make such obvious mistakes. It's small things at first, someone next to him who is roughly about three years younger than Father (seriously that guy had to be on an iron lung at home, right) spending way more time staring at Michael's cleavage (oh thank you, Dad) and not his own cards. But it's easy enough to manipulate. When Mr. Iron Lung is out, Michael just siddles closer to another man, one in a ten gallon hat that swamps his head. Michael didn't even know humans actually wore them and just assumed it was all from those westerns he liked on TV in the '60s, but this idiot certainly has made very dedicated sartorial choices. Hat and all. With wannabe Yosemite Sam, Michael just sets a hand, a few fingers really, on his wrist and forces a laugh at the right times.

And it's so ridiculously simple to distract him.

The former archangel's not surprised per se. He knows angels aren't really any better at avoiding distraction. Sam certainly isn't, and Menny made a human or defective nephil—whichever—with the first ever human he slept with clearly. And to be excessively honest about himself, Michael fell hard and easily for Lily, both for good and ill, and then derailed his plans in the dumbest of ways in Los Angeles because, put bluntly, Chloe Decker licked a spoon in front of him.

But to be able to wield that at the poker table, despite his permanently slanted posture and the scar bisecting his face, is something that Michael never thought over seriously. Mostly, because he wanted to avoid thinking about any of…this, but also because he never realized how much easier it would make gambling than it already is for him with his Fear.

He was also convinced with as many short skirts as Lopez favored when they went gambling and as whip smart as her card-counting brain was, that she definitely had won more than he had so far in their Bonnie and Clyde trip.

Probably.

Now, the high stakes players had fallen one-by-one to him, and it is just him and the primary target, the Chevron guy who doesn't have a dumbass hat, as if there are a herd of cattle somewhere around for fuck's sake, but he does have a gaudy belt buckle studded—Michael's sure—with turquoise.

Fucking Texas.

"You, little lady, are quite the player."

He stops himself from rolling his eyes about the lack of accuracy in the title and at the condescension. Whatever it takes to make this bozo think he can win the final hand works for Michael. He's not gonna sneeze at a twenty-five grand haul or better in one night.

Michael smiles and leans close enough to Belt Buckle that his modest chest rests heavily against the big spender's arm. "You know, you could just hand me the money now, and we can save your dignity."

The man laughs and definitely pinches Michael's ass. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from yelling out or from just giving into the urge to scare the man out of spite. Laying a honey trap takes time and an eye for bigger rewards.

"You've had a few hot hands, darling, but this is a game for experts."

Michael bats his eyes back up at him (and it took a while learning that skill with Lopez before it stopped looking like he was just having a seizure). "You don't think I am?"

He adds a pout that gets the man to chuckle.

Belt Buckle nods to the dealer. "I think it's just me and her for this last bit of play." He pinches Michael again, and the idiot's lucky that Michael wants the money more than to snap a wrist. "She's a determined spitfire, ain't she?"

Michael pulls away enough to get settled in his seat. He's hot, sure, but no one is gonna let him lean over their hand directly for the next round. He sobers a bit, lowers the bimbo act enough to nod to the dealer too. "All in here. I have a good feeling."

"Well, you know," the gas exec says breezily, "if you do lose, don't you worry your pretty little head none. I'll be more than happy to arrange alternative payment plans for you." He leans back into Michael's space and whispers in the angel's ear. "I am sure there's something you do that's worth that much, isn't there?"

He forces himself to giggle, and to be fair, even with Lily, he knew that whole coquettish giggle thing was an act too. He's seen the Mother of Demons work a room long before Lopez was born. Scrappy just helped him get used to doing it himself. His laugh sounds hollow to his own ears, but he's also not a human with too much bourbon in him and thinking with, ahem, not his brain.

Belt Buckle inhales sharply.

"I guess we'll have to see, but I think I've got this handled, personally," Michael warns.

He licks his lips for emphasis and then smirks to himself when Belt Buckle goes back to his cards. While it's useful playing his opponents' horniness against them and nothing to sneeze at skills wise, Michael isn't going to leave the grand prize pot to his lesser skills. As he looks at his own hand; it's a queen-high flush. Not bad, but by no means guaranteed to win any hand. Michael leans over the table, at least giving Belt Buckle a distracting view, as he throws in his first chips and bets five grand. Belt Buckle must have something at least worth pursuing since he calls and raises another five.

He takes way longer than a beat to look Michael over and again glance down his dress before whistling. "You really are ballsy, aren't you."

"Actually not," Michael huffs. "But, you know, when you have a feeling on something, you just do."

Belt Buckle grins, an oily little expression, and yup there's definitely a hand planted on Michael's thigh. He forces himself to keep that Stepford Wife smile on his face, but, finally, also lets his power out. This one is banal. It's not even as fun as clowns or big dogs or snakes, the usual generic shit. This one is, as Michael supposes those with money are, just scared of losing it. Not here, not this petty cash (for the exec at least) round the table. Oh no. There's a company wide audit with the Feds breathing down Belt Buckle's neck. Michael probes deeper and smiles genuinely as he ups the bet to ten grand.

Oh dear, looks like Belt Buckle has been embezzling quite a chunk.

Michael leans hard into that. It's not difficult. Just make it the forefront in the exec's mind, that anxiety thrumming through the human until he's both sweating buckets and blinking, half-dazed, down at his cards. The dealer coughs and reminds Belt Buckle it's his turn.

The man swallows hard, still looking dazed, and throws in a bet to match Michael's but two grand more on top.

The angel smiles. He has this. He frowns and softens his voice as he regards Belt Buckle. "Are you all right? I can always call it off, you know? You look like you're getting a bit sea sick."

The man shakes his head. "I don't lose, and I don't lose to women who don't know shit from shinola."

He shrugs, his left shoulder, per usual, going higher than the other. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you."

The next round goes through, and Michael has gone silent, focusing mostly on his gift, on making it so the man beside him can only think of white collar prisons and everything he owns being confiscated by the IRS. It's gratifying to see the bastard start to wheeze a bit even as his brow grows sweatier.

This last round, Michael says he'll call. But before the human can say anything, he ramps up the fear as high as he can, well, without leading anyone into incoherent screaming catatonia, and nudges the idea into Belt Buckle's head that maybe a few IRS agents are already watching him here at the riverboat, seeing where his embezzled funds are being put to use. The dealer tries to get Belt Buckle to answer the call and set down his hand but the man shivers, glancing at two guys in suits who are only fellow gamblers but feel to the exec's paranoid mind like the Feds swooping in. He throws his cards on the table, says he's out, and hurries away like the hounds of Sam's former home are after him.

Michael shakes his head and sweeps his pot to him. "Weird, right? I swear, some dudes just can't finish, you know?"

Idly, he glances at the exec's hand—four tens and a jack. Michael would have been screwed. Oh well, can't help he's just extra talented, can he?

The dealer shakes his head. "Unbelievable, never seen a guy freak out like that. You a jinx?"

"Something like that," Michael replies.

A soft hand is on his shoulder, and he turns to see Lopez beaming up at him. "It's kind of like the opposite of that old Sinatra song, no ve? Luck, so not a lady tonight."

Michael chuckles and collects his winnings. Lopez walks with him as they go to the cashier's to get the check, which he slips into his clutch thing. The stupid, little sparkly p.o.s. holds just the lip gloss, his room key, and the check, and even then, shoving the check in there is a bit of a stretch. But he's had a great haul and enjoyed thoroughly watching Belt Buckle meltdown.

Grabby hands deserve no less.

He's also amused as Scraps leans against him that she's closer to matching his height than usual. Closer, not at that level, but her heels, which Michael would have fuck all clue how to walk in and fuck would never ever wear, are at least five inches if they're anything.

"How'd you do, Scrappy?"

She smiles. "Oh, you know how it goes?"

"Do I?" he practically purrs, feeling both enriched and pain free from his own sessions. He slips his arm through hers and lets her lead him to the floor below, where the food and the dance floor both are. "Maybe you can give me a ballpark figure."

"Oh you know, maybe fourteen? Closer to fifteen thousand I think."

Michael nods. "Apparently all the whales prefer some Texas Hold 'Em. I think I cleared almost forty if you count how much Mr. Big Spender left on the table at final call."

She whistles appreciatively. "See! I told you! Come to Texas, fleece all the oil and gasoline big wig pendejos, and enjoy the spoils."

He nods as she leads him to the dance floor. With this set, he's gratified it's actual music—the old standards that Lily used to croon. He's always had a fondness for them and certainly hates the crap Lopez prefers when it's her turn with the Impala's radio. But there is hardly a Monopolize song to be heard. This one, if he's not mistaken, is an old Gershwin tune.

"So, the money I can't bitch about."

"Uh-huh, told you," Scrappy replies.

He nods and lets her lead, literally, setting his arm over her shoulder as her own settles on the small of his back. It tickles since the dress is backless, and he can really feel the flat expanse of her palm against him.

"I think, though, you had ulterior motives for this, Ella, unless I'm off on that."

She grins and he follows her, letting her spin him around a bit. He's not stiff for once, but dancing isn't something they needed to worry about in the Silver City. It's not a warrior's place, and then he was injured and mostly in the backroom. When he was in New York…he'd have liked to, but Lily was one for the right image always; another reason he's sure she was always thick as thieves with his twin. The appearance of it all. But she didn't want to dance in public with him—the stiffness, the uncertain posture, and the lack of dexterity. All were sources of shame. And while now he has more dexterity than his usual tonight after Fearing Belt Buckle, he does not know the moves. Has no idea what he's doing as Lopez leads him around, but she is light on her feet and has been well trained.

It's easy to follow her.

And that one thought summarizes their road trip so far.

It is easy to say yes to everything Scrappy asks and, for now, far easier to fall into her deep brown eyes and her heart-shaped face. To feel somehow, despite the crowded riverboat, like they're the only two here at all. They sway like that for long moments, maybe hours. He's not sure. Even for an immortal being, time has never meant so little.

Eventually, she siddles closer to him, and her hand strays from above his hips to resting firmly on his ass. He's not sure what the rich and adventurous of Galveston are thinking, but he's sure he doesn't give a good Dad damn.

Scraps licks her lips and pouts up at him, and she knows so expertly what she's doing. Of course, she does. She trained him to do that too for their marks at the tables.

But when Ella does it, even knowing what he knows and learning at her knee, Michael falls for it easily. "Do you want to go home now?"

He nods before sweeping one arm over her shoulder and leading her toward the lower decks and to the ramp to disembark soon enough. "You know, Lopez, I thought you'd never ask."