Keep On Keepin On
Chapter 1: Fake OutAnother card is set and now it's all eyes on me. I grin, knowing full well what the count is and knowing there's nothing anyone can do about it. "Hit me," I say through a wide, toothy smile. The card flips over, and I feign delighted surprise as my total comes to twenty-one. The other folks at the table are glaring at me as I take a victorious sip of my brandy. "Must be my lucky night!" I swish the liquid around my mouth, feeling exhilarated by the burn and the heat of the game. The dealer, stone faced, removes our cards.
"Shut it, Kaspbrak," my stool neighbor says to me. He's got this stern look that tells me most of his days are spent wallowing in self-pity. Can't relate. Considering his aviators appear to have never seen a cleaning cloth a day in their existence, I can't blame him for not being able to see he was shit out of luck.
"The night has just begun, my dude. You'll win the next round, for sure." I raise my glass to him, offering to toast to his empty wallet, and am met with a scowl even more vicious than before.
"You making fun of me?" he accuses me, pushing himself to the edge of his seat. I raise my eyebrows and give my best 'doe-eyed' expression – the one Richie swears will get us out of any tricky situation. I think he's full of it.
My hands raise up to either side of my face. "I'm just here for a good time, no need to get bent." My innocent face cracks into another big smile, which definitely doesn't help to ease the tension. I guess I've had one too many drinks.
"You two still playing or what?" the dealer sighs. He exchanges a look with my other table mate, and something tells me neither of them are too fond with our presence. No worries; I can make quick work of this table.
"Lay it on me, man," I smile, taking another sip of brandy. Mr Dirty Aviators doesn't press me further, but his anger is like a furnace next to me. What a tight ass.
"Place your bets," the dealer says as he places the used cards off to the side; don't they know that just makes this whole thing easier? He pulls out a card and places it face down in front him. The woman next to me makes a cautious bet – only two chips. I can't help myself, and proceed to finish off the rest of my brandy before pushing five chips in front of me.
"Ten chips," the angry spaz says, and he makes his point clear by nearly throwing the chips toward the dealer.
"That's some pretty good confidence you have there!" I nod, knowing I'm pushing this guy too much. Richie's rubbed off on me too much, I think. I'm crossing boundaries I never would have considered toeing before, but here we are. Where the fuck is he, anyway? Regardless, I know I need to get more added to the pot before I can walk away, and starting a fight is the quickest way to lose my future earnings.
The dealer sets our cards in front of us before flipping his own over. As the second set begins to flip over, I see the numbers flash through my mind – two, three, another two. The dealer has an ace, so I know the likelihood of him staying below sixteen is slim. With my Jack and five I'll have to make my next move based on whatever the redhead next to me chooses to do. She ponders it herself, and I desperately wish I had another brandy. "Hit me," she decides, and it looks like she's safe under twenty-one. "Stay," she says, nodding. That makes another two for the count.
"Hit me," I grin. A three slaps down in front of me, and I know better than to push it. "Stay."
This dude is fuming, and I'm not surprised. He has a queen and a two – one wrong move and it's a bust, but no move at all and it's a loss. "Hit me," he mutters, and a seven is slapped down in front of him. The scowl has disappeared, replaced with a disgusting smug. "Stay." The dealer flips his second card over - a six. Morale has been added back to the entirety of the table, and although it means I've added more to my winnings, no one seems to mind.
"Need another brandy?" comes a familiar voice. I take my eyes away from the pile of chips to see Richie sliding another drink my way as he sits down at the table. He winks at me before turning to the dealer to signal he wants in the next round. I feel my face flush and a grin spreads across it.
"Need a smoke?" I ask, making it a point to use one of our words. To be fair, it was Richie's idea to use codewords to indicate the current count of the deck in case either of us wants to hop in to swindle more cash. He nods at me, taking out his lighter. We pass over a cigarette across the angry dude between us. Getting that close to him fills my nostrils with the stench of sweat and I nearly gag. Is he so pissed off he has to perspire in the middle of the casino? I pull back and watch Richie place the cigarette between his lips. I swear, if I didn't have asthma I would have seen his smoking as sexy.
"Bets," the dealer says, drumming his fingers against the table.
The redhead looks up and down the table at us before sliding another two chips toward the dealer. "Got another smoke?" she asks me. I raise my eyebrows playfully before passing one to her. She holds my gaze as she takes it, a flirtatious twinkle in her eye. I don't know if I should tell her that my boyfriend is watching.
"Twenty," I say, beaming. I push the chips toward the dealer and feel Richie's approval.
"What the fuck are you on about?" growls the sweaty man. I pull my drink up to my lips and tilt it toward him with a smile before taking a long sip. He glares at me before shoving fifteen chips forward. Gotcha, dumbass.
"Hmm," Richie ponders, his cigarette held between his fingers. His eyes flicker toward me before he says, "Hell, they're playing my song. I might as well." He isn't wrong – we've always loved House of the Rising Sun, but the word 'song' tells me to keep letting him know the count just in case he's off. He should really give himself more credit when it comes to simple math. He pushes fifteen chips toward the dealer.
The cards are placed in front of us, and the counting continues. The dealer has an eight, but I know he probably has a three on top of it. He'll draw again and either bust or be a tough one to beat, based on what any of us decide to do about it. Redhead has a four and a jack. "Hit me," she says, blowing smoke out over the table. The dealer slaps an eight in front of her. "Oh, that's a shame," she says, unbothered by the loss. Staying would have yielded the same result, which is something she was probably aware of anyhow.
I glance down at my seven and four. "Well don't I feel lucky?" I say, handing the word over to Richie. "Hit me." The dealer slaps a nine in front of me, giving me a total of twenty. I grin, bringing more bourbon to my lips. "Stay." Sweaty Aviator Bummer has a four and a ten, and I know he won't consider Staying.
"Hit," he commands, growing tense. A King flips over, causing him to bust. He's nearly screaming at this point, knowing that he bet fifteen chips and they all belong to the dealer. It's hard to hold in my laughter, and knowing I won't have to tell Richie to ask for the hit only makes the win so much more enjoyable.
Richie barely looks down at his five and six before asking for the hit. A nine flips in front of him, pushing his total to twenty, matching mine. "Right on!" He sucks on his cigarette gleefully, and we both watch the dealer flip over his card – a three, which just won't do. He then draws a four, bringing his total to fifteen. To be fair to the others in the game, they were going to lose this round no matter what.
"Winner winner, chicken dinner!" Richie exclaims, his hands raising in victory. "I'll be closing out now."
"Same over here, man," I wave, ready to take my winnings and book out.
"Hold on just a damn second." The Perspirator stands up abruptly as the dealer slides our chips over to us. "You fuckers were counting the cards!"
The accusation takes me back and my mouth drops open. "I – you-," I take the chips in my hands as I slip off the stool, eyes falling on Richie. "You were counting the cards?!"
He gathers up his own chips before stepping back from the table. "Me? A card counter? I'd bet money that you're the card counter here!"
"Funny coming from the one who entered one game and left with twice as much winnings!" I retort, my voice raising.
"Oh sure, throwing the blame definitely makes you look less guilty, card counter!"
Richie and I are circling each other, the chips sliding into our pockets. We know we will have to come back at a different time to cash them out, but the fun of making a scene makes it almost worth it. "You think you can just come into a casual game of Black Jack and scam your way into some money? Well you've got another thing coming!" At this point our angry table mate is dumbfounded, but we've gathered the attention of many onlookers. Time to split, fast. I angle my head toward the door in an attempt to let Richie know we can't hang around.
"Classy of you to throw the blame on an innocent player! Care to divulge your nasty counting tricks?" A smile plays at the corner of Richie's mouth as he loses at the whole 'keep a straight face' thing. We face each other down, making a show of our voices and accusations to distract from our escape. I look behind Richie to see a security guard barreling toward us.
"Time to split, Tozier," I say just loud enough for him to hear, and the two of us bolt out the door, chips noisily bouncing in our pockets. We laugh as we run, the sound of it filling the night air. Running feels good, especially when it's with Richie. We make it to his car – a tough teal Cadillac with gaudy cheetah print seats and fuzzy dice in the rearview mirror. "I don't think anyone actually followed us out," I say, craning my neck outside the window to get a good look at the casino.
"Holy shit that was wild," Richie laughs as he pulls out another smoke. I watch him as the cigarette rests between his lips, the end of it burning gently after he lights it. "We're probably alone because we only have the chips and no actual cash," he muses.
"Yeah, sure," I say, wondering how we're going to turn these damn chips into a fat wad. "You want to go back in and beg?" I tease.
"Fuck no!" He sucks in the smoke before turning to me and pressing his lips against mine. I pull away quickly, turning my face toward the window.
"Blow that shit out before you touch me, asshole."
"Mmm, sorry spaghetti," he says, blowing the smoke out the window. "Let's try again."
I grin, angling my body toward him to get a better angle. His lips are always soft, and tonight they taste like cigarettes and brandy. I could do without the cigarettes, and the brandy reminds me I have an unfinished drink inside. I bet sweaty boy is helping himself to it at this very moment.
Our moment is interrupted by a loud tap at my window. We yank away from each other, both unsatisfied by the ending of the kiss. "Who the-" the words are caught in my throat as my head swings around to the window to see the beautiful redhead from earlier. She gestures for us to get out of the car, but I'm not convinced. "What do we do?" I timidly ask Richie.
His eyebrows raise curiously. "What harm could it do?" I can't argue with that, so we step out of the car to face her. Our arms are crossed over our bodies as we stare her down, silently asking what she wants.
"I want in," she says calmly, her hands on her hips.
"In? On what?" I play dumb, my back against the car.
Her eyes roll hard. "On the scam. You totally played them back there."
"Guess the jig is up," Richie says, his arms raised playfully. "So you want in. Good luck, sister, we're about to split."
"I could cash your chips for you. How else are you going to get back in there?" She nods at our pockets, which are still filled to the brim with dirty casino chips.
Richie and I exchange a look. We figured we would just return to the casino in a few days to get our cash before getting the hell out of dodge, but leaving overnight sounds way too good. "What's in it for us?" I try. "You'll just dip out of here with our money."
"And I guess that means you want to come with us, knowing we're out of this town," Richie continues for me.
"I need out of here," she sighs. "I'm tired of it. I'll leave something with you while I cash your chips in for collateral, if that's what you need."
"You don't even know where we're going," I say. "Do you even know how to count?"
"I don't give a fuck where you're going. And I may not count cards, but I'm not dumb. I knew you were giving each other code words the moment you offered over a smoke." She crosses her arms as if she's lecturing us.
I nearly stutter. "You don't know what you're talking about." My eyes glance back over at Richie to see he seems won over by her. Fuck.
"You're not a smoker but you had a box full of them." She shrugs. "Your call. But really, you should take me."
"Give me your underwear," Richie says grinning. I nearly fall back, appalled. He holds his hand up to me as he continues. "Collateral. Hand it over right now."
I raise my eyebrow at him as I shift my gaze over toward this redheaded woman who doesn't miss a beat as she begins pulling her bra out from under her shirt. She effortlessly unclips the wire contraption and throws it our way – it lands on top of the car. "Or should I do the panties too?" she challenges. Richie and I shake our heads in astonishment. "So, the chips?" She opens here hands and outstretches them toward us. I think to myself that she might be the best chance we have in getting this money right now, and I hand over my chips with a nod toward Richie.
We're sitting in the car, wondering if we made a huge mistake in trusting this strange woman who never even told us her name. Richie has the car on and David Bowie is playing through the speakers to chill us out. His constant tapping against the wheel is getting on my nerves. Her bra is sitting on the dashboard, cups facing the heavenly skies above. "You have to admit," Richie eventually says, breaking the silence. "That was an awesome play."
"Hm," I hum in response. "Almost."
"What do you mean almost? Did you see the look on their faces?"
"We were careless tonight, Rich. And I know it's because we were going to book out of here anyway, but we can't be that reckless with where we're going."
He looks at me and sighs. "Yeah, yeah. But you sure were cute anyway." His grin is back, and I simultaneously want to punch him and straddle him. Before I can act on the thoughts coming from my groin, we hear another knock at the window. She's back and happily waving a fist full of wrapped up bills.
"Holy fuck, get in," I say, gesturing toward the back door. She pops it open and flops down onto the cheetah print seat before tossing the cash into my lap.
"Told you." She's proud of herself, but something tells me it isn't because she held up her end of the deal. She knows she's about to get out of this hopeless town, and she's happy for it.
"Time to hit the road!" Richie punches the roof of the car before hitting the gas. "Name's Richie, and this here is Eddie Spaghetti."
"Just Eddie." I roll my eyes.
"I'm Beverly," she smiles.
"Well, Beverly, you're in it to win it now. No backing out." I pull a brown leather bag out from under the seat and stuff the wad of cash into it, adding to the growing pile. "You have no idea what you've just gotten yourself into."
"Hope your bra likes the fresh air." Richie speaks more toward the bra on the dashboard than he does to Beverly. She fines it amusing.
"I've never felt more free." She stretches her arms above her head, feeling the carpet-like material of the ceiling on her fingertips.
"What's your story?" I ask, handing a cigarette back to her.
She takes her time lighting the cigarette, avoiding the question for as long as she can. "It's kind of a long story," she finally says.
"We have plenty of time, sugar," Richie says, turning onto the highway.
"Where are we headed?" she asks, realizing that the thought hadn't even occurred to her.
I turn around in my seat to look at her, my toothy grin impossible to contain. "To Vegas, baby. Las Vegas."