Mockingbird (A Stepbrother Romance #2)(23)

Craps is my game.

It has a reputation for being vastly more complicated than it is, mostly because it's about ten games at once. The main game is called a line bet. A bet is placed on the line, hence the name. The shooter, the person with the dice, rolls. If the dice come up two, three, or twelve, everyone on the line loses. If the shooter rolls a seven or eleven, everyone on the line wins 1:1 odds on their bet.

If any other number is rolled, the object of the game becomes trying to roll that same number again before rolling a seven. That's the basics of the game. There's more to it than that-there are side bets which are only good for one roll, or side bets that sit until a win or loss condition is met, and odds can be placed. It's easier to do than to explain and after spending hours and hours playing, I know all of it in and out.

I don't make a line bet. I wait for the shooter to roll a point number, a five this time, and then call out "Hard six" and toss the stickman, the dealer in the middle of the table, a hundred dollar chip. If I win the bet, I get nine hundred back.

From there it's a waiting game, my stomach coiling with each roll. The first number rolled is a four, two and two. If it would have rolled two and four and made a soft six, I'd be down a hundred. Next roll is an eight. The longer the shooter rolls, the more likely seven is to come up, which means I lose.

With the next roll I watch the dice come in. The shooter is at the far end of the table. The dice bounce just under where my hands rest on the rail. One die lands with a three facing up, the other spins on its corner until I'm almost sweating, then drops.

"Hard six," the stickman calls.

He taps the board in front of me and the other dealer starts counting out chips.

I'm in a mood.

"Parlay."

No, it doesn't mean we're going to negotiate. It means I want my winnings rolled back into the original bet. I just won $900, which now sits on top of my original bet, and bumps it to a thousand.

I make another side bet, but it's that stack of chips on the hard six I'm watching intently. The shooter grabs the dice and hurls them my way, frustration on his face. He's pulling for that five.

He gets half of it, a three. The other half is a three, too. Hard six, back to back.

The stickman checks me with a look. I give him a nod. The dealer stacks two orange five hundred dollar chips in front of me. I lose my other bet on the next roll, but I don't care.

When the dice come to me, I take that thousand and put it on the line.

My first roll is a seven. That makes it two. They're watching me. They might be thinking about checking my ID, might be thinking about offering me comps. My next roll is an eight. I put a thousand behind the first thousand, to back it up. Those are my odds, and the payout is better if I roll another eight.

Five. Dice come back.

Two, dice come back. By the way, it's aces, no one says snake eyes at a craps table.

Roll.

Hard eight. Winner.

This time I take it down, as half a dozen people slap my back and punch my shoulders. The dealers are giving me the eye. If I check the dice now it'll be suspicious, so I roll again. I roll a six, easy number to roll, but the magic is gone. Seven out, and I take my winnings. I saunter with a purpose over to the cashier's window, and cash out. The utter lack of interest on the cashier's face always amuses me. They see so much money change hands, and they have no idea how much I started with, so it's hard to impress one. I should probably leave now, but I need a drink.

Casino bars are always a ripoff, especially since players get free drinks, but I don't care in the least. I order up a Screwdriver and spot a girl at the bar, having the same thing. She glances over, and something about her gives me the willies. It sounds dramatic, but it's like I feel a wind blowing over my grave. Dark hair, petite, and freakishly pale, like she's wearing pancake makeup or something. She looks at me hard, and then gets up and walks off, leaving her drink. I blink a few times, and it takes a slug of booze to make me feel warm again.

A much warmer hand rests on mine as a leggy bottle blonde in not much of a red dress slips onto the bar stool next to me.

"What are you having?"

I raise her my glass.

She nods the bartender over. "Buy me a drink?"

"Sure."

High class, this one. Long legs, and a skirt so short it borders on illegal. Nice big breasts, little dimples when she smiles, and silky hair even if it is bleached blonde, in tight ringlets she's piled up on her head in a high updo. Her drink is delivered and I pay the man, and she takes a sip without really drinking. I down the rest of mine.

"How'd you like to go upstairs?"

She bats her eyelashes. "I think I would."

I still feel a nervous flutter in my stomach. I'd put her in her late twenties, early thirties. When she stands up I see what kind of fantastic shape she's in. Flat belly, great ass, tall and shapely legs, and a pretty face. She has brown eyes, and a warm smile.

The walk to the elevator is casual, but I'm nervous about something.

This is wrong. I should stop.

I keep telling myself but I get in the elevator anyway. There's a kind of awkwardness to these transactions. There's a lot of pressure not to be so casual with this kind of thing.

I feel like I'm being watched as I stand by the door while she opens her room. I probably am. I duck in the bathroom, check in the shower as she walks into the room.