High Roller

Losin' it

    I look at my cards, a two and seven off suit. Possibly the worst fucking draw I could've gotten in this entire match. I've been winning for the last three hours, and I'm not planning on stopping now.
I look around the table, seeing everyone in refined silks and cashmeres. They feed themselves off the palpable tension of the room. It's dark in here, and weirdly... moist. Not a good environment for such a high risk gamble. I watch as their foreheads begin to collect droplets of sweat, the liquid searing on their skin like a hot skillet.
Seeing them break a sweat over a woman who has no real power, and never has, will always get me going.
The only person exempt from this eternal fear seems to be Harry Styles. He should be scared, awfully terrified.
I finally turn to face him, trying to read his features. His lips are closed, both pillows shut softly against one another. His jaw is relaxed, and his eyes are hungry for the outcome of this match.
I keep my stare on his eyes, watching as the green of them stare me back. He looks down at his cards for the slightest of seconds, taking a guilty peek at whatever fate he holds between his fingers —and then, I know he's bluffing.
I break my eye contact, watching our dealer place the river card on the green, velvet table. Harry Styles has challenged me in exactly 794 bets since we've known each other, and he's managed to lose every single time.
You'd think the man would learn to stop, or that eventually he'd run out of funds —and then you remember who he is and you realize that both of those things are impossible for him.
The dealer sets down an ace which, along with the other four community cards, doesn't help me whatsoever. The ace is as helpful as a pair of shorts on a cold day.
But I bluff.
Throughout life, you learn to become an excellent liar. A well carried lie can last you an entire match, and can feed into your opponents head like a venomous poison —the antidote being to just simply give in to the lie. To take it as absolute truth, to take it as a sacrilegious oath.
Most players tend to overthink signs of bluffing. They cower over the idea of whether to believe their opponents bluff or not, teetering over the edge of madness. A bad habit if you ask me, but what do I know.
I know a bluff when I see one, I always can.
And Harry Styles is bluffing.
If I had to guess, his cards are just as bad as mine, and whatever was placed on the table isn't going to assist him in any way. His shoulders dropped slightly as the card was placed, meaning his excitement wasn't grand enough to assure me he had a good handout.
    On the left of Harry is Viktor Jimenez, the leader of the Jimenez Cartel on the south side. He's just as worried as Harry. Although, instead of showing his worry, he hides it under a clean, cocky smile. Viktor thinks he's smooth, and clean cut. He thinks his lies fly past me like wind.
    Poor Viktor.
    Lucky for me —he's placed $45,000 in the winner's pool.
    Beside Viktor is Akane Mori, a beautiful red head with eyes that don't spill a single word throughout their round. She's smarter than the other men at the table, but not defenseless to her own ego.
    Akane is as much as a trust fund baby as they come. Her dad owns an international Japanese tech development company, and Akane lives off whatever profit is made in the Silicon Valley headquarters. By profit, I mean millions of dollars every week. Trust fund babies get cocky when they're threatened, and she's real silent right now.
    She has a good hand, and $78,000 in the pool.
Second to last is Mick Rodgers, a street fighter who gained notoriety after he killed a man in a fight. Shit like that cements in your conscience. It weighs itself like a gold bar —valuable on the streets, but worthless lying around. He quit his fights, and now presides in this dingy shithole.
Finally, we reach Bentley Morrison. You'd think that with two kids and a husband, she'd stay away from places like this —but her intentions become clear when she enters the room every week with a broken heart that seems to never heal. She's always too drunk out of her mind to win. She comes here to lose. To flood her husband's hefty bank account.
She enters with a full bottle of brandy, half a million dollars, and leaves with nothing but an empty bottle.
The final betting round begins.
I begin by taking a look at what I laid out in the pool. $159,000, and the deed to the vintage Porsche 911 right outside the building.
"I raise." I set my cards down flat against the table face down, face straight. I slide another stack of $50,000 in the pool, staring at all the fearful faces around me.
Next is Akane, who's starting to doubt her cards. She stares at the cards between her hands, and her eyes finally flicker to me.
I raise an eyebrow. "Don't get shy on me, Kane. Raise or call."
Her red ponytail sways lightly with the bad air conditioning, rustling between her shoulders, and fanning slightly against her face. She blows her bangs out of her eyes, and when it doesn't work, her irritation grows. She flips her head, hoping they'll budge... but they don't.
I take a slick finger, and swipe them off her forehead, offering her polite grin as she stares at me with a glare.
"I fold."
She flips her cards over.
A full house.
Such a shame.
I show no emotion whatsoever, staring down at her thrown away cards. I think that's why I like poker as much as I do. Each hand has so much potential if the user knows what to do with it, and if they know what to do with themselves.
You have to know yourself to play, and you have to control yourself to win. There can be no mistakes, no unplanned gestures.
Viktor doesn't hesitate, his smile never leaving his face as he declares his decision. "I fold too. Goddamnit, kid." He lays his cards out.
Three-two offsuit, almost as bad as mine.
Harry's up next, smirking at me tentatively.
"How good is your hand, Aspen? You already have two out of four folds you need to win, and you know Ben is going to fold regardless —deadweight. I'll fold if you tell me what cards you have." He's calm, and collected. Less nervous than he was fifteen minutes ago. Yet, I know his luck hasn't changed, and his hand is still as bad as it was in the beginning of the match. I'll indulge in Style's little game.
"I can make a straight flush with my cards. Now fold." I don't let anxiety seep into my words. I use the bottom of my throat to regurgitate every word as bleakly as possible. I can't give him specific cards, in case he has said cards. My specificity can only be correlated to whatever is already on the table, and what knowledge I have, of what he can't possibly have. He doesn't have an ace, because he would've already called using the either the jack or the queen on the table. He also can't have any clover suits, because he would've been able to call a straight flush using the three clovers on the table.
"You're lying," he mutters. He's testing me, seeing how far I'll go to prove it.
"Want to see my cards?" I ask, waving them around loosely in my hand. I'm playing a dangerous game, but that's what makes it fun doesn't it?
The possibility of losing.
He rolls his eyes. Such a Harry thing to do. "Show Ben, and Ben, you tell me what she has."
I look at an inebriated Bentley, nodding at her. She understands immediately, nodding back. He picked the wrong person to corroborate my story. Bentley isn't here to win. 
"She's tellin' the truth." Her country accent drawls out lazily. She gives Harry a cheesy, drunk smile.
He huffs out, dropping his cards on the table.
"I fold too."
"It was nice playing with all of you today. I have a wonderful cozy, well conditioned home to get to." I stand up, dropping my 2 and 7 on the table.
Akane is the first to shriek. "Holy shit. You see that Viktor?"
"You'll learn the trick of the game one day. You're too young, kid," Viktor laughs, straightening out his blazer.
Harry hasn't stood up. He's staring at my cards, and flickering his eyes at Bentley ferociously. I lean against the table, laying my palms on the green velvet. "Cat got your tongue, Styles?"
"You get real cocky real fast. Wait until I steal everything out from under you, Bates."
I haul the stacks of cash, along with an emerald necklace left by Bentley. "I'll pray for that day to arrive soon. I know you'd love to see me at your feet, completely riddled with the disappointment and the heartbreak of having lost to Harry Styles."
He rolls his eyes, treading towards the exit. He stands quietly for a second at the door frame. "Fuck you."
    I snort, before watching him disappear into the night.