The next hand she drew better hole cards, picking up a pair of tens. She met the opening hundred and stayed in the game. One of the businessmen dropped out and so did one of the locals. Everyone else stayed in for the flop. The dealer turned three cards: five of clubs, jack of spades, seven of hearts.
The Chinese woman raised another hundred. The remaining players got out of the way and folded, leaving it up to Teddy.
Teddy knew the woman was bluffing.
“But how do you know that?” her old friend Morgan had asked a year or two ago (whined like a six-year-old, really, if Teddy was being honest) after accompanying her to a casino and losing nearly a grand. “How do you know they’re bluffing?”
Teddy could lecture all day long about tells. Watch their eyes—did they glance at their own chip stack or look away? Study their mouths—were their jaws relaxed or tense? If they touched their chips, it meant this; if they touched their cards, it meant that. But the real answer, at least for Teddy, came down to instinct. She knew because she knew. She never tried to explain it to anyone, because she thought it would sound ridiculous. It was kind of like how kids learned to count on their fingers without being shown. Just a way to work out a problem. She couldn’t tell exactly what people were thinking, but she could always tell if they were lying. For when they did, a feeling of anxiety so acute, so alarming, took over—it was as if every molecule in the universe were telling her to trust her gut.
“You know that feeling when you’re walking down an alley and you think you’re being followed?” Teddy asked Morgan. “When you get into an elevator with someone who looks like a creep? When the voice inside your head shouts, THIS IS WRONG! and you have no choice but to listen?” But Morgan never understood, exactly. Anyway, Teddy learned early that it was easier to keep her explanations to herself.
From a young age, Teddy’s gut had taught her a hard truth: everybody lies. Her father lied when her mother asked about her cooking; her classmates lied when the teacher asked about their homework; her supposed friends lied when she asked about their weekend plans. She couldn’t live in a constant state of anxiety, but she also couldn’t live with the constant heartbreak of knowing that the people she trusted were untrustworthy. So she’d done her best to shut out the feeling everywhere except the poker table. Her medication helped dull the feeling, too, but focus was harder. That’s why she’d skipped her pill tonight. Because tonight she needed every edge to win.
Not a single casino had ever been able to prove she cheated. That’s because she didn’t—technically.
Teddy looked at the woman and called the raise. The turn showed an eight.
Without checking her cards, Teddy pushed in another pot-sized raise, which was more than the rest of her stack. Teddy sat very still, considering the woman across from her.
“All in.” The woman said.
That feeling overtook her—her pulse raced, sweat formed on her palms. The woman had nothing. She was bluffing.
You can’t play me. I’m basically a human lie detector.
“I think I’m gonna go all in, y’all. Is this how that works?” Teddy said as she pushed her remaining chips into the pot. Then Teddy smiled as the woman mucked her cards.
* * *
An hour passed, and then another. No big winners, no big losers. Teddy took down more pots than anyone else.
God, she missed this—the waxy flutter of playing cards, the clatter of chips, and the clubby insider jargon that defined the game: the blinds, the flop, the turn, the river. But most of all, she missed who she was when she played. She felt . . . plugged in. Switched on. As though some essential part of her came to life only when she was seated at a casino table. She positively thrived here. Which made it even more obscenely unfair that she’d been banned from every casino on the Strip.
The dealer lightly clapped his hands and stepped away from the table, indicating a shift change. Teddy tipped him and stood, taking the opportunity to unstick her skirt from her panty hose. As she waited for the new dealer to step in, Teddy glanced around the room. Her gaze landed on a man sitting by himself at the bar. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him before, but something about him caught her attention and held it. He was a big guy—NFL-linebacker big. Midfifties, African American, casual dress. But nothing else about him was casual. Unlike other patrons, he struck her as purposeful, as though waiting for something or someone. He looked suspicious, and she was sure her instincts would kick in to warn her. But they didn’t. Then he abruptly picked up his drink and left the room.
* * *
Things were going well: she was winning—almost fifty grand up—and no one seemed to have recognized her.
A cocktail server made her rounds. “Gin and tonic,” the guy said, then gestured toward Teddy’s empty glass. “And a rum and Coke.”
Teddy jerked her attention back to the table. “What? Oh, no, thanks. I’m fine.”
“You certainly are.”
A line? When I’m dressed like this? Do you think I’m an idiot?
She didn’t need her instincts to know that he was a player. Her gaze slid to his left hand. No ring, but that didn’t mean anything. Not in a town like Vegas.
She looked at the server. “Coke’s fine. Extra ice, skip the rum.”
“Suit yourself.” The guy held out his hand. “I’m Nick, by the way.”
“Te—” she started, then caught herself just in time. “Anne.”
He smiled, cocked his head to one side, and drew his brows together as though deep in thought. “TeAnne? Interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever met
