The Poker Game (MFF)

I was hired to be the ghost who poured their drinks, but by the end of the night I was the main prize on the poker table.

The call came on a Tuesday, which is usually my most boring day of the week. It was Mr. Chen, one of my regulars. He's old money, the kind of guy who drinks PBR like it's an ironic joke but tips in crisp hundred-dollar bills.

"Hey," he said, his voice crackling a little over the phone. "I have a private event. High-stakes. Need someone discreet who can pour a good drink and keep their mouth shut."

"That's my entire job description, Mr. Chen."

"Five thousand for the night. Cash. Penthouse in the Pearl. You in?"

Five fucking grand?! I didn't even hesitate. Five grand could be a plane ticket somewhere warm with lots left over.

"I'm in," I said. "Send me the address."

The penthouse was exactly what you'd expect. All glass and steel, with a view that made the whole of Portland look like a tiny, sparkling circuit board. The air smelled of expensive leather, faint cigar smoke, and that clean, sterile scent of money that's never been touched by human hands. I spent the first hour setting up my bar: a long slab of black marble in the corner of the massive living room. I polished glasses until they squeaked, lined up bottles of whiskey that cost more than a car, and made sure the ice was crystal clear.

The players started arriving around nine. Six of them, all men in tailored suits or expensive casual wear, all carrying the same quiet, predatory tension. They nodded at me, placed their orders, and then ignored me, which was perfect. My job was to be a ghost who refilled glasses.

Then *they* walked in.

They were a unit. You could feel it instantly. He was Bryan, a man in his forties with a face that was completely unreadable, like it was carved from stone. He wore a simple, dark grey suit, no tie. His hands were clean, short-nailed, and they moved with an unnerving precision as he sat down and unstacked his chips. He didn't look at me, didn't look at anyone. His focus was a laser beam pointed at the green felt of the custom poker table in the center of the room.

She was Ashleigh. His wife, I found out later. She was maybe a few years older than him, sharp and electric. She wore a black dress that was simple but cut perfectly, and her smile was a weapon. It didn't reach her eyes, which were busy scanning everything – the other players, the layout of the room, me. She didn't play. She stood just behind his left shoulder, a silent partner, her hand resting lightly on his chair.

For the next two hours, I served drinks and watched. It's the bartender's curse. You can't not watch. You see everything. The guy in seat two, a tech bro with a stupidly expensive watch, kept fiddling with his collar when he was bluffing. The rich-looking guy in seat five had a vein that pulsed in his temple when he had a monster hand. It was fascinating.

But I mostly watched Bryan and Ashleigh. He played with a terrifying stillness. No tells, no emotion. Just a calm, relentless focus. She was his spotter, I realized. Her eyes darted from player to player, and every so often, she'd lean down and whisper something in his ear, too low for anyone to hear. They were a team, a perfectly calibrated machine.

I also watched the man in seat four. He was a loud, beefy guy in a blazer who liked to talk. And he had a tell so obvious it was almost funny. When he had a good hand, a real winner, he'd order a Johnnie Walker Blue. When he was bluffing or on a weak hand, he'd switch to the house bourbon. It was like he was announcing his intentions to the whole room, but nobody else seemed to notice. Or maybe they did, which is why he was ordering more bourbons than Blues.

Around midnight, Ashleigh called for a fifteen-minute break. The men stood up, stretched, and moved to the balcony to smoke or make calls. I stayed behind my bar, wiping down the counter. Ashleigh didn't go outside. Instead, she walked right over to me, her heels making soft clicking sounds on the polished concrete floor.

She leaned against the bar, her smile finally touching her eyes. It made her look even more dangerous. "You see things, don't you?" she said. Her voice was low, like smoke.

I just kept wiping the counter. "It's my job to see if someone's glass is empty."

"Bullshit," she said, but it was friendly. Bryan walked up and stood beside her, his presence a silent weight. He still hadn't said a word to me all night. Ashleigh pulled a small, mirrored coaster from her clutch, along with a tiny vial. With a flick of her wrist, she laid out a perfect, thin white line on the mirror.

She slid it across the bar to me. My heart hammered against my ribs. This was a test. The coke, the question, all of it.

"Tell me what you see," she said, her eyes locked on mine. "The man in seat four."

I looked from the line of coke to her sharp, intelligent face, then to Bryan's calm, waiting expression. This wasn't just a weird game, it was an invitation into their world. The high-stakes tension, the smell of whiskey, the low hum of the city outside. It all swirled together, pulling me in. I took a bill from my tip jar, rolled it up, bent over the bar, and sniffed the line. It was a clean, chemical burn that went straight to my brain.

I stood up straight, my head clear, my senses buzzing. I met her gaze.

"He drinks top-shelf when he's holding and well-liquor when he's bluffing," I said. "He just ordered a double bourbon and ginger. He's got nothing."

A slow, genuine smile spread across Ashleigh's face. It wasn't the weapon she'd been using all night. This was appreciation. Bryan finally looked at me, really looked at me, and his stone-carved face showed a flicker of something. It might have been surprise. Or respect. It was gone before I could decide.

"The break's over," Ashleigh announced, turning away from the bar as if we'd just been discussing the weather. She and Bryan returned to the table.

I watched the next hand play out from behind the bar. It was exactly like I said. The loud guy in seat four, Johnnie Walker Blue guy, was talking big. He raised, then raised again. Bryan just calmly met his bets, his face giving away nothing. Then the guy went all in. The tech bro with the watch folded immediately. The old money guy thought about it, then pushed his cards into the middle. It was just Bryan and Mr. Johnnie Walker.

"You sure, buddy?" the loud guy asked, leaning over the table.

Bryan didn't answer. He just looked at Ashleigh. She gave him the tiniest, almost invisible nod. He pushed his massive stack of chips forward. "Call."

The guy laid down his cards. Two pairs. A strong hand, but not a monster. Bryan turned his over. He had a quiet, brutal full house. The guy's face went slack. He'd been bluffed into betting his entire stack. He was out.

The rest of the game ended quickly after that. The energy was gone. Bryan had bled them dry. One by one, the other players cashed out, their faces grim, and left without a word. Mr. Chen came over to the bar while I was cleaning up. He handed me a thick envelope.

"Your five thousand," he said. He handed me a second, even thicker envelope. "And this is from them. They said you earned it." He nodded towards Bryan and Ashleigh, who were standing by the window, looking out at the city lights. Then he left.

The heavy penthouse door clicked shut. The silence was sudden and absolute. It was just the three of us.

Ashleigh turned from the window. She walked back towards me, her pace slow and deliberate. She didn't stop at the edge of the bar this time. She came around it, invading my space.

"That was a very profitable tip," she said, her voice a low hum. Her hand came up and rested on my waist, her fingers cool against the thin fabric of my work shirt. "We believe in rewarding talent."

She pulled me gently, leading me out from behind the bar. I went without resisting. My heart was a hammer against my ribs. This was it.

The next level of the game. Bryan followed us, his presence a silent, heavy weight at my back. They led me to the poker table, the green felt still littered with a few stray chips.

Ashleigh's hands went to the front of my shirt. "Let's see the rest of your cards," she murmured, and her fingers started working on the buttons, one by one. The shirt came open, and the cold air of the room hit my skin. My nipples went hard instantly.

Bryan stepped closer. It was the first time he'd touched me. His hand, the one I'd watched stack chips with such unnerving precision, spread flat against my stomach. His palm was warm and dry. He didn't push, didn't grope. He just held it there, claiming the space.

Together, they lifted me and sat me on the edge of the poker table. My black work skirt rode up my thighs, exposing the top of my dragon tattoo. Ashleigh stood between my legs, her hands resting on my knees. Bryan stood beside her, his gaze locked on my face.

Ashleigh leaned in, her smoky voice dropping to a whisper. "Bryan plays a no-limit game," she said. "Are you all in?"

I didn't have to answer. My body answered for me, my hips giving a little tilt forward, my legs parting just enough. It was all the invitation she needed.

Ashleigh's smile was sharp and knowing. She knelt on the floor between my legs, her hands coming up to grip my thighs, her thumbs pressing into the soft skin on the inside. She looked from my face, down my body, and then her eyes locked on mine again.

"Bryan likes to watch," she said, her voice a low murmur. Then she bent her head.