“Pardon the interruption. Let’s get back to it,” I say, nodding my head at the guys seated around the table. The room is dim, with atmospheric Moroccan lights and hand-carved woodwork. It’s small, but the guys like it this way— I think it makes them feel like they’re getting away with something. Or maybe they’ve just watched too many movies.

“Family emergency?” one of the guys asks, eyes flicking up toward me. This guy— I call him Norton, which is his last name, but we typically go by last names here— is a few shades too tan. What is it about having money that makes people stay in the tanning booth for five minutes too long? Do they get distracted in there, thinking about the next yacht they’ll buy or something?

“It was nothing,” I say.

Another one of the guys, a film producer in a dress shirt that, despite being untucked and rumpled, has clearly been tailored exactly to his body, speaks. “I didn’t even know your phone accepted calls from anyone who isn’t sitting here,” he jokes, motioning to the others.

“Let’s just get back to the game already,” a brusque voice interrupts. It’s Finney, who has a thick accent and to whom, frankly, I regret ever extending an invitation. Sort of. He’s brought me most of the big fish at the table, but he’s old, old money that I strongly suspect has some not-so-friendly ties, no matter how “clean” he professes to be now. Finney adds, “Deal already. Some of us have places to be.”

“Alright, same as always, gentlemen: the game is Texas Hold ‘Em, blinds are one hundred/two hundred. Minimum buy-in is fifty thousand dollars. Your dealer this evening is, once again, my dear friend Roderigo, and your bartenders this evening are Eva, Mirabella, and Madison.” I motion toward the bar at this point. Three bartenders for a crowd of eight may seem like overkill, but the ladies are here as much for their looks as they are for their skill behind the bar. “Can I answer any questions before we begin?”

Heads shake casually; the eyes of the eight men are on the felt tabletop or Roderigo’s hands, which now hover right above it. He’s holding a deck of cards which have already been shuffled in a very expensive Shufflemaster that I shelled out for two years ago, when the game got so big that I needed to make it look more professional, rather than just more expensive.

It’s not really a professional game, though. These aren’t pro poker players. They’re actors, millionaires, athletes, and trust fund babies. They play poker and bet money because losing a few hundred thousand dollars makes them feel alive, and because taking another rich guy’s money is like winning the world’s most expensive dick-measuring contest. Making them feel like pros instead of rich assholes is as much a part of my game as thousand dollar bottles of champagne and a referral-only invite system.

And it is, without a doubt, my game. I don’t play poker; I play the poker players.

Roderigo begins dealing, which means it’s my cue to step back. I oversee the game, the payouts, the buy in, the books, but during actual play I’m little more than a ghost. I don’t let my mind wander, though— I watch each and every hand, so there can be no debate over how it went down later.

Well. Usually I don’t let my mind wander. But tonight, all I can think about is Josie.

I don’t like the idea of her thinking the deposit was hush money, but…if I’m being honest? Maybe it was, sort of. Hush money— apology money. Money that came with a plea for her to forgive and forget what almost happened between us— and all the things that did happen. Why the hell did I think it would work? Would a few thousand dollars make me forget about that night? About the way my fingers felt on her breasts. Between her legs, against her clit. About that moment when I was sure, so sure I was about to slide myself inside of her—

“Fold,” one of the players— Kaufman, one of the newer guys— says, and I jolt back into the moment. It looks like Finney is winning the hand, and I smile politely, pretending like I saw the entire exchange. Roderigo collects the cards and begins the second hand; Eva sweeps out to refresh one of player’s drinks. He tips her with a thousand-dollar chip. It seems way too generous, but I know he’s just showing off— making the others aware of how little a thousand dollars means to him, that he can throw it away on a pretty cocktail waitress. Eva thanks him, but doesn’t overreact, which is one of the reasons she’s been working these games with me for months, now. Well, that and the fact that she looks great in that little black dress.

I wonder how Josie would look in that number?

Ugh, and just like that, she’s back in my head; her pretty eyes, the way she looked up at me from my bed, the way she spread her legs for me, seemingly as eager for this to happen as I was.

This is a nightmare. It doesn’t matter if she wants it as bad as I do. What would be the point? We couldn’t have a relationship, after all, and on the scale of awful, socially unacceptable ideas, having your stepsister as a fuck buddy seems at least one step more terrible than having her for a girlfriend.

So it’s good that she’s mad at me. Maybe she’ll be mad enough to never speak to me again.

That’d be for the best. Besides, I’ve gone three years without speaking to her. Surely I can go at least another three hours without cracking.

The hand ends, and a player who made his millions on the basketball court takes the pot. I blink in surprise, then offer another polite smile.

I can’t even make it three hands of poker without thinking about Josie.

What the hell have I done?