Chapter 8: The Pot

Aimee's POV

I looked at the marker on the felt.

One year of Aimee, in the same blue ink he used to sign my mother's checks.

All night Russ had watched the backs of the cards as I dealt them, never the faces.

I'd thought he was watching my hands.

"Deal it, sugar," he said again.

I squared the deck.

Then I set it face down on the felt in front of me and took my hands away.

"No."

The Houston man chuckled. "Darlin', it's just a card game."

"Not to me."

I looked around the table at all of them, one by one.

"He told you I agreed the last time. I didn't. I didn't agree to any of it, because I didn't know."

I turned to the car dealer from Mobile.

"You lost ninety thousand dollars trying to win a girl who didn't know she was on the table."

The car dealer put his cards down slowly.

His face had gone the color of the felt.

"Russ," he said. "You told me she was in on it."

"She was in on it." Russ was still smiling, but his eyes were flat. "She's sore because she's not getting her cut tonight."

"There is no cut. There's an account you opened in my name so you could show it to people."

"Pick up the deck, Aimee."

"Deal it yourself. You always do."

He stood up.

He came around the end of the table, not fast, just walking, and the Houston man leaned back to let him by.

I knew what he was going to do a second before he did it.

I didn't move, because I wanted every man in that room to see it.

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