Page 3 of Ace of Hearts

Levi

May

Macau, China

There are moments, like this one, when I regret not being able to see the world in color like other people do.

I can’t exactly say I miss it. How can you miss something you never had? At first, I thought I was normal. That other people saw things the same way I did. It was only when I was three that my mother realized I had a problem.

She kept telling me that my favorite sweater was blue and that it didn’t go with my brown trousers. I didn’t understand. To me, they were both the same color. Everything was, in fact, or nearly so. Some things were dark; others were light.

My father thought I was lying, of course. Trying to get attention, like all kids that age. It was only later, after I started school, that my mother insisted I see a doctor.

It turned out there’s a name for it: achromatopsia. I can’t see colors, and that’s that. My perception of the world around me is a series of shades of gray, so I’m told. I suppose that’s true. There’s no way for me to prove otherwise.

It was hard for a while, but I got used to it eventually. You can live a very normal life with this kind of challenge: I’m living proof. I’ve reached a point where I don’t regret being different. I’ve made my peace with it.

But this evening, as my eyes run languorously over this goddess with a touch of the feline about her, I feel a twinge of regret. I’d give a lot to be able to see her in all her splendor. To really see her.

Her short hair is dark, probably black or brown, as are her piercing eyes, which are emphasized by a long streak of eyeliner. Her skin is diaphanous and smooth, surely silky to the touch. I can’t tell the color of her full lips. Rose? Peach?

She’s wearing high-waisted silk trousers with a white lace corset top that inspires in me the most impure thoughts.

Her eyes, almost hidden by her fringe of bangs, size me up calmly.

They say, “I know what you just did.” If Thomas were here, he’d be giving me murderous looks.

He hates it when I cheat. I don’t particularly like it, either, but the evening was becoming deathly boring.

I only cheat when I’m bored.

Is she going to turn me in? Nobody else saw what I just did; I was far too fast and skillful. But she saw me. How?

When the croupier is about to deal the next hand, I dare take another look at the young woman with eyes like a cat.

She hasn’t moved an inch. She’s still staring at me, intrigued.

The more I look at her, the more I realize how beautiful she is.

I feel a strange, visceral need to know how she plays—call it professional weakness.

Thomas says it’s a problem of mine: this sometimes-extreme obsession with things or people who excite my curiosity.

I pass my chips from hand to hand and speak in confident English.

“A round?”

She remains impassive. I wait patiently while she hesitates.

“Given your technique, I’m not sure you’re up to it,” she replies in a bewitching accent. “No offense, but I like players who are worth the effort. I lose interest quickly; it’s one of my worst failings.”

I grin. Such an insolent mouth. Her eyes aren’t cold; that’s for sure. That only makes her more attractive. In Russia, we like women who know what they want.

I hold up my hands and promise, very solemnly, “I’ll be good. I always adapt to my opponent.”

It doesn’t take her long to make up her mind.

She comes and sits down opposite me, holding her head high.

Someone who can’t refuse a challenge: my kind of person.

I observe her movements in silence. She knows I’m watching her, but it doesn’t seem to bother her the way it would other people.

I glance at her chips to see how much she’s got.

It’s a lot.

She must be a good player. This fact makes my blood pump even faster. No one speaks as the cards are being dealt. I get two eights, one of hearts, and one of spades. Not brilliant, but it’ll do the job.

I watch her carefully, trying to tell what sort of hand she’s got. Is she a bluffer? Does she play in silence, or does she talk to distract her opponents? Does she use her charm? Or does she, like me, prefer intimidating others with an icy look?

All that’s clear is that she’s refusing to pay me a single bit of attention. For some reason, this drives me crazy. Is she worried that looking at me will put her off, or has she realized that people’s avoiding my gaze bothers me ?

She’s the first player to bet. She looks confident, but that doesn’t mean she has a good hand. I think quickly and do the same without much hesitation. I’m there to play, after all.

The first three cards laid on the table, the flop , are a four of clubs, a six of spades, and an eight of diamonds. Now, the stranger finally does look at me. It’s as though she’s read my mind.

I don’t look away. I merely rest my chin casually on my fist. We stare at one another for a few long seconds, until a thin smile spreads over her face. Shit .

“You probably think you’re a good liar,” she says suddenly.

She knows. I don’t know how, and it frustrates me far more than it should, but she’s managed to see through the mask. How? Impossible. It must be a coincidence. She can’t have realized I was happy with those cards just by looking at me. Nobody could.

I don’t lose my cool. I take a sip of lemon vodka before replying, “I do.”

Her eyes shift to my hand, which is perhaps grasping my glass a little too tightly, and she smiles again. “If you were a good liar, you’d know that controlling your face isn’t enough. You can be as expressionless as you like, but if you’re not careful, your body will always give you away.”

I nearly smile at her words. She’s right. I’ve been stupid. I should have known better. Body language says at least as much as facial expressions. I try to control mine, but it’s harder than it seems.

The next two cards are a five of hearts and a nine of clubs. I have a good chance of winning at this point. The other players have already folded. It’s just me and her now.

If she really does know what sort of hand I’ve got, she’d do better to fold than to keep playing. I’ve tried to read her, but she hasn’t moved a muscle the whole time. Indecipherable. We’re all waiting for her to decide, when she suddenly turns to me.

“What am I going to do, do you think?”

I ponder for a minute and reply honestly. “If I were you, I’d fold.”

She nods thoughtfully and leans forward a little. I hold her gaze defiantly. A single eyelash has dropped onto her cheek. I resist the temptation to blow it gently away.

“I’m going to win this round,” she says matter-of-factly. “The chances of my having a better hand than yours, given the cards in the flop, were low; I’ll give you that. But you’ve missed something.”

And with that, she places a bet. I follow her lead despite my total confusion. She shows her cards first.

“Flush.”

What the hell? She’s staring at me, gauging my reaction. I should be angry. After all, she’s just beaten me, a professional poker player, outright. I’m meant to be winning a world tournament within weeks, and this girl has come out of nowhere and made it clear I’m not up to the task.

Six years ago, my pride would have been my downfall.

Now, something different spreads through me. The delicious sensation of adrenaline. Curiosity transformed into pleasant excitement. Playing against Tito is the only other thing that’s ever evoked this blend of feelings in me—a sense of respect but also one of envy.

“Again.”

She doesn’t seem surprised by my request. She hesitates, then picks up her chips to indicate she’s in.

“OK. I’ll give you one last chance to figure out how I did it. Keep your eyes open.”

Oh, I will. Don’t you worry. Open and fixed on you and you alone. It’s not so much that she beat me that I find frustrating. That can happen. I’m a top player, but poker’s still a game of chance.

I do, however, know how to read people. Having an infallible sixth sense means I never make a mistake. Except she’s just proved that, apparently, my intuition isn’t infallible after all. What could I have missed?

This time I have an ace and a king of hearts.

It’s a good hand. I control my face and my movements while the croupier lays the flop on the table: a nine, a jack of diamonds, and a queen of clubs.

Plenty to work with there. Unfortunately, I’m concentrating more on the stranger now than on my game. I want to figure out what she meant by “you’ve missed something.” She isn’t making this easy.

When her turn comes, she takes her time. Too much time. What’s she thinking so hard about? She stops focusing on me and fixes her eyes on the palm of one hand before suddenly pushing her chips forward in one confident movement, betting everything she’s got.

“All in.”

All in? Seriously? This worries me. What’s she thinking? If she’s hesitated for so long, it means her hand isn’t very good. When you know you can win easily, you don’t hesitate. So then why go all in?

Maybe she paused deliberately to make me think exactly like this.

But I very much doubt it.

She turns to me, amused. She’s got a fucking gorgeous smile. Terrifying and seductive at once.

“So? Have you worked it out or not?”

“I’ve definitely worked out that I underestimated you.”

Her mouth twitches with amusement as she crosses her long legs. The third player folds, glaring at us. We’re apparently too talkative for him.

“If it makes you feel better,” she adds in her crystal-clear voice, “I think you’re winning.”

She doesn’t seem alarmed by this. It’s strange. Nobody would go all in if they thought they were about to lose. Is she cheating? Impossible. She must be trying to manipulate me. And it’s working.

I keep my expression relaxed, concealing my frustration as I always do. “How do you know that? You don’t know what’s in my hand or which cards are going to come up.”