That Woman!

[Sleven]

Spoiler: OOC note to self

This post is shit. Should be rewritten. Entirely. Also, find a goddamn tone.

---

In a back alley far from watchful eyes and inquisitive people sat a quaint little place for politicians and crooks. From the outside it appeared to be nothing more than a worn, red, backdoor. Inside everything changed. The music hit you first, beating a tight rhythm of steadily paced swing through your eardrums. Then came the colors: gold walls, white ceilings, brown trim, and mustard furniture of fine woods—a flare of color that sharpened your retinas without wearing them thin.

Upon entering, each guest was searched before making their way to the receptionist. There credits were exchanged for chips and rooms and courtesans were reserved for the day. Taking a right, then a left, the place opened up: a fine lounge amidst holovids of the swoop races galactic sports. A bar and kitchen lined the right wall, making way to a fine dining hall suited to sophisticated tastes. On the far side of the lounge a long hallway sat beneath two arching stairways that met at the top. The stairs led to management and rooms for VIP guests, the hall had rooms for everyone else.

To the left of the lounge was where the real action was at: an expansive gambling den with tables for sabacc, pazaak, binspo, and more. Dancers and courtesans fluttered from table to table, serving drinks and selling themselves to finely dressed guests who gambled their credits away.

A man sat at one of the far tables, wringing a high stakes game of sabacc for every credit it was worth. He wore an unkempt fitted suit, his jacket hung at the back of his chair ajar and his tie sat loosely about his neck. His listless eyes mulled over the opposition and his glass—mind processing numbers and tells through a liquored glaze. Every hour he cued up another drink, a double, yet his finesse never faltered. He was the best kind of winner, the kind that went unnoticed.

 

[Toska]

A man stood before the den, tipping his hat to the dealer: "The name's Ryiek Lancer, and you haven't heard of me."

The waiter was well-kempt. Hair slicked back and a bow-tie perched over his pleated white shirt. Gold at his cuffs, a slim waistcoat buttoned over a cummerbund. Shoes slick, a glimmer of silver at the heel. Cigarette dangling from his lips. He offered one to Ryiek, lit it, and motioned for the man to seat himself.

Ryiek obliged, rubbing his lips before taking a drag off the cigarette. His wallet was a tad too heavy, and his mouth kept moving into a smile he couldn't wipe away; poker played cheap on another man's dime.

He wore that grin proud and tossed his hat onto the table. Raised eyebrows and cocked heads; he addressed them with a shrug. Tumbler in hand, ice rattling against the glass; he sipped at it. Cheers to the quickly filling pot. The house was filling its coffers.

The dealer shot him a look. He shook his head, cutting the refusal with a hand, and turned back to his drink. Eyes over the table: Eight men excluding the dealer, only two spots left. Chips in various states of disarray, each with a little signature of frustration. Short pile of glasses to the left, looked like the waiter was a bit slow on his feet.

After a few rounds, Ryiek licked his lips. "Deal me in."

Tossing down his chips, he picked up his hand—lamented and gilded at the edges, they had a presence of their own. He downed the whisky and called for another. Called after it arrived, drew, and rode the shift. His eyes barely touched the cards. They wandered the table.

Kicking his feet up, he leaned back and tossed his cards onto the table. "Fold."

Lost the first two, ready for the break. Cut the dealer a nod, tension built between the dropouts.

He pulled out a cigarette and motioned for a light.

"Ryiek," he repeated. "What do you say we make the next hand interesting?" A cloud of blue smoke escaped his lips, twitching a little to keep the grin off.

It just wouldn't leave.

Into the swing, hips to the synth. Beat the midnight glimmer. Ryiek Lancer was back, shaking off the sleep.

 

[Sleven]

The new arrival’s cocksure grin immediately put the other players on edge. Ryiek Lancer; the drunk only eyed him languidly from his periphery. Two hands and no play. The newcomer’s patience did not go unnoticed.

“Interesting?” the drunk’s eyebrow perched. “Side bet? Or…”

Ryiek shrugged.

Looking to the dealer expectantly, they awaited a ruling. A pit boss was flagged over.

Impatience from one of the other players filled the gap in their conversation, “Hey, what’s the idea? You two gonna play cards or what?”

Ignoring the offhand remark, the pit boss responded to the inquiry, “The house will allow it, so long as it’s within reason.”

“Define reasonable,” the drunk inquired.

“Twenty thousand.”

“Side bet?”

“We ride our hands to the end for the side stack, even if we fold the pot,” Ryiek replied.

A light chortle escaped the drunken man’s lips. Moving twenty chips in Ryiek’s direction, the drunk tilted his head towards them suggestively.

Ryiek gave the dealer another nod in response before taking a sip. As the dealer moved Ryiek’s twenty thousand towards the side pot, a crooked smile seemed to shape itself at the edge of his glass.

“Let me cut that,” the drunk said after the dealer shuffled.

With the deck placed before him, the drunk’s fingers went to work. Despite his stupor, he handled the deck with ease, cutting and shuffling packets before rearranging them with a few, blinding, chops.

Putting down his glass, Ryiek’s smile widened, “I’ll have a go too.”

The dealer eyed his pit boss wearily for a reassuring nod before sliding the deck in Ryiek’s direction.

 

[Toska]

The cards were in Ryiek's hands, folded into packets and sliding against one another in rapid succession. His eyes were locked to the other man's, a mimicry of that languid smile on his lips. He bent the cards between his fingers and let them cascade at the touch of his thumb; they tumbled and slid into form with a crinkle of protest.

The dealer was eying him, and the rest of the table drummed their fingers. Sighs from here, grunts and splashes of conversation there. They watched Ryiek with the drone of impatience slowly piling into tension.

Eyes on the drunk, he kept shuffling—once and again until the slap of card on card filled the table. Bending them back, his gaze shifted, and the cards scattered from his grip. They spilled over his lap: ace on the floor, diamond over heart, little gilt pattering to the ground.

"Oops." He shrugged with an arm and spared a wink for the dealer. "Give me another shot."

Reaching to retrieve the pile, his wrist was caught by a man to his left. The man's face was red, collar puffed out and shoulders trembling.

The tension peaked with the cock of an eyebrow. Dealer froze, the pit boss stepped forward, a few chairs screeched back. Ryiek's smile twitched.

The man loosened his grip, coughed, and returned to his seat, beckoning the dealer to reshuffle. "Let's just get this shit started."

Picking up the last of the cards, the dealer nodded, and the pit boss crossed his arms. Within the minute, the cards were distributed out to the players, bets were placed, and the flop hit the table.

Ryiek just kept grinning.

He peeked at his hand: "What'd I say, things already got interesting, pal."

 

[Sleven]

The flop came in the form of a three and two nines; the drunk stared at it with the same empty glare he’d worn all night. Lighting a cigarette he waited for the other players to place their bets. A few men limped in, betting their hands short; one swung for the fences, hoping to fold them out; the drunk raised the pot.

“Interesting for you or for me?” the drunk asked.

Ryiek shrugged, the other players shifted in their seats. Looking to one another, nerves built around the table as players weighed their hands. The drunk was unresponsive.

The tension broke as Ryiek moved his cards to the side, folding. Following suit, the others tossed their cards towards the dealer. The man to Ryiek’s left got up in a flurry of anger. Grabbing what remained of his chips he tore himself from the table, ramming shoulders and muttering curses as he went. A momentary silence filled the table.

“Winner to the gentleman with the black tie,” the dealer said.

The drunk collected his winnings after the rake with no apparent sense of satisfaction.

“Now for the side bet,” the dealer continued, looking to Ryiek, then the drunk. “Gentlemen.”

 

[Toska]

The river was played and Ryek flipped his hand: two and six, the straight widening his grin. The drunk's cards fell into place as well, a bluff that sent a cry of frustration around the table.

"Interesting for me," he said. He took the side pot, raking up chips into the pile before him, toasting his empty tumbler to the drunk.

Around the table, several of the players picked up their coats and walked off. The pit boss returned to the back, and the dealer loosed a sigh as he picked up the cards. A waiter served drinks to those who remained, and newcomers filed into the seats.

There, milling among the rest, she was. That woman!

Swaying steps and hips on a tall frame, wide at the hips and tied at the waist. Little belt set over a loose silver shirt cut deep around the shoulders and back. Deep brunette, hair in curls bobbed at the neck. Red stained lips puckered like an apple; ripe, glister of light dancing on the edges.

She wove serpentine to the table, trouncing upon a chair with an air of petulance. Legs crossed, heels dangling above the carpet.

"That was some show, boys." She held a naked cigarette between her lips, resting her chin between her wrists.

Ryiek just had to laugh.

"Worth a name, doll?" He lit it for her and kicked back in his seat.

 

[Sleven]

Blowing smoke she sat silently, coiled and deadly, the men at the table hanging on her every word.

“Dealer? Some chips. Eighty thousand. Put it on my credit.” She spoke curtly, sporting undertones of superiority and disinterest. The dealer hesitated, faltering slightly before counting out her eighty thousand and sliding it across the table.

There was something sensual about the way she stacked her chips, like watching the fine touch of a masseuse at work...

Resting his head in one hand, the drunk lightly rapped his fingers upon the table with the other. His features were contorted by the airy permanence of a tired and well-worn disdain, juxtaposed to the other players’ newfound fascination.

“You boys going to sit there and gawk, or are we going to play some cards?” she asked.

 

[Toska]

Ryiek lit himself a cigarette and downed the rest of his whisky. His eyes were following that woman's move with a lick of his lips.

"If you're that cold I might seriously fall for you, angel."

He sported a grin that refused to falter and a confidence tucked into his pocket.

The woman sighed. A roll of the eyes, lashes tilted and masked by a wrist. She slid her glance off Ryiek, watching her cards and sliding chips into the center.

Ryiek matched her bet without missing a beat, much to the dealer's chagrin. "Tell you what, if you were interested before let's play a second round."

He had her attention.

"Don't call the man back; no creds involved. I win I get a name." Provocatively, with a wink: "You win, well, why don't you get creative?"

"You're playing a dangerous game," she said while tapping out her cigarette, "for something so simple."

He took the bait: "Impressed?"

 

[Sleven]

She balked, shying away reflexively.

“Hardly.”

The drunk called, keeping pace with their bets in silence. Precariously, the woman eyed him.

Cards flitted from the dealer's hand, forming a snapping cadence as the hand progressed. The rest of the table had folded, seemingly content watching the three play. Light banter had Ryiek chasing more than the woman’s hand while the drunk stayed in their periphery until the final card was dealt, and each hand was revealed.

“Winner to the man in the black tie,” the dealer said.

The woman considered the drunk for a moment as he rounded up the pot, before turning to Ryiek. She eyed him, bemused expression upon her face. Their hands had drawn even.

“Do we both win or—?” Ryiek asked.

“Vera,” she answered, cold and soft. The room chilled as her name clung to the air.

 

[Toska]

He kept his grin, lopsided as it was. He felt his head move between the pair—between the drunk and that woman—and it struck a note on his brow. Narrowed eyes and flared nostrils; he had to rub them out to paint his composure.

"I'll take that name, Vera"—he cocked his head at her—"and call it even." Elbows on the table, he flicked a cigarette onto the tray. He managed a smile, little thing at the edge of his lips.

Vera looked at him with an arched brow. Mechanically: "You haven't kept your end."

He started settling back into his chair. Knee over ankle, cushion slipping against his back. "You've a free pass, doll. You just need to ask."

 

[Sleven]

Briskly, a hawkish man approached the table before the next hand was in play. Brushing past Ryiek he stopped by Vera, eyes oscillating between the players at the table. Craning his neck over her shoulder he whispered in her ear.

Vera’s jaw clenched involuntarily before her face returned to placidity. The man retreated as suddenly as he’d arrived.

“I wouldn’t suppose one of you boys knows how to crack a mechanical safe?” she asked errantly.

The drunk snorted as he began to laugh hysterically, tucking his face in his hand they fell to the table with a sudden hitch. His head shook to and fro as his amusement persisted.

Vera writhed in her seat, face contorting with discomfort. She looked to Ryiek, then back again, lips forming an easy smile that kept her steady.

Bringing his head up, the drunk spoke between breaths of laughter, “I think I need to go cash my chips.”

Vera raised an eyebrow. Between a slow pause and light puff her head twitched in the drunk’s direction. Two men came forth, poised at his flanks.

 

[Toska]

Ryiek's head cocked in the retreating man's direction. He said, "You trying to crack a safe or that fellow's head?"

To which Vera sneered. Her beautiful oval kiss of a face drew taut for it as she shook her head in disbelief.

Ryiek lifted a drink off a passing tray; cheers to the empty air, "Could have fooled me," loosing itself from his lips.

He said, "But, I'm putting money on the man in the black tie."

 

[Sleven]

“Oh,” her cheeks flushed, playing bashful. “Tsk. Doll, who said anything about either?”

The dealer swallowed, hand fidgeting with his tie.

“But hypothetically speaking, could you?” she inquired.

The drunk looked to his right and left, stacking his chips defiantly. “Listen, lady. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I ain’t part of it until I cash these checks.”

“Of course. Please, don’t stay on account of me.” She pointed her cigarette, “I believe there’s a teller just over there. But, to be safe,” her hands gestured to the men at the drunk’s side, “please have the casino staff escort you.”

Smiling cynically, the drunk rose from his seat. Grabbing his chips, he departed.

Vera’s face turned to Ryiek, eyes narrowing with a mischievous smile.

 

[Toska]

That dealer was looking uncomfortably over to the loft, eying his pit boss before clearing his throat.

Ryiek shot him a glance before settling back into his chair. He ashed a cigarette and took to his drink. "A man could kill for that smile, angel."

He said, "Be more careful with it."