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“I’d do concerts and shows,” I finally say as I deal another hand.
“Concerts and shows? Vegas has plenty of those. Why would that help your family?” He picks up a card,
“Do you know how much money you make from those? It’s the perfect front for laundering money. No one would suspect a lot of money being made through a concert or show. It’s just what happens.” I play my hand. “Two pairs.”
“Pair and three kings,” he says, laying down his hand.
“Okay, how about we play for real?” I ask.
He raises an eyebrow. “For money?”
“For clothes,” I say. “We’ll play strip poker.”
He smirks. “You’ll lose, and you’ll regret it.”
“I won’t lose. I’m just getting warmed up.” I smile back at him.
“Fine, but we play until someone is fully naked, deal?” He holds his hand out.
I shake his hand. “Deal,” I say more confidently than I feel, but I need to prove that I can do this.
“Before we start, let’s have dinner, get some snacks and drinks, and lay a blanket on the floor.” He stands up. I have no choice but to follow him, shuffling the cards nervously.
He takes out a pan, grills a steak each for us, and makes some fries to go with it. We sit at the island counter and eat without saying much, but I can’t help but think he’s up to something. He seems to be enjoying himself a little too much.
He probably thinks he’s going to whip me at poker, and I’ll have to dress down until I’m naked. He’s got another thing coming. I’ve been bluffing him so far.
We finish dinner, and he washes the dishes before we move the coffee table out of the way. He turns the overhead light off, turns on two nearby lamps, and starts the fire. It’s enough light to see, but it definitely creates an atmosphere—a heat in the air.
He thinks he’s being so smooth—he knows nothing.
I deal the game and am surprised when he puts his cards down. “Give me your hand,” he says.
I hold out my hand, and he uncuffs me. “Just for the game, don’t try anything clever.”
“Deal,” I say, and I mean it. I’m a person of my word.
I won’t try anything this time, but if another opportunity arises, I’m out of here first shot, preferably when he’s distracted.
At first, we play in silence, I win the first game, and Arseny takes his shirt off. I can see scars highlighted in the dim lighting. They’re almost glossy, while his skin is matte. They stand out like proud battle cries, screaming I survived. What next?
That’s not all I notice. He has some chest hair and then a little path of hair all the way down that disappears into his pants—the garden path.
Something I hadn’t noticed before was the little silver cross on the silver chain around his neck. It makes perfect sense, as most Russian families are staunch Catholics.
I deal another hand, and he wins. Reluctantly, I take my shirt off. He gets up, fetches some crisps and peanuts in bowls, and sets them down next to us.
I have some peanuts, trying to keep myself distracted from the fact that I’m in my bra in front of him.
He doesn’t bat an eyelid and takes the cards from me to shuffle and deal.
“No cheating,” I remind him.
“Do you always just say what’s on your brain without thinking?” he asks as he deals. We both take our cards.
“I like to voice my opinion, yes.” I put down two cards and pick up two. I try not to show that I’m happy.
He moves, and his muscles flex involuntarily. I can feel my stomach doing flips at the thought of him being naked. We play our hands, and I win.
