Cleo Gage grew up sheltered by her family’s GageCorp business wealth. When her brother August disappears, she strikes out on her own to search for him in the seedy underworld of illegal poker games.
In over her head but determined, Cleo befriends two wily card players, Booker and Milo, who like their gaming almost as much as their male and female lovers. Together, this unlikely hard-luck trio embark on an adventure both perilous and erotic.
Will they find August in time and a happy ever after with each other in the process?
The hotel room wasn’t what she expected. It looked ... lived in. Not just occupied, but as if somebody -- B, in this case -- had been bivouacked here for weeks, if not months. Personal items were set atop the dresser and festooned the nightstand beside the queen size bed. There was a bookcase with three of its shelves loaded with books. And the art on the walls -- males, in various states of artful nudity -- didn’t look like hotel standard issue.
Cleo had followed B back here. She’d planned on parking on the street, but he had waved her into an underground garage, where in addition to resident parking, there were also slots for guests. It meant she didn’t have to worry about someone busting into her car and finding her winnings under the passenger seat.
In the elevator, she had asked him, because it was awkward not to know: “You’re B. What’s that stand for?”
“Booker.” No last name. Common enough on the poker circuit. She had never told anybody her last name was Gage -- not that she was overly worried that someone might recognize it. Her family had money, but they rarely made headlines outside of economic journals. That was how Father liked it.
Booker had a kettle with an electric heating unit, and he proceeded to pour them two cups of chamomile. He graciously waved her to a pair of deep, facing chairs.
It did in fact feel rather civilized. But there were strange undertones here. Booker had been willing to give up his night of carousing to come back here with her. She had virtually promised him a good time, with that offhand comment about not having a dick, but being willing. Had she gotten herself into something here?
Probably not. Booker wasn’t red-flagging with predatory behavior. Still, she hadn’t touched her tea. And she still had her pepper spray on her.
But this was his domain. She wondered if he was a permanent resident here. Living in a hotel seemed a bygone practice, something out of early twentieth century literature. The dowager. The blocked artist. The wealthy scion who had brought shame to his family. Was he anything like that, something more than another motley personality haunting the underground card scene?
“You played well tonight,” he said, sipping at his own cup of tea.
“So you said.”
“I did. And I said it because your style of play seemed familiar to me.”
“Style?”
“Every player has one. Everyone that sits in for a dozen hands or so, at least. They reveal something of their thinking.”
“And you observed my style?”
“Well, I watched everyone’s style. I always do. Don’t feel singled out.”
Cleo had watched him play, but was uncertain if she could delineate his style. He won a lot of hands, but a fast, calculating brain could account for that.
He said, “You play like you don’t care if you lose. But you also seem to expect to win.”
“I guess I’m a mysterious girl.”
“You also made smart bets. And when you folded, you were probably avoiding disaster.”
“Well,” she said, “it is just a game.” He was smooth, an untroubled front. She wanted her information, and hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to play verbal footsie with him all night.
He shrugged. “A game. Hmm. Life or death for some.”
The same measured cadence of words, same calm expression. Suddenly, she was tired of it. But she forced herself to ask in a civil tone, “Will you tell me what I wish to know?”
Another sip of tea, then he set aside the cup. “Very well. It’s not of any great significance, so far as I can see. But perhaps you see a bigger picture. ‘You must have a twin.’ I said that to you. Why? Two reasons. One, I recognized your particular style of play. There are intangibles to how people conduct themselves at a card table. I don’t want to claim vast powers of intuition, but intuition does exist. When it’s coupled with substantive backing data -- when a player bets, the size of your bets, your discards -- the suppositions grow more plausible. Your style resembles the style of another.”
Cleo’s breath caught involuntarily. “Another ...?” she asked, but it was a whisper, nearly inaudible.
“The second point,” Booker continued, “is that you physically resemble this same other individual. A man, perhaps slightly younger than you. He called himself Auggie.”
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