During that time, my father never truly lost any money. After my lesson, I’d run off and play, and he’d win all his money back plus some. It took me a couple of years to master a poker face and even longer to master the game itself, but he made me play against him once I did. I beat him in the first game, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen pride in a man’s eyes shine brighter since that day. “Well, boy, let’s see what you’re made of then.” He’ll find out what a bullet is made of when it’s lodged in his throat. But I don’t say that. Throughout the next several hours, I purposely stay neck-in-neck with him. I understand a narcissist’s ego enough to know that it would’ve only angered him if I cleaned him out. And if I’m horrible, he won’t respect me. So, I keep the playing field even. You win some, you lose some. Back and forth until he slaps his cards down with a hearty laugh. “T’ve met my match,” he chortles, taking a drink out of his whiskey glass. I smile prettily at him. “You’re a lot better than I gave you credit for,” I praise. He offers me a cigar and I take one, but I’d let Detective Fingers finger blast my ass before I put it out on a girl’s arm. I'll have to figure out a way to stop him without breaking his neck if he tries it again. “How come I haven’t seen you here before?” he asks, eyeing me closely as he lights his cigar. Not necessarily suspicious, but every man in these types of clubs looks at a new member with an air of wariness. “I’d recognize those nasty scars anywhere.” That was fucking rude. But he’s not wrong. I shrug a shoulder. “My money is new,” I lie. Zack Forthright is a self-made millionaire from web design and branding. If that name is googled, there will be a Wikipedia page and social media posts with fake followers and engagement, but everything is a blanket site. Once I start gaining a reputation here and showing my face more, I’ll be looked into, and I'll have little enough to raise an eyebrow or two, but nothing that would make someone think I’m trying to take down the club. “How’d you get them?” he asks, nodding his head at my face. “Bully in middle school. Pretty fucked up kid that liked to play with knives,” I lie again, flashing a grin. And then I shrug. “The ladies seem to like them.” He chuckles. “Oh, I bet they do. The young girls have always liked that—oh, what do you call it? Bad boy look?” Before I can respond, a waitress approaches with refills of our drinks, the same glazed look in her eyes.