Chapter 4: House of Cheats

The next day, I brought my younger cousin to Rick’s place.

We rolled up to his gaudy McMansion out by the lake—a place that stuck out in Maple Heights like a gold tooth in a preacher’s smile. The American flag out front looked out of place next to the fake stone lions. My cousin shifted nervously in the passenger seat, fiddling with the zipper on his parka.

There were more than a dozen people inside, not just from Maple Heights but from the next town over. The air was thick with smoke and the buzz of old country music from a battered Bluetooth speaker in the corner. Laughter spilled from the kitchen, and every table was crowded with men hunched over cards, faces tight with anticipation. The place buzzed with tension and the scent of stale beer.

My cousin had already told me about Rick’s referral system—thirty bucks if you brought someone in, seventy-five if they sat down to play. “He gives kickbacks for new blood—thirty if you get 'em in the door, seventy-five if they actually play. It’s how they keep the money rolling.”

As soon as I walked in, Rick signaled to the crowd, and everyone at the table made room for me. Chairs scraped back. Even the guys in stained ballcaps and hunting jackets perked up, sizing me up like I was a lottery ticket. Rick’s smile never reached his eyes.

Everyone stood up, leaving only Rick and Danny Brooks. Danny was also from our town, and I knew he was Rick’s lackey. It looked like I’d be facing a two-on-one. Danny had always been Rick’s shadow, the kind of guy who’d rat on you for a slice of pizza in middle school. He gave me a greasy grin, fingers drumming on the table, eager for action.

"Fifteen bucks to get in, sky’s the limit. That simple." He spread his arms wide, like he was hosting a game show. Both sides were testing their nerve and skill, willing to risk everything.

The whole room seemed to hold its breath, watching for blood. I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears, the weight of every set of eyes on me. People jostled for a better view, phones out, already whispering about how much the new guy was bringing to the table.

"Alright, Rick, deal the cards." I kept my voice steady, trying not to show how much my hands shook. I pulled up a chair, feeling the cool fake leather against my palms.

First round, I got a good hand and immediately bet $150. Danny and Rick glanced at their cards, looked at me, and folded without hesitation. Their eyes met, then they both folded, almost too quickly. I could feel suspicion crawling up my spine, but I let it go—at least for now.

Second round, my cards were mediocre. I forced myself to bet $150, but this time Danny and Rick called right away and raised by $1,500. I had no choice but to fold. Their confidence was palpable, and I could sense that they weren’t just playing the cards in their hands. Something was off, but I couldn’t put my finger on it yet.

After a few rounds, I realized something was off. Whenever I had good cards, they’d fold immediately; whenever my hand was weak, they’d suddenly bet big—over $1,500 at a time—almost as if they knew when I was bluffing. It was uncanny. It started to feel like they could see right through me, like my cards were printed on my forehead. Sweat prickled at the back of my neck.

And every time before betting, they’d stare at me intently. It felt less like a game and more like an interrogation. Their stares lingered, cold and calculating, as if searching for some hidden signal.

Could it be that they could read my mind, or see my cards just by watching my face? I shifted in my seat, glancing over my shoulder, suddenly aware of every movement in the crowded room. Paranoia crept in, but I forced myself to keep my cool.