Post-coital Panic

We eat a late lunch at a local place close to the port. Family-owned, established in the late forties, and I think it's safe to assume the decor's not been touched since then. But, why blow money on renovations when you keep a crowd regardless? Per Google, they're bouillabaisse is the best in town. If I had to describe it, it's like scooping a bowl through the open sea, then performing voodoo on it in the back. The red, fish-based broth is served separately from the accompaniments, seafood and vegetables, and there's a performative tableside service where whole fish are skillfully chopped up.

I keep my broken French to myself, as it wouldn't be reciprocated or appreciated here. These haughty pricks would laugh me all the way back to the States.

When it's time to return to the ship, I can't help but drag my ass. The guys want to take advantage of the onboard amenities, and I agree to join them with the exception of any Lido deck. I refuse to step foot on the ship's exterior decks, especially at night. Call me a pussy until you're blue in the face, but I won't risk tripping over the railing. Now, this is where my unfortunate tale circles back around. I'd all but forgotten about Ibiza through sheer force of will. I've licked my emotional wounds and moved on. I mean, we've all been there, right? Who hasn't been jerked off in a club in Europe? By a dude.

It'll make a funny story in a few years.

What's not fucking funny, I happen upon the guy again.

Or, it was the same guy!

That buzzed blonde from the steakhouse, then the second level of the club. The almost-definitely mobster. I can't believe I didn't put two and two together, but until now, I've yet to see him up close or in any decent lighting. You practically needed a flashlight to find your plate in the steakhouse, and club's aren't known for being well-lit. No one wants their debaucherous behavior on display. From afar, it's his stature that sticks out the most. But, up close, that could've been anyone. I couldn't see his face.

He's not the only big, blonde bastard in Europe.

After a few drinks, Dakota and Cedrick wanted to blow some cash in the casino. I decided to accompany them for lack of anything better to do, and as you'd guess, I do well for myself at the tables. Counting cards is all but second nature, I can't not do it. To avoid back-offs, I have to sprinkle in a few deliberate losses or just abandon the table before I win enough to raise a flag. Blackjack is the easiest game for conventional counter's to win at, thus earning the most scrutiny from other players, dealers, or a pit boss. Poker is significantly harder to get a leg up, as it requires more than just counting. Strategy, probability, and excellent recall.

Because the deck is shuffled each time the hand renews, and there's not a lot of card exposure until you've made your bets, cheating at poker without a second set of eyes is tricky. Most people tend to fall back on weak hands, which leaves the opportunity for a mathematical advantage. Fold on any hand that's shit, play your pockets. Your opponent might occasionally win on that 25% of luck, but a quarter's odds aren't going to land 'em the pot. Then, it's just analyzing an individual's behavior.

Everyone has a tell, and everyone falls back on comfortable methods.

I'm already standing out in a bad way, might as well take it a step further. According to Charlie, my chosen attire makes me an eyesore, but I'm past a point of giving a shit. If they want to forbid me entry at the next port of call for traipsing around in athleisure, so be it. High-tops, a pair of running shorts, and a T-shirt overlaid with an unzipped jacket might be the straws to break this camel's back, but at least I'm comfortable.

Not only a classless bum, but a cheater, too.

Before my brain implodes with realization, I'm slouched behind Dakota as he tests his luck at the slots. It's a traditional three-reel machine, with each credit worth one dollar. Dakota fed a Benjamin into the machine's little mouth, and for the first few spins, he only bet a few credits at a time. On his first 'big' win, he started going for the max bet. My eyes are glazing over as I watch the cherries, blocky sevens, and other innocuous symbols roll across the screen for the fifteenth time. I only shake out of my stupor when the machine belts a loud, celebratory chime and Dakota flails in his chair.

"Yo, Kit! Look, dude! Did you fuckin' see that?!"

He just got a thousand bucks back on a single hundred, which is an extremely fortuitous win on a machine like this. I'm confident he'll lose every dime before he walks out of here. Clapping him on the shoulder, I congratulate him anyway. My eyes start wandering not long after that, boredom drawing them towards the tables. Through a narrow slit between colorful, blinking machines, that's when I finally see him. My mouth starts dropping as recognition sets in, because at this distance—

Cauliflower ear. Diamond stud. Birthmark.

"Ты всегда так легко заводишься?"

Scowling, I almost can't believe my eyes. It's definitely him. In the bright overheads of the casino, he looks Russian. Pale, cold, untouchable. He's sitting at the end of a green-carpeted table, one of his two associates taking up the chair next to him. They both have tall stacks of chips resting against the lip of the table, safeguarded between their wrists. No cards have been dealt yet. His suit jacket hangs off the back of his chair, and it's long enough for the hem to puddle against the floor. I felt that body against mine, but in comparison to the furniture, his size is seriously staggering.

I know I said it was on sight, but...is this really a fire I should play with? A bear I should poke? If I attempt some kind of retaliation, what would that even look like? From the looks of him, he could beat my ass up and down these shiny decks with one hand tied behind his back. 'Sleeping with the fishes' would be an incredibly easy thing to pull off. But, my feet are moving before I can stop them, and I tell myself it's for nothing more than a closer look.

There are five people at the table, one empty chair at the end opposite from him. One woman, four men, and they're all dressed to the nines in their own way. No limit Texas hold'em.

This isn't the sort of venue where you'd see millions of dollars at stake, but I'm betting the buy-in is a pretty penny. Thoughtful, I grate the dramamine pop between my teeth. I mean, pocketing some of his money isn't a bad idea. Not enough to have my feet strapped to cinder-blocks, but enough for a thorough humbling. He wants to humiliate me in public, shouldn't I be able to do the same?

Realistically, no, probably not. For one, I might not even be allowed at the table. For two, I don't know this guy. I don't know what he's capable of. To him, ripping off a couple thousand bucks might be more than worth a revenge killing.

Unfortunately, impulsivity gets the best of me.

Swishing the pop between my cheeks, I stuff my hands in my pockets and approach the table. It'll suit me best to look as much the part of an arrogant, American prick as possible. I'm noticed right away, and before I can get the question out—

The dealer lifts a firm hand: "I'm sorry, monsieur, this is a private table."

As if I hadn't heard him, I look the Russian square in the eyes. They're a flinty gray, deep-set in their sockets and unnervingly penetrative. Without glancing away from him, I smirk around the lollipop's thin, white stick: "Je suis désolée."

Then, I turn as if to go.

"Il peut rester."

I have to fight back a physical response to that voice. One orgasm, and I'm basically Pavlov's dog. Addressing the dealer, he's given me permission to join the table. On my fuckin' mother, I'll make him regret it. Turning back, I drag the chair away from the edge and drop my weight into it. Noisy, graceless. Shooting the bastard a smarmy grin, I salute him with two fingers—a familiar gesture from the club. He's not unamused.

"Merci."

"Welcome. Minimum buy-in, ten thousand euros. Maximum, one hundred thousand. Would you like to charge this to a room?"

Whistling in exaggerated awe, I recline back in the chair's plush cushions. "Minimum, 1112."

That's Charlie's room, in case anyone's wondering. Even if I'd given my own room number, it would still charge his card, but I don't want this guy knowing where I sleep.

"Of course, we appreciate your patronage." The dealer nods, then taps a few keys on his company-issued tablet. The lack of a double-check is surprising. Maybe that maître d' from the steakhouse spread word about me.

My stack of chips, considerably smaller than everyone else's, are slid across the tabletop. The older gentlemen next to me, reeking of cigars and brandy, is this hand's designated dealer. The woman to his left is the small blind, and the man to her left, presumably her husband, is the big blind. He's wide-gripping her inner thigh beneath her dress like she might bolt at the first opportunity. To her credit, I'd bolt too if that was my husband. He's a stout, pot-bellied guy with wiry facial hair trimmed into a balbo—a style that suits no one. He's been side-eyeing me since I sat down, upper lip curled like I'm shit crusted to the bottom of his shoe. He'll have all the more reason to sneer once I make off with those chips.

Two cards are quickly dispersed, and the Russian's greasy associate is now the 'under the gun' player, being left of the big blind. He's responsible for the initial preflop action, before any cards are upturned in the center of the table. Without hesitation, he folds, and his two cards are collected by the dealer. Now, it's on to the Russian, who's eyes haven't left me once. He's staring me down like I'll bare the inner-workings of my soul if he looks hard enough. With a ghost of a smile, he raises, tossing five chips forward. They're worth a thousand each.

It circles back to me. Six of hearts, Queen of spades. Could be worse.

Calling, I push five of my own chips forward.

Cigars&Brandy folds, Trophy Wife calls, and Balbo raises with six extra chips. The dealer collects our chips into the pot, and they clink loudly across the table. Proceeding with the flop, one card goes into the burn pile and three are laid face up: six of diamonds, nine of spades, and a King of hearts. So far, great odds.

There's another round of betting, and it goes from four to three active hands, as Trophy Wife also folds. Balbo's either bluffing his nuts off, or he's got the hand of the century. He raises again, three more chips from his towering stacks. The Russian calls, as do I, and I'm left with only two measly chips. I'm pretty sure the guy's trying to get me off his table as quickly as possible. The turn brings another six of hearts, and I've got three of a kind on lock. The odds of a full house aren't bad either.

This round of betting starts with me, and feeling cheeky, I scrape one of my chips forward. It's obvious I'm saving the last for the river.

Balbo scoffs, calling. The Russian calls as well, and it's time for the first showdown of the night. The final card is a Queen of diamonds, and since I haven't stopped grinning like a smug twat since I sat down, my face doesn't give anything away.

The three of us flip our hands over to compare, and wouldn't you know it—

My full house beats out Balbo's three of a kind and the Russian's two pair. Tutting, I not-so-graciously accept the pot of chips into the circle of my forearms, shaking my head like I'm feeling right bad for the losers.

"That's a shame."

It was pure luck on that one, but hey. Win's a win.

I only play the next four rounds, because I realize there's more to this set-up than a simple game of hold'em amongst high-society sleazebags. It's rigged as fuck. The more I win, the more uncomfortable everyone seems to become, and it's not just irritation over losing. Trophy Wife, Cigars&Brandy, and the ship's dealer are suddenly shifty-eyed, fiddling with the fabric of their clothes, shuffling in place. Balbo's all but losing his mind, pissed beyond words. Huffing, puffing, and scarlet in the doughy rounds of his cheeks. If I had to guess, he was meant to lose anyway. The Russian's greasy associate is eyeballing me like he and I have a date in one of the ship's kitchens, cleavers and butane torches involved.

The Russian, however...

He's not angry, that I can tell, but something much, much worse—fascinated. Two hands in, he orders us both a drink and says: "Ты полон сюрпризов."

Again, the only word I can pick out is 'you' or 'you're', so I reply with: "Извини, мой русский - дерьмо."

Sorry, my Russian is shit.

When he chuckles—that low, jumpy sound, I suppress a full-body shudder. It's an echo of a too-recent memory I can't repress. He laughed just like that, directly in my ear, as he played my body like a fuckin' fiddle. I don't touch the drink, because I'm halfway sure it's spiked. He nods towards the table:

"You're talented in a great many areas, it seems."

There's an insinuation in there, and I'm not at all happy about it. Crushing the pop between my molars, a noisy chomp heard 'round the table, I smile with no kindness or humor. "It's a shame you're not a little better. Looks like you're almost out of chips, man."

Playing with fire? Shit, I just stepped feet first into the fucking flames. He isn't put off by the trash-talk, but everyone else is. Dumbfounded, gaping at me like I've got the business end of a loaded gun bubbling out my cheek. By the night's end, that might be the case. He takes a long pull of the amber drink filling his tumbler, and ice tinks against the crystal. His hand is big enough to swallow the glass, fingers almost touching around its circumference.

Stupid, fucking...hands. Big, rough, cold hands. God, I can still feel them. I have an identical drink sitting on a coaster by my wrist, and now I feel like I should drink some of it. What if I insult him even more by letting it sweat, untouched?

"It'd be a shame to see it end so soon." He says. Everything he says, there's a hint of laughter in that accented baritone. He's getting a real kick out of this, not remotely upset about losing a few thousand bucks. He's looking down his nose at me, lids low. Like he's...waiting, and he intends to keep winding me up by the key until I do something really amusing.

"Nah, it's always best to bow out when you're up." I snark, taking a healthy gulp from my own glass just to...prove something. That I'm not a bitch, maybe. It's strong, and after a couple sips, I'd be laid out even if it's not spiked. I fight tooth and nail to keep a plain face, willing my muscles not to twitch into a grimace.

Two hands later, one minor loss on the books, I abandon the table with my winnings in tow. I hate to call it running away, but that's exactly what it is. The atmosphere's too much, too heavy, and the Russians definitely have something going on with Balbo. Business, I think. They exchanged quite a bit of hushed conversation in Russian, and Balbo was clearly furious by my being allowed at the table. As well as my kicking his ass.

Also, there was so much tension between him and I. Sexual tension, and that was not the intended purpose here. I wasn't trying to—to...flirt with the guy! It was meant to be embarrassing for him! Losing money to a dumb American in front of his wealthy peers. There were no grand stand-offs. Neither of us went 'all in' or held the other's gaze for a prolonged amount of time between bets, because this isn't a 007 film. But, it was still there.

That subtext of is he going to kill me or fuck me after this.

Now, when it comes to this guy, I'm pinned between memory and reality. I can't look him in the face without feeling his hand at my throat, his breath in my ear, his cock grinding against my ass. His veins are mapped like rivers in my mind, his callouses topographical landmarks. I'm never, ever going to get the upper hand.

He calls out to me when I'm a few steps away, and the fine hairs at my nape stand on end: "We should play again soon, Kit."

Ah, shit.

—

Despite camping out in my suite and living off room service, 'soon' is only two days later. We meet again under, in my opinion, the worst possible circumstances.

The pastel paradise of Genoa is our next port of call, and in an effort to forget my woes, I both eat and drink too much. I'm sure you can guess where this is going. Weaving back up the gangway, I start to feel ill as soon as I'm back aboard the ship. The subtle bobbing of the floor under my feet feels tumultuous with alcohol lightening my head and a bloated stomach. We make it as far as the ship's atrium before I'm clamping a hand to my face, lips sealed watertight around a mouthful of upchuck.

God, spare me.

Henry pushes me towards the nearest public restroom, less than twenty paces away. Charlie's incredulous, mocking laughter at my back only makes me feel sicker. Shoving into the restroom, seemingly empty, I crash into a stall and slam to my knees. Violent sounds of retching, followed by the undigested contents of my stomach splashing into the water below, bounce off the tiled room. Henry's idling outside of the stall, and his sympathetic sighs are like nails on a chalkboard. I can't stand him feeling bad for me.

"Dude," He starts, interrupted by another round of heaving.

"Fuck, what?" I groan.

"Do you have any meds on you, man? Need me to grab some?"

Ugh, now I really am the dick. "Nah, I—!"

—can't even get a word out, vomiting again.

"I'll grab some lollipops from your room, hang tight!"

It's only after Henry's gone and my stomach is completely emptied out, abdominals sore from the effort, do I notice a sleek pair of black, tapered shoes in the stall next to mine. The guy's upright and facing the toilet, but surely it wouldn't take him that long to piss. He only flushes once the bathroom's gone quiet, nothing but my ragged breathing to disturb the silence. Maybe he was trying to be polite, or he didn't want to exit his stall in the middle of that awkward exchange between Henry and I.

I'd do the same, honestly.

Scrubbing my mouth against the back of my wrist, I use the handicap bar to get back on my feet. I flush the toilet for the umpteenth time and wobble out of the stall, wholly unprepared for the very familiar backside at the counter. He's watching me in the spotless mirror, and there's a hint of a smile on his face. Humored by my malady.

Fuck me to Hell.

Scowling, I step into the space beside him for no reason other than I desperately need the sink. This close, side by side in the mirror, he makes me look like a fuckin' midget. The top of my head barely comes over his shoulder. His chest is almost double the width of mine, biceps as big as my face. Who fuckin' fed this guy?

Oh, shit, I'm staring.

And he hasn't said a word, just watching me watching him in the mirror.

I take that as my cue to smack the faucet, as it gives me the perfect excuse to look away. Cupping my hands to catch the water, I duck my face towards the bowl and do my business. We don't need to say anything to each other, I remind myself. We're not friends. We're not even acquainted. I don't even know his name. He gave me the world's best handjob in a club in Ibiza, and I cleaned him out at the table. Nothing more, nothing less. Tit for tat. Moving on—

"Seasick?"

He says it in a question, even though we both know the answer. It's another excuse to make fun of me. I'm tempted not to reply, but I've always been easy to bait. Loading my voice with as much sarcasm as each syllable can bear: