I busted my ass to become who I am today. Baller, high roller, or Aces, call me what you will, but it all comes back to where I began.
Before leaving my kick-ass pad, I grab my wallet and a condom. I need to grab me some high-society tail today.
The first four hours, I hit the California, Binion’s, El Cortez, and Golden Gate for blackjack to ensure my pocket is padded, and I make two grand in four hours. Not a bad fucking day at all. The edge is off now. I have two grand to play and two grand back in the wallet. Why two grand? I always keep two grand tucked away to get me home—always.
I head back to stash it in the safe and take a breather.
I flip on the eighty-inch, wall-mounted flat screen and sink down into my leather recliner, my throne. Hitting the remote to the chair, the massage begins, and then I sit back, listening to the news.
Later, I wake up feeling like a new man, like a winner. I swear I smell hundreds, and those bitches have my name on them.
Tonight, I roll up to the valet and toss my keys at him.
“Be gentle with her,” I say as I hand him a twenty. “If she comes back looking the same, that’ll be bigger.”
“I know it will, Aces.” The kid winks at me.
This is a gamble—handing the keys over to someone you don’t even know. It tears at the Rock City boy, but no one knows how hard those wheels were to come by. No one knows I’m not just some entitled little punk who’s burning away his trust fund and youth by playing cards, driving cars, and hanging at bars. No one knows because they can’t see my tells. I’ve buried those bitches deep, as deep as the emotions I feel watching someone getting in my prized possession.
As I watch the kid jump in my car, I see a smile on his face. I know that motherfucker wants to burn rubber as sure as I know I wanted to do the same thing the first time I sat in her black leather seats. And, fuck yes, I did it, but that rubber was paid for by me.
His grip tightens on the wheel—his tell—but he won’t do a damn thing. Why? He needs this job. He earns bank, then goes and plays the game, hoping someday to be a baller, just like me.
I know all their tells, even the dealers. I don’t count cards; I count on instinct. I trust my gut. Momma didn’t raise a fool. Momma also didn’t raise an entitled prick. My only tell: I refuse to treat people who have the same damn dream I do like they are less than. Hard work is not foreign to this guy.
From the moment I roll up in my ride, I smile at the pimply-faced kid who takes my keys. I hand ’em over, and I give him respect in the form of trusting him with my ride.
They all know me ’cause I treat ’em well. I tip, I talk, and I treat them with respect.
Chapter Four
One thing about appearances, they are always deceiving. In order to appear to be the happy family we aren’t, some things must be done like a regular couple, one of those being grocery shopping.
Monte has people, sure, but given that his income isn’t what one would claim as taxable, I don’t have a staff. Things like grocery shopping are left as wifely duties. Add in that the majority of Monte’s money is cash, and I needed to find a way to tip the scales, and I did.
Men should never underestimate the power of a mother. I will take a lot of shit—and I mean a lot of shit—for the sake of survival. There is nothing I won’t do for my baby girl, even if she did come from him.
Years of verbal assaults left me weak. He beat me—not physically, never. No, he reminds me even now of the night he beat me, how he bested me at my very own game. While I was fighting for my momma, he didn’t give a second thought to using my naivete, my false bravado, my stupid schemes, and my desperate attempt to break the ties that bind to tip the scales in his favor.
Momma paid her penance for bad choices. Now I pay mine.
I can handle anything he throws at me. He can say whatever he wants, put me down, rip me to shreds; I can take it all and not miss a beat. Day in and day out, Monte finds a way to remind me of where I come from. I take that. I deserve that.
I play him. Checks and balances.
Give me your worst, Monte. I’ll withstand. Momma didn’t raise me to be weak. She didn’t raise me to break. Sure, I may be a product of my circumstances, but I am not broken.