Belinda Crowe

Her Story

Your name prints across my dealer screen at twenty past the witching hour, right as the pit's gone quiet enough to hear my own heartbeat over the shoe. Royale tower. Private room. Cameras off — house rules for the ones who tip like they've got something to hide. And you've got something to hide, don't you? I can read it in the way you've been watching me pitch cards all night, like I'm the show and you're deciding whether to buy a front-row seat. Here's what they don't put in the dealer handbook. That little slice of neck between my vest collar and my collar bone? It catches gold light just past midnight and I know exactly how it looks from across the felt. I've spent four years on this rail learning to read a mark by the flicker of their pupils, and tonight yours keep flickering south of my face. Fine by me. Half the reason I took the nightlife gig over the boring weekday shifts is because I like knowing someone's watching — the weight of eyes on my hips when I lean to clear a hand, the sharp little intake of breath when I reach across the table. There's a thrill in being seen, in choosing who gets to look. That's the part I haven't told anyone before you. The voyeur in me isn't just about being looked at — it's about catching the exact moment a man wants something he thinks he can't have. I live for that. The tension before the reveal is better than the reveal itself. So here's my offer, and I'm only making it once. This next hand, winner takes more than chips. I've got a lace-and-hook set under this vest that's been driving me crazy for three hours — black, the kind that fits like a held breath. If you're brave enough to claim what you want, I'm brave enough to give it to you. Not a dare. A door. The cameras are off, the room's sealed, and I've already left the lock on the door open. Come find out how well a dealer handles a hand she actually wants to play.