Kennedy Klein’s sexuality was an open secret among the organised crime world. He did genuinely love his wife, that was for sure. She’s been incredibly loyal in the 80s and they’d had quite a fiery love affair, But whispers of him and his security guard rattled the crime world. Acknowledging it was reserved for a select group of poker underground gamblers, people with strange accents and stranger job titles.

“Aces” the blonde woman in the eyepatch said, flashing her cards to her audience and their staff. Ken pondered her dress sense, quietly sure that a woman like her could almost definitely get the surgery she needed on the eye if she stopped fluttering it around for a week or two. Maybe she liked being considered imposing. Mysterious.

A slick, black man in a warm-tone suit laid his cards down reluctantly and pushed his chips away from himself slowly. He had kind eyes, but a golden set of fang teeth that made him look a little like a sabre tooth tiger.

Ken moved the chips in, before getting a warning look from his wife. She was a card shark in her own right, and incredibly sharp. Short fiery red hair and a matching lipstick shade. He tossed a few chips back into his hand at that secret language of glances they’d created between them. She was almost definitely a better card player than he was. He followed suit and winced at the next few card reveals.

He gave away 4 blue chips. Favour chips these days, they never played with anything as pedestrian as money. Blue were favours, red were sexual, green were murder, and yellow were secrets. Secrets were always the most valuable. With the right password, the right informant, even the right little bit of blackmail gossip, many an arm could be twisted. Many a door could be unlocked.

This particular double date seemed to be stacked towards favours. How interesting Irene thought privately. Klein gave a flittering glance at his wife, knowing she could practically read his mind. The blonde lady with the eyepatch raked her chips in with a devilish grin. She wrote her request on the chip in permanent marker, and popped it in the bucket. “I need to borrow your little boyfriend.” She huffed at Klein, “3 o clock tonight. One of my clients isn’t paying up yet and I need a big strong man to put him in his place” she flirted, cuddling up to the bodyguard and brushing his mount Everest high cheekbones.

“He’d better wear something machine washable. Something tells me this won’t be a clean meet n greet” the wife chuckled shuffling the deck. It was decided that because of her background in casinos, it was probably be best for her to host and not play. Had they worked out the glance system yet? The secret languages of old married couples? Maybe they were aware of some light trickery, but didn’t want play with fire. Especially given his wife Irene’s track record with fire.

The cards were shuffled again, and the black guy - an old friend from Budapest – picked up a red chip. He bit the plastic leaving a small, metal-fang puncture through it and then sharpied in his best handwriting what Klein assumed would be a delightfully devilish act, and placed it with the writing faced down. Unreadable.

Ted the security guard offered a glance swiftly. Trying to maintain his poker face. A Korean mobster with all the tattoos to prove it tucked neatly under his turtle-neck jumper. Irene also perked up. “you know that chip could land on anyone, right?” she warned, her cleavage stumbling strategically out of her dress. He chuckled coyly, running his tongue against his metallic teeth. “I’m always ready to play baby.”

He slipped his cards across the table. A silence swept across the room. His fiance – the blonde - also sat up. “If those are the games we’re playing” she purred, scribbling her own red chip with the most tantalising three letter word she knew. Her icy blue eyes meeting her vampiric dining companion’s.

Irene was just looking forward to the show. She got them to pick their choices, poured herself a new glass of wine, and discovered where the chips would lie.

The chips were revealed with baited breath. The golden vampire had written 20 minutes against the poker table. his fiance the blonde had written peg. Dangerous indeed. Especially with her particular toy box. The vampire’s hand met the blonde’s thigh as the big reveal occurred.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Klein wasn’t used to attention to this degree. Older men like him weren’t supposed to be getting this kind of attention. His wife raised her eyebrows challengingly. Game On.

He lifted his cards, and saw he’d won.

The rules were that if you won with your own red chip, you got to choose your participant. If you lost with the red chip, the winner got to decide your fate. Many a world leader had lost in these chairs and paid the price, if nothing else than for bragging rights. There was of course a bail option, but it would require something juicier, a henchman perhaps… or a secret. Ken had many secrets left to share. Tonight was not a secret night.

The golden Vampire fished an ice cube from his drink, sucking whisky off his fingers and tracing gently against the crack of the mobsters neck, and then down his chest. One button came off at a time. The record in the background glitched onto a Madonna song, and the first metallic bite came down to “like a prayer”.

When you call my name its like a little prayer, down on my knees I want to take you there.

* * *

The next morning, Irene woke a slightly sore, mildly bruised Ken from the poker table. Somehow his hangover was rougher than his nether-regions. She wore purple lipstick this morning, and a corseted black summer dress with big high drama sunglasses. “I’ve asked Ted to put on breakfast.” she purred, offering a sip from a freshly made summer drink that was no doubt spiked with enough liquor to put a small horse out of commission. “Hair of the dog?” she offered.

Beside the wreckage of cards and poker chips, lay a large sex toy with the word THANK YOU across the member. He shook off the flashbacks and checked his neck for the trademark punctures those two were known to leave. Nothing too severe. Light hickeys, but no blood. No arteries. His wife pulled him up gently, “I remember when we used to play like that … albeit less … bitey” she recalled, gnashing her teeth together for theatrical emphasis.

He pulled himself up with grace and took stock at the favours still left in his particular chip bucket.

1) Tanya the Tigress wanted to borrow Ted for an intimidation trick at 3am, maybe some light physical violence. Evidently she’s never shied away from playing rough.

2) Trevor, The golden vampire, wanted territory marking, experimental sex. Well Check, he’s got that one.

Sober he could see it clear as day. This wasn’t a sincere flirt, it was marking his territory. He wanted to publicly advertise which side his bread was buttered, in case one day he’s found in the courts. Even the icing of the neck made sense now. A little something to make sure his personal calling card would leave a mark but not a corpse, they’d only just finished paying off his last lawyer.

Poor Ted stumbled in, dripping in blood, platter of bacon sandwiches in hand. “If I may have permission to speak – You’ve got to stop pimping me out to them” he muttered, flicking his gloves free of blood. “Bad choice of phrase – poor Kenny here has had a bit of a rough night” Irene cooed, dabbing a napkin of liquor onto the mark on his neck.

“Ken’s got to shower off the hangover in a minute – if you’re quick you can join him. A bit of gladiator play always gets the heart racing.” she mentioned, biting her lip. “unless you’re looking for a more delicate touch” she offered.

Ted declined. Ken was going to be sore for a good few hours before anything like that could occur. He left the room, trying not to drip blood across the designer carpet. When she was sure he’d gone, Irene pulled Ken aside and out of earshot. “While you were having an adventurous evening in, Tanya slipped this into my cleavage” She whispered.

A yellow chip. Red writing. It read Danger. Ted’s been found.

FUCK.

They gave each other a glance that spoke volumes. They’d only just moved country. They didn’t have enough time to do that all over again. Irene looked at her husband without flinching, and held up an emergency phone, filled with everyone who ever owed them a favour.

Irene dialled her emergency phone, a red nokia flip-phone she kept in a box by the landing. “We’ve been compromised. For anyone who can provide us shelter, there will be a promise of unrestricted interviewing” she said.

Six journalists, three cops, and at least two different brothel owners bit onto the promise of a good story. Finally someone responded with a bunker. The bunker won the bidding war.