“How old are you anyway?” 


The guy asking had long strawberry-red hair and wore only shorts and a single sock. He’d tattooed a treble clef on his Adam’s apple that started a symphony of notes all over his chest and abs. His name was Strat, and whenever his shirtless torso showed up in Rock Beat, Lynn went crazy trying to play the song he’d had drawn on his body. It sounded like crap.


“Eighteen, asshole,” I snarled, letting loose a yard-long cone of cigarette smoke. I stamped out what was left of my cigarette. “You going to call or what?”


He and Indy snickered. I saw them look at each other over their cards. They thought they had my bra off next. They were wrong. Only two hands beat a full house, and if one of them had a straight flush or four of a kind, I was tits to the rail.


“I’ll raise you.” Strat tossed a ten in the center of the table. 
We’d been going for four hours already. Indy had met me on the beach and, after a short chat, invited me to play poker. Yoni and Lynn were already in the hotel room for the possibility of a threesome, which was how I’d ended up on the beach alone. But poker? I could do poker.