In the next round, Mark bet on my mother's skirt. I was forced to wager everything I had left.
When the cards were revealed, I lost again.
My soul left my body. I slumped back in the chair, drowning in despair.
They ripped off her skirt. They laughed and flipped me off.
"Kerry, you're more pathetic than a dog."
"You've got nothing left to bet with, and your mother's down to her last piece of clothing. What are you going to do now?"
Mark stood up, grinning, and broke into some ridiculous victory dance of his own invention.
The other men reached into the cage, their hands roaming over my mother's skin.
"Stop it! Stop it now!"
"Aaah! Get away! Son, save me!"
"Please... please..."
Her desperate pleas. My roaring fury. None of it moved May an inch.
"The final round is about to begin!"
"Kerry, if you don't have anything left to bet—then we'll just declare your mother officially—"
"Who says I don't."
The words tore from my throat.
"I'll bet my life against yours."
"Mark." My voice dropped to something cold and dead. "Do you have the guts to wager your hand and your other leg?"
The room exploded with excitement.
"Oh, this is good. They're betting their lives now!"
Mark didn't hesitate. "Betting your life? Perfect. I've been dying to break your legs myself."
"And," I continued, "all of May's assets. How about it?"
"Ha! You think I'm scared of a loser like you? Don't make me laugh—let's do this!"
Without another word, we signed the life-or-death wager and signaled the dealer to start.
My face-up card was the eight of spades. I didn't look at my hole card. Mark got the nine of diamonds. They sneered, not bothering to raise—convinced I had nothing worth chasing.
After all, this round was all or nothing.
The dealer continued. My second card: five of clubs. His: eight of hearts.
Third card dealt. Mine: four of clubs. Mark's: seven of hearts.
At this trajectory, we were both building toward a straight flush. It all came down to who completed it—and whose was higher.
When the final card dropped, every neck in the room craned toward our table. The crowd held its breath, eyes locked on us.
Mine: seven of clubs. Mark's: five of hearts.
"Damn, this is gonna be close."
"Close? Please. Kerry's already lost."
Mark drummed his fingers on the table, radiating smug confidence.
"Kerry." His voice dripped with triumph. "This hand decides everything."