paradisalogs | [Closed] Video games, go!

She made a torpedo and explosion sound as she put down her flush over his cards, reaching for her wine at the end of the ruckus and taking a big sip. "Booyah. Nine more days. Oh yeah, mama like-ee."

Damn. Maybe he should quit while he was behind. He leaned back in his chair, folding one arm over his chest and cradling his chin with his other hand, shaking his head as much at her antics as his losses. "I have a feeling that no matter how drunk you may get, you'll still be coherent enough to keep track of how many days I owe you."

"You'd be correct. This is my thang, Kittmeister. This is what I do. And I'll have you wearing a speedo and calling me Mistress by the time you give up."

"Michael isn't nearly as difficult to beat." Michael wasn't playing for keeps, it was merely something to pass the time. It seemed to Kitt that he was beginning to recall some sure-thing horse races that he, Kitt, had gambled on. He'd ended up owing money on those.

Oops.

"You can forget about the Speedo." He was more concerned about that. 'Mistress' was something his pride could tolerate. He tapped the table. "Deal."

"Or maybe not," she smirked, shuffling the deck and handing out another hand of cards.

Oh, that look on his face was priceless. He wasn't keen on losing and she did so like seeing the frustration when he lost.

It was a blow to his manly - AI? - pride! The good guys always won!

Especially when there were two good guys playing.

He held up his hand to stop her for a second, before either of them picked up their cards. "All or nothing, this hand?"

That piqued her interest. "Define 'all'."

"If I win, I'll honor the conditions of the original wager. That would give you twelve more days. If you win, you get the extra days." He took a breath, hesitating for a moment. "And the Speedo that you seem to want me to wear so much."

Her eyes widened, and she moved to tuck her legs under her, beaming over at him. "Really? Nine days and the speedo? For the whole time you're in the room?" Because she wouldn't be mean enough to make him wear it outside - unless he was in the hot springs.

Wait, the whole time? What was he, a Chippendale's dancer? He'd only meant just one time, to show her he could do it, five minutes tops. The whole time? He swallowed, watching her again. "Do I get to wear a shirt with it?"

"Sometimes, maybe." She smirked, shuffling the cards as she watched him. "And you have to drink with me at least one night."

She may as well make him wear a black bowtie collar while she was at it! He clearly hadn't asked for enough, but his conditions were already on the table while hers were still being negotiated.

"I will have a drink with you. As for the rest..." He looked away, waving at the table and nodding his assent. "Does that work?"

"A minimum of two drinks, and yes. It does." She stuck out her hand to seal the deal.

"Fine. Two." This was his fault; he'd started it. He shook her hand, once, firmly.

The cards on the table were taunting him.

Dealing their hands, she picked hers up, schooling her features into utter blankness. Oh, she wanted to win this bad.

Poker face. Poker face. Poker face.

He peered over his cards, watching her, doing his best not to give anything away while he searched her face and body language for weaknesses.

Good luck, Kitt. She set two cards down, looking over at him as she took two more.

He wanted three cards, but he was afraid that if he asked for that many she'd realize just how bad this hand was. Again. Never taking his eyes off her face, he discarded and spoke. "Two."

She'd know either way, and he should have gone with three, but she slid his two cards over, looking at him over hers and waiting.

Just. Waiting.

No help there. The best he could hope for was high card. He sighed to himself, catching her eyes for a moment in an admission of blind defeat before laying down his cards.

Lucky for her, because she only had two pair. She'd been going for a full house, but... no such luck.

Fortunately, that still trumped him, and she leaped across the couch to tackle him, laughing as she pinned him down. "I win. Your ass is mine, Kitt."

He was so sorry for her luck.

He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments before she was tackling him. "I'm never betting against you again." How many days? He would never live this down.

Nine more days on twelve was twenty-one. Hah. Hah. "Don't be a poor loser. Consider it a life lesson." She booped him on the nose, still beaming. "Now, I wonder if I should make you do the speedo thing now or later...?"

Three weeks. Good grief. "Oh, don't worry. I'm not likely to forget this." Gracious. Could he feign a headache?

Hang on. His eyes went from closed to open wide, complete with gawping mouth. "Now? No. You wouldn't."

Her grin turned absolutely wicked, and she kept him pinned down. "Oh, but I totally would. I'm just wondering if I should."

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