Read Sparks in Cosmic Dust for Free Online

her.
    “Whenever you’re ready.” She chewed her lip, stopped, then resumed her seductive game face. Was she genuinely worried about losing?
    Five-five, pale as Antarctica, she had a slim, athletic figure with no hint of rejuvenation or surgical tampering whatsoever. Her high Slavic cheekbones and big blue eyes made her gaspingly beautiful, but she also had a sweet, girl-next-door way about her, as though she was in on the joke and would be self-deprecating in the real world. The gossip about her breasts being fake and too big for her figure was nonsense. She was well-endowed, pure and simple. Without her corset, Varinia Wilcox would not have looked out of place on the brass bridge of Pont de Rêves, alongside the Selene finalists in the famous lunar pageant.
    But she was here. Alone. Practically naked. Two rounds away from being his —Solomon Bodine, miner, lifelong loser.
    He puffed, then pressed the deal button. Two red ladies and a jack of hearts kicked his breathing into high gear, smashed open the eleventh door of this bizarre purple rollercoaster. A solid hand like that gave him every chance. He dropped his other two nothing cards into the discard slot and cleared his throat. “Twist.”
    “Me, too,” came the serious reply.
    He longed to see another red gent but all he got was a three and a seven. Forget them. Still a good hand. Seeing as he’d won the previous round, he had the option of raising the bet—two discs for two items of clothing, an outright win—but that would mean gambling his last disc. Hmm. So what? What did he have to lose? His last hand might be garbage and he’d kick himself for not playing up these red faces. Play what you’ve got, not what you might get.
    “Raise.” His hand trembled as he fed his last disc into the credit slot. Varinia shot him a bewildering look—no performance, no experience—before touching a blond curl behind her ear and nervously twining it around her forefinger.
    After his raise, she had the unique privilege of being able to fold. If one’s opponent was confident enough to up the bet, odds suggested he had a killer hand, and Varinia could choose not to match the bet. If she did fold, he would win the round by default, but he would only win the initial fifty-credit bet. If she matched his bet, odds suggested she also had a strong hand. Card sharps called this dilemma “the frown” of Cydonia Face. A player could scowl and puzzle all he wanted, but ultimately the only thing that mattered was what he knew for certain. The strength of his own hand.
    “Call.” She looked right through him and Solomon knew he’d blown it.
    He whispered, “Shit.”
    “You go first,” she said.
    Solomon flipped his cards, wiped his moist hand prints from the smooth console with the sleeve of his jacket, and readied himself to leave. What now? He still had enough left from his wages to seek out a high-priced hooker. Nah. Maybe tomorrow, when his nerves had untangled.
    She got up and flicked him a smile.
    “Thanks for the game,” he managed. “You were great.” Turning to leave, he heard a quiet click followed by an even quieter metallic tinkling sound behind. He glanced over his shoulder.
    His mouth dropped when he saw the glass window was open, the key swinging, chiming on its metal holder at the end of the ribbon—reachable, on her side of the glass.
    “Leaving so soon?” She beckoned him toward her with a crooked finger, back-stepping across the purple sand in her white bra and panties, her corset in a heap at her ankles.
    Jesus, I won?
    “I won?” He raked his hair with rigid fingers and then locked his hands together on top of his head.
    Varinia nodded. She clasped her lower lip in a nervous bite. Her chest heaved. “You’re the first.” She beckoned him again.
    Solomon didn’t bother to check her cards. He raced to the glass, reached through the window and tore the key from its ribbon. It was heavy, cumbersome. He bolted for the glass door to the far right