Lawson looked at Svafa, surprised.
"Huh? How'd you know that was me?"
"Wild guess from watching the TV!"
Svafa smiled and pointed at the television mounted in the corner of the bar.
Bars like this always had a TV running, usually tuned to whatever big game was on. Tonight there was no game—just Fox News replaying the footage of Lawson weaving through the LA freeway loop like a goddamn pro.
"You figured it out just from watching the news?"
"Hehe! One look is all I need. That little disguise of yours doesn't fool me at all! Though I gotta admit, I didn't expect you to be *that* quick behind the wheel. Makes me wonder how fast you are in… other areas?"
Svafa rested her chin on her hand, letting her eyes slowly trail down his body. Lawson instinctively pressed his thighs together.
Western women really didn't hold back. He was used to Svafa's teasing by now, so he fired right back.
"Don't worry about that. Every woman who's taken a ride with me has given me five-star reviews."
"Oh really?" Svafa licked her full red lips, eyes sparkling with pure invitation. "Mind if I take it for a test drive sometime? I'm pretty damn experienced behind the wheel myself."
"Next time, for sure."
"Tch! You always say that!"
Looking a little disappointed, Svafa dropped the flirting and turned to organize the liquor bottles. Lawson watched her curvy figure sway for a second before going back to his phone.
Right now there were over a dozen gigs listed around LA, but most were only 1-star difficulty.
The Payday app had a reputation system. The more gigs you finished, the higher your rep climbed, unlocking tougher jobs. After grinding for a month, Lawson's rep sat at 27—solid "up-and-coming" level. The hardest stuff he could currently see was 2-star, like the Need for Speed gig he'd just crushed.
"Oh! Looks like there's a gig popping right here in the bar."
Not too surprising. He'd picked up the last big one in this exact spot. Lawson scanned the room, trying to spot who might be offering the job.
If he didn't take it, someone else would. These gigs didn't stick around forever.
It didn't take long to notice the weird energy at one of the poker tables. Four big dudes were playing. Three of them clearly knew each other and were giving off strong "three-on-one" vibes. The fourth guy looked pissed, threw his cards down, and walked away mid-hand.
After watching for a second, Lawson decided to test the waters.
"Hey guys, looking for a fourth? Mind if I sit in?"
Of the three remaining, the guy in the middle—a burly white dude with a thick beard—looked like the leader. To his left sat a bald man covered head-to-toe in glowing runic tattoos. If his skin was blue he'd be a dead ringer for Ryze from League of Legends. To his right was a guy with a thin mustache and messy hair… wait, is that Captain Jack Sparrow?
Captain Jack Sparrow came ashore?
Lawson found it interesting. He'd suspected for a while that this world was a mash-up of different movies and shows, especially after bumping into certain people since he got here.
Well… this just keeps getting more interesting.
While Lawson was sizing them up, the three guys were sizing him up right back. Besides Captain Jack, who looked completely spaced out and staring at nothing, the bearded guy and the Rune Mage were eyeing him like fresh meat.
The Rune Mage spoke first.
"Only real tough guys play at this table. You one of 'em, pretty boy?"
Lawson's build wasn't bad at all—even by American standards. He stood six-foot-three, towering over Captain Jack (who was listed at 5'10" but everyone knew actors padded that shit—he was probably closer to 5'7").
He was still a little lean from eating like garbage when he first landed, but "pretty boy" wasn't a stretch. Clean, sharp face that worked for both sides of the aisle—like a mix between Asian and Henry Canvill. His Asian features weren't overpowering.
Guys who looked like him always pissed off ugly dudes who called themselves "tough guys." But hey, without a face like this, how were the handsome readers supposed to self-insert?
Lawson grinned arrogantly.
"Funny you mention it—I'm the toughest motherfucker in this whole bar. Wanna find out?"
He slammed his Glock 18 onto the table.
On American streets, being humble got you nowhere. They didn't respect manners. They respected whoever had the bigger gun.
The second the Glock hit the wood, the bearded guy and Rune Mage changed their whole attitude. The bearded man flashed a dangerous smile that would make kids cry.
"You can sit. But you gotta pick up the cards the last guy left and play his hand."
What kind of bullshit rule was that? Forcing a new player to take a dead hand? Lawson knew it was some kind of test.
"Sure, let's see what we got."
The guy who bailed had left five cards: two Aces of Spades, two Eights of Spades, and a Jack of Diamonds.
The Dead Man's Hand.
Legend said Wild Bill Hickok was holding exactly this when he got shot in the back of the head during a poker game. Ever since, it's been considered straight-up cursed.
A lot of superstitious Americans would've seen that hand and walked away on the spot.
"You still in?"
"Yeah, why not? Whose turn is it?" Lawson didn't give a fuck about old Western superstitions.
"It's your turn."
"Pair of Aces."
Lawson tossed them down casually. None of the three could beat it.
"Pair of Eights."
He played the second pair. The bearded guy and Rune Mage exchanged weird looks—they realized exactly what hand he was holding. Only Captain Jack was still completely zoned out.
The Rune Mage couldn't hold it in anymore.
"You actually got the balls to play the Dead Man's Hand?"
Lawson looked him dead in the eye and smiled.
"Why the hell not? Everybody dies eventually. The only question is whether you go out like a legend or live like a slave. Last card—Jack of Diamonds!"
The Rune Mage and bearded guy locked eyes. They looked genuinely intrigued now.
The bearded man lowered his voice.
"Hey… we're short a wheelman. How good are you at driving?"
Lawson grinned wide.
"Funny you ask. Nobody in this whole fucking city knows how to drive better than me."