Madge Myers Deals Cards, Secrets, and Hidden Desires at 3AM

The Girl Behind the Cards

The thing about working night shifts at the Moonlight Mirage Casino is that time stops meaning anything. Three in the morning could feel like noon if the lights are bright enough and the chips are loud enough. That’s how Madge liked it. It kept the world fuzzy around the edges.

"Another blackjack, honey. You're on fire tonight!" she chirped, sliding the winning hand toward a bleary-eyed trucker who smelled like stale fries and road trip loneliness. He blinked at her with the confusion of someone unsure if he was being flirted with.

Madge gave him a wink anyway. Her winks were never smooth—more like a slow-motion blink that made her look like she had something in her eye.

She wasn’t glamorous. Not like the other dealers in the sequin corsets and false eyelashes. She was a little too pale, a little too jumpy, and she said things like “Oopsie daisy” when she dropped chips. Still, she had something the others didn’t: a brain like a card-counting machine. Not that she’d ever use it. Not for real. But she could, and she knew it.

Under the Table, Over Her Head

Her shift ended at 5:00 a.m., and as usual, she made her way to the breakroom-turned-afterhours-hangout, a cramped space with two vending machines, a busted couch, and a microwave that hissed like a snake every time it was used.

"Tough night?" grunted Darren, the pit boss, nursing a lukewarm energy drink.

Madge shrugged, pulling her hoodie over her dealer vest. “Same old. Drunk cowboys tipping me in scratch cards and life advice.”

“You ever think of dealing somewhere classier?” he asked.

She laughed. It came out like a hiccup. “What, and give up the neon life? No thanks. Besides, where else could I get offered a pet iguana in exchange for poker chips?”

“Real offer?”

“Dead serious. Name was Zippy.”

Darren grunted again. That was his way of saying “you’re weird but I tolerate you.”

What no one knew—not Darren, not her coworkers, not even the creepy regulars who always asked if she was “on the menu”—was that when she went home, she logged into NSFWLover and turned into someone else.

Queen of the Virtual Felt

Madge’s apartment was a shoebox above a noodle shop that never closed. She liked the constant hum of people and sizzling oil. It reminded her she wasn’t alone, even when she totally was.

By the time she kicked off her sneakers, she was already booting up her laptop. The room smelled like instant coffee and incense, and her desk chair had the permanent imprint of her thighs.

She logged in with her burner name—DealerKitten23—and her avatar popped up: a slightly better-looking version of herself, but still with the signature bangs and wide, apologetic eyes. Her inbox lit up with messages.

Hey kitten, ready to be my lucky charm tonight?

Gonna need you to shuffle more than just cards 😏

She rolled her eyes and cracked her knuckles. “Alright, freaks,” she muttered. “Let’s get weird.”

But then came a message that stopped her cold.

Madge, is that you?

Her fingers froze over the keyboard. That wasn’t right. She never used her real name here. Never. Ever. Not even once.

Her heart thumped. Not in a cute way.

Who is this? she typed back, quickly deleting and retyping it as:
Wrong gal, bud. DealerKitten’s all you get.

The reply came instantly.

You dropped a Queen of Hearts last night. You always drop that one.

She stared at the screen, blood draining from her face. Only one person knew that. Only one person paid that much attention. Wes. The quiet guy who used to sit at her table every Tuesday, pretending to be bad at cards. Until he disappeared.

Truth or Dare, But Mostly Dare

She didn’t respond to the message. Instead, she slammed the laptop shut and flopped backward onto her bed, staring at the popcorn ceiling.

“What the hell,” she whispered to nobody.

She’d had a thing for Wes. The shy smirk, the way he held his cards too tight, how he always tipped in exact change and apologized for it. She’d liked that. It made her feel... not gross.

She picked up her phone, heart thudding, and opened her notes app. She started typing before she chickened out:

Hey. If that’s you, Wes, meet me at the 24-hour diner on 6th. Booth by the window. Don’t be weird. Okay, be a little weird. I probably deserve it.

She hit send to the only number she’d ever saved as "Maybe Wes?" months ago.

Then she sat. Waited. Waited more.

At 7:17 a.m., her phone buzzed.

On my way. Wear something lucky.

She grinned. She didn’t have anything lucky. She wore a hoodie that said “I Deal With It” in sparkly letters and too-tight jeans. That’d have to do.

As she locked the door behind her, she whispered, “Okay Madge. You got this.”

And maybe she did.