Free Fade To Midnight by Shannon McKenna

dizziness, the disorientation would diminish over time. And they had. He’d already gotten off the antiseizure meds. He might even regain some lost memories, they had hopefully hypothesized.
    Though it was clear none of them wanted to be anywhere near him when that happened.
    But Christ, it hurt. Every beat of his heart. Sometimes he wished that organ would give it a rest. Just stop, and leave him the fuck alone.
    Concentrate, goddamnit. Stop whining . Self-pity is not useful.
    That would be a lot easier if that bastard would stop staring.
    It didn’t usually bother him, but the disgust, the veiled hostility on Chilikers face bothered him a lot, in his current state. Kev met his eyes straight on, and silently invited him to state his fucking problem.
    Chiliker’s eyes flicked away. He checked. Stevens, too.
    Kev bet $1,500. Stevens called. Chilikers, too, then Laker. The pot was up to $8,500. And Chilikers was glaring again.
    Ignore the fucker. He funneled his mind by brute force into the calm detachment that he craved. He played for the express purpose of concentration, detachment, serenity. And he was blowing it because some greedy asshole was giving him the hairy eyeball? Unacceptable.
    The dealer burned, and flipped the turn. Ace of diamonds.
    Ah. Now that was a problem. His mind seized on to it hungrily, rejoicing in the new slew of calculations to make. He had a set, yeah, but a bunch of possible hands could beat a set of aces. His brain churned out the list, examining probabilities in a blinding inner stream of data that gave him sweet relief. As long as he could keep it up.
    He’d happened upon this new coping mechanism by chance. Bruno had brought him a laptop to keep him from going nuts in the hospital, after they’d taken the restraints off. He’d discovered online poker while fucking around with it. It had taken serious effort to get those restraints removed, and convince the hospital staff that he was not going to wig out and attack them. He winced, just thinking about it.
    Online poker was the first thing he found that helped. It chilled him, just that crucial bit that kept him halfway sane. He needed dark glasses to stare into the computer, and even so, the glow of the screen intensified his headaches badly, but it was better than a padded cell.
    He’d played for days on end, until the doctors started talking about taking the computer away. He’d made it clear that wasn’t an option, and shortly afterward found himself discharged, much sooner than hospital protocol dictated. The staff was scared shitless of him.
    He didn’t blame them. Christ, he scared himself these days.
    As soon as he could stagger out on crutches, he’d sought out some real poker games. High-level play. Seasoned, talented players. The more layers of complexity, the better the trick worked for him. Those guys played for real money, though. They’d kicked his ass for a while. It had been an expensive coping tool while he made the adjustment.
    Not anymore, though. He won, now. Almost always. He cycled through a big circuit of clubs, so that no one got too tired of that fact.
    Not that he gave a shit about winning. The money in his pocket when he walked out was a byproduct. It was the process he craved. The stream of calculations in his head, blotting out the jangle of emotional overload. The game as he played it was painkiller, anxiolytic, and sleep substitute. After hours of probabilities calculation, he felt almost rested.
    Patil was still pissed. There was a lawsuit pending. But whatever. If Patil wanted money to compensate his shock, pain, and mental anguish, Kev would give it to him. Of course, money didn’t do shit for shock, pain, or mental anguish. He should know. He had plenty of money, and what fucking good had it ever done him?
    He’d apologized to Patil, very sincerely. Bruno had gone to see the guy while he was recuperating from his surgery, to grovel on Kev’s behalf,