That day (that night—they stayed on the floor until sunrise), after they’d both burned through their chips and then some, they went up to his room and fucked for hours. They changed that part, too, when they told their friends and family, or improved it to include a horseback ride, a picnic. But really they slept in a tangle of sheets through the afternoon, ordered room service hamburgers and champagne, screwed again, and then went back down to the floor. Like before, he started at poker, she at craps, but the second night she burned through her cash fast and wandered into the high-stakes room, watching him play, her fingers twiddling the tiny hairs at his neck. He didn’t need her next to him, but having a pretty woman by his side, having her put her hand on his thigh and whisper smut into his ear—everything good can be made better. They were married six weeks later.

She always played low stakes, being an elementary school teacher with bills to pay, but Jason seeded her the same $50K a night that he started with. They took weekend excursions to Vegas, Atlantic City, the tribal casinos up the coast of Oregon. On these off-season trips neither had the expectation of retiring at a reasonable hour, of eating dinner together—any meal, really—but that was fine. If you were hot, you stayed at the table, right through breakfast. No questions asked, no answers needed.

They came to Arizona last January, not long after the wedding. The new couple visited her parents in Surprise. Talking Stick wasn’t open yet, but construction was well under way, and when they drove by the future casino, Jason squeezed her thigh and said, Just you wait. On that same trip they bought their spring house in a new subdivision of North Scottsdale. Jason didn’t think long about the insides, just wanted to make sure the backyard was flat and had room enough for a batting cage. Liana cared more about the interior, but didn’t quite know what to look for. Her parents were the original owners of one of those ranch-meets-adobe homes in Phoenix’s far-west subdivisions, and since moving out she’d lived in dorm rooms or studios or other unimpressive apartments. When she met Jason she ditched her one-bedroom for his L.A. home, which was some sort of modernist architectural landmark way up in the hills. Yes, four bedrooms would be fine, they told the Scottsdale agent. The open-plan grand room, the stainless kitchen—okay, okay. They paid cash, closing in time for pitchers and catchers.