Marcus didn't generally like to be called boy by someone a decade younger than he was, but he let it roll off his shoulders. Hell, it was something he would've said, in Ian's place. It did pull his attention onto the bartender, however. Maybe he'd been too quick to write the guy off as uninteresting. He'd been sure that it was going to take some convincing to get any real betting on the table, since he'd seen Avery's living quarters and couldn't imagine Ian Kingsley pulled in much from the Key. Marcus met the smirk with his own toothy grin, happy to comply. "Wouldn't be fun without stakes, cabrĂ³n. Fuck, half my tats are from bar bets."
A joke, but not entirely unbelievable. He didn't exactly regret any of his tattoos, but even he'd admit that it had been a much younger man who'd been so enamored by rattlesnakes. He placed a large palm over his own hand of cards, but didn't pick them up, yet. Didn't look at the cards since the ante hadn't been set and he wasn't the dealer.
"Then play to win, hombre," he advised Avery. "Make us pay your fucking tab. I do got money." Not a whole lot, granted, but he was feeling flush with the extra hours put in recently, and had no intention of spending that cash on the holidays. Whether it went to his tab or Avery's, it was likely to be drunk up one way or another. "That might not work for on-the-clock over here, though. He probably has some shit-cleaning job he don't want to do. Don't fucking matter to me. Way I see it, by the end of the night you'll both be paying up, pouring me drinks, or taking turns sucking my dick. I'll accept all three fucking forms of currency."