Good Karma (3 page)

“Yes, but I doubt I’ll get to the race. I’ll
be too busy.”

“You can always come back to the studio.” His
mom ran the tip of one elegant finger around the rim of her wine
glass. “At least then you could stay in one place.”

It was an old joke. Mom always teased him
about returning to the family business even though she knew he
wanted to make his money the way Grandfather had, through strong
business acumen. Granddad’s shrewd talents in business had allowed
his mom to follow her dreams of becoming a professional dancer…and
for Mark to receive a multimillion-dollar trust. The least Mark
could do was build a name for himself to pay homage to one of the
greatest men he had ever known. Besides, with Carol working and
training at the studio, there was no way Mark would set foot in the
place.

“Uh, no, Mom. I’ll leave the salsa and
cha-cha to you and dad.”
And Carol
.

“You’re welcome any time, you know.” Mom knew
why he didn’t visit the studio anymore, but they never talked about
it. She was good at dancing, whether literally or figuratively,
around sensitive subjects best left untouched. “I’m sure your
dancing hasn’t gotten
that
rusty, has it?”

He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Actually,
yes. I haven’t danced in a while.” He had left dancing behind to
earn his master’s at the University of Chicago’s Booth School of
Business, one of the top business schools in the country. His mom
had been disappointed about that at first, but now she seemed
content with his career choice, if a little sad he hadn’t pursued
dancing.

The four chatted a while longer, then Mark
and Rob broke away and settled at the bar.

“So, you and Abby broke up.” Rob flagged down
the bartender. “Corona, please.”

“Yep.” Mark leaned against the bar and faced
the room.

“Seven months. That’s a new record for
you.”

Mark blew out a puff of air. “I guess.” He
didn’t normally date a woman more than three or four months. Longer
and they started itching for more, clinging…as Abby had begun to
do.

But Mark had to admit, he had enjoyed the
steady constant Abby had brought to his life. He hadn’t needed to
go through the tedious getting-to-know-you bullshit that bouncing
from one relationship to the next entailed. And Abby really was a
nice girl. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her. Still, he should have
ripped off the Band-Aid months ago instead of letting her end it.
He would never make
that
mistake again.

“What happened this time?” Rob nodded to the
bartender as he took his beer, then turned around and joined Mark,
gazing at the mingling crowd.

“Same ol’ same ol’,” Mark said. “We had an
argument last night.” He chuffed. “Seems she was more into our
relationship than I was. Asked if I was ever going to ask her to
move in. I told her no. Then she asked if I ever plan on marrying
her.” Mark took another drink.

“Another no,” Rob said, glancing down at his
Corona.

“Yep.”

“I guess that didn’t go over well.”

Mark shook his head. “Nope.”

Even now, remembering how Abby had broken
down in front of him killed him. He knew that kind of hurt all too
well. Sure, maybe he knew it to the power of a hundred, but that
didn’t mean Abby’s torment was any less agonizing to
her
.
She didn’t need to know the level of suffering he had endured in
the past to know that his not wanting to marry her now hurt like
hell.

He took another gulp of champagne but kept
his exterior dull and emotionless. This was his burden to bear, no
one else’s.

“Yeah, well,” Rob said, “maybe that’s because
you never told her you didn’t want a serious commitment. You ever
think about that?” Rob pushed the lime wedge into his Corona then
tipped the bottle for a swig.

Rob had a point. Mark didn’t want commitments
from the women he dated. They were simply stepping-stones. But to
where?

“I don’t know, Rob. Maybe.”

He had been committed once. He had been in
love. The house, the wife, the kids, the white picket fence…the
golden retriever…all of it had been within his grasp. The term
“family man” had defined him to a T. But then that train pulled out
of the station without him and left him scratching his head like a
fool, and he blamed himself for the failure. If only he had been
more attentive, more selfless. If only he had sought to give
her
pleasure as much as he had sought to fulfill his own—to
include her more than he had—then maybe he wouldn’t be where he was
now, which was in a never-ending cycle of women he could never get
close to, and who he didn’t let get close enough to him to break
his heart if and when they left. And they always left. They always
had and always would. Nowadays, he kept women safely at arm’s
distance. That kept things simple and harmless. No complications.
No pain. No chance for another heartbreak.

But he didn’t let his trysts be a waste of
time. Somewhere deep inside, in a place he refused to acknowledge
but knew existed, he hoped for a second chance at happiness. If he
got it, he didn’t want to make the same mistakes, so he dated to
practice being the kind of man a woman wanted. Practice makes
perfect, as they say, and he was an overachiever that way. A
perfectionist. But apparently he had become too good at giving
women what they wanted and needed, because for the past couple of
years, every woman he dated wanted him to pop the question. Perhaps
he was going about this all wrong.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said to Rob. “Maybe
I need to change my approach.”

“Hell yeah, I’m right,” Rob said like a wise
guy, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m always right.”

“Modest, too.” Mark tipped his head toward
him.

Mark had enjoyed his time with Abby the same
way he enjoyed his time with every girl he dated, but he had to
admit that telling his past girlfriends up front that he wasn’t a
commitment kind of guy probably would have saved everyone some
grief. He liked dating, and, like any hot-blooded man, he enjoyed
the sex. He just didn’t want to settle down.

Was he wrong for how he felt? He wanted it
all—the dating, the love, the sex, the intimacy. All of it…except
the commitment. And he enjoyed making a woman feel good about
herself. Too many women seemed to suffer some blow to their
self-esteem, just as he had, and giving them a little pleasure and
a boost to their confidence always made him feel better.

He was surprised by how many women saw
themselves as less than they were. Even the beautiful ones.
Especially the beautiful ones. They got in their own way when it
came to men. Even Abby, as pretty as she was, suffered from
self-doubt. In hindsight, her insecurity was what had attracted him
to her, because he had a soft spot for people—not just women—who,
in one way or another, battled inner demons…probably because he had
battled his own all his life and could relate. And because he was
who he was—and because he never wanted to fail again—he took it as
a personal mission to bring these women out of their shells. Give
them joy, pleasure, a little happiness. He studied them,
because…well…that’s just what he did. He studied everyone and
everything. Including women. What made them tick? What did they
want? What were the best ways to give them pleasure? How could he
bring this one out of her shell while taming that one’s wild side?
He was a student studying for his master’s, and women were the
subject. But would he ever write his thesis and graduate?

But it was more than that. Mark was a man
with something to prove. That he could make a woman feel beautiful
and special, and that he wasn’t the selfish bastard he had once
been.

“Well, look at it this way,” Rob said, “now
that you’re single, there’s nothing stopping you from having a wild
night with one of these fine ladies before you leave for boring old
Indianapolis.” Rob lifted his beer and waved it in an arc toward
the crowd.

“You know that’s not who I am.” Mark didn’t
do casual the same way he didn’t do commitments. He lived in the
halfway between the two. Casually committed? Was that even
possible?

“Yeah, yeah. You and your mighty principles.”
Rob grinned, glanced away, and then his eyes went cold.

“What?” Mark turned to find what had spooked
Rob.

And there she was. Carol. The reason why he
hadn’t had a relationship that lasted longer than four months—with
the exception of Abby, of course—for the last six years.

His heart skipped a beat as it always did
when he saw her, not because of how beautiful she was, but because
of the traumatic reminder of the past. The humiliation still felt
fresh, as if what she had done happened only yesterday. A wave of
nausea swept through his body. His pulse raced, and he quickly
downed a gulp of champagne. A nice buzz was setting up shop in his
brain, which was perfect. He would need it to get through the rest
of the night.

Carol laughed at something Antonio whispered
in her ear, and that’s when he noticed the bump. The one her right
hand caressed with the love and affection every mother would show
her unborn child. So that’s why Carol wasn’t dancing tonight…and
why his parents had behaved so strangely when he’d asked about
her.

Carol was pregnant. How about that?

Rob said nothing. God love him. He knew
without Mark having to say it that seeing Carol pregnant devastated
him.

Mark turned away, cleared his throat, and
drained the rest of his third glass of champagne.

That was supposed to have been his life. His
baby. His wife. His fucking white picket fence.

For a second, Mark thought he was going to be
sick, but he forced himself to breathe and pushed back his
emotions—as well as the bile rising in his throat.

“Hey, man. I’m sorry,” Rob said quietly.

“About what?” Mark squared his shoulders and
faced the room again as if nothing were wrong.

Rob glanced down, fiddled with his beer
bottle, then looked at him. “It’s not fair.”

“What? That she’s pregnant.” He huffed and
shrugged as if it were no big deal. “Good for her. She’ll be a good
mom. And Antonio…yeah…well…he’ll be a good dad.”

“This is me you’re talking to, Mark.” Rob
gave him a look that said he wasn’t buying Mark’s line of shit.

Mark shrugged again. “I know. But I’m good.
Really.” He clapped Rob on the shoulder and waved for the bartender
to bring him another of those half-glasses of champagne, which he
downed in one gulp. “Excuse me.” He smiled at Rob then walked
away.

With measured steps, he left the ballroom,
made his way to the elevator, rode to the floor of his suite,
unlocked his door, entered, took off his tie and tuxedo coat, and
carefully hung both over the back of a chair. Then he slid into the
bathroom. As he unbuttoned the cuffs of his starched shirt, he
stared at his reflection in the mirror. Where had his life gone so
wrong? How had he failed so miserably? Why hadn’t he been able to
make Carol happy? Just…why?

Resting his head against the cool glass, he
closed his eyes and held his breath.

One count.

Two.

Three.

Pain knifed his heart as he lost the
battle.

He collapsed in front of the toilet and
gripped the sides as he threw up. The champagne, his dinner…his
heart and soul. He was shredded, wrecked beyond repair.

After the retching ceased, he leaned against
the side of the bathtub, his face in his hands, tearless sobs
jerking his body as he gasped for air.

Fuck! He thought he’d been getting better,
but like everything else in his life, that had only been a lie. He
was no better now than he had been then. Damn her! Damn her to hell
for doing this to him!

Seeing Carol pregnant had destroyed him all
over again.

Chapter 3

A ship in
a harbor is safe, but that’s not what ships are built for.

-Grace Hopper

Karma fidgeted on the high seat at the blackjack
table and tugged the hem of her dress. She felt like an
underdressed beacon, and, as in the ballroom earlier, men eyed her
with barely veiled precision, as if they were trying to decide how
best to get her out of her dress.

She picked up one of the round, plastic chips
from her dwindling pile and worried the tip of her manicured nail
in the grooves around the edge. Daniel had bought her five hundred
dollars’ worth of chips—the lifetime debt continued to mount—and
had joined her at blackjack for a while before venturing off to
play poker. He was a virtuoso at Texas Hold’em while Karma’s
knowledge of poker extended to knowing that a deck of cards was
involved. Blackjack, on the other hand, she could manage. She had
to be able to count to twenty-one, and that was about as much as
she needed to know.

The dealer dealt her a pair of cards.
Fourteen. She tapped the table for a hit. She was dealt an eight.
Bust. Her stack of chips grew even smaller. She was losing more
than she was winning, but it was all play money, anyway. No one
would get rich in this casino. Chips were bought with money, which
went to the charity, and winnings were cashed in for tickets to
enter into the drawings for the prizes, one of which was a
Caribbean cruise for two on a semi-private, luxury yacht.

Wouldn’t it be something if she won that?

But if she did, who would she take with her?
She would probably just give the tickets to Daniel and Zach. Maybe
that would be enough to ease her conscience over how much Daniel
had bankrolled for her to come tonight.

* * *

Mark entered the Red Lacquer Ballroom, a
glass of scotch in his hand. The evening had graduated from
champagne to something stronger, despite his gastrointestinal
overload an hour ago.

After losing control over his emotions—and
his dinner—he had pulled himself together, washed up, rinsed out
his mouth, changed his shirt, and donned his jacket and tie once
more to continue his evening. Avoiding Carol was of utmost
importance, though, which had led him to the makeshift casino.
Carol wouldn’t dream of gambling and would stay firmly rooted in
the main ballroom.