Gorilla Beach (22 page)

“You got nothing? Really?” asked Gia. “Do what you always do. After all we've been through together, you still don't trust me to say what you're really feeling.”

“I'm not sure how I feel. I definitely don't like getting screamed at first thing in the morning.”

“No one tells me anything! Not even you. Liars, fakes, and users. Everywhere I look.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Bella. “Something happened.”

Seeing the expression on Bella's face, the worry and love, even after she'd just ripped her a new foxhole, Gia's anger dried up. She wasn't mad at Bella anyway. She was upset about Ponzi. “I got played, Bells. Ponzi isn't who he said he was. So much for my excellent judge of character.” Gia told Bella the story. The stress and exhaustion caught up with her. When Bella sat her down on the couch and gave her a guidette hug, Gia let a gusty sob escape.

“Waaa!” she cried. “For real!”

“At least he's gone. He knows he's busted. He must be in the wind by now.”

“I don't have anyone to cuddle with.”

“That does suck. But it's a temporary problem.”

“How can I trust anyone ever again?”

“I bet you'll feel different after a couple drinks.”

Gia nodded. “You spent the night with Will?”

“He's a good person. You're a hundred percent wrong about him. He hasn't asked me for a freakin' penny. But you might be
right about me. I do feel the urge to care for him, although he doesn't need me to. He's the definition of self-reliant. I want you to hang out with him, get to know him.”

“Maybe he has a gorilla juicehead friend?” sniffled Gia.

Bella laughed. “I doubt that.”

“I'm sorry about what I said before. I know you didn't stay home with Aunt Marissa to feel better about yourself. You did it because you've got a giant heart.”

Bella shrugged. “At college this year, I took Psych 101, and we studied ‘caregiver syndrome.' It actually sounds a lot like the way you described me. I never thought of myself that way. But, now, I can see it.”

“Is there a syndrome for being so desperate for love that you get suckered by every jerkoff on the Jersey Shore? Honestly? It's the story of my friggin' life. Frankie and I toasted the New Year together as a couple, but he was already seeing Cara—
for months
. And he's just one example. Every boyfriend I've had has lied, cheated, used me, or accused me of using him, or lying to him.”

“So you've got some trust issues.”

Gia groaned and held her stomach.

“It's not that bad,” said Bella.

“No, it's my food baby,” groaned Gia. “It's crowning. I had a huge dinner last night.”

Bella laughed. “Bathroom's that way.”

“Help me.” Gia held out her arms.

“Never, ever,
ever,
say I don't do enough for you,” said Bella, pulling Gia to her feet.

Fredo and Erin walked
down a fluorescent-lit hallway of the hotel, below street level. In a cruise ship, the area would be called steerage, where the poor people and staff lived, belowdecks.

“Here I am,” said Erin, when they got to her door. “Compared to your suite, it'll look like a broom closet. But it's home.”

Did he dare go inside? That would mean he was accepting the unspoken agreement to have sex. As Gia instructed, he asked himself,
What would a gorilla do?
He pictured those hulks on Gorilla Beach in this position. They wouldn't hesitate. They'd go for it. But those dudes probably had a lot of experience.

Fredo was dying to get naked with Erin—with any girl, really. By Jersey Shore standards, he was the worst kind of freak: a twenty-five-year-old virgin. He'd had opportunities with hookers and women who tried to get on his dad's good side. Right when he was about to get it in, Fredo's mind would start reeling questions.
Does this girl have kids? Do I know any of the other five thousand dudes she's been with? Is she counting the seconds until I stop? Would this woman even talk to me if my name wasn't Lupo?
Instant boner crushers. He'd watch his hard-on deflate like a punctured inner tube. And, damn if the women didn't look relieved at the sight.

But Erin wasn't a whore. She didn't even know who his father
was. She had no reason on earth to get with him, except that she wanted to. Like that was remotely possible.

What the hell was really going on?

The ginger hottie stepped through the threshold into her room. She spun around, her hair floating around her shoulders in soft, red puffs. “Are you coming in?”

Fredo stood in the hallway, not quite ready to cross that Rubicon. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Showing me your room.”

She smiled, slow and sexy. “Why do you think?”

“I wonder about your motives.”

That triggered something in her eyes. She glanced up and down the hallway. Her voice low, she said, “Just come in. People can hear.”

“I'm finding it hard to believe a beautiful girl like you really craves a piece of this,” he said, gesturing to his bod. “So you must have an ulterior reason.”

“There is only one reason I'd ask a man into my bedroom,” she whispered. “I'm not … whatever it is you think I am.”

He'd insulted her. Great. Now she'd slam the door and tell him to go screw himself. Her offer would be off the table. He'd be full of regret and self-loathing. Or, in other words, back to the regular programming.

Except Erin didn't slam the door. She took his shirt by the fist and said, “
No one
tells me what to do.” Then she kissed him. It was jarring at first, like jumping into an unheated pool. But then the kiss turned molten. Erin snaked her arms around his back and pulled him into a Full Frontal, boob-crushing, superpowered Guido Hug.

Like being tasered, a jolt shot through him.

“Are you okay?” asked Erin, stepping back.

“Ignore that.”

“Are you having a seizure?”

Something strange
was
happening to Fredo. A totally new feeling. He'd heard others speak of it fondly. They called it confidence.

Going with it, Fredo placed his hands on Erin's hips and guided her body into his, pressing himself against her softness, and letting himself respond without embarrassment or fear.

“Oh!” she said, feeling him on her belly. Instead of shying away, though, Erin sighed and wriggled against him.

Fredo leaned down and kissed her, openmouthed, with tongue. Her lips parted for him, and—sploosh!—Fredo registered a sudden heaviness, a new gravity, in his soul and in his briefs.

His balls grew three sizes that day. Fredo crossed the threshold into Erin's room, knowing he'd broken important barriers tonight. The door closed. For once, Fredo was on the right side of it.

Erin had been beaming
all day. The roulette operators and chip counters made comments like “Someone got lucky last night” and “I'll have what she's having.” Erin laughed along. She'd laugh at anything today.

It was just so wrong. And yet, Erin hadn't felt this happy in years. After Fredo rocked her world, she felt a pang of guilt for deceiving him initially. Her seduction had begun with bad intentions. During their second course at Buddakan, though, Erin stopped pretending to have a good time and started having one. The realization was so unsettling, she had to excuse herself to the bathroom. When she returned to their table, he said, “I'm having so much fun, I forgot to be nervous.” Exactly what she'd been thinking.

They had other things in common, too. They both loved lolcats vids of kittens in baskets with little bow ties. They shared a childhood terror of Barney the dinosaur. Each was an only child with a workaholic father and an overbearing mother. Erin was also the target of vicious adolescent teasing. Fredo had been taunted for his Ichabod Crane body and passive nature. The cause of Erin's hazing? One word: ginger. In the afterglow last night, Fredo told her freckles were kisses from the sun and likened himself to Apollo. It was corny, but when he kissed the speckled bridge of her nose, she was touched by the sentiment.

All day, she'd tried to clear her conscience about spying on Fredo and his friends because … well, maybe her conscience would never be 100 percent clear. She'd have to tell Fredo the truth about why she'd agreed to go out with him in the first place. Tonight. After her shift, when they were alone again. He'd be angry, but she hoped he'd understand.

When Fredo and Gia arrived at the roulette area at ten o'clock as he promised, Erin was overcome with joy to see him again. The two grinned moronically at each other.

“Hello, Erin,” said Fredo.

“Ready for another big night?” she asked suggestively and, she hoped, subtly.

“Whoa, what's with the swampy looks?
Did you two hook up?
” asked Gia, instantly elated.

“No!” said Erin, glancing at the other players and at Steve, the roulette operator, now giving her the fish-eye.

“None of your freakin' business, Gia,” said Fredo, but he looked proud of himself.

“I knew it!” screamed Gia. “We need champagne over here!”

“We'll start with five hundred dollars,” said Fredo, laying cash on the table.

Steve changed the cash for their lucky magenta chips. Gia closed her eyes and announced, “Red.” While the ball spun, she did her ritual of making the sign of the cross, kissing her fingers, then blowing a kiss. The regulars who'd flocked each night to bet along with her did the same thing. A dozen people blowing kisses in sync really was a happy sight. For the first time, Erin let herself enjoy it.

The ball bounced and then settled.

“Ten. Black.”

“Signal jammed, Gia?” asked Fredo.

“Just a glitch. Let's go again.” She meditated on the color for a second, then said, “Black. This time I'm sure.”

“You sure you're sure?”

“I'm friggin' positive.”

That drew a few more gamblers to the table, passersby who overheard the girl in head-to-toe black vinyl and fingerless, faux-leopard-fur gloves stamping six-inch heels on the floor, screaming, “Black, black, black!” Twenty gamers joined in, crossing themselves, blowing kisses, and chanting along.

The ball came to rest. Steve said, “Twenty-one. Red.”

A collective groan rose up from the table like a toxic fart. Steve and the chip collector raked in the chips.

Erin felt a chill, the cold snap of a losing streak. She'd seen this happen too many times. It was a palpable sensation, registered by sensitive gamblers and hard realists. A handful of players felt it, too, cashing in their chips, and moving to another table or out of the casino for the night.

Gia had never been wrong twice in a row in over a week. Fredo was a wise gambler. He'd recognize the streak was over and quit while he was ahead. Or, Erin feared, he'd go temporarily insane and start doubling his bets. It was a ridiculously predictable phenomenon. Gamblers who won big at first felt entitled to keep winning forever. No matter how big the losses, they believed they were one spin or one hand away from winning again. In the end, they usually lost everything they'd won, and more.

With a sinking heart, Erin watched Fredo double his next bet to $1,000. Gia did her best, but she made the wrong call. Again.

Fredo got frustrated. “What the fuck, Gia?”

“I'm trying!” she pouted. “I don't know what's wrong. I'm seeing a color in my head, but it's not coming up.”

It was agony to watch. The table was poison to other gamblers now. No one else would come near it. Erin glanced at the eye in the sky. Surely, Mr. Violenti was watching and rubbing his sausage fingers together with despicable glee.

Another loss. “Muther
focker,
” screamed Fredo. “We're down
seven thousand dollars. If we bet another seven, and you hit, we'll be back to zero.” He went into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash.

When gamblers played to break even, it was a bad sign.

“Fredo, don't,” Erin whispered. Steve's and the chip counter's heads turned toward her. It was against casino policy to advise a gambler in any direction, to keep playing or to stop. Erin didn't care.

“I can't leave seven G's on the table,” Fredo said.

Gia said, “It's okay, Erin. I got it this time. I can feel it from my pouf down to my peeptoe. It's black. If it's not black, I'll eat this chip.”

“All of it, on black,” said Fredo. He was determined. His jaw set and gnashing, he moved the chip pile into the black bar. The ball was put in motion.

It went around the wheel. Fredo fidgeted.

At the very last second, before Steve called, “No more bets,” Fredo moved the pile into the red bar.

“What're you doing?” asked Gia, frantic.

“I've got a feeling, too. A feeling like your wires are crossed, and betting the opposite is the way to go.”

“No! Move them back!”

“Too late,” said Fredo.

The ball settled into a slot. “Six,” said Steve. “Black.”

“I frickin'
told
you!” blasted Gia.

“I can't believe it,” said Fredo, dumbfounded. Glancing at Erin, he said, “You did this. You broke our streak.”

“Me?”

“You can't be lucky in love and gambling at the same time,” he said. “Everyone knows that.”

He's mad at me?
“I tried to stop you.”

“It's not her fault, Fredo,” said Gia. “It's
your
fault! You should apologize to me and Erin.”

But he was already gone, storming off like a six-foot toddler. A metallic taste of guilt and regret landed on Erin's tongue. In a way,
their loss tonight
was
her fault. She was part of the casino culture that systematically separated hardworking people from their savings and paychecks. She'd overseen the losses of millions of dollars. It was her job to make nightmares happen.