Heartless (28 page)

Calypso’s head tilts and she laughs a little. “Where’d this come from?”

My brows meet. “Let me take you. What are you doing Friday night?”

“This Friday?” A loose thread hangs from the collar of her blouse. I reach in to give it a quick tug and watch her body tense at my touch. “Probably working.”

“Get Presley to cover for you.”

“Who’s going to watch Emme?”

“Noelle.”

Her lips purse as she stifles a smile and her nose scrunches. “Really, Crew?”

“Yes.” I take a step closer, moving into her space like I own it. “Let me show you how to do Vegas.”

I’d hate for the wind to blow “Calypso No Last Name” away before she gets a chance to really live it up.

She offers a fake frown hidden behind smiling eyes. “I guess.”

I get the door. “See you Friday. Be ready by seven.”

I can’t comprehend the fact that she’s never experienced Vegas, and she’s been here for years. Those neon lights, they call to me. The flashing signs, the buskers, the jumpsuited Elvis on every corner . . .

It’s fucking magic.

This place is alive, infused with kitsch and glimmer, and it makes no apologies. Gotta respect the hell out of a place like that.

There are earth-shattering losses and magnanimous winnings. There are tourists and locals, pimps and hookers, dreamers and doers. There’s no other city with hope floating so thick in the air you can grab it by the handful.

Vegas has a soul; of that I’m certain.

“See you then.” Calypso disappears under the dark awning shared by our neighboring apartments.

C
alypso

“
B
ill
. Bill. Bill. Junk. Bill. Junk.” I sort the mail at work the next morning. For months, I’ve been stalking the mail carrier like some war bride waiting to hear from her overseas husband, only my overseas husband is the number one writing academy in the nation. And we’re not married. He hasn’t even accepted my proposal yet. But I love him
so
hard. “Us Weekly. You want it, Presley?”

“Nothing from Havenhurst?” She takes the thin, glossy mag from my hand and flips straight to the back. I’ve never understood why anyone would want to read a magazine backward. I tried it once, and it felt unnatural. Even my free-spirited soul knows there’s an order to certain things.

“Do I look like I just saw a letter from Havenhurst?” I wear a blank expression. I can’t even pretend to be optimistic anymore. Each day that passes without so much as an acknowledgement of my application tends to stuff my hope into places so deep I’ll never fully recover it all. “The day I get my letter, you’ll know. Trust me.”

I tear the end off an envelope and slide out the bill, following suit with the others until I have a decent-sized pile to take to my office. I haven’t looked at the books in weeks, but there should be enough to cover these.

“They’re idiots if they reject you.” Presley’s eyes widen and squint as she examines her nail beds. “I’ve read your work, and you’re a fab writer. No one has a voice like yours. It’s like you have a magnifying glass honed in on the human condition. You notice everything, and you see things from your own little Calypso lens. Honestly, you don’t even need them. Ever considered that?”

“It’s a legitimacy thing,” I say. “Something to put in my author bio someday. Only the greats have attended Havenhurst. Only the greats
teach
at Havenhurst. If you were a painter and you had the opportunity to study under Picasso or Renoir, wouldn’t you do everything you could to make it happen? Wouldn’t you at least try?”

Presley shrugs, chomping on neon green gum as her nose wrinkles.

“I still think you don’t need them,” she says. “Who cares how Fancypants Writer and Literary Snob McGhee tell you to write? You should write like Calypso. The world doesn’t have a Calypso yet.”

“You’re just trying to make me feel better, and I appreciate it,” I say. “But let’s talk about something else. Who’s on the cover of that magazine?”

I don’t care about celebrities. In fact, I couldn’t possibly care less than I already do. But anything’s better than dwelling on my assumed rejection from Havenhurst Academy.

She holds up the glossy cover and squints at me. “You really want to talk about Kim and Kanye?”

“Not really.”

“Okay then.”

“I’m losing the business,” I blurt. Now’s as good a time as any. “Whether or not I get into Havenhurst, this place is closing.”

She tosses the gossip rag aside and leans forward. “Come again?”

“My balloon payment is due in three months. I don’t have the money.” I pick at my nails. Ripping at a peeling piece of cuticle is better than staring into Presley’s disappointed gaze. “I failed. My business is failing.”

“There’s got to be something you can do.” She nibbles on a painted thumbnail, her forehead wrinkled. “Can you take out more ads or something? Want me to spin a sign on the corner?”

“Can’t afford ads, but I’d spend money to watch you spin a sign.” We lock eyes. I need to be serious for a moment. “I’m so sorry, Pres. I failed you. I failed this place. I feel awful about it.”

“
You
didn’t fail,” Presley says. “You put in sixty hours each week just to keep the lights on. You pay us more than minimum wage when you don’t even have to. I don’t know how you pay yourself a salary at the end of the day, but Calypso,
you
didn’t fail. You tried. That’s all that matters.”

I laugh, because a pep talk from Presley is the last thing I expected when I walked in the door this morning.

“What’s so funny?” she asks.

“I never knew you were a motivational speaker.”

“Me neither.”

We both sigh. “I’m so sorry, Pres. I wish I could keep this place open forever.”

“Me too. I love it here. I love working with you. You and Bryson are a second family.”

Presley and Bryson are my only family.

“So what’s next?” She stands straight, her shoulders pressed back. “What’s after this?”

“Couldn’t tell you.” I pick up a copy of
Great Expectations
and flip through it. “Do you ever play that game where you ask a question, flip through a book and put your finger on a random word to get the answer?”

Presley laughs, her eyes crinkling. “Um, no.”

I place the book flat on the counter and let it fall open to a random spot. With closed eyes, I swirl my fingertip above a page and stop at a random word.

“Wife,” Presley says.

I open my eyes. Sure enough, my fingertip is pressed against the word “wife.”

“Oh, my God. What does it mean?” she laughs.

I slam the book shut. “It’s just a silly game. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Out of a hundred thousand words, your finger lands on that one?” Her head cocks sideways. “You’re getting married. That’s your next move. That’s what’s next for you.”

“Never.” I slide the book as far away as possible and fish my office keys from my bag. Enough chitchatting.

“Never say never.” Presley bounces on her tiptoes. “Never know when some guy’s going to walk in here, ask you on a date, and sweep you right off those little brown Birkenstocks.”

I stop halfway between the register and my office door when I suddenly recall Crew’s invitation to go out Friday night.

“Oh, that reminds me. Can you work Friday night?” I brace myself for an interrogation.

“You always work Friday nights,” she says.

“I know, but I have plans.”

“You never have plans.”

I spin to see her giving me a sideways glance.

“Yes or no?” I take another step toward my office.

“Of course,” she says. “But whatcha doing, hmm?”

“Crew wants to treat me to a night on the town.”

She slaps the counter. “A date? I thought he had a girlfriend or whatever.”

“No. He’s single.”

“And he asked you out?”

“It’s not a date. We’re just going . . . out.”

“So he
is
single.” She lets that mull for a moment. “It’s a date.”

I shake my head, biting the inside of my pursed lips.

“Calypso.” Presley hooks a hand on her left hip. “He asked you out on a Friday night. That’s a date.”

“Anyway . . .” I drift further away.

“Can I help you get ready that day?” she calls after me. “You can stop in the shop before you leave. I’ll do your hair and makeup. I can bring some clothes for you to try on.”

“Stop,” I laugh, my hand on the knob of my door. “I don’t want it to be weird. He’s going to think I like him if I get all gussied up.”

“Don’t you though?”

“Of course not,” I lie.

“You must be blind as a fucking bat then, because he’s hot as hell and he reads books. Everything else is secondary.”

I snicker. “I wish my tastes were that simple.”

Even if Crew were my type, if we were cut from the same cloth and put on this earth only for each other, I still wouldn’t date him. Love is fleeting and temporary.

In the end, all it really does is clip your wings and break your heart.

C
rew

“
Y
ou need
to get a DNA test.” Noelle charges into my apartment fresh off a night shift, blue scrubs, dark circles under her eyes and all.

“Good morning to you too.”

“I was thinking last night. You make a lot of money, Crew. She might be setting you up.”

I scoff. “We never talked about money the night we met. Or work. Or anything. We were . . . busy doing other things.”

My sister rolls her eyes, fishing around in her bag. “Don’t be so naïve. Here. I picked this up on the way over here.”

She places a box on the side table next to me.

“It’s a DNA kit. Just so you know for sure.”

“That’s fine. I was going to do one anyway.”

“You’re going to have to tell Mom and Dad soon. You need to know if she’s yours or not. For sure.”

She paces the living room.

“Noelle, you need to calm down.” I laugh. “I agree with you. I’m not naïve, I’m taking this one day at a fucking time.”

And trying not to go insane every time I wrap my head around the absurdity of this situation.

She groans, dragging her fingers through her dark hair that matches mine strand for strand.

“You’re right.” She sighs. “I had, like, six cups of coffee last night to stay awake through my shift. I’m tired and I’m buzzing, and my thoughts are going a million miles a minute.”

“Jesus, Noelle.”

“I’m happy to help you out with her once in a while, but I gotta get my sleep, Crew. I can’t work a nightshift, watch a baby all day, get a few hours of sleep and go into work again.”

“I know.”

“You’re going to need to hire a nanny or take her to daycare or something. You need more than just me.” She plops into the sofa, squeezing between two oversized pillows, and covers her eyes with the back of her wrist. “I’m just going to rest my eyes for a minute.”

As soon as Emme finishes her bottle, Noelle’s out cold. Sometimes I’m convinced her masculine snore is what’s keeping her single. Without making a sound, I slip my shoes on and take the baby for a mid-morning walk around the neighborhood.

It’s weird being up this time of day, and it’s even weirder how quickly I’m adjusting to this new schedule.

I carry Emme along a residential sidewalk lined with palm trees tickled by a gentle breeze. The air is scented with desert marigolds and Mojave sage, a subtle reminder that Vegas isn’t all neon lights, spilled drinks, and menthol cigarettes.

A couple of blocks later, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I switch Emme to my left arm and swipe my phone from my pocket. My poker buddy, Dino, sends me a heads up about a high-stakes tournament tonight.

Mid-stakes tourneys are everywhere. Online. In person. All over town. High-stakes tourneys are rare, and typically invite-only.

Dino’s got an in. He says it’s a private tournament with a mid-seven-figure prize pool.

I can’t pass this up.

I haven’t hit a high-stakes tourney in months, and winnings from this could carry me quite a way. Plus, now that I have Emme, I need to get us out of that frat-boy apartment and into something decent—something in the safest part of town, because suddenly that kind of shit matters to me.

* * *

“
I
owe you so big
.” I could fucking kiss Calypso right now.

She drops her bag and kicks off her sandals by my door, ambling with open arms toward Emme’s bouncer.

“I don’t mind,” she says. “I’m happy to watch her.”

I slip my signature black hoodie over my arms and zip it before pulling the hood over my head and evening out the drawstrings. Everything has to be perfect. I have a system and it rarely fails me.

My mirrored aviators rest on a table next to the front door, and I slip those in my pocket along with my truck keys.

“I should be back around midnight.”

“Have fun. We’ll be fine.”

She takes a seat next to Emme on the floor, a pink blanket spread beneath them, and Emme grabs a handful of her hair and tries to shove it in her mouth.

“No, no,” she laughs, tickling the underside of the baby’s palm to get her to release it. A moment later, Calypso motions toward the door. “Go. You’re going to be late.”

I lock the door behind me, and for the first time in my life, there’s somewhere else I’d rather be than sandwiched between two world series poker champions in some table games suite in a millionaire’s mansion on Eagle’s Landing.