Heartless, page 28
“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.
9
Crew
“You 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.
10
Calypso
Emme’s fast asleep in her crib as I page through Poker Pro magazine in Crew’s living room. A half hour ago, I washed all the bottles, and an hour before that, I threw a load of baby clothes in his washing machine.
It’s been years since I’ve tended to domestic chores unrelated to my own feathered nest, but I don’t mind looking after Emme. She’s a sweet and happy baby, the kind any mother would be lucky to have.
I glanced around a little bit earlier, looking for a photo or anything that might clue me into what happened between Crew and Emme’s mom.
I found nothing.
It’s like she doesn’t exist, which makes me think they had a pretty bad falling out. Maybe if I get the chance on Friday, I’ll work it into to a conversation. I can’t imagine any kind of circumstances that would warrant a mother dropping her beautiful baby daughter at someone’s door with no intention of seeing her again.
The metallic clink of Crew’s key in the lock precedes the pop and twist of the door handle.
I clear my throat and wait.
“Hey,” I whisper when he carefully steps inside. “She’s asleep.”
He gives me a thumbs up.
“You win big tonight?” I ask.
“Always.” He winks, unzipping his hoodie and hanging it on a coatrack in the corner. “Thanks for watching her. I owe you.”
I rise, cupping my hands on the back of my hips and stretching side to side before a yawn captures my mouth.
“It’s fine,” I say. “We had a good time. You owe me nothing.”
“You’re too good to me, Calypso. You know that?”
Crew tugs his sleeves, revealing his intricate and brightly colored tattoos. A drawing of four aces fanned-out catches my eye, the first card being the Ace of Hearts.
“You have any tattoos?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’m boring.”
“Highly doubt that.” He pulls his sleeve higher, twisting his arm to showcase the rest.
Instinctively, I reach for a brightly colored Queen of Hearts, only the queen appears to be bleeding from the chest.
“Poetic.” I snicker.
“Symbolic.” He tugs the sleeve higher on his opposite arm, showing me a drawing of three lucky sevens. “And functional. I rub this one for good luck.”
I laugh. “You really believe your tattoos are lucky?”
“I believe in not breaking rituals. I did it once, and it worked, so I keep doing it. It’s compulsive. You ever watch me play, you’ll see it.”
“You’re like one of those basketball players who don’t change their socks all season.”
“Exactly.”
Crew wears a boyish grin, and I’m disarmed against my will. He reminds me of a kid showing off his prized baseball cards and basking in the admiration and attention he receives.
“You keep these covered a lot,” I say. “You’re always in long sleeves.”
“It’s a habit.”
I smooth my palm along his arm before tracing the outline of a pair of dice.
“My parents kind of have this thing where they hate gambling,” he says.
“That’s right. You said they run an addiction treatment program.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And my dad has a bad heart. He’s had several open heart surgeries the last couple of years. We’re supposed to keep him calm as much as possible or it could set off his arrhythmia, and then he has an episode and . . . it’s just not good.”
“You going to hide them the rest of your life?”
Crew rests his hands on his hips, pulling his arm from mine and tucking his chin. He pulls in a breath that fills his chest and releases it slowly.
“I live in the moment, Calypso. I don’t make plans. I’m one hundred percent present.” He shakes his head, his brows rising. “I’ve always figured things out as I go along.”
Our eyes catch, and the flicker of the muted TV behind me shines in his.
“I hope you don’t think I’m a fucking coward for hiding this from my parents,” he says. “It’s not even like that.”
“You’re protecting them,” I say. “It’s noble.”
He laughs. “I’d hardly call myself noble, but yeah. Something like that.”
I bet his parents are good people. They have to be if they make a living helping people.
My parents were a couple of wildflowers, high on marijuana and floating through life without a care in the world. I used to think they were just hippies, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to realize they’re just a couple of dopers who never wanted to grow up and deal with real life and real responsibilities. Everything I learned about how to function in this life, I learned from everyone but my parents.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Crew says. “My dad’s a fucking asshole. But he’s my dad, you know?”
I sweep my hair across the back of my neck and drape it over my shoulder, catching a whiff of Emme’s powdery smell mixing with my lavender shampoo. The tranquil mixture makes me even sleepier.
I yawn. “I should go.”
I catch a flash of something in Crew’s eyes. A silent plea to stay, perhaps? But it’s late, and I’m half-asleep, and I’m positive I’m reading into nothing.
He leans into me, and for a second my heart stops cold in my heart. I harbor a breath and brace myself for a kiss . . .
. . . that never happens.
I feel stupid.
So. Fucking. Stupid.
He was just getting the door for me.
I wear a smile tinted with sheepish embarrassment.
“Did you think I was going to kiss you?” He smirks, raking his thumb and forefinger along his bottom lip as he studies me.
I’m burning up, wishing we could both pretend this never happened. I can’t answer. If I say no, he’ll know I’m lying. If I say yes, he’ll think I like him.
And I kind of do.
Hell.
Who am I kidding?
He’s everything I shouldn’t want and nothing I need all wrapped up in a muscled, dimpled-chinned package.
“Not going to answer me?” He laughs. “It’s okay, Calypso. You don’t have to. I can see it in your eyes.”
My gaze snaps to the floor.
“The way you look at me,” he says. “You keep yourself at a distance—emotionally and physically. But your eyes give it all away.”
