Heartless, page 31
“We can’t linger here,” he says. “You in or you out?”
He looks so fucking hot in his teal shirt with his dark hair all disheveled and his brows raised. Crew’s full lips form a straight line while his hands hook on his hips. This gorgeous man could be hanging out with anyone he wants. Getting laid. Doing whatever guys like him do around here on a Friday night.
But instead he got a sitter for his baby daughter and took me out.
What kind of asshole would I be if I ruined this lovely evening with my new friend all because of my personal reservations?
Fuck it.
It’s Vegas. He’s hot. I only have this one life, and we only have tonight.
I grab my crystal tumbler and slam the remnants of my Amaretto and Coke until every last melting ice cube slides down my throat.
“Teach me how to play poker,” I say.
Blackjack was easy. Too easy.
Crew’s face lights. I realize I’m asking a poker world champion to teach me his game, but I don’t care.
“You really want to play poker?” Crew wears a lopsided, boyish grin worthy of Christmas morning. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face if he tried. “Because I’d be more than happy to take you to the penny slots. Nickels, if you’re feeling bold.”
“Uh, uh.” I shake my head, and I swear the liquor drowns my veins in slow motion. I’m blanketed in warmth all over again. “I want to learn your game. You want me to have fun tonight, right?”
“Yeah.” He reaches for my hand and pulls me away from the table and our beady-eyed dealer.
“It’s got to be a fun game since you made a career out of it.”
I amble after him, my hand in his, and I nearly stumble, but I catch myself before he notices.
“Something like that.” His eyes flash. “You feeling okay?”
“I feel amazing.” The words come out faster than my lips and tongue can move. “Why do you ask?”
“Your drinks must be hitting you now,” he says. “It’s like a switch was flipped.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I’m pretty sure that came out like one big, long word.
“You don’t drink much, do you?”
I shake my head while simultaneously scanning the room for another one of those plastic-looking cocktail waitresses. If Barbie ever came to life, I’m pretty sure she’d work here.
“For someone who owns a bookstore with a bar in it . . .” His gaze follows mine.
“The liquor’s for the customers,” I say. Every sip of wine, every late night mixed drink, is stealing from my business. I’ll drink on occasion, like when I’m having a moment and Bryson needs to give me a talk, but it’s not like I sit around the shop every night sipping my driest red and paging through a Proust tome.
Crew watches me intently, and I make a personal vow to hold my liquor tonight. There’s a fine line between drinking enough to warrant your own personal babysitter and drinking enough to have a good time.
“One more drink,” I say.
For now.
“I’ll pace myself.” I make it a point to enunciate each word, and I wear a poker face like no one’s business.
But the look on Crew’s face makes me bust out laughing. I’m pretty sure he has no idea what to think of me right now.
“Alcohol makes me giggly.” My fingers lift to my mouth as I hide my teetering smile. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
He cocks his head, and I can’t get a read on him. I’ve either turned him off immensely, or he’s debating whether or not to hail a cab and send me home. I can’t blame him for either.
“You’re a cheap date, Calypso. You know that?” he says.
“Good thing this isn’t a date,” I say. The swirling lights around us blur in and out. All I see, clear as day in this vibrantly dark casino, is his face. My eyes land on the dimple centered in his chiseled chin.
His hand takes mine, and a second later our bodies are pressed together, chest to chest. My bottom lip falls just a hair, but no sound comes out.
“It’s a fucking date, Calypso,” he says. “We’re on a date. You’re my date. This . . . is a date.”
13
Crew
“I-I had no idea this was a date.” Calypso’s pretty eyes widen and flutter.
Me neither.
Somewhere between meeting “Elvis” and watching the way her face lit when she got that Blackjack, I decided we were on a date.
Calypso’s the most refreshing fucking person I’ve ever met. What you see is what you get with her, and I guaran-fucking-tee she’s the only woman like that in this entire city.
The way she watches me from the corner of her eye, the way she laces her fingers through mine, the way she gets upset when she loses my money . . .
Every little thing embarrasses her, like she’s under a microscope tonight. There’s only one reason a girl would be like that.
“You’re lucky, ‘cause I don’t really date,” I say with a smirk in my tone.
“You should’ve said this was a date. I would’ve worn lipstick.”
“You are wearing lipstick.” I trace my thumb along the pale pink pad of her upper lip, and she reaches for it, blushing.
“Right,” she says. “I forgot. Presley had her way with me earlier.”
“You didn’t need to get all dolled up, you know. I mean, you look sexy as fuck, but the way you usually look is fine too.”
She fans herself, staring everywhere but at me.
“Okay, we just went from like zero to sixty in three seconds.” She laughs, though it’s more of a nervous titter. “Let’s pump the brakes for a sec.”
A toupee-wearing retiree with Coke-bottle glasses and a cane limps toward us. We turn, in unison, and wait for him to go around us. Only the closer he gets, the more we realize he’s not going around us—he wants to go through us. His gaze is fixed somewhere in the distance, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t realize we’re having a moment here.
We each step back, leaving a gap three or four feet wide for the man to pass through. When he gimps away, our eyes meet again.
“I need to get a drink,” she calls.
And then she disappears.
I check my watch. It’s been twenty minutes, and I’ve been stuck at this European roulette table betting on black since the second she walked off. There are a half-dozen cocktail waitresses and two bars in this game room. Calypso should’ve been back by now.
I scan the room every other minute, but no dice. Every so often, I pull my phone from my pocket and check for a missed call or a text declaring she got lost.
Nothing.
I place another bet and take a swig from a sweating beer bottle with a slice of orange shoved down the neck. Calypso should’ve stuck with me. I found a waitress a minute after she ran off.
I place another bet and watch an anorexic blonde with lipstick on her teeth drip from the arm of a plump man. The top of his head shines under the bright lights above, and his Ohio State sweatshirt barely covers his plumber’s crack when he sits.
But still, he wears the smile of a man who clearly believes he’s winning in life.
Poor schmuck. Probably came here on vacation. Doesn’t realize the woman hanging on his arm is a hooker. She’ll go back to his hotel tonight. Get him all warmed up. He’ll think he’s getting lucky and then she’ll politely inform him, when she’s two seconds from unzipping his too-tight jeans, that her hourly rate is five hundred bucks.
I could warn him, but I don’t think he’d care. He’s on top of the world right now. What kind of asshole would I be if I ruined that for him?
And who knows, maybe getting had by a hooker in Vegas is on his bucket list. If it isn’t, it should be. You haven’t lived until you’ve been swindled by a gap-toothed blonde in knock-off Armani with pancake tits.
Three brisk taps on my shoulder pull me out of the moment.
“Crew Forrester, can you come with us?” A casino security guard mutters something into his earpiece.
“What’s this?” I sip my beer.
“I need you to come with me, sir.”
The folks around the roulette table gawk. This is fucking embarrassing, and that’s saying a lot. I generally don’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks.
“Have I done something wrong?” I huff, asking a question I damn well know the answer to. I glance at my watch. Twenty-five minutes, and still no Calypso.
Shit.
Calypso.
“This is about my friend, isn’t it?” I rise, sipping my beer and following the suited brute.
He leads me through a set of inconspicuous doors and down a long corridor. The gray walls are a stark contrast from the rest of the place. Gone are the magic and lights and sounds. It’s like we’ve been sucked through some kind of vortex.
“I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing this part of the casino,” I say, ambling behind him, beer still in hand. “You know I have access to the Black Key Club, right?”
He says nothing, and still, we walk.
“You ever been up there?” I ask. “So nice. I played in a tourn—”
The man stops short and whips out his badge and scans it against a pad by the doorknob. It beeps and the door whooshes as he flings it open. He reminds me of a human gorilla hybrid.
I peer around him and see a long table and white walls. This looks like an interrogation room.
“Come on,” he says.
Two more steps and I’m in.
“Crew.” Calypso’s voice precedes her arms around my neck. I can’t breathe, she’s squeezing me so tight. I slip my hands over her arms and pull them down, gulping air.
“What’s this? Why are you in here?” I ask.
“They think I’m someone I’m not,” she says. “I tried to tell them. They won’t listen.”
I turn to the human gorilla and then to another guard perched on a swivel chair in the corner. He flicks the tip of a pen against a yellow legal pad with a look in his eyes that tells me he hates his job as much as I suspect he does.
“Facial recognition software identified her as a match for someone.” His tone is flat, and he promptly shoves his pen cap between his back molars.
“I showed them my ID. They think I’m Lacy Whitmore or something.” I smell the sweet Amaretto on her breath, and I hope to God she was at least coherent enough during her interrogation to accidentally implicate herself. “They want someone else to vouch for me.”
“She’s Calypso,” I say. “No last name.”
The guards exchange looks and laugh.
“That’s her real name,” I say.
The human gorilla shrugs. “Her driver’s license and ID all checked out. It’s legit.”
“You going to sign off on this one then?” the other guard asks me. “Vouch for her. If you’re lying, it’s your ass on the line.”
“You’re looking at felonies. Hefty charges. Jail time,” the gorilla adds.
I glance at Calypso. Her fingers dig into my arm and her body trembles. There’s no way this woman has a lawless gambler past. I saw the way she reacted when she lost my hundred bucks.
“Give me the goddamn paper.” I huff. “And you owe her an apology.”
The seated guard spits his pen cap into his hand. “We’re just doing our jobs.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll be making a call to Javier come Monday.” Throwing out the name of the head of security at this casino causes both men to sit up straight.
I know Javier very well. He moonlights as a mid-stakes grinder, and I’ve had the pleasure of sitting next to him at some very intense tournaments.
Javier doesn’t fuck around.
“Got a clean pen?” I stick my hand out, and the gorilla hands me a shiny pen with the casino’s logo in sparkling gold. Thirty seconds later, my signature is affixed to the bottom of a statement that claims Calypso is . . . Calypso . . . and not Lacy Whitmore. “There. Can we go now?”
“Hang on.” The seated guard leaves the room for a minute.
Calypso looks into my eyes.
“I’ll make this up to you,” I whisper.
“All right,” the guard says as he returns. “On behalf of the Hill Valley Casino and Resort, we’d like to apologize for your inconvenience and offer you a free night’s stay in our presidential suite.”
“What?” Calypso’s jaw falls, and her hand beats on my chest.
I know for a fact that’s a ten-thousand dollars per night stay. These guys must really want to stay on Javier’s good side.
Thoughts of ditching the whole table games bullshit and getting her up in that room, ripping off those clothes, and fucking her against the glass windows overlooking the city lights fill my head.
And then I remember.
Emme.
I take Calypso’s hands in mine and lower them from my chest.
“Not tonight,” I say. “Gotta get back to Emme.”
Her face falls. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. I completely forgot. Of course.”
“Is this offer valid only for tonight?” I ask the one guard.
“If you’d like to use it another night, you’ll need to make arrangements with the front desk,” he says. “The offer expires in ninety days.”
“Good enough,” I say. “We free to go now?”
They nod, and Gorilla gets the door.
We exit the corridor and hit the game floor, but Calypso looks tired and my mood has deflated.
So much for a first fucking date.
14
Calypso
“For the last time, you don’t need to apologize.” My eyes drift shut, but the cool glass of the passenger window against my cheek keeps me awake.
Crew rolls to a stop at a red light on our drive home.
“I still had fun,” I insist.
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to believe me. I know I had fun. That’s all that matters.”
“Fucking facial recognition software.” He spits his words. “Bullshit. I want to see this Lacy fucking Whitmore.”
“Me too.” I laugh. “Come on. You have to admit this whole thing’s kind of funny. And they offered that suite.”
“Still.”
I open my eyelids just enough to see his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. A silver Volvo careens in front of us, cutting us off, and Crew lays on his horn.
I pop up.
I’m awake.
“Jesus, Crew,” I say. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Fuck.” His shoulders rise as he breathes. “I’m sorry, Calypso. I just . . . I just wanted tonight to go a certain way. I wanted to have a good time. I wanted . . .”
I lean closer to him, placing my hand on the side of his shoulder. His muscles flex and tense under my touch, hard as steel.
“I really did have a good time,” I say. “A little bit of this city goes a very long way for me.”
“We barely scratched the surface.”
“That’s all we needed to scratch.” I rub his arm, though I’d much rather rest my head on it. His warmth relaxes my bones and makes me want to sleep for a million years. “Vegas really isn’t for me. It’s why I’m moving.”
Crew slams on his breaks. The metal clanking of tools in his truck rattle in the back. But to be fair, we’ve hit another red light.
He turns to me, staring down his perfect nose. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m closing my shop in three months.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I bought it on loan. I’m supposed to make a balloon payment in three months. I don’t have it. The owner gets to take it back.”
“And you’ll lose everything you’ve paid so far?”
“I try not to think about that part.” A loose strand of hair has fallen from my top knot. It feels messier than it’s supposed to now. I just want to go home, wash this makeup off my face, pull my hair out of this . . . thing . . . on my head, and crawl into bed. Talking about my business is a surefire way to put a damper on any night, but I can’t hold it against him. He didn’t bring it up. I did.
“There’s got to be some kind of solution. Can you liquidate? Run a clearance sale? Fundraiser?”
“Believe me, if there was a way to fix this, I’d have thought of it by now.”
The light turns green and he eases into the gas. We’re stuck behind miles of bumper to bumper traffic now, as if everyone decided to leave the strip at the same time. I heard it’s always like this though. Morning, noon and night.
“I couldn’t stay here anyway, Crew,” I say. “This city is the antithesis of everything I want in life. I don’t belong here.”
“How’d you end up here then? Something drew you there?”
“I wanted to go where no one could find me. No one from Shiloh.” I stare up at the dark sky and miss the stars. The lights are too bright around us. The neon drowns out their faint yellow twinkles. “I applied for a job at this bookstore. I passed by one day and it sort of stood out. Didn’t look like it belonged here. Like me. The lady behind the counter told me they weren’t hiring. She was getting ready to sell. I proposed that I buy it out from her on contract. The Tipsy Poet wasn’t planned, it just sort of happened.”
“You don’t have to fit in to belong somewhere.”
“Right, but I don’t want to be here. Not anymore. Ready to move on.”
“Where do you want to be then?” He leans closer to me, but only by an inch or two. Enough for me to notice.
“There’s this writing school, just outside Chicago,” I say. “It’s one of the top writing academies in the country. Actually, it’s the top.”
“Like grad school?”
“No,” I say. “It’s just a little program. It’s less focused on academia and more focused on the craft of writing. It’s where people go to become really great.”
“You’re a writer?”
I nod. “I am.”
“What do you write?”
“Literary fiction,” I say.
“Ah. Guess that makes sense. You own a bookstore. You like to read. It’s not a stretch that you like to write then.” We slow to a crawl and he looks my way again. “I’d have figured romance or something.”
