“You can respect yourself.”
“After you, Martha.”
Fair shot, she supposed. Since her graduation homecoming she’d been linked to dozens of men. But in truth she was so focused on business school—and keeping it a secret—that aside from a single episode of skinny-dipping sex with Gideon last summer, and her infuriatingly unforgettable night of foreplay with Joaquin, the only net protecting her from absolute celibacy was a glow-in-the-dark vibrator.
“Sex should always be a choice,” Martha said quietly. “When I’m with somebody, it’s because I want to be. That’s self-respect.”
“Okay, all right?”
“No, it’s not. Forcing yourself into these relationships? Chelle, don’t let someone else take away your choices.”
“In the spirit of exercising my choices, I’m going to see what happens with Enzo.”
“It’s going to take its toll eventually. Stacking those lies up like a Jenga tower. They’ll topple, sooner or later.”
“Let it be later, because now I’m busy flirting.” Chelle puckered up as Enzo glanced up at them on his way to the ovens.
“Y’all a couple of freaks.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Perish the thought!”
A tsk, tsk, tsk broke through their laughter.
“Looks like the only way to stop you two from staring holes into our best cook’s posterior is to get you to a table quick,” Odette, the waitress who’d greeted Martha at the door, said, carrying a Belgian Red and a local-brand beer with a lemon wedge poking out. “Got a clean one. Mind sitting under the Ménage?”
A pair of head shakes answered, then the waitress guided them to a sunken dining area and a red-lit table beneath an oil painting of two men and a woman that left very little to interpretation.
Nabbing a seat beside Chelle, the waitress asked, “Which of you’s getting the X-rated pizza? Enzo doesn’t cook those up for just anyone.”
Martha pointed to her friend. “It’s Chelle.”
“Shell?” Odette asked, offering a hand decorated with a mix of stones set in gold and silver and leather. “I’ve seen you pass through here, but never did get your name.”
“You got it fine. It’s short for Michelle.” Her broad smile was…inviting?
Blanking out the sultry holiday tune gushing through the restaurant, the aroma of flavorful food, the red light washing over their table, Martha sensed awareness crystallizing.
Odette plucked her hand from Chelle’s. “What are you after, Martha?”
“This beer and a small deep-dish cheese pizza.”
“No guy?”
“No guy.”
“Ah…what could that mean?” Odette’s plum-colored lips softened to an unmistakably hopeful smile.
Odette, with her Louisiana drawl, artsy tattoos, crimped blond hair, grunge style and sweet-as-molasses charm, wasn’t the first woman to hit on Martha, and odds were she wouldn’t be the last.
Sarcastically, Martha said, “Tabloids say I haven’t worked my way through every eligible man in Vegas. I’m determined to keep going till I snag a Guinness World Record.”
“Tabloids? I’ve smoked better mind rot.” At Martha’s quirked brow, she said, “Smoked. Past. If my blood was any cleaner it’d be saline. So, c’mon, tell me the truth and I won’t give you a dirty look if you leave without tipping me.”
“The truth is I don’t date. But I’m intrigued with somebody. Chelle, pry your eyebrows off your hairline.”
“Sorry, this is my I-can’t-believe-what-I’m-hearing face.”
“Well, he’s zero good for me. Domineering. Straight-up rude. Gets on my nerves.”
“But you want to do him anyway,” Odette quipped.
“Uninhibitedly, creatively and acrobatically.”
“Any chance another Belgian Red—on the house—will change your mind about a certain Cajun girl?” Odette twisted her index fingers into her dimples.
“No more than a beer will change your mind about men.”
“God, Martha, you’re such a heartbreaker.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“’Kay. So a small deep-dish cheese for you—” the waitress nodded at Martha, then she smirked at Chelle “—and Enzo’s number for you.”
When Odette left the table, Chelle glared at Martha. “Either you made up that stuff about this dude you’re googly-eyed over, or you just dished some hot-off-the-press details to the waitress.”
“Odette’s a good waitress. And my friend.”
“So you weren’t lying. Name, occupation, glove size.”
“Glove size?”
“Approximate works. It’s said to be a reliable indicator of whether a man’s well-endowed…or unfortunately so.”
“Why not just ask for his condom size?”
Chelle bit her lemon slice and grimaced. “Um. Do you know his condom size?”
“Nope.” That, she could say honestly. She knew from firsthand—firstmouth?—experience that Joaquin was damn fortunately endowed and almost too much to take down. But Chelle hadn’t asked her that, and didn’t need to know that Martha had been too focused on getting flesh-to-flesh with the man to note the brand, size, material, whatever of his condom.
“Then if you had to guess his glove size…” Chelle led.
“Sweetie, that sounds suspiciously like a sex myth. I’ve had my fill of those, thanks to the PSA pitch at work.”
“Then name and occupation.”
The arrival of Chelle’s risqué pizza and a slip of paper with Enzo the cook’s digits on it interrupted the interrogation.
Martha picked a slice of pepperoni, nibbled thoughtfully.
“Mind?” her friend complained.
“I circumcised it for you.” Pinching the neck of her beer, she asked, “Gonna call Enzo?”
“Yeah.” But the word was preceded with uncertainty so thick it could’ve smothered them both.
“What if this pizzeria hook-up is the beginning of your great, wonderful love affair, Chelle?”
“Crazy girl said what?”
“Your epic storybook love? Happy endings?”
“That’s on your agenda. And I don’t boot men out of my life all day long, then dream about fairy tales at night. I don’t defeat my own purposes.”
“You’re saying I do?”
“If your purpose is to have wedding bells and babies and a love story of your own, then, yes, you do.” Chelle blinked up at the painting over Martha’s head. “At first glance, that looks like tug-of-war.”
Martha turned, craned her neck. “Naked tug-of-war. And get a load of what’s being tugged.”
“Hey.”
“Hmm?”
“Sorry. About that whole ‘defeating your purpose’ criticism. It was a bitchtastic thing to say.”
And accurate? Martha speared the thought. She didn’t like the idea that she blocked her own happiness. How messed up was that?
And how could she let her friend do the same?
“The epic love story I was talking about—” she looked Chelle in the face “—I didn’t mean Enzo.”
“Who, then?”
“Odette.” The name was there, as bold and vibrant in her mind as the woman was in reality. “I saw you smile at her the way you tried to smile at Enzo.”
“And new subject starts now.”
Martha wasn’t going to reopen a discussion Chelle considered closed and classified. Not here, in a restaurant with a pizza between them that presented pepperoni arranged in the shape of a penis.
“Let’s talk about your lust life. You have access to a stock of men most chicks can only daydream about.” Chelle’s eyes widened. “Like Joaquin Ryder. The media’s calling him Las Vegas’s prince. Only Vegas would declare a man whose fists are lethal weapons its ‘prince.’”
Joaquin didn’t fit Martha’s idea of a prince. He was too rough-hewn, too scarred, too dominant. And for those exact reasons, to name only a few, she was drawn to him.
“This city’s synonymous with risk and gamble and winning. Who better to represent that than the cockiest undefeated fighter in professional boxing?”
“Cocky. Guess he’s got to be, to say he’ll retire when he loses a fight. As far as promo goes, it’s brilliant. But is he serious?”
“Far as I know, yes.”
“Wow.” Impressed, Chelle started on her neglected pizza.
Worry braided Martha’s stomach, and only by pushing Joaquin and his crazy risks out of her mind would she undo the damage.
Giving her phone a glance as Odette brought her hot, cheesy pizza, she said, “Would you to-go that, please? I have to bounce. Math tutor duty.”
“Who’s gonna keep me company?” Chelle said with an exaggerated pout.
“I’m about to take over the bar, cher. How about I relocate you there?” Odette offered. As Chelle nodded, the waitress added, “Enzo’s due for a break.”
“Actually,” Chelle backpedaled, “I do have a thing. Across town.”
“You are going to call him, right?” Odette asked, her eyes mystified under a canopy of shimmery gray shadow.
Mumbling some noncommittal response, Chelle guesstimated her bill, handed the waitress some cash, and split.
Odette glanced from the money to Martha. “I’m confused.”
No, Chelle was. She didn’t want to want Odette. Just as Martha didn’t want to want Joaquin. But that’s what attraction and love could be—unbiased trouble.
*
Days had passed since Martha had done anything to piss off her mother, drive her father to pop antacids or provoke a lecture from either of her older sisters, so she figured she was past due for an “Aw, crap!” moment.
It came when she swung into the parking lot at Faith House, strolled past security and almost collided, pizza-box-first, into her sister Danica in the lobby.
“Hold it, chief.” Danica, who had a several-inch height disadvantage even in her tallest stilettos, spied the box, then rolled her gaze up to Martha’s. “Soixante Neuf?”
“Dinner. A girl’s gotta eat.”
“That box isn’t going in there.” She gestured to the brightly lit interior sprawled behind a pair of glass doors.
“How many French students am I likely to pass on my way to the kitchen, anyway?”
“Sis,” Danica said with a knowing smirk. “You figured out what soixante neuf means long before you actually studied French.”
As aggravating as debating with Danica was, it had at least restored her hunger. Gooey cheese and zesty sauce occupied her thoughts. “I’m a half hour early, I’m hungry and will eat in this lobby if I have to.”
“It really is good pizza.” Defeat. Danica waved her toward the interior doors. “Straight to the kitchen, and be quick.”
“Yes, Ma.”
“I’m not her. Never could be.” Not that it was for lack of trying. Danica, the self-appointed spokeswoman for Too Perfect to Be True, had been a remarkable imitation of their mother, until Danica’s no-no affair with the Slayers’ quarterback had blown that to pieces. The real Danica had some flaws, quirks and kinks—and was a hell of a lot more fun.
Martha might tell her so. Someday.
Logging in at the reception desk, she clipped on her staff ID tag. A knot of volunteers and teens advanced toward her, and thinking swiftly, she hid the pizza box with her satchel.
The newness—or novelty—of her hadn’t yet worn off at the outreach center. People’s fascination with her reputation, money and connections was something she didn’t understand. For the Blues, wealth and celebrity came with voyeurs, liars and backstabbers.
Looking forward to a quick dinner then a few hours of exponents and factorials, grid paper and protractors, Martha retreated to the gallery-style kitchen.
Raoul, a grizzled man who was never seen without his do-rag and had tattoos for sleeves, nodded a greeting as he towed a stock pot to a cupboard.
“I’ve got a pizza to reheat,” she said.
“Keep bringing outside food into my kitchen, and you’re gonna hurt my feelings,” he said. “Next time, call and I’ll put together something.”
Put together. If cooking was the art form that plenty of foodies claimed it to be, then Raoul—a classically trained chef who’d soon be leaving Nevada to open a spot in the South—was the Rembrandt of the culinary world.
“You spoil me, Raoul. Too bad there won’t be many next times.” Faith House’s HR folks had already begun the recruitment process for his replacement.
At the counter she nudged aside a stack of travel magazines to make room for her satchel, pizza and copy of Vanity Fair.
The magazines fanned out to reveal a worn United States road atlas at the bottom. The thing was vandalized with sticky notes marred with scribbles detailing flight itineraries and bus schedules.
“Planning a US tour—”
“That’s my stuff!”
Martha recoiled with a pang of embarrassment, before she realized she’d done nothing out of line—technically. How was she supposed to know a fat stack of travel magazines and a ratty road atlas belonged to a kid she’d never met, who was rocking last year’s fashions, a half-dozen piercings in one ear and a fishtail bun that might’ve been attractive had frizz not conquered it.
“Bring down the attitude, Avery.” Beneath Raoul’s sternness was an admirable note of patience. “Nobody here’s the reason your foster mama’s having a rough go.”
Fosters, runaways, delinquents, addicts, victims—Martha had been introduced to them all through Faith House. Each child, each dark story, circled her heart and tugged.
“Avery’s foster mama’s a chef,” he told Martha. “Got her break on a TV show and works in one of those celebrity chef restaurants on the Strip.”
A battle between pride and melancholy raged on the kid’s warm brown face.
Encouraging, “Introduce yourselves,” Raoul left.
When the girl remained stalwart, Martha said, “Avery, I’m—”
“I know. Everyone knows who you are. Online you’re trending as the ‘sexiest heiress in Sin City.’”
For all her frivolity and hubris, it wasn’t a label Martha wanted. She didn’t care how many Las Vegas heiresses were competing for the title. “I was going to say, ‘I’m Martha Blue and I’m irretrievably nosy.’”
“I’m Avery Paige and I’m leaving.”
“Or you can stay, if you think this kitchen’s big enough for the two of us to coexist without getting in each other’s way.”
A soft huff, then Avery plunked down onto a stool, sending over a gust of air pungent with the scent of Faith House’s commercial-grade antibacterial hand soap.
Did the kid soak her hands in the stuff?
Avery unzipped her hobo, took out a textbook and a jacket, and jammed her atlas and magazines inside.
The same sterile scent rose from the fabric. Had she used hand soap as laundry detergent? By “rough go” did he mean Avery’s foster mother was struggling financially?
“Care for a reheated pizza?” she offered.
“Because I’m a hungry, pathetic charity case?”
Sparing the girl insult, she lied, “No, I’ve got late party plans and want to preserve my appetite. Seems wrong to throw out a perfectly delicious cheese pizza.”
Avery eyed the box in front of Martha, smirked, but didn’t comment.
“What’s funny?” Uh-oh. “Can you read French?”
“My school takes foreign language seriously, so yeah, I know that soixante neuf translates to the number sixty-nine in English. Also, I can name just about every restaurant and bar in this city. Oh, and I know exactly what that restaurant’s about.”
Damn. Avery didn’t appear offended or corrupted, but Martha felt at fault regardless as she reheated the pizza. “You’re a food and drink know-it-all because your foster mother’s a chef?”
“Was. She hasn’t worked in a while.”
“Laid off?”
“Cancer won’t let her work. And the
state’s effin’ labor laws won’t let me work a real job.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirteen.” Avery gripped her textbook for a long, tense moment. Petite and slight, she looked barely ten in spite of her piercings and tough-girl frown. “Crap. Sorry. People don’t like sad stories.”
“That doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be told.” Martha set a plate in front of Avery.
“My foster mom wanted me to sign up for math tutoring, but I’m here for cooking tips. I’m collecting from-scratch recipes.”
“Can’t help with the cooking, but math’s the love of my life.” Martha tapped the front of the book and her pampered, gel-polished fingernails contrasted with Avery’s jagged nails and bandaged cuticles.
A biter.
“What’s got you stuck?”
“Quadratic equations.”
“Factoring? That can trip people up.”
“Formula.”
Likely the quadratic formula wasn’t all that had Avery stuck. But if she could help the girl with that, it’d be a start. “Pencil? Notepaper? Let’s do this. My shift hasn’t started yet.”
“I’m eating your pizza and taking all your time,” the girl said hesitantly.
“I come to Faith House to share my time.” Initially, the commitment had been part of some lesson Danica had wanted to teach her. But quickly the place and people had become a treasured part of her routine. “Crack open that book, chickadee. We have only a few minutes to get quadratic equations to make sense.”
“Great.” Avery gnawed on a thick chunk of crust. “At least something will make sense.”
One problem at a time, Martha was going to help this kid. “This,” she said, indicating an equation for Avery to copy, “needs to be in standard form. So to make this term zero and transfer it to the other side, subtract.”
The girl labored but identified the coefficients to plug the values of a, b and c into the formula.
“Two-a is the denominator for everything sitting above it there,” Martha reminded when the girl neglected to attach the a.
“Right.” Then she stopped, scrunching her face. “Martha, if it’s plus or minus, how do we get the correct number?”
“Number—singular—is a misleading expectation. Finish calculating with plus, then calculate with minus. Remember, the goal is to find the two values.”
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