Vegas Knights

by Maddix, Marina

  Her seat neighbor was passed out, his head dangling uncomfortably close to her shoulder, and reeked of booze. Instead of waiting around for him to drool on her, she unbuckled her seatbelt to take a little walk around the plane, stretch her legs. But as she eased her rear from her seat, the seatbelt light bonged.

  "The captain has turned on the Fasten Seatbelt sign," said the bored voice of a flight attendant. "Please return to your seats as we prepare for landing."

  Landing! She was almost in New York! Her pulse quickened as she pulled up the window shade — her neighbor must have closed it — and got her first glimpse of the city. Skyscrapers reached for the stratosphere amongst an impossibly dense cluster of buildings. She wasn't exactly sure where the Lower East Side was from this perspective, but she imagined she could almost see Bohemian artists clad in all-black, dour expressions on their faces, as they slunk down the street toward the nearest beatnik poetry reading.

  She chewed on her bottom lip, eager to join them. This was what she was meant to be doing, not living in some fantasy world where she'd find happily ever after with a hot billionaire biker. What had she been thinking? Rick wasn't really even her type. She preferred more artsy guys. Sure, the sex was mind-blowing, she told herself, but hot fires burn out quickly.

  As good a time as she'd had on their road trip, riding around on the back of a motorcycle was not what she went to art school for. But she'd be forever grateful to Rick for yanking her out of the corporate life in which she'd become accidentally mired. There was no telling how long she would have suffered in that toxic environment if he hadn't come along. Plus, she never would have met Beth otherwise, and because of her, Kelly was finally getting her big break. So, really, in a roundabout way, Rick was responsible for her soon-to-be success.

  Maybe I should invite him to the show. Uncertainty picked at her brain. She ached at the thought of not having him there, but it would be awkward for both of them. Besides, he'd never come. The show was set to open next; he'd never make in time on his bike, and since his father's death, he refused to fly. Probably for the best.

  Still, a part of her had warmed at the prospect of seeing him again. She regretted the way things had ended, how she'd just left without saying goodbye. But if she'd actually stuck around to have breakfast the next day, it would have been all to easy for him to sweet-talk her into staying. Hopefully he would look back on this one day and realize that everything happened for a reason, and that they were both better off in the long run. She in Manhattan and him on the road.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hot, tired and hungry, Kelly waited for her paintings to come out of the baggage hold. Because they were oversized, they wouldn't fit on the conveyor belt so every other passenger on her overbooked flight had collected their luggage, while Kelly waited for someone to deliver hers.

  An hour after the flight landed, a burly, overweight man in a blue uniform trudged into baggage claim manhandling her package, bumping it into the doorjamb, heedless of the damage he might be causing. She ran up to him and presented her ticket, which he painstakingly checked against the label on the box. Kelly rolled her eyes. I'm the only person here, dumbass! She wisely didn't voice this thought.

  By the time she made it to the curb, the cabs she'd been expecting to see were gone. All of her fellow passengers had gotten there first. She leaned her paintings against the wall, and followed suit, resting her eyes while she stretched her legs. In the distance, she spotted a distinctive yellow blob moving toward the pick-up area and breathed a sigh of relief. It was much more humid than she thought it would be and her dress was sticking to her body.

  As the cab pulled up to the curb, Kelly collected her package and was stepping forward when a man in a business suit rushed out of the terminal and hopped in the cab.

  "Hey! That's my cab!" Kelly shouted at him.

  He turned to her, his appraising gaze raking her full figure, a sneer curling his lip. "Go fuck yourself," was his calm reply as he slammed the door. The cab driver couldn't have cared less, and sped off as soon as the door was closed.

  The man might as well have punched her in the solar plexus. She was frozen in place, breathless from his action and then his unbelievably rude comment. Tears started forming but Kelly shook them away, refusing to allow such a horrible specimen to affect her.

  "Nope, this is my day," she said to no one in particular. "I'm not going to give that fuckwad the power to bother me." Still, she was shaken by the encounter.

  Another cab was moving toward her, anyway, so Kelly sidled up to the curb to make sure she didn't lose this one. Lesson learned, she thought as she carefully slid the paintings into the backseat.

  "Where you go, lady?" The cabbie's name, prominently displayed on a little placard attached to the thick acrylic partition, was unpronounceable, so she just smiled and gave him the address of the Soto Gallery.

  "Be about $100, okay?"

  Kelly still had the $200 she'd taken from the pile Rick had left for her. When she'd asked the doorman Peter for a cab, he'd arranged for one of Peterson-Knight's corporate cars to take her to the airport. She felt terrible for using Rick's car to leave him, but it would allow her to have a few extra bucks for New York, just in case. Kelly pulled a $100 bill from her purse and tucked it in a pocket so she wouldn't have to fumble with her purse when they arrived.

  One hand clutched the paintings as the cab dodged and swerved its way through traffic. If she hadn’t been so excited to get started on her new adventure, Kelly might have been frightened out of her mind at the crazy driving of the cabbie. As it was, she enjoyed watching buildings and people and buses blur by.

  She cracked the window to feel the wind brush her face, but the cabbie screamed at her to roll it back up. "AH-SEE!" he kept repeating. She finally understood he meant 'AC', as in air conditioning. She nodded and rolled it back up, but not before catching a whiff of the city. It smelled like humanity, full and intense, dark and hot, somewhat menacing but also hopeful.

  Kelly's skin tingled with anticipation and her pulse quickened the further the cabbie drove. "How far?" she asked.

  "Five minute."

  Fifteen minutes later, they were at a dead standstill in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Kelly gnawed at a thumbnail, willing the cars in front of them to move. She just wanted to get to the gallery before it closed. Their website had said 5 p.m. and if this traffic didn't start moving, she might not make it. She checked her watch — 4:15 — and went back to gnawing.

  The cab pulled up in front of the gallery at 4:55. Kelly was frantic at that point, wanting to make sure she got in the door before they locked up for the night. She tossed the $100 bill at the cab driver for the $85 fare and leaped out of the cab, roughly yanking her paintings out with her. Horns blared as her cab tried to re-enter traffic but she barely noticed as she ran up to the gallery's door. Relief swept over her like a crashing wave when she was able to push the door open freely.

  "May I help you?" A tiny Asian man cautiously approached the breathless and sweaty woman who had just spilled into his gallery.

  Kelly knew what she must look like and tried to smile, but she was having a hard time catching her breath. "I...I'm...Kelly...Saun...ders," she panted.

  The man's tentative smiled never wavered. "Yes?"

  She took a final cleansing breath and started over, extending her hand. "I'm sorry, I'm Kelly Saunders. I just got off the plane from Las Vegas and the traffic was horrible and I didn't think I was going to get here before you closed." She was laughing as she told her story, but the man didn't seem amused.

  "And how can I help you today, miss?"

  "Oh, God, I probably need to talk with your boss. I have a show here next week and wanted to touch base today before we get started on the preparations tomorrow."

  The man stiffened, his eyes narrowing to slits. "I am Gary Soto, the owner of this gallery. I can assure you, if you had a show here I would know about it."

  Confusion muddled Kelly's thoughts. "This is the Soto Galle
ry, isn't it? My friend Beth Peters arranged it? From Las Vegas? She sent you photos of my work." She pointed to her boxed up paintings to prove she wasn't a lunatic.

  Mr. Soto stood up to his full height — which was still about a foot shorter than Kelly — and crossed his arms. "Yes, this is the Soto Gallery, but I've never heard of you or your friend. I do have a new artist showing next week but you're not him. If that's everything..."

  Clutching at his arm as he turned away, she pleaded, "Wait! Please?" He looked down at her hand until she removed it, but didn't move away again. He huffed in exasperation and gave her a dark look that said, 'Well, hurry up about it.'

  "There must be some mistake," Kelly started. "I'm an artist. My friend Beth — Beth Peters?" The man shook his head. "Well, she arranged a solo show for me here next week. See?"

  She pushed the Post-It with the gallery's address written on it — Beth had tacked on the plane ticket's jacket — into his face. He pulled back to get a better look at it, then turned his sour gaze back to her confused face. "So?" he shrugged.

  She had no words left. Fear stabbed her gut. What was happening? Had Beth written down the wrong address? But this was the name of the gallery, so that didn't make sense. She looked back at Mr. Soto with her mouth hanging open in disbelief.

  The gallery started to get fuzzy, then grayed out. She heard a commotion and hands grabbed at her but she was powerless to move. She was startled to lucidity when a hand slapped her face. Blinking, she rubbed her reddening cheek and looked up into several pairs of concerned eyes. It seemed everyone in the gallery was now standing over her.

  "Miss, are you okay?" A young woman was holding out a paper cup of water. Kelly took it gratefully and gulped it down, the coolness of the drink pooling in her stomach like liquid rock.

  She sat up and looked around. "This isn't a joke, is it?" The perplexed faces that stared back at her told her no, this wasn't a joke. They weren't expecting her because they'd never heard of her.

  "I'm so sorry. I don't understand what happened. I thought everything was arranged but..." she broke off. "Maybe my friend wrote down the wrong gallery?" What should have been a statement, ended as a question. She needed some reassurance that everything would turn out okay. Heads bobbed in agreement but their owners cast knowing glances at each other.

  Mr. Soto stood and held out his hand to help up Kelly. When she was firmly on her feet, he patted her shoulder. "I'm sorry, miss, but I don't think there's anything we can do to help."

  He and his employees turned away from her, a few casting nervous glances over their shoulders, as if she might go bonkers and pull a gun or something. Maybe in this city they were wise to be concerned.

  "Do you mind if I just make a call?" she shouted at their backs. Mr. Soto waved a hand above his head. Kelly took that as a yes.

  She dug her phone from her purse, booted it up and punched Beth's speed dial number. "Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up..." she whispered as the line started ringing.

  The line clicked and a tone beeped in her ear. "The number you are calling has been changed or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this message in error, please hang up and try again..."

  Kelly thumbed the 'end' button on her phone, her brow creased in confusion. "What the..." She punched the speed dial number again, and again the 'not in service' message played in her ear. Frustrated, she punched end, and scrolled through her contacts till she reached Beth's. She punched the number in manually, hoping there was some weird crossed connection somewhere.

  "The number you are calling..."

  "Gah!" Kelly's outburst drew a flurry of worried looks in her direction, including that of the owner. Not wanting to alienate the only Manhattan gallery owner she'd ever met, she gathered up her bag and paintings, smiled in his direction, and left the building. She tried Beth's number again, faintly hoping that being outside would help reception, but knowing deep down it wouldn't.

  "The number you are calling..."

  Tears of frustration threatened to spill down her overheated cheeks. Sweat instantly broke out all over her body, running in rivulets between her shoulder blades and breasts. She needed to find someplace cool that also offered food. The only thing she'd had to eat all day was a sad box meal on the plane consisting of a rock-hard bagel, a tiny tub of cream cheese, dried apple bits and a package of three processed cheese slices. She'd barely been able to choke it down, and only did so because she hadn't had a chance for breakfast.

  Breakfast made her think of Rick, and how she stood him up. She looked down at her phone and sure enough, the display showed three messages waiting for her. The street noise was too loud to even attempt listening to them so she set out to find a restaurant or cafe.

  Three very long blocks later, Kelly slumped into a booth overlooking the street in a small, dark and blessedly cool cafe. She set her paintings and bags on the seat across from her to keep them out of the aisle, but her server still looked irritated with her.

  "Just get off the bus?" he asked snidely.

  Kelly had never experienced such rudeness before arriving in New York, but right now she was too tired to care. "I'd like some lemonade and a turkey sandwich, please. And a big glass of ice water."

  Refused his conflict of the moment, the waiter snatched the menu out of her hand and huffed to the kitchen.

  Kelly pulled out her phone and tried Beth again. Same message. Then she steeled herself and punched the voicemail button.

  BEEP

  "Hey, Kell, I'm here but I don't see you. Were we supposed to meet somewhere? I thought I was supposed to pick you up but...well, last night was a little crazy and I might have forgotten."

  BEEP

  "Kelly, I got your note. You're on your way to New York? Who is this Beth person? What's going on? Call me when you land."

  BEEP

  "Kelly, I'm sorry you felt you had to leave. I never intended to deceive you. I honestly thought the paperwork was a formality so, in my mind, I was divorced. Probably sounds like bullshit to you, but it's the truth. I would like to talk to you, figure this all out, but if you're not interested, I get it. For what it's worth, Liz signed the papers today, and I called in a favor to get a judge to sign off on them about ten minutes ago. So I'm officially divorced. I'm free to leave Vegas. And now you're gone."

  The resignation and pain in Rick's voice tore at Kelly's soul. She wanted nothing more than to call him and have him come rescue her from this mess, but she knew that would be disingenuous. She loved him, but nothing had really changed over the past few hours. He'd lied, or at least kept the truth from her, and she didn't know how to trust him after that. She understood his perspective, and believed he hadn't meant to hurt her but she was still smarting.

  Besides, she had a dream to follow, even if it wasn't turning out exactly as she'd planned. She tried Beth again, then tucked the phone back in her purse, wondering if her friend was okay.

  As she wolfed down the sandwich and fries the waiter had slammed on the table, Kelly gazed out the window at the people passing by. Most people were dressed in black or stylish business attire, but a few tourists stood out in their Bermuda shorts and 'Never Forget' t-shirts. The locals skimmed around them like salmon swimming in unison around an obstruction.

  It was constant movement, infinite noise, boundless energy, and she couldn't wait to be a part of it. But first she had to figure out what had happened at the Soto Gallery, why Beth's phone was disconnected and, most pressing right now, where she was going to sleep that night. After this meal, she'd have less than $100 cash, and maybe a few bucks to spare on her credit card. She was doubtful a decent hotel room in Manhattan could be had for that.

  She berated herself for not figuring out accommodations before getting on the plane, but she hadn't been entirely sure she was going to leave. As she was rushing around to get to the airport, it hadn't even crossed her mind. If she was going to be totally honest, she'd half-assumed the gallery would either recommend a place or set her up
somewhere, as naive as that sounded. Now that she was sitting in a grimy diner with a surly waiter eyeballing her, she felt like a fool.

  Her belly full, Kelly felt much better, like her brain was working again. She waved over the waiter, who brought the check and turned to leave.

  "Um, excuse me," she said with as much sugar in her voice as she could muster while she laid her remaining $100 bill on the tray.

  "Mmm?" He stopped and turned back.

  "Do you know of any inexpensive hotels around here?"

  He gave Kelly a knowing once-over, then glanced at her paintings and bag. Apparently deciding to take pity on her poor, lost soul, he sighed heavily.

  "Well, the Westin is two blocks up that way, but it ain't cheap. The cheapest is the Mayfair on Avenue B, four or five blocks east of here, but I don't think you want to go down there without a little protection...and I don't mean of the rubber variety. Well, maybe that, too!" He laughed at the genius of his own wit as he returned to the till with Kelly's check and money.

  When he returned with her change, she asked how much the Mayfair was.

  "'Bout $75, but I wouldn't expect clean sheets for that." With tax added, she'd barely have enough cash for one night. But tomorrow was another day and she'd figure it out then.

  The box of paintings, which hadn't seemed particularly heavy this morning, was getting heavier and more unwieldy by the minute, especially while toting her purse and the shopping bag of clothes. She wanted to smack the waiter's sneer off his face as she rear-ended the cafe's door open and wrangled it all outside.

  "Thanks for the help, asshole. Hope you like your tip!"

  His sneer turned to a glare, then he was cut off from view as the door slammed shut behind her. She plodded along looking for Avenue B, noticing the neighborhood was steadily turning grittier. The tourists and well-dressed professionals she'd spotted near the cafe had all disappeared, replaced by a rougher element. She was pretty sure the guy passed out on a stoop had a needle jutting out of his arm.