According to Rob, he lost the security guards as he sprinted from Caesars across Las Vegas Boulevard, nearly getting clipped by a bus. But the same daring move that helped him elude the security guards attracted the attention of four cops. Rob had no choice. As much as he hated to make his return, he fled into a storm drain. In recent years, police officers have poured into the storm drains in search of fleeing murderers and rapists, but those guys weren’t going in after a mere thief. Rob got lost in the storm drains but eventually found an exit in Chinatown.
Max has never told any of us how he found Rob before the police did, but when he did, he told Rob that he might make it another day, week, or month, but that eventually he would be arrested if he remained reckless. Rob moved into the Treasure Island penthouse that very day.
***
Underwear. Dress. Heels. Makeup. And I’m out the door. Date night.
--How is this happening? One minute, I’m living this dream in Las Vegas, caught in a hyperreal, fantastic version of reality. The next, I’m facing down my worst fear. I hear about people feeling numb when they get tragic news, but numb is not what I feel; I envy numb. The thought of my poor sister in a duffel bag makes me sick to my stomach.--
CHAPTER FIVE – Raisins :)
When I get home from my evening “date,” it’s early enough that I’m surprised to see the lights off in the penthouse. Then a loud boom erupts. A flare-like firework shoots into the sky – the glass ceiling is open. I stagger backwards. Startled when everyone jumps out. Sophie, Mars, Rob, Kim, and Max. And Jesse.
“Surprise!”
It’s not my birthday.
I don’t know how it started, but it’s become an odd house tradition. We throw surprise birthday parties for each other. And it’s always a surprise, because in this house, no one really knows when each other’s birthday is.
My mother lost my birth certificate. When I was six, I asked her when my birthday was. She was pretty sure it was at the end of March or the beginning of April. Or the end of April or the beginning of May. Thanks. Very helpful, Madeline.
Kim refuses to tell anyone her true age. Mars has multiple birthdays from his various fake IDs that grant him access to over-21 pool halls. Rob was adopted and never knew his birthday. Jesse has lied about his birthday so many times that even he has lost track of the true date.
So in place of a traditional calendar, we throw each other surprise birthday parties whenever we feel like it.
When the lights come on, more people emerge from various nooks. A couple of Max’s older friends nod. Five sorority girls that I assume Rob recruited from the casino downstairs sit in a row on the couch. Mars’s cousin, who lives in Barstow and sometimes visits on weekends, stands with a friend. A few people I don’t recognize hover in the kitchen. Two of Kim’s card counting friends, who normally only come over for the occasional poker night, wave.
On the conveyer belt of hugs, Jesse comes last. When he puts his arms around me, I pull away almost immediately. Overcompensating in hiding how much I want to be in his arms.
Luckily I’m dressed for the occasion. My high-class-hooker cocktail dress becomes my birthday-girl dress.
Music blasts. People swim. Others play poker. An insane game of Twister gets going (yes, Rob’s idea).
People dance. I dance. The last three times I’ve danced, it’s been for clients. I love dancing. When it’s on my terms.
A couple times, Jesse and I make eyes, and something’s different. It’s like the invisible energy between us has reached a point where it can no longer be ignored.
As the hours pass, people leave. Others pass out. I make Sophie go to bed. Max retires to his room. Rob pukes from drinking too much and goes to his room to sleep it off. Tomorrow, we’re sure to hear how annoyed he is with himself for not staying sober enough to try to hook up with one of the sorority girls. I’m not sure where Mars or Kim are. Probably asleep.
So, at 3:00 in the morning, that leaves Jesse and me.
“Well, happy birthday.”
I chuckle. “Thanks.”
“You have fun?”
“Yeah.”
“You tired?”
“Yeah. Well, not really. No. Are you?”
“No. You want to swim?”
“Now? Not really.”
“You look way too dry right now for a pool party. You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Why I am lying? Do I want to swim with him? Hell yeah!
It’s a rare time where I’m happy that he sees right through my lie. He charges me. I try to squirm away, but he picks me up and throws me in the deep end of the pool. He lifts me with incredible ease. Sweeping me off my feet. Literally.
Jesse’s one of those guys who’s in good shape without working out. He probably has the genetics to be a fitness model. If he cared how he looked. One time, a mark in a three-week long con ended up being a fitness and nutrition freak. Jesse worked out with him every day during the con. In a mere three weeks, he developed a six-pack and ridiculous biceps.
After I land in the water, Jesse jumps in next to me. His foot accidentally kicks me, and some inner part of my shoulder burns with pain, but I don’t say anything because I know he’d feel terrible, and I don’t want to ruin the moment.
My black dress bunches up around me as I tread water. It almost looks like oil floating on the surface of the pool.
“You’re paying to get this dress dry-cleaned.”
“That’s the most you’ve ever sounded like a prostitute.” I’m not exactly sure I get the joke, but it still sounds funny, and we both laugh.
The dress makes the swimming a bit clumsy, so I pull it over my head. Now down to my underwear.
Technically, it provides the same coverage as a bathing suit. But I’d be conning you if I tried to tell you it’s the same. The energy I felt between us earlier only grows. Water conducts electricity like lightning, and I find myself believing it conducts the energy between two people.
Is he feeling this too?
Jesse takes off his jeans and T-shirt and swims in his boxer briefs.
We alternate between the pool and the hot tub like children.
***
My fingers are raisins. We’ve been swimming for two hours. Well, not actually swimming, just standing and floating and talking.
It’s dawn. It appears maybe Jesse is wading towards the steps to walk out of the pool, but he keeps wading through the water towards me. He stops right in front of me.
“What?”
He doesn’t respond. Just looks at me. I know Jesse and all his faces. I know his hungry face, his embarrassed face, and his tired face. I even know his, “I’m holding back a fart” face. I know his nostalgic face. The one he makes when he’s remembering some obscure detail from his childhood.
I thought I knew all his faces. But this face I’ve never seen before.
“Jesse, what? What is it?”
And he presses his lips against mine.
I’d never seen this face because this is the face he makes right before he kisses someone. The face he makes right before he kisses me.
Despite all the sexual situations I’ve been in, I’ve never really kissed a guy. I mean a dozen times, clients (marks) have leaned in and made contact for a few seconds before I pulled away. A few even slithered their tongues inside my mouth before I retracted. But I’ve never really kissed a guy.
And now I’m kissing Jesse.
After a few moments, he pulls away.
And our eyes meet again.
I wondered if we’d always just be best pals. Part of me liked the friendship we had. Part of me liked that there was always this thing ahead of us that maybe one day we’d face.
But when I saw him tonight, I don’t know, it felt like something was going to happen. Like we couldn’t carry on without moving forward.
He felt it too.
***
When I get into my room, I take a 30-second shower to rinse the chlorine off my body. Then throw on some gym
shorts and a tank top that I usually sleep in. I lie in bed with the fattest smile on my face.
Shortly after I doze off, the small door to Jesse’s room creaks open. He climbs in the king-size bed with me, like he often does. Except this time, he puts one arm over me. Spooning. Big spoon, little spoon. Haha. I never really understand those expressions. Now I get it. I put my hand on his arm and try as hard as I can to stay awake.
--How is this happening? One minute, I’m living this dream in Las Vegas, caught in a hyperreal, fantastic version of reality. The next, I’m facing down my worst fear. I hear about people feeling numb when they get tragic news, but numb is not what I feel; I envy numb. The thought of my poor sister in a duffel bag makes me sick to my stomach. Guilt, sorrow, fear, shame, misery, horror, and desperation collide in some awful game of emotional bumper cars.--
CHAPTER SIX – Can’t
When I wake up in the morning, I open my eyes to Jesse sitting in the chair at the base of my bed. Looks like he hasn’t slept a bit.
I know this face. Eyes that rarely blink and a mouth that looks like it forgot how to smile. The “I have bad news” face.
My shoulder aches when I sit up in bed. I can tell before he utters a word that he changed his mind.
“Jesse…”
“Can we talk?”
“Don’t.”
“We can’t do this.”
“Why? Why not?”
Nausea overcomes me. And the sweaty, heart-pounding, all consuming pain reminds me of the poker game against Dennis Cane. It reminds me of the moment my three jacks came up short to Dennis’s full house. Why is there always this link between Jesse and poker?
I repeat my question. “Why?”
“I care so much about you.”
“That’s why you can’t do this?”
“I can’t trust myself. If I… If we… If we were together, eventually I’d hurt you. I’d lie to you or deceive you. And I don’t want to ever hurt you. I can’t do that to you.”
“Then don’t do those things.” I feel ridiculous saying it. As if it’s the simplest, most obvious statement of all time.
“I can’t trust myself.”
“I trust you.”
“You trust me? You don’t even know me. I don’t even know me. I’m just a series of lies and characters.”
“I know you.”
“You think you do, but you don’t.”
“I do. And I know how you feel about me. I know because it’s the same way I feel about you.” I start to fear it doesn’t matter what I say. That Jesse has made up his mind.
“That’s why I can’t. ‘Cause I can’t hurt you. I couldn’t handle it. And I know I will.”
Now up on my feet, I walk towards him. Maybe if we embrace, we can just pick up where we left off before going to sleep. Maybe when our fingertips touch, that will be enough to erase his qualms. But as I get closer to the chair where he sits, he puts up his hands. His body language screams at me, “Stay away!”
Pick up where we left off before going to sleep? I see now that he hasn’t slept. I slept better than I ever have before. But he just sat there in the chair.
Now, when I recall the kiss, it’s not only magic and excitement that rush through my body. Now, the memory of the kiss comes with pain and disappointment.
“I want to be friends with you.”
Friends? He wants to be friends with me? He says it like it’s something new he wants. Like it’s some fresh zone our relationship could enter. We were already friends. Best friends.
I’m tempted to save face and tell him being friends is a good idea. That way we can walk away from this feeling like it was mutual. There won’t be this imbalance of rejector and rejectee. But I don’t really care about saving face.
“We’ll always be friends, but I want more.”
Jesse only shakes his head. He stands up. It’s then I start crying. I don’t want to cry, so there’s no noise. Just tears running down my face.
He sees how bad he’s hurting me, and from his wilting shoulders and squinting eyes, I can tell it kills him. He brings me into his arms and we hug. For a long time. And then he leaves.
--How is this happening? One minute, I’m living this dream in Las Vegas, caught in a hyperreal, fantastic version of reality. The next, I’m facing down my worst fear. I hear about people feeling numb when they get tragic news, but numb is not what I feel; I envy numb. The thought of my poor sister in a duffel bag makes me sick to my stomach. Guilt, sorrow, fear, shame, misery, horror, and desperation collide in some awful game of emotional bumper cars. My soul feels crushed.--
CHAPTER SEVEN – The Proposal
I can barely get out of bed.
That wave in my stomach that wouldn’t break?
It broke.
The last time I felt this dejected was when Dennis Cane defeated me in the poker game. That was painful. I felt nauseous for a day or so. I carried the ache around with me for a couple days after that. And then I just forced myself to accept that I couldn’t win some poker tournament and give Sophie some perfect life. I made myself accept that I had to do the next best thing for her, which I’ve been doing for a year now.
Why can’t I rebound the same way here?
I try to force myself to accept that I can’t be with Jesse. To take the next best option. To carry on and be friends with him. But it seems like I’ll never feel better. I wish that he’d never kissed me. I wish that I had the excitement of our first kiss ahead of me rather than the devastation of our break up behind me.
Friends? Even if being friends was a worthy consolation, could we even be friends? Not the way we were. No way.
I try to listen to music but it doesn’t help. Happy songs only remind of the previous night. Sad sack emo songs only make me confront the melancholy head on.
My thoughts shift to my mother and my father. It’s always when things aren’t going well that I get furious with them. When things are swell, I think, “Ha! I don’t need you!” But when things fall south of bad, everything becomes their fault. I find myself hating them. Hating that my father paid my mother to have sex with him. Once the hatred builds up, I realize the irony. If my father hadn’t gone to a prostitute and paid for sex, and if my mother hadn’t been a druggie who became a prostitute to feed her addiction, I wouldn’t be alive and able to hate either one of them. In fact, if they’d been just slightly more responsible, then they would have had more responsible interactions, and my existence would have been blocked by a wall of responsible latex.
Which leads to a George-Bailey-type-moment where I evaluate whether the world would be better off if I’d never been born.
A couple of days pass. I tell Max and the rest of the house that I’ve had a stomach bug. It explains my staying in bed, lack of eating, etc. None of them doubt me. After all, I am a professional liar.
Jesse too has been in a miserable mood. He hides it from the rest, but I can see him. Not sure whether he feels low because he hurt me or because we aren’t together. Or both.
***
Three days after Jesse kissed me, and two days after he told me we couldn’t be together, Max calls a house meeting. Max specifically told me not to bring Sophie. Which tells me it’s business related rather than some domestic/penthouse issue.
Max waits until we’re all seated in the dining room area before he enters.
All he says: “I have a job.”
I’m not sure if Max pauses for dramatic effect or because he’s planning his words. Max isn’t one for dramatic effect.
After a moment, he continues. “I don’t normally plan big jobs. Never, actually. I’ve always played the smaller hands. Normally those are the safer ones, but something’s come up that I can’t let pass. It’s too big a reward for too little risk to ignore. It would involve all of you in some capacity.”
“Well, what is it?” Rob asks.
“Jewels.” Max says it so slowly that he manages to give the word a second syllable.
Immediate skepticis
m. We’re small-time to mid-range (teenage) con artists, not professional jewel thieves.
“Hear me out. A friend of mine is a jewel trader in Las Vegas. He’s tipped me off to a man coming in town, traveling with jewels. This man, from the Czech Republic, is named Ladislav Kral. Aside from his taste in rare stones, Ladislav is known for his lavish taste in young women.”
Everyone looks to me – surely I’ll be the young woman.
“Ladislav always stays in a VIP deluxe suite in Caesars. He keeps his valuables in a 4-digit combination digital safe. He’ll be attending a rare stones and metals convention where he’ll look to sell the jewels, but the good news is he’s coming to Vegas four days beforehand. In those four days, the jewels will be in his safe.”
The tension in the room builds, everyone recognizing that Max is 100% serious.
My adrenaline is already through the roof.
Is no one else going to ask? Fine, I will. “How much are we talking about here, Max?” I blurt out.
“Twelve.”
“G’s?” Rob asks.
A smile forms on Max’s face as he rotates his head left to right to left to right. He doesn’t mean twelve thousand. And he can’t possibly mean twelve hundred. He means twelve million. As in a twelve and six zeroes.
Eyebrows rise. Chins drop. Mouths make perfect little circles of wow.
Mars voices his initial reaction. “The VIP suite rooms are impossible to break into, plus they get new key cards every day.”
Rob adds, “Plus, correct me if I’m off, but none of us know shit ‘bout how to break into no safe.”
“We’re not going to break into the room or crack the safe. Just listen. Ladislav goes through two different escort services. I have contacts in both. So first thing, we get Piper set up with him. Ladislav typically takes his girl out for a night on the town. Gambling. Dinner. Then he brings the girl back to Caesars about ten. Once Piper is in the room, we’ll distract him.”
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