Losing Enough

by Helen Boswell

  “Yes,” I agree wholeheartedly. Especially since my ibuprofen is starting to kick in.

  “So what did you girls do last night?” She bends over and touches her toes, and I wonder if she’s going to go through an entire sun salutation routine.

  “Went out to the club where Elle works. Dancing and stuff, you know?”

  She nods and looks at me as if she wants more details, but I clam up. I would rather make up stuff than tell her what really happened last night.

  “And Elle is well?” she prompts. “Does she still sing?”

  “She’s great. And I think she still sings. Sometimes?” I say, though I honestly don’t know if Elle does very much anymore now that she’s working full-time and also going to school.

  “Did you know that I used to sing at a club?” She straightens again, and I stare at her with wide eyes. There’s an almost wistful expression on her face. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Really?” I’ve seen Elle sing before at the club, and I try to picture a younger version of Mom doing the same thing. She’s never mentioned it before. “Does Dad know?”

  Her face falls, her brow puckering. “Yes. But, well… Maybe don’t mention that I told you.”

  “Okay…” I say, but I wonder why not.

  “If you know of any shows that Elle’s doing, or of any good concerts this summer, let me know. That would be fun. Ready?”

  My arm is resting against my head, my other one pulling back on my elbow for a stretch, and I lower both of them. It takes me a second to register that Mom just switched topics.

  But if she doesn’t want to talk about it, I’m not about to push her.

  “Sure.” I pull my t-shirt over my head, and unbutton and kick off my shorts. “Let’s go.”

  We get into the pool at the same time, and I go into my bubble. It’s what Mom taught me when I was little and first learning to swim. I was afraid of putting my head under the water, but she told me that if I learned to hold my breath and go all the way under, I’d be protected by a special bubble. That it would quiet the noise of the world and fill me with a special strength.

  I remember the first time I tried it. How the shouts and echoes of the other people in the pool became muffled and the noise of the world filtered away until it didn’t matter anymore. And then I kicked my legs and moved my arms, and I glided through the water with what felt like no resistance.

  I cleave through the water now, the warmth from the heated pool feeling so, so good on my skin. I become stronger, my strokes more powerful, and I push myself until my lungs burn. I grab a breath of air from the surface and submerge again, pulling myself through the water farther and farther until all of the bad stuff from last night dissolves and I’m left clean again.

  My mom told me about the bubble when I was five, and I still always envision it that way when I’m in the water. Because it feels good sometimes to muffle all of the noise. Because we all need something now and then to rejuvenate us and make us feel stronger than what we really are.

  6

  Connor

  I’m normally much better at doing this. Turning off my feelings, being exactly what I need to be and to hell with everything else.

  Now is not one of those times.

  I drift halfway in and out of sleep, the smell of smoke from the bar filling my senses, and the thought of the redhead from QE2 forces its way into my head.

  Red. Alex. I got a series of annoying texts from Elle shortly after I dropped her off and was on my way to the airport. Had Alex made it back to the hotel? Had she made it back to her room? Had I seen to it first-hand? Was I absolutely sure she was okay? My responses were yes, yes, yes and then stop fucking texting me. Even though everything worked out in the end, I hate the fact that I even thought about calling Neil to cover me. Alex hadn’t been an emergency, she’d been a moment of weakness.

  A moment of weakness who’s staying on the VIP’s floor.

  It means nothing. The high rollers come and go as fast as their money, and I’ll probably never run into her again, not even if I work 24-7. I don’t know why I’m dedicating any of my brain cells to thinking about it. Especially given the real bomb that dropped last night about Cruz being in Vegas.

  I open half an eye to the sun blazing through a crack in the blinds. I see the head of platinum blonde hair on the pillow next to me a second later. Shit.

  The apartment belongs to Bethany, a hot little blackjack dealer that I hooked up with a few months ago. We aren’t dating, but we use each other when it’s convenient. Bethany texted me right after I dropped off Maya Coplin at her hotel. She said she’d just gotten off her work shift and would make it worth my while if I stopped by. I made sure it was worth her while, three times.

  It works. She’s a known entity, gorgeous, and a great lay that comes with no strings attached. But I sure as hell hadn’t wanted to fall asleep here.

  The warmth of her skin intermingles with mine as she rolls over and spoons me, and I stir as one of her arms slides around my shoulder. Her fingers trail lightly from my neck to my chest to my stomach, but I catch her wrist before she can go any lower.

  “Well, look at you. You’re awake after all,” she purrs into my ear.

  “Barely,” I mutter.

  She tosses her hair back and sits up, her hair sexy-messy and falling in her face. She parts her lips, licking them as she gazes down at me.

  I know that look, and I cock an eyebrow. “You can’t be ready to go at it again.”

  “I’m game if you are.”

  She rises up to a kneeling position, and I drink up the lithe curves of her body – perfectly naked except for the tiny triangle of fabric that masquerades as underwear. I keep watching her as she stretches, closes her eyes, pushes her hands through her hair and moves her hips more seductively than some of the best strippers in town. Bethany spends hours at the gym to keep that body in top form, and I know she’s intentionally giving me a show and loving the fact that I’m watching every move. Her palms run slowly over her breasts, and the sheet that’s still twisted around the lower half of me starts to rise like a tent.

  Her lips curl in a sly smile as she notices. But then her gaze flicks over to her alarm clock and her smile vanishes. “Oh, shit. Actually I have to meet someone in a bit.” She pauses before adding, “You want to stay? I shouldn’t be gone for too long.”

  The invitation is enough to totally kill my mood. Bethany and I had fun until the early morning hours, sure. But the more time we spend together, the more awkward it gets.

  “I have to get to work.”

  She shrugs and climbs off the bed, her eyes sweeping over me a little greedily. “See you sometime soon?”

  “Sure.” My tone is noncommittal as I get out of bed and grab my jeans from the floor. She narrows her eyes at me as I take out a dollar bill from my wallet and walk over to her.

  “Thanks for last night,” I say with a smirk as I tuck it into her thong.

  “You’re a pig, Connor,” she shoots back, but she winks and takes the dollar. She flounces over to the master bathroom, and I laugh. It’s a joke that we have going. Sometimes I’ll leave the dollar by the nightstand before I take off, other times she’ll leave me a dollar on the pillow for when I get over here.

  I hear her start up the shower, and my mood feels a shade darker as I snatch up the clothes I’d worn last night.

  I get dressed, stepping my way through the piles of Bethany’s clothing littering the carpet. The coffeepot is programmed and already going when I get out to the kitchen, and I’m grabbing a mug from the cupboard when my phone rings.

  Elle again. Of course.

  “That does it. I’m changing my number,” I mutter into the phone without preface.

  “Chill the hell out,” she snaps. “Although you might not be able to when you hear this.” I hear her intake and release of breath. “I just saw Cruz.”

  My grip tightens on the phone, my jaw clenches. Thanks to the whole puking incident, I hadn’t gotten the in
formation about Cruz I needed from Elle last night, and now her tone makes it sound like I’m out of time. Elle’s words are drawn-out and heavy, her tone grave, and while it speaks volumes, I need cold facts, not her feelings on the subject. The back of my neck pricks uncomfortably, as if Cruz is in the room with me right now, watching. He’d always been observant, watching and sizing people up. He’s like me in that way, but only in that way.

  “Where is he now?”

  “Don’t know. My guess is he’s staying with friends or at a cheap hotel –”

  “I gotta say, Elle,” I interrupt. “For a second, I was sure you were going to say he was staying with you.”

  She huffs. “Look, hun, I’m not masterminding any of this. And I’m actually on your side, in case you forgot. I’m just the messenger here.”

  I make a mental note of this. “Right. And how is it that he even found you?”

  “Cruz found me exactly like you found me,” she says with exaggerated patience. “By asking my overly-trusting parents for my address. Believe me, I didn’t ask for this.” She hesitates. “He wanted to know where he could find you today, but I didn’t tell him anything.”

  Maya is on the docket for the day, and I can picture her reaction if she ever sees him – so much like me in his appearance, but so not like me in all of the important ways. The last thing I need is for my twin brother to track me down and show up out of the blue when I’m with a client.

  “What did he say? Why is he here now after all this time? Elle, don’t you think that if he actually gave a shit about you, he would have made the effort a little earlier?”

  She falls silent, and I know my comment hurt her. I don’t totally blame Elle for all of this, though I do suspect she encouraged him to come more than she’ll ever admit. Cruz is a wild element, volatile, and unpredictable. He’s impulsive, where I try not to be. We both went through the same shit growing up, but I finished high school and then literally pushed myself to my limits as a SEAL. Cruz dropped out of school when he was fifteen, landed himself in juvie for disorderly conduct and again for aggravated assault by the time he was seventeen. Guilty of a multitude of other crimes but no jail time, at least not yet.

  He and I might be blood, but we’re as different as night and day.

  Bethany walks into the kitchen, her hair damp and her eyes settling on me with interest when she sees I’m still in her apartment and drinking out of one of her coffee mugs.

  “Hey, I’ll call you back in a minute,” I mutter to Elle before ending the call. Bethany’s pouring coffee into a travel mug, but I can tell by the interested look on her face that she’s eavesdropping.

  “Hot date?” Bethany asks breezily. She snaps the lid on her mug and raises it to her lips, one eyebrow lifted in a delicate arch.

  “No.” I leave it at that, hoping she will too, but I feel her blue gaze bore into the side of my head.

  “You know it’s cool if you do, right?” She hesitates. “Hey, Connor. Can I tell you something?”

  Hell, I should have taken off when I had the chance and suffered until I could get to a Starbucks. I hate morning-after-sex conversations, and this one is rapidly becoming unbearable. My gaze finally meets hers, and she unfortunately takes that as encouragement to go on.

  “I started seeing someone. We’ve actually been dating for a couple of weeks.” Her cheeks flush pink. “You and me, babe – what we have is pretty amazing, but… I’m sorry. I guess I should have told you last night, huh?”

  The way she’s looking at me is like she’s trying to soften the blow. But that’s the thing – there isn’t one. I’m not surprised one bit that Bethany’s screwing someone else. There are thousands of reasons why we aren’t more than we are, and I don’t want to think about any of them.

  And now Bethany’s looking at me with a mixture of regret and hope in her eyes, like she wants me to say that everything is cool and that I’ll still come by. But I know in this moment that I won’t. We’d had our fun, but I have no desire to be the “other guy.” Not for anyone.

  I move the distance between us and touch her chin. She tilts her head up, and I lean down and kiss her coolly on the forehead.

  “Good luck with everything.”

  “Oh. Yeah. You too.” She draws back from me, the flush that was in her cheeks now gone, and forces a smile. “I had a good time. We could have been something maybe.”

  I doubt that. I feel her eyes on me as I leave, but I don’t look back.

  I stand outside the door to one of the VIP suites, running through my mental file of her.

  Maya Coplin. Thirty-seven years old, Texas native, inherited most of her money from her grandfather. Loves her jewelry and likes to dress like a fifties Hollywood starlet. Her poker face is a mixture of sultry and flirtatious looks, but she’s as cool and calculated as any of the boys, and she has bigger balls than most of them.

  The first time we met was in a different casino, and I was trying my luck at poker out on the main floor. I noticed her right away – anyone with a working set of eyes would notice Maya. I also noticed the worthless piece of shit across the table from me checking her out as she walked out of the high roller room. He cashed out right away and followed her off the floor. I tailed both of them to one of the elevators and grabbed him right after he pushed her into the doors and snatched her purse.

  Maya had asked me for my name, and I’d given it to her. She approached me the next morning after she ran a check on me. The Navy SEAL background had clinched it for her, and she came up with an offer that was too good to turn down. I had nothing else lined up at the time and had been trying to figure out what to do next. At the very least, I figured I’d help her out while she was in town. I had no idea how well connected she was.

  I owe a lot to her – all of my initial clients were referrals that she sent my way, and now Neil and I both have a respectable list of exclusive clientele that keep us busy.

  For the next fourteen days, I’ll provide more than security for Maya. I’ll also be her companion, conspirator, and protection against bad juju (so she claims).

  I dial up the appropriate level of charm before I knock on her door. I’m wearing a dark blue t-shirt, dark jeans, and a casual jacket to conceal the Sig Sauer I keep on my belt. She prefers me dressing like her boy toy instead of a hired thug – her words. She’s particular about a lot of things.

  I hear the click of high heels, a pause as she checks that it’s me before flinging the door open. She doesn’t disappoint – she never does. It’s just past noon, but she’s decked out in an evening dress, pink silk with a plunging neckline, her hair shining in soft blonde waves that flow over one shoulder.

  Last time I worked for her was back in the middle of April. She was lucky on that trip, gambling big and winning big, and when I picked her up at McCarran last night, she acted relaxed and happy.

  I smile at her. “Hi, beautiful. It’s been too long.”

  Her eyelashes flutter over baby blues. “Fourteen hours is too long to be away from you, you tall, gorgeous, drink of water.” Her voice is sultry and smoother than honey.

  It’s how we always greet each other, the cheesier the better. I laugh, and she gives me a perfect pink smile, but the expression in her eyes stays cool. The clock is ticking, and I need to get her down to the casino floor so she can play.

  I offer my arm. “Ready?”

  “Of course I am.” A sparkle flashes in her eyes. “What a silly question, darling.”

  I can almost feel the excitement flow through her as she slips her hand through my arm. High rollers are all junkies in a way, addicts looking for their next rush that comes from taking the risk. Even though I’m out on the floor almost every single day with them, I work hard to distance myself from all of that. The kinds of highs and lows that serious players go through are equivalent to the shit that I had to watch my father go through with drugs, what Cruz was starting to get into when he was a teenager. Gambling’s the same, just a different drug.

  Thinki
ng about Cruz makes a dark place in my gut roil with hatred and contempt. I shove the feeling back down, where it can’t do me any harm.

  “Connor,” Maya drawls. “I have missed you. Are you sure you can’t offer 24-hour security for your oldest client?”

  I cock an eyebrow, and she winks. Maya knows I keep everything professional with my clients, no exceptions.

  “If I didn’t prefer older women, I might take you up on that, Mrs. Coplin,” I tease. “But you can’t be a day older than twenty-one.”

  We come to a stop in front of the row of elevator doors, and she fans herself for show. “Goodness. What would the late Mr. Coplin think if he could hear the things you say to me?”

  I never met the late Mr. Coplin, and only know from what Maya said that he’d been older than her and that he’s dead. Don’t know more than that and don’t want to. I don’t like to know what my clients’ home lives are like, whether they’re happy in other aspects of their lives. As long as they’re happy with me, I’m good.

  She lifts her chin as she tucks her evening bag under her arm. “I thought we’d go visit Max today.”

  I raise my eyebrows. Maxwell’s Room is the high-limit poker room, and it has a ten thousand dollar buy-in, minimum. Maya usually doesn’t hit Maxwell’s at the start of her stay. Plus, that’s where she cleaned up last time, and she’s always been superstitious about playing the same place twice in a row.

  “You sure?” I know she won’t be offended by me asking.

  She shrugs delicately, as if the decision is nothing. But I know otherwise, that she worked out a strategy in her head. “I have a good feeling about this, darling.”

  “Then you got this,” I say easily.

  “With you by my side, always.”

  It’s all banter. Nothing is guaranteed in this city, and we both know it.

  But I feel off today. As we walk through the casino floor, every time I see my reflection, it’s as if Cruz is glaring back at me like a fucking ghost.