MJ paused to let that sink in. She did need him. She needed him to keep her safe from pineapple, to cook when everyone got sick of eggs and takeout, to make life real. And she needed him to need her, too.
“I do need him.”
“But does he know it?”
First her best friend and now this brief acquaintance? Maybe Lisa and Jerry had a point—maybe it was time to ask for help before she lost everything.
Chapter Seventeen
MJ left Jerry at the elevators with the promise to buy him a drink for being such a great listener.
In her room she flopped on the bed, letting his advice sink in. It was the polar opposite of everything Barbara Olson hammered into her brain since birth. She was raised to not need others, to solve her own problems, and up until now, that had seemed to work—until it hadn’t.
Her phone buzzed. Chris. Her breath caught with relief and surprise that he was actually calling her. He wanted to talk. She answered, heart in her throat, like a teenager whose crush was on the line.
“Hey. Glad you answered. How’s it going?” Chris asked. He sounded so normal, like this was any other phone call. Not like they had barely spoken over the last few months.
“Good. It’s been a busy day, one of those days that seems to last forever because I’ve done so much. Lisa and I saw the Bellagio fountains and I made a new friend at the table.” It was so easy to slip into normal conversation with him, to want to tell him every detail.
MJ got off the bed to look out the large window overlooking the glittering lights below her. It all seemed so far away. She knew how noisy it was on the street level, but from up here, it all looked like silent, moving lights. The distance played with the perception of reality.
“Cool.” MJ waited for him to say more, until the silence stretched to match the distance between them.
“Is there a reason you called?” MJ asked, scrounging for something to keep the conversation going.
“Yeah. I need the password to the brokerage accounts. I want to update our finances and I can’t remember where they are written down.”
MJ leaned her head against the window, staring down the side of the hotel. She closed her eyes when the height started to make her dizzy. He was calling to get a password, not because he missed her. How could she broach everything she was feeling in the face of such a mundane request?
“It’s on the Post-it under the phone on your desk.”
“Great, thanks.” And he hung up. MJ held the phone to her ear for a few more minutes, until she had to accept he wasn’t calling back.
These roller-coaster emotions were too much. It was like her heart was being drawn and quartered, stretched to its limits. Each new tear stung as she realized how far she and Chris had drifted. Eventually, her heart would completely break apart. How much more could it take? Too many thoughts raced in different directions. She needed to calm her mind.
She looked in the bathroom at the palatial bathtub. If she stood in the middle of it, it almost hit her hips. Maybe a long bath and a movie would give her time to think. But she knew that wouldn’t be enough. She needed her fix.
MJ pulled out her clothes for the night, one of the new outfits Lisa had convinced her to buy—a fitted cobalt-blue dress that hit her curves in the right spots, with ruching that hid the ones in the wrong spots. With the right bra and Spanx, it rocked her curves so well—Mae West would have been jealous.
With her heart still back in Wisconsin, she couldn’t really focus on the opportunities around her. She slipped into her evening finery and superhigh heels with rhinestones twirling around the stiletto. In her battle gear, confidence surged and purpose filled her. Time to go to work. She left the suffocating, silent room, eager to disappear into the game.
As she walked to the elevator, her phone rang again. It was her mom.
“Hey, Ma.”
“Margaret June, I hear you’re in Vegas! What are you doing there?”
During the elevator ride and the long walk to the poker room, MJ filled her in on everything, from Chris and Tammie to Doyle and his life-threatening cocktail.
“When are you going to learn to not accept drinks made by anyone but yourself? You should know better.” That was her sage advice? Don’t take drinks from strangers? MJ rolled her eyes and sat down on a bench near the poker room. The heels may have been a mistake.
“Is there a reason you’re calling, Ma?”
“I almost forgot.” Her mom paused. “I don’t know how to tell you this, especially with so much going on right now with you and Chris. The timing isn’t the greatest, but I hope you’re happy for me.”
“Ma, get to it.”
“Well, me and Gordon are getting married! And we want to do it soon. Oh, maybe we can go to Vegas?” MJ could tell that Barbara held the phone away from her mouth as she shouted, “Hey, Gordo, what about Vegas?”
There was a muffled response.
“He likes the idea. I’ll have to use the Google and look for information.”
“Ma, it’s just Google, not the Google. And that sounds like a lovely idea. I can get some info while I’m here. I’m really happy for you.” Her words clanged as she said them.
“Could you? Find out where the best Elvis weddings are. Send me an e-mail when you can. Gotta go.”
“Love you, too.”
MJ held the silent phone in her hands, watching people come and go from the poker room. Slot machines jangled with their promise of easy riches, and tourists strolled by in comfortable shoes on their way to a buffet dinner or a show. Her mom could be one of those people in a few days, walking hand in hand with Dr. VanderHouse, “Gordo,” apparently.
MJ was so confused. She was hurt by Chris for talking to Tammie. She was angry at herself because it bothered her. She was happy for her mom, but felt betrayed after all the years of having “depend only on yourself” hammered into her head. Now Gordo would be her stepdad, making Mike her stepbrother. Holidays would be more interesting, at least.
With a wince, she stood and strode to the poker room, putting her name in and sliding into an empty place to get what she needed right now. Her once clear and organized life had been dumped on the floor like a game of 52 Pickup. She knew she needed to take the time to sort it all out, but all she really wanted to do was escape to the serenity of the felt.
MJ pulled up the corner of her cards. A pocket pair—tens. Not bad. She bet—finally.
The tables were full and raucous tonight and the players here were more aggressive than back home. Two opponents came with her—Larry and Moe, she called them. Curly had folded. The flop gave her a third ten, but there was a flush possibility. Fourth street—the fourth shared card, as she had figured out when Doyle kept using it during the lesson—made the flush more likely. She looked over the men, keeping her hands calmly folded in front of her. Larry and Moe looked the same—relaxed and cool—while her heart raced and sweat dripped down her back. She had almost a third of her chips in the pot. She should fold. Larry or Moe probably had the flush; then she’d be out. Fifth street came and it made a pair on the board. She had a full house—tens over fours. There were other hands that could beat it, but not many. Larry bet and Moe folded. It was to her. She looked at Larry and there it was—little flick of his tongue. He hadn’t done that when he had a straight a few hands ago. He was trying to see what she had.
She swallowed hard and shoved all-in, then returned to her pose. Larry smiled.
“I like you.” He had a Russian accent. “I know you have me beat. You have the nuts, don’t you? How’s this? I fold if you promise to show your hand.”
Against her better judgment, MJ humored him with an answer. “Now, dear, I don’t show anything for free. If you want to see, you need to pay.”
Larry laughed and folded his cards. “Smart girl.”
MJ’s chest eased and her muscles relaxed. All the misery of earlier was in the distance, too. She could think clearly and found that emotional detachment let her approach her problems mo
re rationally. Tomorrow was the tournament; she’d play her best and then she could go home and finally have the conversations she and Chris needed to have. No storming off. No quitting until they both had their say. They both needed to be reminded why they fell in love to begin with. Simple as that.
Larry seemed unfazed that she’d more than doubled her chips. Instead, he looked over her shoulder and his eyes widened.
“Bit of nice playing there,” an Irish voice said behind her.
MJ turned in her seat and looked up into Doyle’s grinning face.
“Nicer dress.” He was looking straight down.
“Enjoy the view while you can.” She turned back to the game.
He pulled an empty chair to sit behind her and chat while the next hand started. MJ looked at her cards and folded.
“What are you messing about out here for?” he asked.
MJ looked over her shoulder at him.
“Where else would I play?”
“The Fourth Leaf.” He pointed to the VIP room.
“Are you going to front me the cash to get in there? Because I can’t afford that.”
Doyle looked at her chip stack pointedly. “Aye, I will. You played well this morning, and I want to play with you again—see how you do with real stakes.”
MJ rolled her eyes. “I can’t let you do that. I’m not good enough to play in there. I could lose your money.”
Doyle smiled.
“Playing in there isn’t about being good enough; it’s about having the cash to not get wiped out. The players aren’t any better than these guys. They just have more disposable income for you to take.” He paused. “How about this: I’ll front you the chips and if you end the evening up, you get to keep half the winnings.”
“And if I lose?”
“Then I lose the money. That’s why it’s called gambling, right?”
MJ turned back to the game. She shouldn’t really leave so soon after winning such a large pot—bad poker etiquette.
“Go,” Larry said when she caught his eye. “You’d be a fool to turn down that offer.”
MJ smiled at him and started racking her chips. Doyle stood and waved over an attendant.
“Can you rack MJ’s chips and cash them out, please, then bring it to TFL? She’ll be playing at my table.”
The host nodded and Doyle took MJ’s arm and led her back to the VIP room. Eyes touched her back, watching Doyle and trying to guess who she might be. She’d come looking for a distraction, yes, but Doyle might be a bit more than she could handle.
“And there we were, racing remote control boats through Treasure Island’s pirate show. I thought we were finally going to get arrested,” said Lloyd between laughs. An hour into play and MJ’s—actually Doyle’s—stack had dwindled, but she was laughing too much at the banter among these funny, familiar players. All of them, besides her and Jerry, were regulars in TFL. Their stories drove home how different—and exciting—their lives were compared to hers. The most excitement she found back home was coming up with believable excuses to get out of attending the never-ending circuit of at-home business parties—a woman only needed so many organic cleaners or expensive candles.
“MJ, has anyone challenged you to a prop bet yet?” Jerry asked. She had been surprised and happy to see his familiar face at Doyle’s table.
She scrunched her face, thinking. “A prop bet? Never heard of it.”
Doyle clapped his hands together, then rubbed them. “Well, lads, I think there’s some fun to be had here. Let’s pop her prop cherry.”
“The first time is always the most exciting. I’m in,” she said.
“So eager and she has no idea what we’re talking about. My kind of girl,” Doyle said.
“Be careful what you agree to. Prop bets are serious business to this crowd,” Jerry said.
“So what are they?”
“Proposition bets. And they can be anything. We like to bet on everything, and half the fun is devising ridiculous wagers. For example, I once challenged Lloyd”—he pointed across the table—“to a paddleboat race across Lake Mead. I won ten grand off that one.”
“I still contend you cheated,” Lloyd said.
“How do you cheat during a paddleboat race?” Jerry rolled his eyes.
“Sounds like fun. I want in.” MJ nodded her head.
Doyle leaned to whisper in her ear. “I’m sure I can think of a few interesting wagers. Money need not be involved.”
MJ shivered as his breath moved her hair, but she gathered her wits and gently pushed him away.
“We’ll have to see when the opportunity presents itself.” MJ winked.
“Doyle, where are those lovely blondes? They added to the decor in here, even if they sucked the brain power out of the place,” Jerry said.
“I’m looking to trade up. Perhaps a brunette this time.” Doyle nudged his leg against MJ under the table. She stomped on his foot.
“You can’t just trade up because you want to. What do you bring to the table?” MJ said.
Doyle smiled at MJ, his eyes twinkling.
“I make fantastic eggs in the morning.”
MJ looked at him down her nose.
“I can make my own eggs.” Truth. It was her one kitchen skill.
“Not as good as mine.” Doyle smirked.
“And that, kids, is how a prop bet is made,” said Jerry.
MJ laughed.
“Is that all it is? I challenge you to an egg cook-off?”
“Let’s take it out to the floor,” said Jerry. “We’ll have a table out there to taste and vote. They won’t know who made them, so no cheating possible.” That last with a knowing look at Lloyd.
“Agreed. But we need to make the same kind of eggs,” Doyle said.
“I suggest scrambled. Basic ingredients. No bacon or cheese. This is a technique challenge,” MJ said.
“Are you suggesting your technique is better than mine?” Doyle flipped a chip over his knuckles.
“I’m not suggesting it. I know it.”
“Excellent. Now, the wager.” Doyle leaned closer and whispered into her ear. “I win—you spend the night and I’ll make you breakfast in the morning.” MJ couldn’t stop the blush from spreading. She would never be ready for that level of gambling. She pushed him back a few inches.
“That’s not going to help my bankroll. I’d prefer cash. Five hundred says my eggs are better than yours.”
“Done.” He flipped his chip using his thumb and caught it on the back of his hand. “I’ll have everything arranged and we can do this now. Hey, Ginger.” He got up to speak with the attendant, explaining the items they’d need. Before she disappeared, he took the chip he had been playing with—a hundred-dollar chip—and slipped it into her hand.
MJ looked at Jerry. “This is the easiest money I’ve ever made.” She could barely boil water, but she could make fantastic scrambled eggs. She’d been making them at least twice a week since the kids were born. Easy as pie.
A half hour later, Ginger wheeled in two carts with all the ingredients and equipment they’d need.
She kicked off her heels and wrapped an apron around her waist. No need to ruin her new outfit. Side by side, they whisked and seasoned while the other players catcalled and made side bets. MJ was pleased to learn she was the two-to-one favorite. Even Zoe and Ginger, the room attendants, were getting in on the action. Doyle leaned over and turned off her burner when she had her back turned, hoping to swing the odds in his favor. Rookie. She could make scrambled eggs with two toddlers hanging on her arms. Her heart pinged that they weren’t here to see their mom kicking ass with her egg-making skills. She couldn’t wait to tell them, but for now, she needed to keep her mind on the task at hand.
As soon as the eggs were done and plated, Zoe and Ginger whisked them out to the floor still hot. All the players in TFL lined the frosted windows to peek out at the nonfrosted section, a reverse from the norm. The eggs were served, and the girls collected paper votes.
; “I should have wagered more,” MJ said.
“Confident, are you?” Doyle said. “You should have taken the first offer. I would have agreed to any sum if a night with you were on the table.” His voice was husky in her ear, his Irish lilt dancing over the words and down her spine. He wasn’t touching her, but she could feel every inch of him; the air between them could singe. She held his blue eyes with her own.
“I’m married,” she whispered, then took a deep breath and spoke with a firmer voice. “And a night with me is not a prize to be won like a stuffed panda at the state fair.”
His lips twitched into a smile, then turned as Zoe and Ginger returned. “The results are in.”
Zoe waved the ballots. “We’ve counted and, based on our ten tasters, it’s a landslide. MJ won.”
The room echoed with hoots and demands for payment. Doyle bowed his head, took five one-hundred-dollar chips off his stack, and set them in MJ’s open palm one at a time, careful to graze her skin with each addition, never taking his eyes off her face. Her knees softened with each touch. Ridiculous. Chris could once make her knees wobble with a wink and a smile—especially one of his special smiles. But that early excitement waned decades ago.
She knew there was a line she couldn’t cross, but Doyle made her reckless. Whatever his reasons, he seemed to want her and made his desires clear. He made her feel beautiful and sexy and wild, made the line look too easy to skip right over.
MJ pulled in her rampaging emotions, using all the discipline she could find, and returned to the game, slipping the extra chips into her purse.
“All right, gents, let’s have some fun with Doyle’s money.”
Chapter Eighteen
The hustle and bustle of Vegas never stopped, especially at the Starbucks. There were two times a day when the city seemed to switch over. Around ten at night, the cargo shorts—wearing tourists were gradually replaced by beautiful women in designer dresses and impossibly high heels with well-groomed men in sport coats and pressed button-down shirts. They sat down to late-night dinners and went dancing at one of the many clubs just opening their doors. Around seven in the morning, the reverse happened. Stragglers, still robed in short, sparkly dresses and carrying their impossibly high heels or now wrinkled sport coats, arrived for a morning fix before crawling away to sleep off last night’s fun, while fresh-faced folks, ready for a day at Hoover Dam or exploring the Neon Boneyard, clamored for their morning caffeine kick.
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