Out of Aces (Betting Blind #2)

by Stephanie Guerra

  “You promise you’ll call me later? I’ve left a lot of messages!”

  “I promise. ’Bye.” I set down the receiver. Then I sat in Nick’s chair and leaned over the desk, waiting for my pulse to go back to normal. My real life had touched my fake life, and it felt like an electric shock.

  Of course it wasn’t Irina.

  Finally I stood. I’d tell Nick the call was some kind of family emergency. If he asked. I glanced around as I headed for the door. On the coffee table was a bottle of cognac, a matchbook, and a WIRED magazine. A woman’s coat was thrown on the couch, long and white, with light blue lining. Nick liked his women classy, like everything else.

  I pushed open the door. Nick was still in the hall, standing a little way down, texting. He looked up. “All done?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Hang on.” Nick slipped his phone in his pocket and walked toward me. “I want to talk to you for a second.” He reached past me and opened his office door again.

  The GED, that had to be it. Or the Sheriff’s Card. Damn. I’d had enough time to get good fakes, but I’d been so busy, I’d let it slide. Shoulders slumping, I followed Nick back into his office.

  “Shut the door behind you.” Nick dropped into the armchair that Lars usually used and leaned back with a sigh. “Busy night.” He eyed me. “How do you like the job so far? Is it what you expected?”

  “It’s great,” I said uneasily. “The money’s good. Yeah, it’s what I expected.”

  “Good, I’m glad to hear it. Happy with your shifts?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do you like working with Rob?”

  Is this his game? Playing people against each other? “I like Rob,” I said. “He’s a good guy.”

  “Good.” Nick smiled gently—such a strange expression for him that a creepy feeling rolled down my spine. “You know what I like about Rob?” he said. “I can really trust him. All this with the cops.” Nick waved a hand. “Rob’s never involved. He never solicits anything. Some of the waitresses do, though. And bottle runners. It’s hard to find people you can trust.”

  “Yeah, true.” My neck was prickling.

  “Hang on, let me check a text.” Nick arched in his chair, dug out his phone again, and glanced at it. He typed something quickly. Then he looked up at me. “Yours is the gray Altima, right?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Some asshole just dinged it in the lot. You got the keys on you?”

  These questions didn’t even make sense. “Yeah, I mean—”

  There was a light knocking at the door, and Nick called, “Troy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come in.”

  The door opened and two guys stepped in. One was a thick-necked bull, hands as big as dinner plates. He had buzzed silver hair and small glasses. The other was younger, smaller, with eyes like shards of green glass. His head was shaved, bluish white, and inked all over. There was an AB just below his ear. Aryan Brotherhood. Who the hell were these guys?

  “That him?” said the older one, looking me over.

  Cold fear sliced down my torso.

  Nick nodded. “Troy, cover him, will you?”

  Casually, the older guy reached into his jacket and pulled out a stubby black gun. He pointed it at me, and AB stepped to my side.

  I froze, my chest squeezing with panic. My vision blurred, then focused on that gun.

  Nick hadn’t moved from his chair. “When that phone call came through for you,” he said softly, “your mother asked for Gabe, the waiter. I said we don’t have any waiter named Gabe. Is she talking about Gabe the bartender? She said no, Gabe’s too young to bartend. Then she described you.”

  I licked my lips, lightheaded enough to pass out, and took a shaky step backward.

  Nick nodded, and for a second I thought he was nodding at me. But then AB threw a swift jab in my eye and pain burst into my skull like a firecracker as my head snapped to the side. Hurt so bad, I couldn’t breathe. I crumpled to my knees and caught the edge of the coffee table to keep from falling to the floor. There was a roaring in my ears, and my thoughts came in jerks: Have to run. Get away.

  “You’re trying to play me? Get my club shut down?”

  I shook my head and stayed in a crouch, shaking. Can I fight my way to the door? But they had a gun. Something wet was sliding down my cheek. I touched it, and my fingers came back red.

  “You’re over, you little fucker,” said Nick. He stood up. Through my good eye, I saw his face swimming above me. “I never liked you. I never liked you. Don’t move. You’re going on a ride.” Troy moved next to him, squinting curiously, the cold metal mouth of the gun a perfect circle above me.

  Blood dripped down my ear, trickling down my neck.

  My mind was blank with panic.

  “He said his keys are on him. Check his pockets,” said Nick.

  The nose of Troy’s gun settled on my temple and AB ran heavy hands down my sides. He yanked my keys out of my pocket. The only thing I could feel was the cold metal biting my skin, just above my eye, and my heartbeat breaking through my chest.

  “There’s duct tape in the top drawer,” said Nick.

  A drawer creaked open, and I heard a ripping sound.

  I finally reacted—jumped up and tried to swing—but AB was on me instantly. He twisted my arms almost out of the sockets, and something sticky snapped around my wrists.

  “Nick,” I croaked.

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “I’ll pay you. Let me go.” Blood had gotten into my mouth, and I had a hard time getting the words out clearly.

  Troy chuckled. “Nick doesn’t need money.”

  Nick said, “Give me the keys. I’ll have someone pull his car around.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  My cheek pressed into the upholstery, and I stared at the papers tucked in the magazine net. The air was thick with cigarette smoke. I was twisted at an awkward angle, knees shoved in to fit in the car, wrists burning under the tape.

  “Slow down, we don’t want to get pulled over,” said Troy.

  AB glanced back at me. Every time I saw his eyes, I felt like throwing up. I was tied too well to move. My teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. Lights flashed on and off, and I couldn’t tell if they were coming from outside, or if they were in my head. Pain roared steadily through my eye, piercing my cheek and neck.

  Suddenly, the road smoothed out, and the Altima picked up speed. Trucks clanked and rattled. Tires sliced by. The freeway. Then it really hit me: they were going to kill me and dump my body somewhere.

  I squeezed my good eye shut. I saw Irina, Mom, Missy, Kyle, Forrest. And other girls, the ones before Irina. Irina was the only one I had been good to. The only one I’d been loyal to.

  And then I messed it up.

  If I could change one thing, that would be it. Sticky tears oozed from my eyes, and my face stung and throbbed with the salt.

  What did I do with my life?

  Nothing.

  God, if you’re real, give me another chance.

  We made a hard turn, and the Altima lurched into a pothole and thumped over rocks. But we didn’t slow down. There were really no lights now, not even headlights. Just pure dark. We were driving into the desert.

  “This is far enough. I have to get home sometime tonight,” said Troy.

  AB hit the brakes and the car bumped to a stop. The engine shuddered off and something clicked. Fresh smoke filled the car. There was no sound but AB’s slow inhale. No hum of traffic and electricity, sounds you don’t notice until they’re missing.

  In the silence, my pain slipped away. I could see better, almost as if I had night vision. My heart thudded like a powerful drum. I knew I could run miles in an instant if I could just get free. I was ready. I’d go down fighting. Give them something to remember me by.
<
br />   Troy sighed. “You can smoke later. Let’s do this.”

  The front doors opened and cold air gusted in. Footsteps crunched outside. I pulled my knees to my chest, muscles ready to explode.

  AB opened the door and leaned in, reaching for my ankles. I kicked hard, putting all my force into his gut. He flew back, and I pulled in my legs like a switchblade, ready to snap out again.

  There was cursing and fast footsteps. The other door, by my head, ripped open like it was being torn off. “You bastard,” spit AB, as he yanked me out by the armpits. I fell on the ground, twisted, and tried to kick him again, but he’d stepped aside and my legs swung uselessly.

  He pulled back his boot—and a bomb crashed into my ribs. My breath whistled and squeaked. He kicked again, and my left side exploded. I sucked for air. The next time his boot came, I flipped over, and he missed, tripping forward.

  Troy laughed. “You need some help?”

  “No.” There was a click.

  “Put that away.” The laughter was gone from Troy’s voice. “We’re not supposed to clip him. Cool down.” He crouched by me, keeping away from my feet. “You an idiot or what?” he said in a low voice. “If you keep doing this shit, he’ll kill you, and I won’t be able to stop him. Understand?”

  I spit out some blood and tried to nod.

  Troy stood up. “Now take your beating like a man and don’t fuck with Nick again.”

  I took one quick breath before the next kick came. I’m not going to die. A foot stamped my shoulder. I’m not going to die. Blows like a battering ram, AB getting his revenge. The last thing I saw was his boot pulling back like a trigger a few inches from my eyes.

  I woke up tasting grit and blood. Shapes blurred in and out, pointy and strange. Metal? Plants? I was cold. The wind raked over me like flowing ice. I tried to roll over and my ribs screamed. I touched my chest—then lifted my hands to my face. The tape was still on my wrists, but it had been sliced neatly down the middle. Troy.

  The cold was breaking into my bones, and if I didn’t move, I was afraid of what might happen. Groaning, I pulled myself up and looked around.

  They were gone. And so was my car. The desert spread out in every direction, spiny trees making strange black shapes against the sky. Weeds and grass ruffled with the wind, and little bursts of sand stung my raw skin.

  I was hurt bad; I knew that. Mostly in my ribs and right shoulder. I lifted my arm, and it felt like I was tearing myself open. Okay. I would call 9-1-1. Somebody would come find me. They had ways of tracking people.

  With short puffs of air, because it hurt so much, I felt in my pocket for my phone.

  But my pocket was empty.

  I dug deeper. Nothing. I patted my other pocket. No phone. No wallet. They’d taken everything. A strange sound crept out of my lips, and I swiped my pockets again, pulling them inside out.

  Almost everything. They’d missed a business card tucked in deep. A thin white-and-blue rectangle. Helios. Greek food and dancing. I had no idea what it was. I turned it over and stared at the little bunch of grapes on the card, totally confused.

  Then I remembered Kosta. It seemed like I had met him in a different world, or a different century. I’d gone to church for Irina. The thought of her gave me a little push.

  I crawled a few feet and used a tree to drag myself to standing. The pain was so intense that I swayed for a minute, the scrawny tree swaying with me, weeds pricking my ankles. I looked up and couldn’t find the moon. The sky was blackish gray with white threads of clouds.

  Then I looked on the ground for tire marks, and the sandy dirt sparkled in the starlight. A few feet from where I’d been lying, two long snakes of crushed weeds wound into the distance. I started to limp after them.

  Pain can be a friend, because it reminds you you’re alive. And even when your mind says you can’t go another step, your body can decide otherwise.

  I was pretty sure I had broken ribs, because taking deep breaths hurt. So I took little ones. I hit a pace, steady but very slow, picking my way through the scrub and rocks. Lots of rocks. As I walked, I shook and shivered. I could still feel the gun on my temple. I touched the spot a few times to make sure nothing was there. But all I felt was warm, sticky blood and my pulse thudding away.

  Like I was looking through the wrong end of a telescope, I saw my problems. Or what I’d thought were problems: Irina, the GED, Mom and Phil. The strangest feeling crept over me as I hobbled along. Suddenly these “problems” didn’t matter. Not at all. I was alive.

  I said out loud, experimentally, “Okay.”

  I had never realized how much I liked being alive.

  I heard a truck horn blow like a foghorn in the night, and I was surprised at how close it sounded. I limped a little faster. The sky ahead of me began to glow, and then the light gathered into moving streaks. Cars. The question was: Would any of them stop and pick up a bloody, beat-up male hitchhiker?

  It was almost funny how terrified people were, even with their vehicles going eighty and the “threat” on two legs on the side of the road. I saw so many scared faces looking at me from behind glass. Some slowed to gawk at the bloody guy holding onto a highway marker. Some went faster.

  After a while, I got angry. Then finally scared. The burst of survival energy that had gotten me to the highway was fading. What would it take for somebody to stop? Would I have to be lying on the ground with vultures pecking me?

  After twenty or so cars passed—and they were coming far apart—I gave up and started down the stretch of packed dirt that passed for a shoulder. I had to find a gas station. A house. Something. Dust blew in my face, and even though I kept spitting, I couldn’t get rid of the sand and blood in my mouth.

  As I walked, I talked to Irina. I explained everything to her. Made her understand I wasn’t trying to control her. Was just protecting her. But she was so strong that even in my head, I could hear her arguing back.

  I turned a curve in the highway and saw neon in the distance. At first I thought it was one of those desert hallucinations. Except I’d heard they’re usually lakes, not beat-up Arcos. As I got closer, I saw that there was one sad little pump and a lighted sign missing the R. I thought of that station where I’d gotten the root, and my stomach turned. But there were no dream catchers at this one. And it wasn’t like I had a choice.

  The lot was empty except for stacks of yellow firewood and broken-down boxes. The desert crept right to the back of the station, and the spicy smell of plants mixed with fumes from the highway. There was just one old sedan in the lot. Through the glass door, I could see a man bent over a magazine, bald with a dark beard.

  I pushed open the door and limped in. The man reacted so fast, I didn’t even have time to flinch. He jammed a hand under the counter and yelled, “I have my finger on the emergency call button!”

  I stared stupidly. “I need help,” I said. I felt like crying.

  He scraped me up and down with a suspicious look. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “These guys beat me up and stole my car. I just need to use your phone. Please.” And then I started to sway. For one crazy second, I thought the whole gas station was spinning, and then I realized it was me . . . and I hit the floor.

  The guy ran out from behind the counter. “Hey, you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I whispered. The cold tile pressed against my face.

  “No, you’re not,” he said. “Are you shot?”

  “No.” I tried to sit, and he slid an arm under my back and helped me up. “You can sit over here.” He walked me to a rickety folding chair and eased me down. Then he stepped back and passed a hand over his shiny head. “I’ll call the police.”

  “No.” I closed my eyes, and after a moment, opened them again. “Can I use your phone?”

  He frowned. “Why don’t you want me to call the police?”

  “Please.” />
  He sighed. Then he moved a few steps to the freezer case and slid it open, keeping an eye on me. He yanked out a Yoo-hoo and stretched out his arm like he was feeding a wild dog.

  I took it, but my hands were shaking too much to get it open. He grabbed it, twisted off the top, and handed it back. I took a sip, and the sweetness shocked my mouth. I closed my eyes and sipped again. The sugar steadied me. I drank more.

  “Is anybody following you?” the man asked, with a nervous glance at the parking lot.

  I shook my head.

  He looked up at the ceiling and demanded, “Why always my gas station?” Then he went behind the counter and came back with a white cordless. “No long distance,” he warned as he handed it over.

  I took it and stared at the number pad, realizing I had no idea who to call. Irina wasn’t talking to me. If she even answered, what was I going to say? Tell her I was even more of a loser than she already thought? Not that she’d be able to help me anyway.

  Mom would have a heart attack and call the cops, not necessarily in that order. Anyway, she was an eighteen-hour drive away. Berto’s number was in my cell. Same with Rob’s.

  Actually, Irina’s and Mom’s were the only two numbers I had memorized—and they were both long distance.

  “How about 9-1-1?” asked the man.

  I shook my head.

  “Your family?”

  I had to do something before he took back the phone and called the cops. I pulled the Helios card from my pocket. Kosta might not be working. And even if he was, he probably wouldn’t remember me. And even if he did remember me, he’d think I was weird for calling him. And what were the chances that he’d come pick me up?

  But it was the only chance I had. I dialed while the gas station man watched me with a cartoon look of distrust. The phone rang four times before someone answered, and with each ring, the spiral of tension inside me wound tighter.

  “Helios!” The noise in the background was insane: loud music, people yelling, and a crashing sound, almost like glass was breaking.