Out of Aces (Betting Blind #2)

by Stephanie Guerra

  I licked my bloody lips. They felt twice as big as normal. “Is Kosta there?”

  “You need reservation?”

  “No, is Kosta there?”

  “Who do you want to talk to?”

  “Kosta!”

  “Kouris or Andropolous?”

  “I think the first one,” I said.

  “One moment, please.”

  I held on for a lot longer than a moment. The music on the other end was getting faster, and there was stomping, and every now and then, that strange smashing sound. People were starting to make high-pitched yells—that couldn’t be singing—when Kosta picked up. “Hello?” He sounded out of breath.

  I was sick with embarrassment, but I forced myself to talk. “This is Gabe. I met you at church a few weeks ago.”

  “Yes?” He obviously didn’t remember me.

  “You helped me text my girlfriend.” Please let him remember.

  He laughed. “Oh, yeah. You bartend at Hush. We found out who threw her purse at you. Mrs. Katsandres. That was so funny.”

  “Yeah, that’s me.” I took a breath. “I know this is crazy, but I need help. I don’t know anybody else in Vegas to call.”

  “Hold on. Let me go somewhere quieter.” There was a long pause and the noise faded. “What do you need?” Kosta sounded suspicious. The gas station guy was still a few feet away, arms knotted across his chest, staring at me. I frowned and he went behind the counter and pretended to look at a newspaper.

  I lowered my voice and tried to sound normal. Not like the kind of psycho who’d call and ask help from a stranger. “Look. I’m calling from a gas station. This . . . this is what happened. I’m only eighteen. I used a fake ID to get the bartending job. My boss found out, and he had these guys take me into the desert and kick my ass. They stole my car, my phone, and my wallet. I don’t know anybody’s numbers without my phone, but I found your business card in my pocket. I guess it’s been there since you gave it to me. So I walked to a gas station, and I’m using their phone. I just . . . I need a ride home.” I closed my eyes. Please say yes.

  Silence for a moment. Then Kosta said, “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re telling me the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I think so.”

  “They stole your car? Why don’t you call the police?”

  “I’m not messing with N—with my boss again.” I shivered. “Anyway, I’d have to explain why they took me to the desert in the first place.”

  “Oh.” Kosta paused. “That’s amazing, man. You’re eighteen and you had a job at Hush?”

  “It didn’t turn out too well.”

  “I guess not.” There was a pause. “Are you sure you’re telling the truth?”

  “Yes!” I tilted my head back. My eyes were welling up.

  “So, you want a ride? That’s why you’re calling?”

  “Yeah.” The phone was trembling in my hand. “They took my cell, and I don’t know any of my friends’ numbers. I tried hitching, but nobody will stop. I just need to get home.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Um. An Arco.” I looked over at the gas station guy. “What’s the address here?”

  He rattled off, “3240 Red Rock Canyon Road,” and I repeated it to Kosta.

  “Hang on, I’m mapping it.” Kosta paused. “It’s not that far. Can you wait for, like, an hour? I get off work in a little while.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” I took a deep breath. “Thank you!”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you in a while.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Your friend will pick you up?”

  “Yeah. He’s coming in an hour.”

  The gas station guy actually smiled. “I’m Sam.”

  “I’m Gabe.”

  Sam turned the tiny TV on the counter a couple degrees in my direction. “You want a smoke? A burrito? A Slurpee?”

  “Thanks, but I’m cool.”

  Sam shrugged and went down the aisle anyway. When he came back, he was tearing open a pack of diaper wipes. He pulled one out and waved it at me. “You should clean up a little. You might scare your friend.” He snorted a laugh. “You scared me. Bathroom’s over there.”

  “I’m feeling kind of dizzy. I’ll just clean up here,” I said. Whatever survival energy I’d had was gone, and I felt too tired to stand up unless I had to. I took the wipe and gently touched my cheek. My skin throbbed and stung, and the wipe came back bright red. Sam made a motion like, more. So I kept going. I used up eight of those things. Sam pointed out the spots I missed. The smell reminded me of a long time ago, when my mom used to babysit our neighbor’s kid, Jason.

  When I’d cleaned up as best I could, Sam held out a trash can for me to dump the dirty wipes in. Then he grabbed a Snapple from the refrigerator and went back behind the counter. “Let me give you some advice.” His eyes were on the TV—an old Jeopardy rerun. “Never show weakness. Never show fear. Your enemies will smell the fear and have power over you.” He gave me a quick, meaningful look.

  “They had a gun!” I said.

  He shrugged. “Power is in the mind. In the eyes. I would have looked at them like this.” He turned on a stare that made my skin creep, channeling about three thousand watts of rage.

  “That’s scary,” I admitted.

  He tapped his head. “Battles are fought up here.” Then he looked back at the TV.

  We heard the Greeks in the parking lot. There was a screech of tires, a blast of crazy-sounding music, and the slam of car doors.

  A moment later, Kosta and Steve came through the door. They were both wearing sport coats, Kosta’s curls exploding off his head, and Steve with a slick ponytail and a thick gold chain peeking out of his collar. Kosta stopped dead when he saw me. Steve glanced at Sam like maybe he was responsible.

  “I told you I got my ass kicked.” I tried to smile, but my face hurt too badly to move much.

  “Wow,” said Kosta. “Can you walk?”

  “Yeah. My legs are okay.” I forced myself up. Sitting for an hour had frozen my muscles, and it felt like they were ripping as I stood.

  “You need some help?” asked Steve.

  I shook my head and limped toward the door. Kosta and Steve both rushed to hold it open. I raised a hand to Sam. “Thanks,” I said.

  He nodded. “Good luck.”

  We got in the car, an old Corolla, and I buckled up out of reflex—but Kosta and Steve didn’t. Kosta turned the music very low. Steve shook a cigarette out of a box, and offered me one. “No thanks,” I said.

  Kosta drove slowly, carefully onto the highway. “You’re in bad shape, man. You weren’t kidding.”

  “Your face,” Steve put in, “looks like you went through a windshield.”

  “That’s great.” I leaned back and shut my eyes. The car smelled like tobacco and something else, something sweet. Apples. “Thanks for picking me up,” I said. I felt like I was going to lose it and start crying, so I left it there. But I could have said it about twenty more times and it wouldn’t have been enough.

  “Should I take you to the hospital?” Kosta asked. “Maybe you should see a doctor. You don’t want that cut to scar.”

  “No,” I said. I had no insurance, and I knew what happened at hospitals. They nailed you with bills that followed you the rest of your life. “Just home is good. Four Horizons Apartments on Harmon and Tamarus.”

  “Will your parents be there?” Kosta asked.

  I smiled to myself in the backseat. “I live alone. I’ll pay you gas money when we get there.”

  “I don’t want your money!” Kosta sounded shocked. “You live alone? I thought you said you were eighteen.”

  “I am.”

  There was a weird silence. I saw Kos
ta and Steve exchanging looks.

  “I’m taking you to the ER,” said Kosta. “What if you have a concussion or something? You look terrible, man.”

  “No,” I said. “Please. I’ll be fine.”

  Kosta muttered something to Steve in Greek, and they started talking. Good. Maybe they would let me rest. I breathed as deep as I could, trying to ignore the burn in my chest, and to empty my mind.

  I didn’t go to sleep, but I wasn’t exactly awake, either. I heard Kosta and Steve going on and on in Greek, a soft, shushing language, and then the driving changed, with more stops and starts, and I opened my eyes just long enough to see that we were back in the city. A thought floated dimly across my brain: I won’t be able to get into my apartment without my keys . . . Maybe Berto will let me crash at his place until the rental office opens.

  The car ground up a hill, working hard, and Kosta cut the motor. I opened my eyes, fuzzy-headed. The first pale streaks of light, tangerine and gold, were painting the sky. We were in a driveway, facing a typical low Vegas house the color of the desert. The yard had no grass, just a layer of chunky red rocks and a garden of tall, twisted cactuses with spines so thin they looked like hairs.

  I forced myself to speak. “Where are we?”

  Kosta glanced over his shoulder, looking guilty. “Sorry. I couldn’t take you home, man. You’re too messed up.”

  “His dad has a couple doctor friends,” Steve said quickly. “So they’ll just come check you out. And then we’ll drive you home.”

  They had tag-teamed me.

  My brain was shorting. “We’re at your house? No,” I mumbled. “What about your parents?”

  “My parents will love this.” Kosta rolled his eyes. “Believe me.”

  “I’ll be fine. Just take me home.”

  Kosta and Steve exchanged looks. “Dude, you’re making weird sounds when you breathe,” said Kosta. “Your whole face is bloody. I think you’re in shock or something. You said not to take you to the hospital, so I didn’t, but please just let one of my dad’s friends check you out and I swear I’ll drive you home.”

  I was too tired to argue anymore.

  Actually, I needed help to make it into the house. My legs were buckling. I let Steve help me up the walk while Kosta opened the door. I had a flash of New Year’s, leaning on Micah as we left McCaw Hall. What was wrong with me that I was always finding myself in these situations?

  The house was dark and quiet and smelled like good food. There were lace curtains and pictures on the walls, gold paint shining in the dark. I only got a glimpse of one room full of furniture and knickknacks before Kosta led me down a narrow hall and opened a door. “You can sleep in here. We’ll have a doctor come by later.” He pointed across the hall. “The bathroom is right there. You need help?”

  I grimaced and shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, cool. I’ll get you some water. And something to sleep in.”

  Steve had been standing behind us, watching. Now he and Kosta started speed talking in Greek again, and I stumbled into the bathroom to look at my Halloween face.

  I leaned on the sink, staring at the bloody, swollen mess. One eye was completely closed. The other was dark purple, almost black. A bleeding gash ran from my hairline to my cheek. My jaw was scraped raw from the sand. I licked my dry lips and felt one of those insane laughs bubbling up in my chest. I turned on the water to drown out the sound. I only chuckled for a moment. Then I said, “You idiot” to my reflection.

  I dreamed of coffee. Black, black coffee, like all the coffee in the world boiled down into one cup. I wanted some so badly, I went looking through all the rooms of a big house to find it. They were white and empty . . .

  My eyes flew open and I turned my head, breathing hard. A tiny lady was sitting about a foot away, reading a magazine. She lowered the magazine and looked at me curiously. “Good afternoon,” she said. I stared at her in confusion. She had a strong, familiar face. A memory floated up through the fog in my mind. The church parking lot. Kosta’s mom.

  Memories of last night flooded in.

  “Morning,” I croaked, tugging the blanket over my bare chest and looking around. The blinds were down, and thin strips of sun filtered onto the bed. The room was almost bare: just a small wooden dresser, Kosta’s mom’s rocking chair, and some religious pictures on the walls.

  “I stayed in here to make sure you’re okay,” she said. “Kosta tells me you’re hurt, and we need to call a doctor. So we call. But I keep watch.” She leaned forward, and said sternly, “No boys are allowed to die in my house. Sit up, please.”

  I obeyed, still covering myself with the blanket.

  She snorted and reached for my pillow. “You think I don’t see a boy’s chest before? I have three sons!” She gave the pillow a hard shake and propped it on the headboard. “Here.” She handed me a cup. “Greek coffee. Can you drink it?”

  I took a sip. It was the coffee from my dream. Thick and black, almost like oil. “Thank you,” I said. “This is really good.”

  A shadow of a smile flickered on her face. Her black-and-gray hair was down, and her curls were even wilder than Kosta’s. She made a clucking sound. “Look what those animals did to you.”

  I took another sip of coffee. “It’ll heal. I think.”

  She nodded. “Yes. Eleni Petrakis is coming. She was a doctor in Greece many years ago. She will give stitches on your face.”

  I didn’t want to be rude, but “many years ago” worried me. “Is she a doctor here?” I asked.

  Kosta’s mom shrugged. “Sure, she takes care of many Greek people.”

  “But does she, like, work in a doctor’s office?”

  “Why, is a Greek doctor not good enough?”

  “No, no, it’s fine,” I said quickly.

  “What do you like for breakfast?” Kosta’s mom asked after a moment. “Eggs? Yogurt? Galatopita? Galatopita is milk pie, very good. Or koulouri is special sesame bread, also very good.”

  “I’m not that hungry,” I said. “But thanks anyway.”

  Her eyebrows crunched together. “I’ll bring you something.” She stood and left the room.

  Galatopita turned out to be a sweet pudding, kind of lumpy but not bad. Koulouri was bread covered in sesame seeds, which I made myself eat because Kosta’s mom was watching me. I was forcing down a bite when Kosta put his head in the door.

  “Hey,” he said. “How did you sleep?”

  “Pretty good.” I wiped my mouth. “Your mom is taking care of me here.”

  Anatolios squeezed in behind Kosta. His eyes got huge when he saw me.

  Kosta said over his shoulder, “I told you. You owe me twenty bucks.”

  Then Father Giorgios walked in. He was wearing his black dress and XL gold cross, and for one crazy second I thought he slept in his robes—and then I realized he was just dressed for work. He looked at me and ran a hand over his beard. “It looks like you got in a fight with the wrong people. Dr. Petrakis is here to see you.”

  I glanced at the door. People had been coming in, but no one had gone out, and it was getting really crowded in the room. Not to mention that I was still half-naked under the covers. “Um,” I said.

  Everyone was pressing back to make space for a little woman with long black hair and round glasses perched on her nose. She was wearing a jean skirt and a tight black sweater, and she had some sort of scarf around her head. I couldn’t help noticing how pretty she was.

  She set a small leather bag on the bedside table and looked me over. “Let’s take off that blanket, please.” My eyes flew around the room. Is she serious?

  Kosta’s mom caught my look and said, “Give him some privacy. You know how Americans need their space.” She gave Father Giorgios and her sons little pushes on their backs until they were out the door. She winked at me as she followed them and pulled the
door closed—mostly. I noticed she left it open a crack.

  Dr. Petrakis smiled kindly. “Big fight?”

  “Something like that,” I murmured.

  “You’ll need some stitches over your eye, but we can do that in a moment. Why aren’t you taking off the covers? Shy?”

  I cringed. Then I thought, Fine. A hot older woman wants to check me out? I pulled off the blanket, keeping my abs tight.

  Dr. Petrakis gently pressed my shoulders. “I’m going to feel you for swelling. Tell me when it hurts, all right?”

  “It all hurts,” I said, looking into her dark eyes.

  Her mouth turned up in a tiny smile. She pressed lightly along my collarbones and chest. When she got to my ribs, I groaned. “Right there?” she asked, pressing again. I nodded. Little starbursts of pain popped through my chest. “Well, you may have a fractured rib.” She lifted her hands, and I let out my breath. “If you do have a fracture, it should heal in eight weeks. But those may just be deep bruises. You should spend a week in bed, doing nothing. Do you work? Go to school?”

  “Not anymore,” I said.

  She looked surprised. “Okay. Well, just rest, then. Let your family take care of you.”

  I looked away and made a sound like I was agreeing.

  Dr. Petrakis rummaged in her bag. “Let’s get your forehead stitched up. The other cuts should heal on their own.” She snapped on a pair of plastic gloves. Then she held up a shiny needle and threaded it with something like blue dental floss. She leaned in, studying my forehead, the needle just a few inches away.

  “Wait, aren’t you going to give me a painkiller?” I scooted up in bed.

  “I’m only giving you two or three stitches. You want me to ask Father Giorgios for some ouzo?”

  My eyes popped. I knew from Crescent School that ouzo was Greek liquor. “Um, what about, like, real anesthetic? If that’s okay.”

  “Well, I’ll put on something to numb your skin, then.”

  I looked in horror at her focused face as she smeared jelly from a tube on my forehead. The glint in her eyes didn’t seem right. She was obviously the type who liked to dissect frogs in biology.