Out of Aces (Betting Blind #2)

by Stephanie Guerra

  Then the needle hit, and I squeaked loudly. “The anesthetic isn’t working yet!”

  “Hold still,” Dr. Petrakis said. “It’s only a few stitches. Be a man.”

  I glared at her. “It hurts.”

  She winked at me and poked again, quick jabs.

  “Ooooow! Ow! Ow! Ow!”

  “There, all done.” Dr. Petrakis tucked away the needle, felt around in her bag, and pulled out a pill bottle and a small plastic bag. “Let’s give you some extra-strength ibuprofen,” she said, opening the cap and shaking a handful into the bag. She set it on the dresser when she was finished. “Those are four hundred milligrams each. Try not to take more than you need.”

  “Thanks,” I told her.

  I watched Kosta cough another olive pit into his fist and sip tea from a cup that looked like it was made for a queen a thousand years ago. His mom had called this room the saloni when she was pushing us inside, and I was guessing that meant “museum” in Greek. Every time I looked down at the white-and-brown fur rug under my feet, I wondered what kind of animal it came from. There were glass cases on the walls full of wineglasses, plates, and, strangely, a collection of tiny stuffed donkeys.

  Kosta set his tea on a little wood table. “There has to be somebody you can call. Your parents?”

  I shook my head. “It’s cool. I can take care of myself. I just need a ride home, if that’s okay.”

  “Dr. P. said you shouldn’t be alone for the next twenty-four hours. And you don’t have a phone or a car, man. What if you need help, and you can’t even call someone? You’d—” Kosta broke off and frowned at my empty plate. “Hey, why aren’t you eating? You don’t like it?”

  “Your mom gave me a lot of breakfast,” I said, eyeing the ridiculous amount of food in front of us. There was a huge bowl of olives, a plate of dark green logs floating in greenish oil, a bowl of greasy brown balls, a bowl of tan paste, and triangles of bread. Not to mention a pastry platter.

  Kosta scooped a few things onto my plate. “Eat a little. My mom will be upset if we don’t clear off most of this, and I can’t do it all myself. Seriously.”

  I almost said no thanks, but some instinct told me it wouldn’t be only his mom who would be insulted. I went ahead and took a bite of one of the balls. “It’s good,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too surprised.

  “So, what about your girlfriend? Maybe she can come take care of you?”

  I took another bite. It was really good. “I don’t think she considers herself my girlfriend anymore.” I’d used Kosta’s phone to check my voice mail after Dr. P. left, and of course there were no messages.

  “Oh, sorry,” Kosta said awkwardly. “You guys broke up?”

  “I don’t know.” I shut my eyes, because suddenly the image of Irina was so strong, I could almost feel her standing there.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? How do you not know if you’re split up?”

  I glanced at Kosta, who had popped a sugar cube between his front teeth and was sipping his tea through it. He looked really interested.

  “All right,” I said. And I told him what happened.

  Kosta laughed his head off about the root I bought at the gas station. And he laughed even harder about me puking on Micah. But he looked confused when I finished with, “So she has plane tickets for tomorrow, but I don’t think she’s coming. I left three messages and she didn’t call me back.”

  “So that’s it?” he said. “You haven’t called her again?”

  “I’m not stalking her,” I said, remembering Rob’s advice.

  Kosta spit another pit into his hand. “Did you send her a present? You have to buy her something really good for this kind of thing. Not just flowers.”

  “A present wouldn’t make a difference,” I said, but even as it was coming out of my mouth, I wondered if maybe it would make a difference.

  “Every woman in the world likes presents. Give her nice jewelry and she’ll forgive you like that.” Kosta snapped his fingers.

  I made a face. “I don’t know. That’s kind of cheesy.”

  “Oh, really? Then why do all your women like us Greek men so much? What’s her number? Maybe she’d like to go out with me.” He smiled.

  I almost threw a meatball at him, but it was the wrong room for a food fight.

  “I have a cousin, Angelos,” Kosta said thoughtfully. “He can get jewelry really cheap. You want me to call him for you?”

  “No. Wait. Maybe . . . let me think about it.”

  “He can get you a pair of solid gold earrings for, like, thirty bucks.”

  “Okay,” I said wildly. “Okay, fine. Call him.”

  Kosta nodded. “I will. Put the earrings in a nice box with a poem, and just watch. The fight will be over.”

  I stared at him. His hair made him look like a mad genius. The place where Dr. P. had sewn up my face was throbbing, a dull, steady beat. I thought about all the romantic comedies my mom watched, and realized Kosta was totally right: girls loved that stuff.

  But I’d have to work out a strategy. Because I had a pretty good idea that any flowers with my name on them would end up in the fireplace in Irina’s dad’s office. “Call Angelos,” I told Kosta. “And, um, can I get online? I need to find a flower store in Seattle. Do you think there’s any that do same-day?”

  “Oh, they all do same-day,” Kosta said. He twisted in his chair and dug his phone out of his pocket. He tossed it to me. “You want me to help you find a good poem? I have this book I use for my girlfriends.”

  There was a weird hacking sound at the door, like somebody was trying to choke back a laugh.

  “Mom!” Kosta yelled. “Go away!”

  To my shock, I heard footsteps in the hall.

  “I’ll get the book,” said Kosta. “There’s a good apology one in there. It always works.” He stood and dusted his hands, dropping powdered sugar on the fur carpet. “Look,” he said. “I’ll take you home if you want. But why don’t you stay one more night? Because of what Dr. P. said.”

  “That’s cool, man. Thanks a lot. But I really have to get going.”

  “At least stay for dinner. My mom will be insulted if you leave before dinner.”

  I frowned at him, like, yeah right—but he was serious. I could see it on his face. “For real?” I said after a second.

  “Oh, believe me.”

  “All right, then.”

  Kosta’s grin was so big, I knew I’d done the right thing.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Don’t hang up,” I said to Irina later that night. I was sitting in the guest room, where someone had crept in and made the bed, and washed and folded my shirt. I was holding Kosta’s phone so tight, my fingers were white. My chest was aching.

  Silence. Then: “This isn’t your number. Where are you calling from?”

  “My friend’s phone. I lost mine.”

  “I got the flowers and the poem. Thank you.”

  I licked my lips. My mouth was sticky and dry. “Do you know why I picked that poem?”

  “You were saying sorry,” said Irina. I heard something rustle on the other end. “That was pretty smart with the card.”

  “Did they hide one card inside the other? That’s what I told them to do.”

  “Yeah.” There was more quiet rustling, a waiting sound, like maybe Irina was turning over in bed. And I realized I’d gotten halfway down the court, but now I had to put the ball through the net. Kosta would know exactly what to say, but I felt like I was blindfolded with another gun to my head.

  “I-I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “I love you. I know we have a lot of stuff to figure out, and I know I screwed up bad about Micah. I do trust you.” I took a breath and thought, Step softly. “So I’m not asking you to pick up where we left off. I’m just asking you to use the tickets. Give me that time, and whatever you d
ecide, I’ll respect it.”

  “Oh, Gabe.” The soft sound in her voice told me I was gaining ground.

  “I know long distance is hard. I don’t think either of us really knew how hard it would be.” It was a relief to say it out loud.

  “I definitely didn’t,” said Irina.

  “But we have something people spend their whole lives looking for.”

  She didn’t answer.

  I ground the phone into my ear, listening to beat after beat of frightening silence. “Am I crazy? Or do you agree?”

  “You’re not crazy,” she said. Then, “I’m going to come. But I’m getting a hotel.”

  “A hotel?” I repeated stupidly.

  “We have things to talk about that could turn into a fight. I don’t want us to be trapped in the same room. With only one bed.”

  “So you’re planning to fight with me?”

  “No, of course not. But I know how these conversations can go.”

  I closed my eyes and pressed my fist to my forehead. I would not get into it with her right now. Step softly. “Okay. Whatever you want.”

  “All right,” Irina said. “I’m going to get off now. The phone is no good. We’re already misunderstanding each other.”

  “Irina, I’m trying,” I said.

  “I know you are.” Her voice was gentle again. “That’s why I’m coming. Are you picking me up at the airport tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. Wait, I mean . . .” My stomach bottomed out. My car.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Yeah. I’ll pick you up. I’m probably getting a new phone tomorrow, but if I don’t, just wait at passenger pick-up, okay? I’ll be there. And, um . . .”

  “What?” She sounded suspicious.

  I almost warned her about my face, but then she’d want to know why, and I wasn’t ready for that. I needed the next twelve hours to think up a story. “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Okay. I’ll be on the flight. I’ll see you then.” Her voice was faint, as if she’d moved the phone away from her mouth, and I had an image of her getting smaller and smaller, turning into a point of light. No matter how hard I worked or far I reached, I’d never quite catch her.

  “What did she say?” Kosta asked when I came back out of the guest room. He was sprawled out, feet kicked up on the doily-covered couch. A magazine was cracked open over his stomach. His mom and dad and brother were at the table in the other room. Dinner had taken two hours, no joke. And they were still talking over coffee and cake.

  I gave him the thumbs-up. “She’s coming. The flowers and poem worked.”

  Kosta gave a delighted laugh. “Just wait until you get her some earrings!”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “We’ll see.” I was thinking earrings weren’t on the top of my list, considering I had no car, no phone, and a face like a losing boxer.

  “Believe me, it’ll be great. When is she coming?”

  “Tomorrow,” I said, with the weirdest mix of excitement and fear. Fear because the whole thing was ridiculous, a scam; how could I pull it off? Excitement because I’d gotten her to say yes. And because I needed this pressure to kick me into gear and make something happen.

  “Bring her to Helios,” said Kosta. “I’m working tomorrow night.”

  I glanced at him. It wasn’t like I had any better ideas.

  “I’ll take good care of you,” he promised. “Any time after eight.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Maybe I will. Thanks. Listen, I should probably get going. I have to figure out a couple things before she gets here.”

  “Like how to use cover-up?” Kosta grinned. “Just kidding. But you do look kind of ugly. I hope you warned her.”

  “Not exactly. Anyway, she loves me for my personality,” I said.

  He thought that was hilarious. “You sure you have to go?”

  “Yeah, I really have to get back.”

  “Well, ah,”—Kosta looked guilty—“my dad said he wants to take you home. Is that okay? He said he wants to talk to you. Or something.” He was turning red.

  “Sure,” I said, playing it cool. But I was nervous. Priests seemed like advanced cops who could read your mind and your soul. Not that I’d ever known any—so maybe I wasn’t being fair.

  “Baba!” called Kosta.

  There was a scrape from the dining room, chair legs on tile floor. “One minute,” Father Giorgios called.

  Kosta set his magazine on the back of the couch and stood up. Behind us, there was a clink of plates in the other room and the mutter of low voices. He shifted his weight, and said, “Look, if you need anything, or if you start hurting or whatever, just call and we’ll come get you again.”

  “Thanks, man. That’s really cool of you.” I looked at his worried brown eyes and felt grateful.

  “Don’t be a stranger. Bring your girl into Helios tomorrow night. Really.”

  “I will.”

  Kosta clasped my hand. “Take care of yourself.”

  “You, too,” I said, shaking hands good-bye, and then Father Giorgios walked out of the kitchen, jingling his keys. Presbytera Anna was behind him, carrying a Tupperware container and a plastic bag.

  “Just a few things for later,” she said. “Since you liked dinner.” She handed the food to Father Giorgios and kissed my cheeks—not air kisses, but real, hard mom kisses. Then she grabbed my chin and said, “You come back. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, breaking into a smile.

  “Soon!” She let go of my chin and watched us head out the door.

  Father Giorgios’s car was at least twenty years old, maybe more. It smelled like cigars, and the seat was as smooth and soft as old shoes. Little paper pictures of saints with dark skin and serious eyes were tucked along the dashboard. A wooden cross dangled on a black string from the rearview mirror. It took a few tries before the engine coughed on, and then Father Giorgios poked his glasses farther up his nose, leaned forward, and eased down the driveway.

  I looked out the fogged window at the houses slipping past. Maybe we would both be really quiet and I could just rest. Maybe there would be no more twenty questions like we had at dinner, although to be fair, that was mostly Kosta’s mom.

  Or maybe not.

  Father Giorgios cleared his throat. “Forgive me for saying this, but eighteen is very young.”

  “I know,” I said, feeling tired.

  “I’m worried that you have no family here.”

  I felt guilty. Like somehow it was my fault that I didn’t have anybody.

  “You said your mother is in Washington?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not trying to pry into your business.” He gave me a worried look, driving slowly through a yellow light. “I don’t need to know details. But this beating was very rough. Will those people come after you again?”

  “No,” I said immediately.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, and even if they did, it’s okay. I can handle it.”

  Father Giorgios blew air from puffed lips. “A tough guy! Have you been taking notes from my sons?”

  I smiled. “No, sir.”

  “What I’m trying to say . . .” He turned right, almost nicking the curb, and started the long crawl down Trop. “Is that I’m worried. I wouldn’t like to see Konstantinos or Anatolios in your situation. So if there’s any help I can give, anything at all, you must ask me. Will you promise?” He sounded almost shy, and my nervousness disappeared.

  “Okay,” I said. “I don’t think I’ll need any help, but thanks for offering.”

  He patted his long beard thoughtfully. “All right. Now, I have something for you.” He reached for the glove box and jerked the handle a couple of times. It fell open and a stack of papers slid out. I caught them and set them back in place.

  “See that
black can in front?” said Father Giorgios. “The one with tape on it? Take it out. Carefully.”

  I pulled out a black canister wrapped in masking tape and turned it over, trying to figure out what it was. It looked sinister, like a taped-up gun.

  “That’s police Mace,” said Father Giorgios. “If those hooligans come after you again, you can defend yourself.”

  I was so surprised, I laughed out loud. “Where did you get this?”

  “There are some Greeks in LVPD,” Father Giorgios said. “I’ve been mugged before, and they thought I needed some. I’ve never used it, but they tell me it works well. You can’t buy that kind in stores.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t take this. It’s yours.” I reached forward to put it back in the glove box, but he stopped me with a tap on the arm.

  “Don’t insult the giver by returning the gift!”

  Like with the food, I had a feeling there were layers here I didn’t understand. I glanced at him—he was frowning—and turned the Mace over in my hands. “Okay. Well, thanks, then.”

  He nodded and blasted his horn at a Maserati that he’d cut off. “You’re welcome. I hope you never have to use it.”

  Luckily, the lady in the rental office didn’t ask any questions. She just fished another key out of a scratched metal cabinet and scribbled something on a Post-it. “It’ll be ten dollars extra on your rent next month,” she said as she dropped the key in my palm.

  “No problem,” I told her, and limped out the door. I took it slow down the sidewalk leading to my quad. The cement was cracked and missing chunks in places, and I passed a couple kids sitting on a stoop, smoking. One of them looked familiar. A little girl with cornrows and a pink scarf. She smiled at me, showing crooked, white teeth, and all of a sudden, I remembered her crouched down, laying pieces of broken glass on the ground.

  The girl I’d seen when my mom first signed me up for the GED.

  “Don’t smoke, it’ll rot your lungs,” I told her, more upset than I should have been, and she and her friend fell apart giggling. They looked about ten, but they probably thought they were grown. I thought of the worried expression on Father Giorgios’s face when he dropped me off, and realized he probably felt the same way about me.