Out of Aces (Betting Blind #2)

by Stephanie Guerra

  Berto’s quad was dark, and his ride was missing from its usual spot, but Pelon and Oso were sitting on the stoop, playing some kind of handheld game.

  They looked up briefly as I passed, and Pelon made a soft clicking sound with his mouth. “You got beat!”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  Oso’s hands were frozen on the controls. “Damn, ese. You look rough.” I heard the shrill whine of his avatar getting killed. He frowned and his thumbs went back to work.

  “Still breathing, though,” I said. I sped up on the home stretch, the gravel recording my limp: crunch crunch crunch crunch. My leg felt like one giant bruise. I never thought I’d be happy to get “home” to this place, but I was almost high with relief as I forced the key in the lock and stumbled through the door. I’d left the space heater pumping, and it was actually warm for once, although it smelled like a locker room.

  I clicked the dead bolt behind me, hooked the chain, and set the Greek food on the floor. I went straight to the closet and yanked the pull string of rusty beads. The lightbulb flicked on, lighting up familiar graffiti by somebody who’d lived there before and loved Anita.

  I brushed all my clothes to one side and pulled out the first hanger, a gray hoodie. I ran my hands down the seams and felt in the collar; there it was. A rolled-up fifty. I snatched it out and moved to the next one. I’d stashed bills in all kinds of spots: pockets, collars, sneakers, under the rug, under the window ledge. There were even a couple shoved in the light fixture. A month of tips. I knew I was acting like one of those paranoid old men who refused to use a bank, but it made me feel safe to have cash around.

  When I’d cleaned out all my stash spots, I had $2,200 and a handful of chips from Boulder Station. I took my nut to my bed and eased myself down. My ribs were starting to really burn, even through the pain medicine Dr. P. had given me. I sorted the cash, organized it, and counted it again. I made all the bills face the same way. My bankroll. I’d lost the last round pretty big, and I didn’t want to take any more chances. But there were no sure things in life; I’d known that for a long time.

  I tucked the money under the mattress and lowered myself, folding my pillow in half to make it thicker. Then I lay, staring at the dirty electrical outlet, trying to work out a plan. At about my point in life—eighteen—people did stuff and made choices that fixed their direction forever.

  I was alive, which was still feeling like a nice surprise. I didn’t want to screw up the rest of my time, however long it was. I closed my eyes and breathed slowly through my nose like Coach taught me a hundred years ago in junior high basketball. What do I want, anyway?

  You have to know what you want before you can get it. The more I thought on it, the more I realized my wants all started with not. Not to go back to Washington. Not to move from crappy apartment to crappy apartment for the rest of my life. Not to waste time with girls I didn’t like. Not to scrape by every month with nothing left over. Not to work a job I hated.

  Okay. Try harder.

  I want to stay in Vegas. I like it here.

  I want to stay in bartending. I liked it, too. I was good at it. Although Nick had convinced me not to try it again until I was legal.

  If I was thinking really big, I wouldn’t mind owning a bar someday. Not a nightclub, like Hush, but a chill place, a locals spot like the Crown and Anchor. Or even a bar/restaurant. I smiled to myself. That was what I’d told Irina’s dad I was going to do. Maybe some corner of my brain had already been dreaming.

  And Irina. But if I was being honest, my future probably wouldn’t be with her. Still, I wanted a girl I’d love as much as I loved her, if that was possible.

  I decided that would be enough. If I got those things, I wouldn’t be one of those jerks who always wants something more. I’d be satisfied. Maybe when that AB dude kicked my face, he jolted my brain around. I was definitely thinking differently.

  There was a light tapping on my door, and all my thoughts instantly disappeared into a whirlpool of adrenaline. I eased silently off the mattress and tiptoed to the door. I knew it wasn’t logical, but I had this feeling AB was out there with a gun.

  It was April. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and hugging herself against the cold. She had no wig or makeup on, and her short brown hair was ruffled. Silver hoops sparkled in her ears. She reached out to knock again, and I opened the door.

  “Gabe!” Her face went blank with shock, which quickly turned into horror. I knew I looked like the one guy who got away from the chainsaw massacre, but her grossed-out expression didn’t exactly make me feel good.

  “Oh, no,” she breathed. “He really messed you up. Are you okay?”

  I nodded. “I’m fine.”

  “Can I come in?”

  I felt a stab of embarrassment at my cardboard furniture and thrashed mattress, and then I thought, Whatever. Who cares? I pulled open the door.

  It was only after April had stepped in and shut the door behind her that I registered what she’d said. “Wait, you said he. You know?”

  “Yes,” she said fiercely. “That jerk! I can’t believe he did this to you.”

  Maybe I wasn’t thinking clearly, but I still didn’t understand. “But . . . how did you find out? And how do you know where I live?”

  April cut her eyes away, pink rising in her cheeks. “Remember, I told you I was dating someone at work?” Her usual smart-ass tone was totally gone. She sounded shy and embarrassed.

  “You’re dating Nick?” I felt sucker punched. Then I had a flash of a white coat on Nick’s couch, a white coat with blue lining. That was her coat. “Nick?” I repeated. “He’s, like, twenty years older than you!”

  “So?” she said, staring at my face. “I don’t care how old he is. But I do care that he hurt you!”

  “It wasn’t him. It was his freaking minions or whatever you want to call them,” I said bitterly. “You should break up with him. He’s an evil guy. And he’s old enough to be your dad. That’s just wrong.”

  April didn’t respond to that. “I brought you something.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a couple of bills and my TAM serving card and license, the real one. “Your wallet and phone were on his desk. I took these out, because I thought you’d really need them. I got your address on the TAM. I would have taken your phone, too, but . . .” She looked down, shrugging. She was scared of him. That’s why she didn’t take the rest.

  I took the money and cards and tucked them away, feeling grateful but sad. It’s too bad so many women date scary guys. Although Nick was in a league of his own. “It’s fine. I already canceled the cell. Did he tell you what happened?”

  “Not really. He said you tried to ‘play’ him and he ‘taught you a lesson.’ I got worried when I saw your stuff on his desk. I decided I’d better come make sure you were okay.”

  I sighed. “I’ll tell you what happened. I’m eighteen.”

  “I noticed.” April glanced at my pocket, where I’d put the cards.

  “So if he got caught with an underage bartender, he could have been fined or shut down. He had a couple guys take me out into the desert, kick my ass, and steal my car.”

  “Wait.” April’s eyes widened. “Is it an Altima?”

  I nodded.

  “I heard him talking about it on the phone. He told someone to take it to LA.”

  “He’ll probably sell it. They deal a lot of stolen cars out there,” I said. I was amazed to realize I didn’t even care.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. But be careful, okay? I don’t think he’s the safest guy to date.”

  There was a short silence. April gazed at the cut over my eye, the big one Dr. P. had stitched up. “Nick and I are finished,” she said shortly. “I don’t date violent jerks.” There was a sound in her voice, raw and serious, that made me wonder if he
r husband had beat up on her in addition to cheating. I wasn’t going to ask.

  “Do you need any more money or anything? Are you okay until you get another job?” she asked.

  “I’m fine.” I wished she would leave. It had been one thing hanging out when I was Gabe the twenty-three-year-old bartender, but now that I was an eighteen-year-old living in a slum, I felt too far below her. A charity case. And obviously she thought the same, offering me money like that.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said, looking around.

  “I’m fine,” I said firmly.

  “Okay. I can see you’re trying to get rid of me. But let’s hang out soon, okay?”

  I gave a short laugh. “No offense, but I don’t want to get killed. If Nick knew . . .”

  April sighed. “I’ll give you my number. Text me after a couple of weeks if you want. I won’t be with him anymore.”

  I looked at her, trying to figure out if she was for real.

  “Just watch.” There was a confidence in her voice that convinced me she meant it. I wished my mom could borrow some of that strength—although I had a feeling that April had earned it the hard way.

  “All right,” I said, and decided it couldn’t hurt just taking her number.

  “Do you have a pen?”

  I didn’t. My sad digs didn’t even have a pen.

  She pulled a lipstick out of her purse, shaking her head. “This is so tacky. But it’s all I have.” She wrote her number in Marilyn-red on a receipt and handed it over. As she slipped out the door, she said, with a gleam in her eyes, “You should have seen Nick’s temper tantrum. I’ll tell you about it later. I can’t believe you’re eighteen. I’m going to call you ‘little bro’ now. Is that okay?”

  “Shut up, April!”

  Cackling, she disappeared out the door.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I got more visitors in twenty-four hours than I’d had the whole time I’d been living in Vegas. The next one was Berto. He knocked softly and stealthily. I was half-asleep, and it took me a second to come out of my daze. Meanwhile, the knocking got a little faster, and he called, “You okay in there?”

  I hobbled over (the meds were wearing off, and my leg was killing me) and pulled open the door.

  He frowned at my cut, and quickly looked me over. “You ain’t that bad.” He sounded half-disappointed, half-relieved.

  “Really?”

  “Oso and Pelon said you were beat half-dead. They said maybe you’d crawled up in here and died.” Berto shook his head in disgust. “Oso’s always exaggerating. I should have known.”

  I chuckled. “You thought I was dead in here?”

  He shrugged, looking embarrassed. “So, what happened? Who cut you up?”

  “A couple thugs.” I left it at that.

  “You need anything? Band-Aids or something? A mask?” He grinned.

  “All I need’s a car and my phone back.” I couldn’t resist telling him a little more. “They stole my car.”

  “I’ve had two cars stolen before, but I got them both back.” There was a glint in his eyes that made me feel sorry for whoever stole them. “Who took yours? You know his name?”

  I shook my head quickly. No way did I want Berto getting involved. But the mention of stolen cars gave me a crazy idea. “Hey, Berto . . .” I trailed off, feeling awkward.

  “What?”

  “You asked if I need anything. It’s fine if you say no, but . . .”

  He frowned. “What is it?”

  “Could I borrow your ride tomorrow? My girlfriend’s coming in town, and I’ve got no way to pick her up at the airport.” I didn’t really expect him to agree to it, but I had to try.

  To my surprise, he said, “Just tomorrow?”

  I nodded. “Well, maybe for like an hour on Sunday, too, to drop her back off.”

  “What are you leaving for collateral?”

  “Um . . . cash?”

  “Five hundred bucks.”

  “You’ll give it back?” I said.

  “As long as she comes back to me without a scratch.”

  “Thanks, man, seriously.” I smiled in relief.

  “You better fill her up.”

  “I will!”

  Berto peered past me into my digs. “No offense, but you could use a woman’s touch in here.”

  “Whatever,” I said.

  “That’s a nice table.” He nodded at my box, and sounded so sincere that it took me a second to realize he was being sarcastic.

  “Shut up, Berto.”

  “I bet your girlfriend likes that bed,” he went on, deadpan. “That’s a fine sheet you got there.”

  I shook my head and chuckled.

  “Hey, you want to come kick it? We’re watching the Lakers. Oso made a bunch of food.”

  “Right now?”

  He was already slipping out the door.

  “Wait, I’m coming!” I said, and followed him out, smiling to myself.

  I leaned against Berto’s car, hands in pockets, head doing a slow swivel for cops. McCarran International had a ton of traffic, and they would nail you for idling—especially if you were driving a mural-painted lowrider.

  People poured through the automatic doors and spread out down the sidewalks, mostly locals by the looks of them. Tourists used others kinds of transport. I must have seemed like I was checking out every blonde, but really I was searching for Irina. My nerves had twisted into a mess of wires ready to torch at the slightest spark. I was still on meds, but I could feel faint pain through my whole left side.

  The automatic doors spit out a lean blonde, and I looked closer. She tugged her bag over her shoulder, peering up and down the sidewalk.

  “Irina! Over here!” I raised a hand.

  She lit up and pushed through the roller bags and moving bodies. She was wearing a blue dress, my favorite color on her. As she broke out of the crowd, her excited smile wavered and disappeared. She stopped a foot away from me, her face blank with shock. “What happened to you?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” I opened the door for her. Cars pulled in around us, headlights shining on the slick ground. “Here, let me put that in the trunk.” I reached for her bag.

  “Gabe! No.” She stepped away. “What happened?”

  “I got beat up.”

  “I can see that! What . . . what is this?” She gestured helplessly at my face, and at Berto’s lowrider. The airline signs above made her skin glow orange.

  “My car got stolen. This is a friend’s. Please, let me take that. I’ll explain later.” I slid her bag off her arm—this time she didn’t stop me—and set it on the backseat. The leather felt so smooth and heavy that I looked closer. It was designer. “Nice purse.”

  “It was a Christmas present,” she said, still staring. “Gabe, your face.”

  I opened her door and gestured.

  She put a hand on my arm. “What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you everything,” I said, “but not here.”

  She threw her arms around me and squeezed hard, hurting my ribs, but I didn’t care. I hugged her back, even though I shouldn’t have. The pain that hit me was a killer wave, a wall that could crush and drown me. My eyes pricked. I’d missed her so much.

  “I love you,” Irina whispered into my chest.

  “I love you, too.” I squeezed her gently and pulled away, going around to my side. By the time we were both belted, I was in control again. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Mirage.” Irina was staring at me, her eyes round.

  “You want to go check in?” I asked.

  “Not yet. Let’s go somewhere.” She reached for my hand.

  It felt so good to hold her hand again. “How about dinner? You didn’t eat already, did you?”

  “No, I was hoping we could go out f
or dinner.” She’d cut her hair, and there were pieces falling around her jaw. I wanted to reach over and brush them back.

  Instead I said, “Okay, I know a good place. Are you okay with Greek food?”

  “I love Greek food. Gabe, what happened to your face?”

  “I’ll tell you soon. I promise.”

  Helios was tucked into a strip mall on Decatur Blvd. At first I thought we had the wrong address. It was pink. And it was built from big square cement blocks, prison style, except for the color. There were two long windows with grayish slats pulled down, a paper menu hanging crooked on the door, and pointy blue letters on the window: “HELIOS! DINE AND DANCE GREEK STYLE!”

  Out front, an old man in an apron was sitting in a scrawny metal chair, smoking a cigarette that was mostly filter. He looked us up and down with suspicious eyes and flicked the butt over his shoulder.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Irina squeezed my hand. “You said it was good. Let’s try it.” She pushed through the door. Music and voices and delicious smells poured out. I changed my mind. Any food that smelled like that was worth trying.

  As we stepped in, it was like going from black-and-white to color. The floor was bright blue, and the walls were painted with murals of beaches, buildings, and trees. It was exploding with details, just like Kosta’s church, and it was as loud as a nightclub, everybody talking over one another.

  “This is cool.” Irina’s head swiveled.

  A waiter stepped out from the back, and I did a double take. It was Kosta, looking slick in a black suit, curly hair gleaming, a bow-tie at his neck. Even his shoes looked expensive. He walked over and bowed, which made me grin.

  “Hey,” I said, “this is Irina. And—”

  He cut me off in the middle of my sentence and said, “Yes, sir. This way, please.” I must have looked surprised, but he caught my eye and gave a warning look, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “Do you have dancing here?” Irina asked Kosta as we walked around a big polished wood platform.