Dead Man's Hand (The Journals of Octavia Hollows #2)

by Stacey Rourke

  From under the cot, Nate retrieved a pair of jeans and a tattered Calvin and Hobbes t-shirt. “I went from being a software architect making six figures a year and living in a three thousand square foot house with his gorgeous girlfriend, to this hellhole where I regularly got spit on by a hooker. So, you tell me.”

  My face folded into a grimace. “Why the hell are hookers spitting on you?”

  “Hooker, singular.” Nate’s voice was temporarily muffled as he tugged his shirt over his head. “It’s not intentional. She lives upstairs and her dentures don’t fit right. Honestly, she’s a nice enough lady, other than the excessive saliva spray.”

  Eyes narrowed, I blinked hard and tried to figure out how the hell the conversation landed us here. Out of ideas, I sidestepped that landmine altogether. “So, how is it that you landed in this little paradise?”

  The cot creaked under Nate’s weight as he sat down to tug his jeans on underneath the blanket. “I sat down at a Blackjack table for the first time three years ago. It was all over after that. I lost everything chasing that next lucky hand.”

  “Big Mike said you quit and got clean.” Realizing a Snickers wrapper from his domain was stuck to the bottom of my boot, I tried to scrape it off on the crusty carpeting.

  Rising to his feet, Nate zipped his pants under the blanket before casting it aside. “I did… for a while.”

  “What knocked you off the wagon?”

  “Not what, who.” Before he could explain further, the door to his teeny bathroom opened.

  Out stepped a rough looking character with slicked back hair and thick gold chains strung around his neck that disappeared into the black forest of chest hair sprouting from his unbuttoned shirt. Drying his hands on a towel, the intruder seemed as surprised to see us as we were him.

  “What the fuck?” Throwing the towel down, he scrambled for a gun tucked into the waistband of his insanely tight jeans. “You card counting cazzo. I knew you faked your death!”

  Ducking down, Nate flipped the cot onto its side and shielded us both behind it. “You can’t fake being burned alive.”

  Leveling his gun, the thug craned his neck to line up a shot around the flimsy cot. “Let’s see how you fake a bullet hollowing out your skull! Carrington wants her money back!”

  “To reiterate, I didn’t fake anything.”

  “I don’t think that argument is as effective as you think it is!” Throwing the door open, I grabbed Nate’s shirt collar and dragged him behind me in my mad dash outside.

  A shot rang out that tinged off the metal handrail. Sounds of a scuffle from inside the room signaled that the cramped space worked to our benefit, forcing the shooter to finagle his way outside. Taking full advantage of that, I raced down the cement stairs straight for where Bacon was tied by my bike.

  “You counted cards? That’s how you ended up as a smoked brisket?” I shouted over my shoulder, fingers fumbling to free Bacon’s leash.

  A second shot pinged through the air as the shooter tripped his way out into the hall.

  Ducking down, Nate’s face bloomed from red to purple. “Yes—I mean no! There’s way more to it than that, and I will tell you everything if you get me the hell out of here!”

  Scooping Bacon up, I slapped him into Nate’s arms and threw my leg over the seat of my bike. “Hop on and hold the pig. Anything happens to him, and you’ll wish Scarface finished what he started.”

  Hearing footfalls thundering in our direction, I revved the engine and impatiently waited for Nate to maneuver himself onto the bike with Bacon wedged between us. The instant I felt his arm lock around my midsection, I peeled out in a spray of flying gravel and inserted much needed space between us and certain death.

  “You pissed the pig off, Nate. You pissed him off bad.” Standing beside my Scrambler, I took off my helmet and set it on the seat.

  “I don’t think he liked riding on the motorcycle without his carrier.” Nate tucked his chin to his neck, hoping to avoid Bacon’s flailing head as the aggravated swine squealed and kicked for all he was worth.

  After pulling his leash from the tattered leather saddle bag strapped on the side of my bike, I stepped closer and clipped it to Bacon’s harness. Hands closing around his round little belly, I eased him to the ground. “He might not have appreciated you holding him, but I do. Thank you.”

  Plunging his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Nate cast his gaze to the blacktop driveway and blushed a deep tomato red. “S’okay.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, I squinted into the sun and tried to read the sign on the sprawling stucco oasis behind us. “Canyon Ridge Christian Church. Did you have a reason for routing us here? Or are we just popping in for confession and a wafer cracker?”

  Biting his lower lip, Nate peered toward the masterpiece of architecture that looked more like a resort than a church. “You asked how a guy goes from a cushy IT job, to living in a dump and being chased by the mob? A lot of those answers can be found right here.”

  “You… severely over tithed?” I deadpanned, to distract from the fact that I honestly had no idea where he was going with this.

  “Addicts Anonymous meets here every day at noon.” With a far off look in his eye, his tone took on a wistful quality. “This being Vegas, addiction tends to run rampant. I lost everything: job, house, and girlfriend. I was selling blood just to fund my next trip to the casino, in hopes that would be the trip that turned it all around. After I punched a security guard at the Bellagio, I was sentenced under court order to start attending meetings. For a while, it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “How long were you clean?” Squatting down, I tied the end of Bacon’s leash to a light post. My little pork belly was still so peeved off, he found a shady spot under a palm tree where he laid down with a huff to pout.

  “Fourteen months, six days.” Biting the inside of his cheek, Nate shook his head. “I was finally turning things around. All that went to hell when my friend, Sam, from group offered me a chance at the impossible.”

  “Let me guess; high stakes and an underdog sure to win?”

  Nate combed his fingers through his thinning hair, which had been whipped wild by our fast getaway. “Sam’s addiction wasn’t gambling. It was…” Silver eyes—a side-effect of the reanimation process--flicked my way. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Nate mouthed the word, “sex.”

  “It’s been a while, but I am familiar with the act.”

  “I was Sam’s sponsor. He hadn’t shown up for a meeting in two weeks, so I stopped by his apartment looking for him. When he answered the door, I could see two women in the bed behind him. Not just any women—”

  “The toothless hooker variety?”

  “Exactly the opposite. These women could have been Victoria Secret models, and that’s not an exaggeration.” Eyebrows disappearing into his hairline, his expression was pure conviction. “I really think I saw one of them in a catalog.”

  Letting one shoulder rise and fall in a dismissive shrug, I gave credit where it was due. “Sucks that he fell off the wagon, but ya can’t really blame the guy.”

  Nate sucked air through his teeth and cringed. “But that’s the thing. It makes no damned sense. I mean, I’m no Chris Evans, but Sam? The guy looked like a thumb. Broke as hell, unattractive, and somehow lands two drop dead gorgeous women? Something there didn’t add up. Then… he wound up dead.”

  A warning siren blared in the back of my mind. “The other body they found burned alive.”

  Nate dropped his voice to a whisper, his head swiveling in one direction and then the other to make sure no one was listening. “He said he met someone who could give us the ultimate rush. It was as easy as a phone call. No one said a word on the other end of the line. The only stipulations were that I had to give this person the name of someone else in the group, and then speak my heart’s desire—”

  “In wish form?” I guessed, deeply hoping I was wrong.

  Nate jerked as if stunned I
guessed right. “How did you...? Yeah, that’s exactly right.”

  Nostrils flaring, I filled my lungs to capacity. “Little tip: now that you know magic is real, anyone who wants you to make a wish is bad news. It’s a well-known fact among the magically inclined community. That was lesson number one the coven I lived with taught me after their healer smoked peyote and made a wish to a nymph that she could fly. Last I heard, she was still a pigeon.”

  Nate’s shoulders rose sheepishly, giving him the appearance of a giant toddler after being scolded. “Is that what you think this could be? A nymph?”

  “Could be.” My head tilted to the side. “Genies, leprechauns, and psammeads also grant wishes—just to name a few. I don’t have a ton of supernatural knowledge, but I was schooled to steer clear of the likes of them. A more pressing concern is whose name you gave to this person?”

  Nate blanched, his jaw swinging slack. “Oh God, Karen. She comes here because she’s battling a food addiction. Her name was the first to come to mind because she’s the kindest, most amazing woman I’ve ever met. You don’t think this thing has plans to hurt her, do you? I couldn’t live with myself if I caused her any pain.”

  “Only one way to find out.” Dragging my tongue over my teeth, I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check the time. “Eleven fifty-five. A meeting is about to start. I’ll head in and see if she’s there.”

  “Should I come, too? Maybe to explain and warn her?” A hot rash of guilt spread up Nate’s neck to his cheeks.

  Opening the saddlebag once more, I pulled out a Detroit Tigers baseball cap. I tossed that and my sunglasses to Nate. “We don’t know if anyone in there has already heard you were dead. Stay here and try to make amends with Bacon. I’ll go see what I can find out about your friend, and whatever it is that killed you.”

  Chapter Five

  “Let’s begin with the serenity prayer.”

  I followed the other members of the sparse group to their feet and joined hands with the people on either side of me. My mouth moved, managing only to mumble along as they recited their well-practiced verse.

  “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.”

  Chairs squeaked over the tile floor as we all took our seats once more.

  “You’re new.” The twitchy guy to my left, whose palm had been so slick with sweat I had to wipe my hand off on my jeans, nudged my elbow with his. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “Pardon?” Stifling a cringe, I scooted to the edge of my seat to get further from his eye-watering B.O.

  “He means your addiction,” the girl across from me with sunken-in cheeks and dark bags under her eyes clarified.

  “I… thought you weren’t supposed ask that,” I stammered, glancing to the group’s chairperson in hopes she would intervene.

  No luck there. Her attentions were intently fixated on the clipboard resting on her lap. “The group is too thin today. Who are we missing?”

  As a kid, being shuffled from foster home to foster home, or group home to group home, the only treat I was ever really allowed was television. And I soaked up hours of viewing. Because there, every problem was resolved in thirty minutes to an hour, and things always worked out in the end. All of which was as much a fantasy to me as the latest episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. During those hours of viewing, I caught more than my share of cheesy B movies. Amongst those cinematic masterpieces could be found this chairperson’s doppelganger.

  She looked like an extraterrestrial come to earth, struggling to disguise her bulbous head and rail-thin frame. Her ill-fitting brunette wig sat just crooked enough to be noticeable. The pink sweater she wore—with its tiny pearl buttons—was both an odd choice for a hot Vegas day, and about two sizes too big for her. Its neckline fell to the side, revealing one bony shoulder. Maybe my time surrounded by supernatural anomalies had jaded me, but something about this woman seemed… off.

  “Can’t heal if you don’t open up, and spread that… heart wide.” Scooting down in his chair, the blond frat boy across from me let his hand linger grossly close to his groin. As he bit his lower lip, his lecherous gaze traveled the length of me. “My vice is porn. You partake? I bet you do. You look like a dirty girl.”

  Clucking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, my eyebrows darted into my hairline. “I do not. But, I have been meaning to get hooked on nut-stomping some perverts. Wanna help me out with that?”

  “Bitch,” frat boy grumbled under his breath and folded his arms over his chest.

  “I bet it’s meth,” Twitchy-guy’s eyes narrowed as he considered me. “Look at her skin. That’s meth.”

  A chorus of nods and yeahs rippled through the group.

  “My skin? What’s the matter with my…” Holding up both hands, I pumped the brakes on this spiraling conversation. “You know what? Doesn’t matter. I’m not a meth head.”

  Sucking air through her missing teeth, a woman with matted hair and a vacant expression blinked in my direction. “We find that term offensive. We prefer ‘Sufferers of Meth Abuse Disorder’.”

  Mouth falling open, words failed me.

  It seemed in search of information, I stumbled down the rabbit hole and found myself a guest at a trippy tea party.

  “Where’s Karen?” Head snapping up, the chairperson’s tone was sharp and cutting. “She’s been clean for so long, she can’t afford to start missing meetings!”

  I perked up at the mention of the name, my gaze searching each member of the group for any tell-tale sign that someone knew something.

  Nothing.

  Just indifferent shrugs and bored blinks.

  “Maybe she’s cured.” Stretching out his legs, Frat-boy tugged at the front of his jeans. “I mean, isn’t that the goal of us coming here? To become functioning members of society, or some such bullshit?”

  “No one is ever cured.” Shoving her chair back, the chairperson sprang to her feet and threw her clipboard to the floor. Its ear-splitting crack echoed through the room. “We just go round and round on this endless Ferris wheel of misery until it spins off its track and crushes us all.” With those as her parting words, she spun on the ball of her foot. Her sensible heels clapped against the floor as she marched off.

  “Depressed girls are hot.” Head tilting with appreciation, Frat-boy dragged his tongue over his lips. “They are almost always down to clown, if you know what I’m saying.”

  “She’s right,” a soft voice croaked. Chair positioned on the outskirts of the circle, a man with a hangdog expression sat with his shoulders hunched by a heavy cloak of defeat. “There’s no hope for any of us. Sam got clean, then wound up dead. Nate was closing in on his two-year chip, and then vanished. Now Karen is missing meetings? They were the strongest among us, and even they couldn’t make it. What hope is there for the rest of us?”

  Head falling back, Frat-boy expelled an exasperated groan. “No one cares what you think, Marv. Eating toilet paper doesn’t make you an addict, it makes you a freak. You wanna know real struggles? My nana kicked me out of Thanksgiving dinner because I was watching Pornhub under the table. Uncle Rob was watching the football game on his phone! How come he didn’t get in trouble? Why was his little sneak okay, but mine was ‘gross and taboo’?” He air quoted the words.

  “Because the NFL doesn’t do rim jobs on camera.” Princess-Needs-a-Nap, the moniker I gave to the tired looking woman next to Frat-boy, pursed her lips in open disdain for his antics.

  That was it for me. Pushing off my chair, I exited stage left. Sure, this was a downtrodden group, but they didn’t deserve to be picked off one by one. Their chairperson had stormed off after one of her lost sheep like a ravenous wolf, leaving the group aimless. A voice in the back of my mind whispered that she could be the monster… in a rather poor disguise. If she was going in search of Karen, I needed to get there first. I could only hope Nate had some idea where she lived…

  A short ride w
ith a properly fastened pig later, we parked opposite a modest-looking apartment complex built around a fenced-in pool. Positioned alongside the coffee shop across the street, we had a prime vantage point of the gated entrance.

  Nate kept his stare fixed on the apartments.

  I kept mine on him. “So, Karen never invited you over?”

  “Nope, not yet.”

  Lips pursed, I nodded. “And she never actually gave you her address?”

  “No, not directly.” Picking up what I was laying down, Nate shrank back, his shoulders sinking. “I don’t trust some of the people in group. I liked to make sure she got home safe.”

  My tongue clucked against the roof of my mouth. “That’s equal parts sweet and creepy. Which basically sums up my entire dating life, so who am I to judge?”

  Smacking at my arm—ow—Nate pointed toward Karen’s building. “There’s Madge, the group chairperson! Why would she be here? She’s not Karen’s sponsor. Could she be the genie-monster thing? I didn’t see it in person—” Pulling up short, his brow furrowed. “Or did I? Honestly, some parts of my death are still kind of fuzzy. I think it was the blinding pain of erupting in flames. It kind of blocked out some of the traumatizing aspects of it.”

  “Your girl Karen could be heading toward the same fiery end if we don’t find a way to stop Madge from going inside.” Flipping my ponytail over my shoulder, I glanced toward Bacon to make sure he was okay. Tied to the bike, he was chewing on an apple core he’d found, in pure piggy bliss. “You said Sam gave you a way to get in touch with this… thing. Do you remember what it was?”

  A fresh idea bolted Nate upright. “I have a card in my wallet!” His enthusiasm was quickly squashed by the reminder of how that turned out. “Oh, but that burned up.” A second perk. “But I typed it into my phone!” Deflate. “Which, I kept in my back pocket, and most likely melted to my butt before I died.”