Full Tilt Duet Box Set

by Emma Scott

  “Sure, Ma.”

  I hung up and stared at the screen a long time, willing it to ring again, to light up with Kacey’s number so I could hear her voice. I only wanted what my mother wanted: to know Kacey was okay.

  Vegas Ink was busy that day. Our small waiting area had two chicks poring over a three-ringed binder of art, and another guy leaning against the wall. It was Edgar’s day to pick music, so the buzz of tattoo machines was barely audible under pounding death metal music.

  Vivian, our receptionist, gave me an arch look as I rushed in.

  “You’re late.”

  “Sorry, Viv,” I said, checking over her book for the day’s appointments. “Don’t tell Gus.”

  “I never do, but he’s heard the complaints, honey.”

  I shrugged. Nothing I could do about it. My mother, although perfectly capable of doing things on her own, had retreated into herself. Like a kid who’d been burned, she hardly stuck her hand out anymore. And Dad had thrown himself back into work as if he were a first-time city councilman instead of a thirty-year incumbent on the verge of retirement.

  Someone had to take care of my mom. But sometimes, like today, I knew I had too many balls in the air. My arms were getting tired and sooner or later I was going to start dropping them. Gus, the owner of Vegas Ink, firing me for being late all the time would be the first to smash to the floor.

  “These two are waiting for you.” Vivian nodded her completely shaved head in the direction of the two young women. The expression on her heavily-pierced face was knowing. “New clients. Both asked for you, personal.”

  I shrugged. “Referral.”

  “Mmhm.” Viv raked her eyes up and down my black t-shirt and jeans. “Word must’ve gotten out about your impressive body…of work.”

  I rolled my eyes as I closed the appointment ledger. I was booked straight through to six o’clock.

  “Oh come on, it was a little funny,” Viv said, leaning over the desk, toying with a pen in her ringed fingers. Tattoos covered every inch of skin up to her neck and creeped up the back of her skull. She gave one of my biceps a squeeze. “And true. Someone’s been hitting the gym harder than usual. I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”

  Viv rubbed her chin on her shoulder, putting her gaze in line with one of the shop’s other artists, Zelda Rossi. The small woman was bent over a client, tattoo gun in hand. Long black hair fell like a curtain to shield her face. She raised her head as she wiped the blood welling up from her client’s shoulder blade. Her large, green eyes—rimmed in black—met mine. A smile started to break over her face. She caught it under her teeth, stuck her tongue out, and went back to work.

  Viv smirked. “Must be so tough to have so many women throwing themselves at you.”

  “Can’t complain,” I said with a smug grin. “Give me a minute then send my first appointment in.”

  “Sure thing, babydoll.”

  Vegas Ink was a small, cramped hole-in-the-wall. The bright red paint and black-and-white checkered floor only made it feel smaller. My place would be different. Darker colors, older furniture and art on the walls from funky, fringe artists like Edward Gorey and Ann Harper. A living room in a haunted house.

  My place…

  Jonah gave me the money to open a shop, and I was taking business classes to make sure I didn’t fuck it up. Even so, the thought of actually pulling the trigger and buying a place made me sick to my stomach. If I failed, I’d have nothing left of Jonah. He sold his glass so I could have my dream, but what if it went under? What if no one showed up? I’d already lost Kacey. One broken promise. I couldn’t take another fucking failure.

  Edgar, a huge, hulking guy with a Tool concert shirt stretched over his bulk, looked up from his client and gave me a nod. “Hey, T. What’s shakin’, man?”

  “Same old, same old,” I said, preparing my gun and rags from the second drawer in the armoire. When my first client told me what she wanted, I’d set up the ink and choose the needles.

  “You want to hang tonight? Me and some friends are going to see Killroy at the Pony Club.”

  I flinched, covered it up with a cough. “Nah, I’m busy.”

  “Hot date?” Edgar wagged his brow at me as his client used a hand mirror to inspect the new dragon curling around his calf.

  “Yep,” I said. Out the corner of my eye, I saw Zelda glance my way, then bend over her work again.

  Edgar chuckled. “Don’t tell me. It’s the redhead you had in here last week. Rose and dagger, right ankle?”

  “Maybe.”

  Edgar let out a whoop. “You’re a whore, Fletcher. Don’t ever change.”

  The two women from the waiting area approached my station. The blonde took a seat in the chair, her friend beside her to hold her hand. They were both hot, both flirted with me as if their lives depended on it. I did my best to reciprocate because Edgar was watching.

  Twenty minutes later, the blonde got up from my chair with Stay true to yourself delicately scrawled across the inside of her wrist. She and her friend invited me to a party.

  “Yeah, maybe I’ll stop by,” I said, and waited with mounting irritation as they giggled and insisted I get out my phone to take down their number and address. I pretended to punch the girl’s number into a new contact with my thumb, then slipped my phone back into the back pocket of my jeans.

  “Hope you can make it,” the blonde tossed over her shoulder as the two left.

  When they were gone, Edgar laughed and shook his head. “I thought you had a date tonight?”

  I shrugged. “I’ll take her with me to the party.”

  He laughed a great bellowing laugh. “You’re my hero, T.”

  No, I’m a lying asshole.

  Ages ago, I would’ve dialed that phone number the minute I got out of work, and probably gotten little sleep that night. Now, a smoking hot blonde and her friend were no more interesting than a weather report. But letting everyone think I went out with a different woman every night was better than the truth. That since I heard Kacey sing around a campfire all those months ago, I was a lost cause.

  I finished out the day, and as we cleaned up our workspaces, Edgar jerked his chin at me.

  “Enjoy your date with the redhead,” he said. “Or the blonde. Or the redhead and the blonde. I want a full report tomorrow.”

  “You’ll get it,” I said, shrugging into my leather jacket. “If they don’t wear me out.”

  Edgar laughed and Zelda flinched. I smiled at her with a small shake of my head, trying to signal this was all bullshit. I’d heard she had a crush on me since she started working here a year ago. It didn’t suck to look at her, but I didn’t date coworkers. Too messy if things go sour, and with me and women, they always did.

  “Have a good night, Z,” I said.

  “You too, T,” she replied. She looked up then, flashed me dry smile. “Slut.”

  Edgar and I laughed, and the second my back was turned, the smile started teetering on the edge of my face. When I stepped outside the tattoo shop, it dropped like a mask and shattered on the sidewalk.

  At the Lee Business School at UNLV, I listened to the professor go on about payroll tax and employer ID numbers. I wasn’t lost. I got it. The data made sense to me and I almost felt sort of proud. Like I was getting something done.

  “I’ll remind you again,” Professor Hadden said from behind her lectern. “This midterm exam is worth forty-five percent of your final grade. You cannot—and will not—pass this class if you miss it or fail it. Arrange to consult with me if you feel either of those scenarios is a possibility.”

  My pace to the parking lot was a small victory lap. I wasn’t going to miss or fail. No chance.

  My phone chimed with a text from Oscar.

  Want to meet up tonight? I don’t miss you but Dena does.

  I chuckled at the backhanded offer. It had been a long time since I’d hung out with my friends. They were Jonah’s friends first and foremost—his best friends—and hanging out with them
had the same quality as having dinner at my parents’ place. Ghosts of other times hovered everywhere like shadows in the periphery.

  I tapped back, Can’t. Have a date.

  Should’ve guessed, Oscar replied. Try for next week?

  Sure.

  How easy it’d become to lie. Lie to my coworkers, lie to my friends. It hardly bothered me anymore.

  We’d all drifted apart after Jonah. He was the center of our goddamn universe and without him, we were starting to lose whatever pull it was that kept us in the same orbit. Oscar and Dena tried. My mom tried. But I couldn’t muster the energy to smile and laugh and bullshit my way through small talk. It took too much effort to keep the grief in check. Grief of losing Jonah, then Kacey.

  I drove my truck out of the university parking lot, down side streets running parallel to the Strip. Taking back roads to the Wynn Hotel and Casino. I parked and knocked on the service entrance door.

  All the security guards knew me. Wilson was on duty tonight.

  “Evening, Theo,” he said, waving me in.

  “Hey, Wilson.”

  I traversed the back passages and innards of the hotel, down a corridor of cement and bright fluorescent light. Eyes in the sky watched me, but their gaze was benevolent. Nobody would question me. Eme Takamura, the gallery curator, had seen to that.

  Three right turns, one left, and I pushed open a heavy door, emerging near the elevators on the first floor. I slipped down the hallway across from the clanging casino that never closed.

  Paulie was standing guard over the locked doors of the Galleria. He’d shooed away the last visitors hours ago.

  “How’s it going, T?” he asked, punching in a key code. The red light flashed to green.

  “Can’t complain,” I said. “Thanks, man.”

  He smiled, his smooth dark skin and white mustache rising in a small, sad smile. He pushed open the door and held it for me. “Have a good night.”

  I nodded and stepped into the gallery.

  After the funeral, I came here every night religiously. Then every other night. Lately I’d been holding steady at three or four times a week. When I had a shitty day, or when I missed Jonah too damn much, I came here.

  Jonah’s individual glass pieces were long gone, all sold and now living in a hundred different people’s houses. The long end of the L-shaped gallery was now lined with sculptures, the work of some local up-and-coming. I didn’t spare them a glance. I rounded the corner to the short leg of the L. Here Jonah’s installation, a permanent fixture, rose up like a tidal wave on the far wall. The sun, always shining and vivid, beat down on waves and sea life that seemed ready to move at any moment.

  I took my usual seat on the bench opposite, and leaned back against the wall. I crossed my arms over my chest and took in Jonah’s glass. The installation was perfect. Flawless. Like Jonah had been in my mind’s eye—the idol big brother who could do no wrong to his little brother who’d worshipped the ground he’d walked on.

  I squeezed my eyes shut against the perfection. I knew if Jonah were here, he’d tell me it wasn’t my fault. He’d say Kacey was an adult who could make her own decisions.

  Sometimes I believed him. Sometimes the gallery was my sanctuary, the cathedral of glass where I found peace. The same serenity Kacey discovered in Jonah’s glass paperweights.

  Sometimes.

  Tonight, there was no peace. I’d made my brother a promise and failed to keep it.

  I forced myself to open my eyes and look at Jonah’s masterpiece. The brilliant colors blurred in my unblinking gaze. The blue of the sea poured down from ceiling to spill over the floor. I could smell the salt, feel the cold water against my skin and the sting of salt water in my eyes like tears. An ocean of never-ending tears.

  Kacey

  “This song is from my album, Shattered Glass. It’s called ‘The Lighthouse.’ I hope you like it.”

  The audience at Le Chacal clapped and whistled their approval. Murmured conversations ended. A few clinks of ice in a glass and then the little jazz club went silent. Waiting.

  Honestly, I didn’t give a shit if the audience liked the song or not. It just sounded like something I should say. I believed in it more than This song is from my album.

  My album. Big fucking deal. Me and my album. As if it were a tangible object—a packaged CD or even digital files—instead of twelve songs I scratched into a notebook and slapped against some music. I sold my songs onstage and called it an album. People paid a cover to get into the club, I got a cut. Four different clubs, four nights a week. And since I packed every house of those four clubs, it was good money. Good enough to keep to a routine. I had a routine now.

  I adjusted my guitar and nearly knocked over the mic stand. The floor was spinning lazily beneath the stool I sat on, and the stage lights hurt. Big fuzzy blobs of light to sear my eyes. The audience beyond was a blur of faces. I closed my eyes. I didn’t need to see anyway. My fingers found the frets, my right hand strummed the strings, and a song came out.

  Routine.

  My body knew what to do and it seemed no matter how drunk I was, it would always remember. Muscle memory, or maybe something more. Maybe when a song lives this deep in you, it becomes part of you. I hit every note and sang every word of ‘The Lighthouse’ with no more thought than I paid to breathing.

  Frets. Strings. Strum. Song. Breathe. Four nights a week. Wednesday through Saturday.

  “It’s funny we have the same exact work schedule,” he said. “Wednesday through Saturday nights.”

  “I requested those days.” I said. “They’re the best shifts.”

  Jonah smiled. “They are.”

  My chest constricted and tears burned behind my closed eyes. After six months, I should’ve been used to the way he snuck up on me. Little bits of conversation. Little slivers of memory.

  Little moments.

  Jonah.

  I was crying now, but the audience loved it. They expected it. Tears were part of the act. La Fille Submergée, they called me. The Drowned Girl.

  I cried just hard enough to enhance the song without disrupting it. At least, that’s what some chick in the bathroom at Bon Bon—my Saturday night gig—once told me. I made the tears and the sharp intakes of breath part of the experience.

  She had an experience listening to me sing.

  What a fucking abomination, I’d wanted to tell her. Jonah is dead and I’m turning it into an experience.

  I finished the song and applause drowned my murmured thank you. I slipped off the stool and carefully picked my way across the stage, more than ready for my post-show cocktail.

  “You sounded good tonight, sweets,” Big E said as I took my reserved seat at the corner. The bartender had a short-cropped reddish-blond beard and a perfectly shaved head. His real name was Mike Budny, but everyone call him Big Easy or Big E. He reminded me of Hugo, the Pony Club bodyguard in Vegas: big and intimidating on the outside, but total mush inside.

  “When are you going to invite one of your friends to listen to you play?” he asked. “Or family?”

  Every night I worked Le Chacal, Big E tried to pry some personal information out of me. He openly worried about me, and never gave up trying to dig up some kind of hint about my past.

  “The third degree again?” I squinted up at him. The lighted shelf of liquor bottles behind him pierced my eyes. “I should call you Sherlock.”

  “You do call me Sherlock,” he said quietly. “You just never remember.”

  I snorted a laugh and sipped my drink. “My family is busy,” I said, my words tripping over themselves. “And you’re my friend.” I gave him a watery, playful smile. “You always listen to me play. What more do I need?”

  “A lot, sweets,” Big E replied somberly. “You need a lot. You need help.”

  Help.

  For all his prying and not-so-subtle intervention, he’d never said that word before. Since I’d moved out of Vegas and cut myself off from everyone, I hadn’t heard it before either. />
  I need help.

  I sniffed and downed my whiskey, pushed the glass across the bar toward him. “If you want to help me, you’ll give me one more.”

  “Last one,” Big E said, pouring a finger of whiskey into my glass. “I’m not giving up on you, Kacey.”

  I raised my drink in a mock toast and took a sip. I clinked my teeth painfully on the edge of the glass, ruining the I’ve-got-my-shit-together-thank-you-very-much vibe I was trying to exude.

  “Ow. Fuck.”

  “You okay?” asked a voice on my left. A young, good-looking guy with tatted arms and slicked-back hair had slid onto the barstool beside me. “That sounded painful.”

  “All teeth intact,” I muttered, sipping my drink.

  “Good thing,” the guy said. “You have a beautiful smile.”

  I snorted wetly. “Is that so?”

  “I don’t know actually,” the guy replied. “The Drowned Girl doesn’t smile, but I’d like a shot at changing that.” He flashed his own winning smile, and held out his hand. “I’m Jesse.”

  “Kacey.” I shook his hand, then tried to take it back but he held it fast.

  “Love your ink,” he said, inspecting the creeping, thorny vines that crept up the loose sleeve of my off-the-shoulder blouse.

  “Don’t remember,” I said, giving over a lie and withdrawing my hand.

  Big E watched us as he cleaned a glass with a white rag. Guys hit on me on a semi-regular basis. They didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of going home with me, or even taking me out on a date, but I let them try. Listening to their bad pick-up lines, or even their genuine attempts to get to know me reminded me of another time. Another girl. The one who would’ve laughed and flirted and jumped into bed with a guy like Jesse.

  The girl I’d been before Jonah.

  Now, the hollowed-out wreck I’d become was repulsed by the idea of being touched by a man. But sometimes they bought me drinks. And since Big E had been acting especially ridiculous about my cocktail quota lately, I sat up a little straighter and gave Jesse my version of a smile—a weak quirk of the lips. I pretended to be interested in the ink that covered his nicely muscled forearms, and within minutes, I had a fresh drink in front of me and we were comparing tattoos. I was drunk as shit, and being very, very careless.