Losing Enough

by Helen Boswell

  The other players at the table are all men, and before the game starts, my dad introduces me to everyone else. He knows all of them by name, which surprises me a little.

  Dad nudges me as the game starts, the cards and chips moving quickly – from the dealer to the players and back again. I smile to watch my dad fist-bumping the other players whenever someone wins.

  I’ve never seen him like this. I’ve never seen him smile so easily, never seen him cut loose like this and roar with laughter. When he’s at home, he always seems to have a shadow of a frown on his face. But not here. That shadow is gone without a trace.

  I look up at one point and see Connor standing across the room from us by the poker tables. His arms are crossed, and he’s off to the side of the beautiful woman with the Texan drawl. And he’s watching me. More like his eyes are lasered in on me. My glance skates over his chest, arms, and boldly down to his jeans before landing squarely on his face again. His answering look is unsmiling, so intense that I feel the color rise to my cheeks.

  I turn away and let myself get swept back up in the excitement of the game, but I can sense that Connor’s still watching me. Not in the same way as he was doing in the hallway, either. I don’t think I just imagined the interest in his expression, but it’s not the kind of interest I’m used to getting. Not lustful, not exactly. It’s more like he’s curious about me. Confused, even.

  I try not to look back over at him. It’s hard not to.

  8

  Connor

  Maya is doing a hell of a lot better now, as if this afternoon was a rehearsal and tonight is her public performance. She’s sitting at the high-limit poker tables, the only woman amidst all of the boys, and she emasculates them, hand after hand. I know I should probably be happy for her, be glad that she’s doing well and in a better mood than yesterday. But instead I stand behind her with my arms crossed, feeling stiff and restless at the same time, and far from fucking happy.

  Unlike her. Unlike Alex, who is on the other side of the room and in complete contrast to me.

  My eyes keep drifting over to the baccarat table. It’s a totally different scene over there, where the game is interrupted by frequent and raucous laughter. Even though Alex isn’t gambling, it’s like she’s one of them, bumping shoulders with the guy next to her and cheering every time someone wins.

  Alex’s head turns a little, and her gaze catches mine before she looks away.

  I should look away too, but I can’t. When I’d first seen Alex outside the high stakes room, I thought it was my eyes playing fucking tricks on me. God knows I’ve been on edge ever since finding out Cruz was in town. And when I saw her, it was like a reminder of the ghosts from my past. Like some figment of my imagination that wanted to drill into my head the thought of what I’d done last night in helping her out of the club, in taking care of her and personally making sure she got to her hotel room

  in making up for the past.

  Alex looks a lot better today. Not just in comparison to the doped-up mess that she was last night, either. She’s obviously at least twenty-one, to have been at the club and now in the high stakes room, but I again have the thought that she looks young. It has nothing to do with her body – she has a sensuality about her that speaks to the opposite. It’s more of her energy and her vitality, the way she grins like a kid at the guy she’s with. And that does makes me wonder how she’s out here laughing away like nothing happened to her last night. I totally don’t get that.

  The guy. He’s a lot older than her, definitely old enough to be her father. But he looks Chinese, or at least a good part-Chinese. And she doesn’t. Her red hair, for one thing. But maybe? Her cheekbones are high and sharply defined like his. Her eyes…

  Don’t know why I’m even trying to figure it out. It doesn’t matter. I’m just irritated at myself for being distracted. The player to the left of Maya is drunk and starting to get too chatty with her, and I need to keep an eye on him.

  The couple times this afternoon I’ve had the chance to call Elle, she hasn’t answered. The times she’s tried to call me back, I haven’t been able to answer. Worst fucking game of phone tag I’ve ever played. I already feel like my nerves are exposed, as if Cruz is going to walk around the corner at any moment with his cocky swagger and attitude of entitlement. I’m wound up tighter that I need to be, than I should be, given that I’m supposed to be providing security for a client right now.

  I look over right as Alex claps her hands together.

  “Good one, Dad!”

  Dad. The guy with her is her father, which mostly surprises me because of how different they look. But there’s a part of me that isn’t surprised, that thinks it makes sense because of the way she is with him. She turns to him, her whole face aglow, and I feel something inside my chest tighten.

  He nudges her with his elbow, and her expression grows serious before she points to a spot on the table. He’s letting her place a bet for him.

  I watch as her father pushes forward a stack of chips and as the dealer sweeps his hand over the felt. He passes cards out of the shoe to the players before flipping two over for himself, and I hear Alex give a happy squeal. She throws her arms around her father’s neck, and he hugs her and rocks her back and forth a little.

  This is right out of one of those fucking feel-good movies that Elle’s tried to drag me to see in the theaters. Life isn’t feel-good, not like that. And even as I’m seeing real people act out one of those moments in real time, I have a hard time believing it.

  Out of anyone I know, Elle probably has one of the best relationships with her parents that I’ve ever seen. Her parents fed her, clothed her, and her father didn’t beat the shit out of her like mine did, which in my book makes him father-of-the-fucking-year. But her parents were never outwardly affectionate, not like this. And as soon as she turned seventeen, they told her she had to support herself, like they’d been counting down the days until they could claim that they put in their time and were done. I know Elle goes back to see them for Christmas sometimes, but I also know she does it more out of the same sense of duty.

  At the end of the next hand, Maya turns around to face me. It’s the first time she’s spoken to me since we got to the table.

  “Watch my chips for me while I go to the ladies’ room, won’t you, darling?”

  “Of course, sweetheart.” I smile at her, eyeing the guy to the left of her as I take her spot.

  He’s definitely wasted. And an idiot for drinking so much with such high stakes on the table. He swings his head around to look at me, the stink of whiskey coating him, and I turn my head away in disgust.

  “Hey. Your old lady sure knows how to play a mean game.” He has a heavy accent, sounds like he’s from Long Island or Brooklyn.

  “She’s not my wife,” I mutter, staring at the glass in front of him.

  “Sorry, sorry.” He holds out his hands as though trying to appease me. “Girlfriend then.” His voice gets lower, like he’s trying to conspire with me on this one. “Or whatever that fine piece of ass is to you. I’m curious, always wondered about the lady players. Does she only put out on the nights she wins?”

  My elbows are braced against the table, but I shift now so I’m full-on facing him. “I’m her security,” I growl. “And I think you need to demonstrate some fucking respect to your fellow players. You know what I mean?”

  I spout it off without thinking. I do not talk to anyone except for my clients when I’m on the job. I’m a fixture, part of the scenery, not part of the game. And I just broke the rules by engaging one of the actual players. For all I know, I threatened the CEO of some fortune five hundred company who’ll demand my head as retribution for my mouth. Luckily, the guy backs down and shuts up, but I still feel like I’m sitting on a bed of nails.

  I raise my eyes from Maya’s towers of chips, my gaze drawn across the room for the hundredth time in the last hour. Alex and her dad are leaving the baccarat table, his hand on her back in a possessive gesture. Or m
aybe it’s a fatherly one, but I wouldn’t know.

  And then she looks straight at me, her smile like a ray of fucking sunshine. My throat constricts, like she put me into a stranglehold.

  I’ve been hanging onto Cruz more or less all day, and she can turn everything off just like that? It’s obvious she remembers me. So how the fuck can she let go and smile at me, the guy who watched her vomit all over the place and lectured her about being stupid?

  She’s not playing by the rules, either.

  Near the start of hour three, Maya turns around and looks at me through her lashes. “I think I’m getting hungry, darling. What about you?”

  Drunk guy left a long time ago, but the person who took his place is annoying her even more because he’s chatting her up in between hands. As far as I can tell, the guy is stone cold sober, and he’s tried at least five different ways to find out the name of the casino where Maya’s staying. He’s dark-skinned, his voice smooth, and I estimate that he’s older than Maya by about twenty years. The guy’s Italian suit probably costs as much as my car.

  Maya came up with this plan and a set of code phrases our very first year together. This one more or less means, “I’ve played enough. Now get me the fuck away from this asshole.”

  “Yeah, I’m starving,” I say. “Let’s go.” I extend my hand, and she takes it while the guy in the suit stares at me thoughtfully. He can think whatever the hell he wants, that I’m her hired help or her plaything. The latter is the kind of the look Maya wants me to go for anyway, and I think it’s exactly because of assholes like the guy in the suit.

  “So. Would you like to join me for dinner then?” Maya says it quietly as she slides her hand through the crook of my arm. I stare down at her in surprise as we walk away from the table, and she lifts a shoulder in a delicate shrug. “What? That gorgeous body of yours does need occasional sustenance, doesn’t it?”

  We leave the room, and I start scanning the crowd as always. “Mrs. Coplin. You’re not asking me out on a date, are you?”

  “No. But I did well tonight, and I feel like celebrating.” Her tone is heartfelt, and when I glance down at her again, she’s looking back at me in earnest.

  I hesitate, and she adds, “I don’t want to eat alone, Connor. It’s what I always do.”

  Maya always has her meals delivered to her suite, and dining with her in her room definitely falls under my no-socializing-with-clients clause. One of my hard-and-fast rules that I put in place for our mutual protection. But when we get to the elevator, I feel her sigh against me, and I reconsider. This is Maya, and if it’s a simple dinner that she wants, I can do that.

  “It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Coplin.”

  She squeezes my arm. “Oh good. And don’t worry, darling. The late Mr. Coplin approves of you. He told me so.”

  I don’t try to figure out if she’s playing or serious with that one. My clients are all highly unusual, in one way or another, which is totally their prerogative. And I have no problem with the late Mr. Coplin approving of me as a casual dinner date, but no more than that.

  We get back to her suite, and she waves for me to sit while she goes to the phone. I remain standing, not totally good about being in her room despite the fact that I should be – after two years of pick-ups and drop-offs, I should feel more at ease with it, not like my skin is crawling.

  I feel even more out of place as she picks up the phone and asks the front desk to patch her through to a restaurant at a different casino. I recognize the name – one of those fancy steakhouses where the chefs cut your meat for you right at the table and act like they have college degrees in anatomy. If I remember correctly the price of the things on that menu, she could order me bread and water and I’ll be happy.

  She hangs up the phone and perches on the edge of the couch.

  “If you’re going to stand there and hover, the least you could do is pour me a glass of wine,” she drawls.

  I nod once and walk over to the bar where a bottle of Merlot is sitting next to two glasses. Two glasses.

  Maya’s rooms are always set up exactly to her liking because she demands that everything is arranged for her and only her. Always one pillow on her bed, one set of towels. One glass at the bar. There’s only ever one glass set out at the bar, and while it’s entirely possible that some casino staff member placed two there today by mistake, I somehow doubt that it’s the case.

  I stare at the second glass and realize that Maya planned this, that even before she did well at poker today, she planned on sharing this wine with someone. With me. I brace my palms against the counter of the bar for a second, breathing in once and out again. I’m tempted to walk out that door, but don’t want to risk upsetting her. I can’t do that to Maya.

  I pour just one, leaving the other one untouched. Maya doesn’t look surprised when I hand her the wine, and I relax a little. I’m being paranoid, unnecessarily suspicious of everything. It’s because I’ve been waiting for Cruz to show up all day, but that doesn’t mean I have to project my demons onto Maya.

  “Thank you, kind sir.” She makes a graceful gesture to the rest of the couch. “You don’t have to stand over me, you know. Consider yourself off-duty. But paid for your time, of course,” she adds quickly. She kicks off her shoes and curls her feet under her.

  I’m not paid hourly like that, but I know what she means. Maya just ordered me a hundred-dollar cut of steak, and I feel strangely uncomfortable about it. Clients have paid for far more expensive dinners for me before, and I’ve had no qualms.

  “Tonight’s on the house, Maya.”

  It’s a gesture on my part, but I realize how big of a gesture it is as soon as the words are out of my mouth. I don’t mess around with money. Work is work.

  I’m totally not myself tonight, and I don’t like it. It’s because of Cruz, because my goddamn phone has gone off on me at least four times in the last hour. It’s also because of Alex. I keep hearing the sound of her laugh, and it makes no fucking sense why I’m even thinking about her.

  Maya’s eyes are wide, like she’s seeing me for the first time. “Connor Vincent. I’ve known you for two whole years, and that is the first time you’ve ever called me by my first name.”

  I frown. Had I? Shit. I’m off my work game if I did that, and it irritates me to no end. I open my mouth to apologize, but she sits up straight and interrupts me before I can.

  “Don’t fret over it. It’s fine. I actually prefer it. The Mrs. Coplin title comes with the widow label and everything that goes along with it.”

  She says it matter-of-factly and with maybe a tinge of bitterness, and I think about the wine glasses. The one set of towels. The hem of her dress rides up her thigh a little, and she adjusts it in a gesture that’s demure for her. She catches me looking at her and smiles at me almost sadly, and it hits me that I’m seeing the real Maya beneath the act, the real deal, right now. Out on the floor, she’s a tigress, but really she’s just a woman trying to escape a lot of hurt. Like all of us.

  I finally sit down next to her. “You don’t need to accept those labels. You’re smart, resourceful, young, and gorgeous, and while being a widow might technically be true, that doesn’t define you.” I mean every word.

  Her face registers surprise, the expression in her eyes clearing, softening. She leans forward. “And what defines you, Connor? I’m curious.”

  I freeze. It was a mistake for me to come here. I don’t let people get close to me like that.

  The bell to the suite rings right then. Thank God. I get up and walk swiftly to the door to answer it and find out that Maya didn’t only order us steaks – she ordered the service too. The awkward moment between us is over, and we both move to the dining table to spend the next forty minutes or so being entertained by one of the chefs from the steakhouse. The vulnerable Maya is gone, her mask solidly back in place.

  I don’t acknowledge her question about what defines me.

  I don’t know the answer.

  I get behind the
wheel of my car, glaring at my own reflection in the rear-view mirror. Today can go and fuck itself.

  I can blame Elle for not answering the phone the times I’ve tried to call. Maya for taking me off guard tonight by trying to get through my defenses. Cruz for deciding to come to my city. But Elle has her own life, Maya’s lonely, and I’m just one of the two million people that live in this city. Cruz and all of the other people who pass through here have as much a claim on it as I do.

  I try Elle again as I’m starting up the engine.

  “Hey,” she barks. “Finally.”

  I’m not in the mood for Elle’s usual crap, but oddly enough, the tightness in my shoulders relaxes as soon as I hear her sharp voice.

  “I just got off work. You at the bar?”

  “Nope, I get to see Alysa’s Empyre tonight,” she announces proudly. “VIP seating, baby.”

  Alysa’s Empyre. Some indie rock band that Elle likes. She dragged me out to see them with her a couple of winters back before they got all big and went commercial. I like their music all right, but that’s not what gets my attention.

  “Who’s the VIP?”

  She hesitates before saying, “Me. Obviously.” Her tone is guarded, and I know, I know she’s going with Alex.

  Doesn’t matter. If Elle’s going to a concert, that’s two hours more, minimum, that I’ll have to wait to talk to her. I feel a heaviness settle through me and swallow my pride. “Do you have a second to talk? This Cruz shit is making me crazy, Elle.”

  “Hey.” Her voice softens. “I know it’s gotta be killing you, having to think about everything all over again.” She stops, and the silence spreads out into seconds, maybe minutes. I close my eyes and hang onto it until she speaks. “I’m so sorry. Look, I’ll come over to your place right after the concert and we’ll figure out what to do. But I’m just on my way out right now to meet my friend. She has the tickets, and oh hell, Connor. I feel so selfish for doing this to you, but I really want to go to this show.”