Out of Aces (Betting Blind #2)

by Stephanie Guerra

  “I know. I’m sorry.” She sounded sad. And a little stressed. “I wish it wasn’t just me trying to do this alone. I know it’s hard for you.” She turned away, and I could see her profile: nose small and delicate, light lashes lowered and hiding her eyes.

  I had a scary thought then. Maybe we weren’t meant for each other. I loved her like a piece of me. I wanted her forever. But maybe what she needed was a religious guy. Maybe a guy like Micah, who would understand what made her tick.

  Somebody was making noise in the parking lot. Not a fight exactly, but a drunk argument in another language. There were three people in it, all women. Heels clattered on concrete and a door slammed.

  Irina hadn’t moved from the position she’d fallen asleep in. She was on her side, leg thrown over my waist, face nestled on my shoulder. Her hair was spread over the pillow like a golden fan.

  I couldn’t keep my eyes closed. They kept springing open as I pictured that computer screen again and again, telling me I’d failed. I stared at the forked line in the ceiling, wide awake like I’d bolted a Red Bull. Irina’s warm weight on me filled me with panic. I was bluffing like mad with the worst hand of cards ever. Somehow I’d managed to pull off a few rounds without anybody finding out. But this couldn’t last. Blind luck never did.

  The GED thing bothered me the most. If she found out . . .

  The talk we’d had earlier played again in my mind. I had been kidding about getting Elvis to marry us. But if she’d said yes, I would have done it. I was always ready to gamble.

  But that wasn’t going to work forever. I had to get my life together, figure out a plan, because . . . I looked down at Irina’s chest rising and falling. Because I wanted her for real.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nick was in a wicked mood. He usually stayed in his office, but tonight he was stalking around, barking at the waitresses, watching me till I felt as jumpy as a kid stealing a candy bar. He had these black eyes that could leave bullet holes just looking at you. I wasn’t taking it well, because I was already feeling low that Irina had gone home the night before.

  “Ignore him,” said Rob. “He’ll come down harder if you act nervous.”

  “Easy for you to say, you three-hundred-pound Irishman.”

  Rob grinned. He enjoyed the fact that he was bigger than everybody else. He was wiping down the bar for the third time (he was OCD like that), when his rag stopped moving and he stared across the club. I followed his eyes to a lady in cowboy gear muscling through the door with a big cardboard box. “It’s going to be a good night,” Rob said happily.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Hang on.” Rob let himself through the bar flap.

  It was Saturday, but it was still early and the place was only half-full. I leaned on the bar, keeping an eye on Rob and the lady. She was older, maybe fifty, and stuffed into serious rodeo clothes, which were very trendy in Vegas, at least for a certain crowd. Rob carried the box to his side of the bar, and they stood talking for a minute.

  Slam! I jumped. Nick’s hand had landed on the bar behind me. “I’m paying you to work, and all you can do is stare off into space?”

  “Sorry!”

  He shook a paper folder at me. “I’m doing paychecks. You still haven’t turned in your Sheriff’s Card. You want me to get fined? And where’s the copy of your GED? The company has a minimum education policy. The Gaming Control Board sees your résumé, doesn’t see a Sheriff’s Card and a GED, it’s my ass on the line.”

  “Sorry,” I said again, flushing. That stupid Sheriff’s Card. It was just an ID that said you’d been fingerprinted by LVPD, but I needed to get a fake, because it had a birthdate right on the top.

  “Don’t apologize, fix it.” But then Nick stopped glaring at me and turned toward the entrance. I looked after him. Four girls in tiny red dresses and Santa hats were coming through the door. The one in front was a knockout. Dark tan, long black hair, blue eyes, and about twenty pounds of silicone—but the surgeon did a good job.

  “We have a Bacardi promotion tonight,” Nick said without turning his head. “Sell them bottles at cost, and they’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Sure, okay.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the black-haired girl. She had “Bacardi” written in silver glitter across her chest. Her heels were six-inch needles.

  “I’ll give you one more minute to act like a horny teenager. Then I want you back to work.” Nick walked away.

  The word teenager made me snap out of it and start stacking glasses.

  The music went down, and DJ Blaze’s voice came over the sound system. “Hush, I want you to give a big welcome to the Bacardi girls!” I clapped. Every guy in there clapped. The women, not so much. “They’re here to make friends and spread the holiday spirit, so I want you to show them a good time!” DJ Blaze transitioned into some beats and—what was Rob doing? He had lifted the flap to let the girls behind the bar!

  I went over there at light speed. The black-haired one was even better up close.

  “This is Gabe. He takes care of that end of the bar,” Rob introduced me. “Gabe, this is Lydia, Chanel, Erin, and . . . What’s your name, sweetie? I don’t think you were here last time.”

  “Becca,” said the black-haired girl. She smiled at me, and I smiled back.

  Chanel, a blonde, took charge. She grabbed one of our bottle openers and slit the cardboard box. “Becca, you do inventory,” she ordered, opening the flaps. “There should be fifty T-shirts and thirty shot glasses in here. Lydia and Erin, take the floor. I’ll handle the VIPs. The goal is thirty bottles sold and all the swag distributed.” She tucked her hair behind her ears and marched back out. I could see her in a business suit in some other life.

  “You want help counting that?” I offered Becca. “Here, I’ll do the shirts.” I grabbed an armload.

  “Thanks.” She smiled again. Meanwhile, Rob was pouring shots.

  “Here you go, sweetheart,” he said when we were done with inventory. He handed Becca a tray. “Kill ’em dead.” She gave us a flirty look over her shoulder as she left the bar.

  “Those ladies are getting paid,” Rob commented after she left. “They’ll clear five hundred apiece in two hours, easy.”

  “They deserve it,” I said. I went back to my end of the bar, and I admit it, I was a little distracted. People will do just about anything for a T-shirt. The best was when Chanel took the mic and got a contest going on the dance floor. She used a dumb, cutesy voice, nothing like how she’d sounded behind the bar. “Whichever guy dances the sexiest gets a shirt! I’m the judge!”

  You should have seen the drunk fools go. The dude who won was dancing like a windup hump-toy.

  “Okaaay . . . let’s see somebody do a good Elvis impression!” Well, there was a professional Elvis impersonator there, so that was easy.

  “Just the ladies now,” Chanel called. Really, people will do anything for a T-shirt.

  I was watching the comedy on the dance floor, when suddenly Becca was leaning on my bar. “Can I get some water?”

  I gave her a bottled water. “You selling as much as you hoped?”

  “Yeah, Chanel’s really good. Everybody makes money when she’s working.”

  “That’s cool. You like working for Bacardi?”

  “I don’t work for Bacardi. We’re with a promotions agency, and we work for whatever company hires us for an event. Like, I have a Kahlua outfit in my car from last night.”

  “Yeah? What’s it look like?” I asked.

  “Um, I guess it’s a really tiny pair of shorts. And a bikini top.” She was smiling a little.

  “I bet you looked great in it.” Shut up, fool. You have a girlfriend.

  “Well, I don’t know about that.” Her eyes locked on mine. Up close under the bar light, I could see it was all fake: her hair was too black, her tan too dark, her eyes too blue, he
r chest too huge . . . but I totally wanted her. “Hey, you know the Double Down?” she asked, playing with the cap on her water. “Lydia and I are going there after this is over.”

  “Yeah?” I said.

  “You should come.” She touched my wrist and let her hand rest there for a moment. Long, smooth nails. Tan, pretty hands.

  I yanked my arm away. “I have to go on break,” I blurted out, and I practically ran out of there.

  Rob gave me a weird look as I said, “Behind,” and rushed past. “Going on break,” I threw over my shoulder. It was no big deal; it was still early—he could handle the bar himself.

  Instead of going to the break room, I pushed out the front door into the parking lot. I needed to clear my head, get some air, think hard before I decided to cheat. It was cold and clear, a typical desert night. The Vegas lights were bright enough to pass for stars. I walked between the parked cars, shivering a little.

  I had picked the hardest girl to try to be loyal to. I kept telling myself I just had to hold on until we were twenty-three or whatever she said, get married, and I’d have sex for the rest of my life with the woman I loved. But right now, I was thinking, I’m eighteen. What am I talking about?

  I looked back at the club. I wanted to be a good guy who could treat a girl right, not step on her like every guy always did to my mom. But I was missing some insane opportunities.

  I yanked my phone out of my pocket and dialed Irina.

  “Hi, baby.” Irina sounded sleepy. “I thought you were working tonight.”

  “I am. I’m on break. I just wanted to hear your voice. I miss you.” I think I sounded desperate.

  “That’s sweet. I miss you, too.”

  “How was your flight?”

  “Fast. Easy.” She yawned and I could hear her rustling around. “Is it busy tonight?”

  “Yeah. The Bacardi girls came, and they’re doing a promotion.” I wanted to tell her everything, tell her every detail so she could talk me out of my tree. She was my best friend and my girlfriend, and sometimes that complicated things.

  “The Bacardi girls?” Suddenly she sounded wide awake. “What’re they like?”

  “They go around giving away T-shirts and key chains. You know.”

  “Are they cute?”

  “Well, yeah, I mean, that’s their job.” Right away I knew I shouldn’t have said that.

  “Like how cute?”

  “Not as beautiful as you.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “No, seriously. They’re fake.”

  “Guys seem to like that.”

  I groaned.

  There was a little silence. Then Irina asked, “You said fake. Does that mean . . . What do you think about breast implants?”

  “I’m not answering that.”

  “So you like them?”

  “I never said that!”

  “But you never said you don’t, so that means you do. Tell me the truth.”

  I was quiet for a second, trying to get a strategy together. Irina could talk me into a corner every time. But part of me was thinking, She wants the truth? Fine. “Yeah,” I said. “Sometimes they look good, okay?”

  There was a tiny sniff on the other end.

  “Are you crying?”

  “No! You think I’m going to cry because you like big, ugly, fake balloon boobs?”

  “Okay, calm down.”

  “I have to go anyway. Micah’s picking me up early for church.”

  There was a beat while I processed that. “He’s what?”

  “He said he wants to see what my church is like. So I said he could come tomorrow.”

  “Wait, hold on. You’re kidding me. He wants to go to church with you?”

  “He’s interested in Orthodoxy. I guess he’s some kind of Protestant.”

  I felt like screaming. But I tried to stay calm. “People aren’t just suddenly interested in other religions. If he’s so Protestant, why isn’t he going to his own church? He’s trying to get with you! I told you!”

  Irina sighed. “Gabe, please. Can we not fight about this?”

  “We’re not fighting! I’m just trying to tell you what he’s up to!”

  “Look, I just flew out to see you. What else do I need to do to prove that I’m in this?”

  “Do you have a picture of him on your phone?” I demanded.

  “Why?”

  “Just, do you have a picture? You’re always hanging out with him and that other guy, Seth. Don’t you ever take pictures?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I’m sure I have a few on there.”

  “Text me one,” I said.

  “You’re acting insane.”

  “Please? Just text it to me. I’ll feel better and I won’t bug you.” If he’s ugly, I added in my head.

  “Okay, hang on, it’s coming.”

  A text came through . . . and oh, no. I held up my phone. No way. The guy looked like a Hardy Boy. Blond, muscled, all-American, date rapist, frat boy, bench-pressing son of a— “Is he a linebacker or something?” I demanded.

  “Not anymore.” Irina sounded confused. “And I think he played quarterback.”

  I smacked my forehead with my palm. “Irina, this is, like—this is insane!”

  “What? You think he’s handsome?” Irina was laughing.

  “Gabe!” It was Nick’s voice, coming clear across the parking lot. “Break’s over!”

  “I gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I took a breath. “I love you.” Because seeing that picture reminded me how much I loved her, and how hard I’d like to kick the ass of any toothpaste model who tried to take her away.

  “I love you, too, baby,” she said.

  I hung up and jogged toward the club, steaming.

  “Are you okay?” April asked from her cage as I tore open the employee door.

  “Look at this!” I blurted, holding my phone to the bars. “Is this guy good-looking?”

  She gave me a strange look, but she peered at the phone. “Yeah. Definitely.”

  I cursed under my breath and shoved the phone back in my pocket.

  “Hey, can I get some change, please?” a customer asked on the other side.

  April ignored him. “What’s wrong?” she asked me.

  Heat rushed into my face. “He’s after my girlfriend,” I admitted. As I said the word girlfriend, I felt embarrassed, almost naked. You weren’t supposed to talk about girlfriends with dream women who look like movie stars.

  But April said, “He looks cheesy. Like he works out at Gold’s.”

  “Yeah!” I said.

  “He probably fake tans.”

  I smiled, feeling a little better.

  April winked and turned back to her customer, and I went in.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The worst place to be at six in the morning, when you’ve just finished a graveyard shift and stink like a nightclub, is church. Well, a church parking lot. I’d Googled orthodox church on my phone and came up with St. Demetrios, service at 9:00 a.m. Micah wasn’t getting points over me.

  Now I was sitting in my car, seat cranked back, staring at the gray sky and trying to keep my eyes open. But I was dead tired. Maybe I’d just rest my eyes a minute . . .

  Next thing I knew, somebody was tapping on the glass. I jerked up. Things were blurry. I swiped at my eyes, trying to get out the grit, and—oh, crap. I rolled down the window.

  “Are you all right?” asked a giant wearing a black dress, with a beard halfway down his chest and a huge gold cross swinging from his neck.

  I scrambled to sit up straight. “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You need to sleep? We have room inside the hall. It’s going to get noisy here in a few minutes.”

  “Oh, no, that’s okay. I was, um, I
was just going to church. Thanks.” I opened the door and climbed out, blinking. Even in December, the sky was crazy bright. Behind the priest, the church shot up in the air like a blue-and-white castle.

  “I’m Father Giorgios,” said the priest, holding out his hand.

  I shook hands, feeling like I was in a dream.

  A few parking spots over, guys in black suits were climbing out of an old Dodge SUV.

  “Boys, come here,” called the priest. They weren’t exactly boys. They were the biggest, tannest, most hulking dudes I ever saw. They walked over, and a tiny lady got out of the front of the Dodge and trotted after them. “This is my wife, Presbytera Anna,” said Father Giorgios. “My sons, Konstantinos and Anatolios. Boys, please take care of our visitor.” He gave me a friendly nod and walked up the gravel walk into the church.

  Presbytera Anna had pretty dark eyes, gray hair pulled tight, and a sharp nose, like a tiny eagle. “Welcome. You are Greek?”

  “Um, no.”

  She frowned. “Serbian?”

  “No.”

  “Russian?”

  “No.”

  “Ukrainian?”

  “No.”

  “Georgian? Syrian? Lebanese?”

  “No.” I was starting to feel nervous.

  “Mom, don’t grill him,” said Konstantinos. He stuck out a hand. “Call me Kosta.”

  “Gabe.” I shook his hand. Behind him, Anatolios was staring at me. He offered a hand, and we shook, too.

  “You want to come wait in the hall with me?” asked Kosta. “Church doesn’t start for a little while.”

  “Yeah, okay. Thanks.” Kosta’s mom and Anatolios went into the church, and I followed Kosta to a big round building across the lawn. We went inside and . . . dang, I guess these people had money. It was a banquet hall, with marble floors, white-covered tables, and a stage at one end.

  Kosta dropped into a chair at one of the tables, and I sat across from him. “So you live around here?” he asked. I could tell he was dying to know what I was doing crashed out in his church’s parking lot. He had a friendly face: round black eyes, a long thin nose, and hair like a black clown wig.