Out of Aces (Betting Blind #2)

by Stephanie Guerra

  “Yeah, I just moved here recently from Seattle.”

  “Oh, did you go to Holy Assumption? Father Basil is my uncle.”

  “I’m not Orthodox, but my girlfriend is,” I explained.

  He looked worried. “Oh. Ah . . . does she go here?”

  I grinned. “Don’t worry, man, she’s Russian. She lives in Seattle.”

  “Russian. Very nice.”

  “Is this the same kind of church Russians go to?” I asked. Because I was thinking, This had better count.

  “Yeah,” said Kosta. “Maybe a few little differences, like their singing isn’t as good.” He smiled. “Although they’d probably say the same about us.”

  I rubbed my eyes; they were burning.

  “You look tired. Sorry my dad woke you up,” said Kosta.

  “Yeah, I’m on graveyard shift. But it’s cool.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “I bartend at Hush.”

  Kosta’s round eyes got even bigger. He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Really? Could you put me on the VIP list?”

  I had to smile. “Don’t be shy, man!”

  “I’ll put you on the VIP list in there.” He jabbed his finger toward the church. It took me a second to realize he was joking, and then we both laughed. Suddenly a big bell started to ring, loud and fast.

  Kosta stood up. “Time for liturgy.” I followed him outside, across the lawn, and through the big blue doors of the church. It was like walking into a kaleidoscope. Anywhere you could paint, there was color. The walls, the ceiling, and the domes were covered with sparkling pictures of people. Even the floor was covered in patterns of birds and fishes and curling vines. A chandelier hung from the middle dome, twinkling in the sun.

  Kosta headed down the aisle, but I stayed back, keeping a low profile. People were pouring in the door, having a kiss-party. They kissed the pictures all over the room, and then went to their pews and did some more kissing, twice per friend.

  The whole time there was really soft chanting coming from above.

  I was watching the Greek women, thinking I could see why those ancient Greek dudes made statues all the time. But there were a lot of old grandma types in church, too, and I swear every single one of them checked me out, even though I was hiding in a back corner.

  After a little while, Kosta’s dad came out wearing a gold robe down to the floor. A troop of guys in gold-and-white robes followed him around, carrying candles on sticks. One of them was swinging a chain with a metal thing at the end of it. He was like some kind of ninja with that thing, swinging it hard, the ball pouring clouds of smoke.

  Suddenly, Kosta’s dad held up a Bible over his head with both hands. At least I think that’s what it was. It was this giant gold metal book covered in jewels, and it seriously looked like something out of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

  I had no idea that this was what Irina’s church was like. I thought of church as . . . I don’t know, a guy in surfer shorts at a podium. Or a brotha preaching and singing gospel.

  Thinking of Irina made me focus. Is Micah standing by her right now? I dug my phone out of my pocket. But what should I text her? Guess where I am? No, too obvious. How does Micah like church? Too jealous. Please give your “friend” a punch in the face for me? I wish.

  I decided to take a picture. That would let her know where I was without saying anything. I looked around and tried to figure out what to shoot. The ninja guy was coming around with his smoking ball. That was kind of impressive. I held up the phone, aimed carefully, and—whap!

  My phone flew out of my hand and clattered to the floor. I grabbed my stinging arm. A little old lady had used her purse like nunchucks! She was maybe five feet tall, with a black scarf tied over her head and so many wrinkles I could barely see her eyes. She shook her head slowly.

  “Sorry,” I whispered, and picked up my phone. Her purse was on the floor next to it, so I picked that up, too. It was black leather, and it felt like it was stuffed with rocks. By now everybody in the back half of the church was staring. Time to go. I handed her the purse, whispered, “Sorry” again, and bolted.

  Once I was outside, I frowned and rubbed my red arm. I almost felt like I was hallucinating. Did that seriously happen? I guessed I’d have to take a picture of the outside of the church instead. I walked around the side of the building to get a good angle—and almost ran into Kosta.

  “Hi,” he said. He had a stack of white cloths tucked under his arm, and he was with a couple other guys also carrying things: a bowl of bread, a pitcher. They looked very GQ, with their suits open and sleeves rolled up.

  “Hey,” I said.

  Kosta turned to his friends. “This is Gabe. He bartends at Hush.”

  “Really?” The tallest, thinnest one stuck out his free hand. “Andreas.”

  “Steve,” said the other, a slick-looking dude with hair down to his shoulders.

  I shook hands, still feeling dazed. “An old lady just hit me with her purse.”

  “What?” said Kosta.

  I explained what happened, and they all laughed. “It had to be Mrs. Theodori,” said Steve.

  “Or Mrs. Papadopoulos,” said Andreas. “She used to smack my hands if I took more than one piece of prosphora.”

  “Well, she definitely didn’t want me taking pictures. Will you take one of me?” I asked Kosta. “I have to prove to my girlfriend that I went to church.”

  That made them laugh even harder. “He has a Russian girlfriend,” Kosta explained. I handed Kosta my phone, and he got a picture of me grinning with the church in the background. He gave my phone back. “Is that good?”

  I checked it out. “Yeah, that’ll work.”

  “It’s none of my business, but why don’t you just go to a Russian church with your girlfriend?” Steve asked.

  “She lives in Seattle. We’re doing the long distance thing.”

  “Oh. That sucks.” Steve looked sympathetic. “So she’s making you go by yourself and take a picture to prove it?”

  “No, that’s not her style. I’m going because some guy she knows asked if he could go to church with her today. He’s there right now. I’ve never gone before, so he’s kind of making me look bad.”

  “Oooooh,” said Andreas.

  Steve raised his eyebrows. “He’s hitting on her.”

  “I know, that’s what I keep telling her.” I went ahead and texted the picture to Irina.

  About two seconds later a text popped up. You’re at church???

  Kosta was looking over my shoulder. “Write, Yes, of course,” he told me.

  So I did.

  I know why you’re doing this, Irina texted back.

  “Ha!” said Kosta. “She knows you’re jealous.”

  “Let me see that.” Steve peered at my phone. “Say Because I love you,” he suggested.

  I grinned. “Good idea, man.” And I did it. Then I sent another text. I couldn’t help it; my fingers practically did it on their own. How does Micah like church?

  “No, that sounds weak,” said Andreas, because he was looking over my shoulder, too, now—but I’d already hit “Send.”

  Irina came right back: I don’t know. I’ll ask him after. We’re in service right now.

  “Oh, man,” said Steve. “Who is this guy, anyway?”

  “I don’t know.” I rubbed my eyes. “He goes to school with her. She said he’s some kind of Protestant and he’s interested in Orthodoxy.”

  Andreas frowned. “Okay, hold on. Write, What does he think about icons?”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah, do it,” said Steve. “I-c-o-n-s.”

  So I did.

  “Write, Will he fast with you?” said Kosta.

  I’d already dug myself deep. I went ahead and texted that, too.

  Irina’s text came back h
alf a second later. Who are you? Where’s Gabe?

  Steve laughed. “That’s good, man. Now leave it. Make her curious.”

  I smiled and put my phone back in my pocket. “Thanks.”

  “Stefanos Vallas!”

  We all whipped around. A big lady was marching toward us. She had a flowered head scarf and thick glasses. “Break up the party! We need the prosphora!”

  “Mama, calm down, I’m coming.” Steve quickly started toward her.

  “Konstantinos, you, too!”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Vallas. I’ll be right there.” Kosta dug in his pocket and handed me a business card. “Come see us at Helios sometime. We do after-hours, too.”

  I smiled and stuck the card in my back pocket. “Cool, man. Maybe I will.” Then I headed for the parking lot. Mrs. Vallas was carrying a purse, and I was a fast learner.

  Irina sounded really suspicious. “Okay, I just want to know one thing. Is the only reason you went to church because you’re worried about Micah?”

  I sighed and tipped my head against the wall. The answer was yes. But suddenly the line Steve gave me earlier—Because I love you—popped into my head. “No,” I said. “Not the only reason. I already told you why over text.”

  There was a silence. “Well, what did you think?”

  “I liked it. It was relaxing.”

  “Relaxing?”

  I knew she wanted more—I could feel it. But this was serious, not something to gloss. I mean, I’d been in the place for twenty minutes. Not long enough to get much of an impression. And her question had another question inside it, an unspoken one: Are you open to my religion? I didn’t know what I thought about that yet. “It was pretty. I liked the singing.” That was true.

  “That’s cool.” Irina’s voice was softer. “So who texted that stuff about icons and fasting?”

  I laughed. “Oh, these Greek guys. I told them about Micah and they knew he was hitting on you.”

  “Will you stop saying that?”

  “Just promise you’ll kick him in the nuts if he tries anything.”

  Irina cracked up on the other end.

  I decided it was time for a romantic move. “I already have enough tips to buy you a ticket. I’ve been looking on Orbitz, and I think I found some good ones.”

  “Already?”

  “Yeah. I was thinking the first weekend after New Year’s. Is that too soon?”

  Irina made a little Russian sound, an approving sound. “Definitely not. Like Friday night to Sunday night?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Can I pull the trigger?”

  “Yes,” she said. I could hear the excitement in her voice. We were both quiet for a minute. I couldn’t stop smiling. Then she asked, “So, did you check out the website I sent you?”

  The happy feeling melted away. “Irina, come on, I told you it’s not dyslexia.”

  “Well, did you?”

  “No,” I admitted. She’d sent me a link to the American Dyslexia Association. I didn’t even click on it. It spooked me to think I could get a label like that.

  “Why are you being so weird about this? There’s a quiz on the homepage that tells if you’re dyslexic. Just ten yes or no questions. It would take you, like, five minutes.”

  “Why?” I said. “What difference would it make?” I knew she was disappointed that I’d dropped out of school. And this labeling thing was part of a master plan to get me back in there.

  “It would explain a lot!”

  “Like why I’m stupid?”

  Irina almost never raised her voice, but she did now. “No! Leonardo da Vinci had dyslexia! So did Thomas Edison! And Einstein! So it doesn’t mean you’re stupid! But you’re so stubborn, I’m starting to think you are stupid.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’ve obviously done a lot of research on this.”

  “Only because you won’t.”

  I tried to make my voice calm. I really didn’t want to fight with her, not with Micah nipping at my heels. “Even if I do have it, maybe I don’t want to know,” I said. “Don’t I have the right to decide that?”

  She sniffed. “I don’t know.”

  When we said our good-byes, I knew she was still annoyed. So was I. I felt cornered. Pressured. If I did have dyslexia—and I didn’t think I did—I really didn’t want to know. I already felt bad enough about myself. I didn’t need to add something new.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Are you going home next week for Christmas?” Rob asked as he stacked glasses. It was early Friday night and the bar was still pretty mellow.

  I thought about it. Christmas alone in Vegas seemed like a bad idea. But I’d already told my mom I wasn’t coming, and there was no way I wanted to deal with Phil’s trashed face messing up our family holiday. I could just picture the pile of Victoria’s Secret bags under the Christmas tree. I’d miss seeing Irina, but I’d gone ahead and bought her tickets like we’d talked about. So I only had to wait two weeks to see her.

  Finally I said, “No, I’m staying here.”

  “You had to think about that.”

  “Yeah. My mom’s boyfriend is an idiot. I’m not doing Christmas with him.”

  Rob opened the fruit tray, made a face, and dumped the whole thing in the trash. “Good for you. Biological family is enough of a pain. Anyway, Christmas in Vegas could be cool.”

  “Or pathetic,” I said.

  “No, man. Cool in a Hunter S. Thompson kind of way.”

  I smiled. “Okay, I could see that. What about you? What are you doing?”

  “MacNamara and Shaugnessy clans are getting together.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “I have a kilt.”

  “No, you don’t!”

  “Yes, I do. My dad paid a lot of money to get our plaid shipped and fitted.”

  I giggled and started playing fake bagpipes, making a little moaning sound.

  “What the hell are you doing?” said Nick from behind me.

  I whipped around. The guy had a sensor.

  “He was making fun of my Scottish heritage,” Rob said with a straight face.

  Nick couldn’t help it—he smiled. Rob could make anybody smile. “Gabe, two security guys called in sick. I need you to take a bouncer shift. Lars will handle your bar.” Nick was looking sharp, as usual, in a tailored sports jacket and jeans.

  “Okay, sure.” I wiped my hands on a towel. I’d never bounced before, but I wasn’t too worried. There had only been one fight since I started working there, and the guys were so wasted they were swinging air punches.

  Nick took me to the main door. The bouncer stool was at the entrance, in front of a velvet rope that split the VIP from the regular line. Both lines were already wrapping around the building. Lars had a strategy of making people wait, even if it was dead inside. Terrell, head of security, was sitting on the stool, checking IDs. He was a menacing dude, at least two-fifty, with a face that never changed expression.

  Nick tapped Terrell on the shoulder. “Gabe’s covering for Frank. Show him the ropes, then you can staff the rear.” He disappeared inside.

  Terrell looked me over, and he didn’t seem too impressed. “You ever bounce before?”

  I shook my head.

  “Just check the cards and send them to the cage.” He pointed to the window where customers paid cover. April waved at me from behind the glass, and I smiled at her. Maybe if things got slow, I could talk with her. Although on a Friday night “slow” wasn’t too likely.

  “What about VIPs?” I asked.

  “Check their VIP card and ID. Make sure the names match. If they don’t have a card, they’d better be on the list.” He handed me a clipboard and got up from the stool. “You cool?”

  “Um . . . I think so.”

  “All right. If they look like trash, don’t let ’em in. If they’re a bunch of stags, don’t let ’em in. If they
look like tourists, don’t let ’em in. If they’re hot women or they’re famous, you know what to do. You need help, ask Marilyn here.” He pointed at April in the cage and trudged into the club. I sat down and looked at a couple of guys climbing out of a taxi. I smiled to myself. This was the most ironic job in the universe for me to be doing.

  I thought bartending was hard, but bouncing on a busy Friday was hell. There were the jerks who were already drunk, saying dirty stuff to the girls in line; the hot women who thought they should get to skip both lines; and the tourists who tried to give me tens or twenties to get in the VIP line. The first time it happened, I was so surprised, I took the money and let the guy through. April tapped on the glass. “Not for less than this,” she called, holding up a Benjamin.

  A couple hours in, I was starting to channel Terrell: no eye contact, no face movement, not even for hot women. They were a dime a dozen, anyway. Besides, April was hotter than any of them, not that I had time to talk to her. Then a guy in the VIP line stepped up and shoved his card at me, and I got an eyeful of bare, sparkly chest. Dude’s shirt was hanging open, and his abs were covered in some kind of blue makeup.

  “Um, that’s against the dress code,” I said. “You have to button up.”

  He raised his eyebrows. He had white-blond hair spiked with gel. “You know who I am?”

  I shook my head and looked at the card in my hand. Marcus Clayton. “Sorry, man, I never heard of you,” I said, and the girls behind him in line giggled. He glared at me—and started shrugging off his shirt!

  I stood up, blinking nervously. Was he saying he wanted a fight? He wasn’t that huge, but then again, the kind of people who wear sparkly paint also usually do drugs, and I wasn’t looking to fight somebody who couldn’t feel pain. I looked around for security, and I could just make out the back of AJ’s blue jacket way in the far corner of the lot.

  Marcus threw his shirt on the ground, and the front half of the line cracked up. He looked like a member of Blue Man Group. Wait, what if he was Blue Man Group?

  “Okay, man,” I said. “Calm down.” April was fanning herself in her box, she was laughing so hard. “Listen, you should pick up your shirt—you don’t want it to get dirty.”