Vegas Baby

by Winter Renshaw

  I hoist the baby over my shoulder and step back when she finally decides to push past me.

  “Whose baby is this?” She points, as if she needs to emphasize exactly which baby she’s referring to.

  I clear my throat softly. “Apparently, mine.”

  Noelle’s jaw falls. “No way.”

  I shrug a free shoulder. “I hooked up with this girl a year ago. She shows up this morning saying she doesn’t want the baby, and it’s mine.”

  “Psycho.” Noelle rolls her eyes. “I bet she’s lying.”

  “Doubtful.” I’m a world-class poker champion, and I didn’t get to where I am without learning a thing or two about reading people.

  “You really think she’s yours?”

  “Maybe? The timeline adds up. She’s got my chin.”

  Noelle snickers. “Your famous butt-chin.”

  “Dimple.”

  “Whatever.” She bats me away. “She have a name?”

  I lift my brows. “I wasn’t given that information. Ava was desperate to get away. You’d have thought she was making a drop or something.”

  “Can I name her?”

  “She’s not a fucking puppy.”

  Noelle reaches for her, carefully slipping her hands under the baby’s arms and cradling her against her chest.

  “She smells like a Cabbage Patch Kid.” Noelle smiles and breathes her in. Her nostalgic grin fades before she turns to face me. “Mom and Dad are going to kill you. You know that, right? Murder you.”

  I rake my fingers across my eyes and squeeze them tight. “Fuck.”

  “Easter’s next month. What are you going to do?”

  My hands hook the back of my neck as I exhale. “I don’t know, Noelle. I don’t fucking know.”

  “You’re going to have to tell them about her, like, soon.”

  “No shit.”

  “I love that I’m perpetually the good twin,” she teases.

  Noelle’s competitive streak is a mile wide, and I’m not in the mood to feed that beast right now.

  The baby wakes, releasing a shrill squawk of a cry that startles us both. We lock eyes, silently demanding that the other one does something to stop the ear-piercing wails.

  “Make a bottle,” Noelle says, bouncing on the balls of her feet and glancing around the room. “Do you have bottles?”

  I swipe the black diaper bag from the floor and rifle through. A single bottle at the bottom of the bag rests next to a small canister of formula. Seconds later, I’m scanning the label for some kind of direction and measuring out a perfect powder-to-water ratio.

  “Are babies allowed to drink tap water?” I call out as I shake the mixture. “I’m out of bottled.”

  “I don’t know, Crew,” she calls out, her voice barely audible above the hungry cries. “Hurry up.”

  By the time I return with the bottle, Noelle’s hand is already outstretched and swiping the air. A second later, she pops the bottle in the baby’s mouth and the crying halts.

  We breathe a concerted sigh of relief, and I fall back into my couch.

  “Where’s she going to sleep tonight?” Noelle asks. “Your house is a disgusting mess, by the way. You make all that money playing cards and you can’t hire a maid?”

  “I don’t like people touching my stuff.” I hate that I sound like a twelve-year-old boy who just discovered a secret stash of pornos and a newfound appreciation for the lock on his door. “And I don’t know where she’ll sleep.”

  “Going to have to clear out that spare bedroom,” she says. “Take down those God-awful posters of Sports Illustrated models from 1998 and slap up some pictures of bunnies and elephants.”

  “Those are vintage,” I say. “And fine. You stay here with the baby. I’m going to grab some baby shit.”

  “Do you even know what to buy?”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  Noelle lifts the baby over her shoulder and pats her back. I’d appreciate this moment more if I was into sentimental feelings and shit. But she should know how I feel anyway. She’s my twin. Not everyone is lucky enough to come equipped with a built-in best friend, someone who can take your shit and give it right back and love you anyway.

  “You’re welcome,” she says. I both love and hate when she reads me.

  “Not sure how long I’ll be gone.”

  “Oh, you’ll be gone a while.” Noelle laughs. “Babies need a lot of shit. Like a ridiculous amount of shit. Shit you didn’t even know existed.”

  I release a lungful of air and drag my fingertips through my dark hair. “All right. I’ve got this.”

  “Maybe grab a book or two while you’re out. They make manuals for these things, you know.”

  TWO

  Calypso

  The chime on the front door to The Tipsy Poet has barely stopped clanging before Presley pops up like she wasn’t in the middle of a mid-morning nap on the job. She’s lucky I’m a nice boss.

  I yawn. “You tired too?”

  “Unusually so. Late night?” she asks.

  I peel my sunglasses off and toss her a scrunched nose before groaning.

  “Not by choice.” I dump my bag on the counter by the cash register and glance around the empty Tipsy Poet before yawning a second time. The full-service bar in the corner sparkles and there isn’t a trace of dust on a single bookshelf in the entire place.

  Can’t even tell we’ve ever had a customer.

  “Neighbor keep you up again last night?” She stacks and restacks five books, arranging them until the order pleases her.

  “Of course.” My fists clench mid-air. “All night long I got to listen to him screw some woman who clearly thinks it’s normal to sound like a porn star the entire time. And don’t get me started on his headboard hitting the wall. The man’s a damn human jackhammer.”

  “Yum.”

  “Presley.” I tilt my head.

  “I like jackhammer sex.”

  “You like every kind of sex.”

  “It’s true.” She grabs a display book from next to the register and flips through it before bringing it to her nose and pulling in a long breath. Her eyes close and she smiles. “I love the smell of old books.”

  A group of silver-haired retirees hobble past the display window, stopping on the sidewalk to peer into the shop. It’s not enough to have a flashing orange light that says we’re open. An empty shop does nothing to attract customers. A lady in a pastel pink fleece crinkles her face and bats her hand and the group shuffles along.

  “We don’t want your bloody business anyway,” Presley says in the worst Cockney accent I’ve ever heard.

  “We want everyone’s business, Pres.”

  “This place should be packed with people. I don’t understand.” She leans forward, her elbows on the clear glass counter. “Where else in all of Vegas can you sip mimosas while you peruse the most extensive collection of mint condition, reasonably priced used books?”

  I glance across the room at the bar half of the store. We get a fair amount of business on the weekends. My hope was to attract the artsy scene in Vegas, but it didn’t take long to realize no one comes to Vegas because they want to be the next F. Scott Fitzgerald.

  I’m so upside-down on this place it’s ridiculous.

  “Have you heard back from Havenhurst Academy yet?” Presley asks me the same question every week.

  “No, Presley.” I sigh. There’s more bark in my voice than I intended. “Not yet. Like I said, I’ll let you know when I do.”

  I’m not a formally trained writer, and I doubt Havenhurst would even want me, but I’d be damned if I let it stop me from applying to the top creative writing program in the country.

  “Geez.” Her hands fly up. “What’s with the mood?”

  “I told you. No sleep.”

  “But it’s not just today, it’s like every day for the last month.”

  When you have three months to make the balloon payment on the business you purchased under contract, and your accountant tel
ls you it’s not going to happen, it tends to put a damper on things.

  “Do me a favor,” she says. “Go get laid. Will you do that for me?”

  I laugh for the first time in I’m not sure how long.

  “You think sex cures everything.”

  “It does.” Her dark eyes light. “You get this flood of endorphins and it releases these feel-good chemicals in your brain. It’s proven. And orgasms release your body’s natural oxytocin. That’s why you feel high afterwards. Best. Drug. Ever.”

  “I don’t have time to even think about the amount of work it would take to go out and find someone I’d feel comfortable taking home.”

  “No.” She wags a finger. “Don’t take him home. Go home with him. Never let them into your house.”

  “Regardless,” I say. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about going out and getting laid. How do you even do that?”

  “Put on a slutty dress and smile at every guy who looks your way. If a guy buys you a drink, it’s his way of saying he wants to fuck you. It’s not rocket science, Calypso.”

  “It just feels . . . unnatural for me.”

  “I know you grew up in a hippie commune where everyone ate unicorns and shat rainbows and everybody fucked everybody all the time, but . . .”

  Something like that.

  “What about your neighbor? The Jackhammer?” Presley laughs, but I know her well enough to know damn well her suggestion is serious.

  “Never.” I roll my eyes. “Plus, I’ve never even met him before, and if I did, I’d give him an earful. He’s number one on my shit list.”

  “Didn’t know you had a shit list. Who all is on it?”

  “Just him.”

  Presley rolls her eyes and raps her fingers against the glass countertop.

  “Hm. Okay. So you’re going to have to go to an actual bar. You know, one where they don’t have books and fancy wine glasses.”

  “Or I could order a vibrator online and take care of everything myself?”

  “Sweetie, plastic is no substitution for some real D. Now . . .” Presley stares up at the ceiling, her fingertip grazing her bottom lip. “Okay, some pointers. Don’t fuck the first guy who buys you a drink. Bring condoms. Shave your lady village. Better yet, get a wax. This isn’t Shiloh Springs. This is Vegas. Natural doesn’t cut it here.”

  Well aware.

  I’ve stood out since the day I left the commune and planted roots in the city of sin. It was partly an act of defiance and rebellion at the time, but mostly an act of courage and blind trust.

  Ever since I was a little girl, Father Nathaniel Shiloh would preach that the universe would catch me if I fell.

  At nineteen, I fell hard for his son, Mathias, and he dropped me at my most fragile two years later. No one was there to catch me. The everlasting love and abundant happiness Shiloh Springs promised was a façade. Nothing was more abundant in that community than deception and lies.

  At twenty-one, I left under a midnight sky and hitched a ride to the nearest bus station with a hundred dollars in my pocket that I stole from a jar in the main kitchen.

  Father Nathaniel could preach love and forgiveness and togetherness and sharing to the ends of the earth and back, but none of it mattered. It was all a bunch of bullshit he said to shove hope down the throats of the hopeless in order to keep them around. As long as there was hope, people stuck around, and as long as people stuck around, Father Nathaniel’s ego stayed nice and fed.

  “Feels like a lifetime ago.” I gaze out the window.

  “What?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Just thinking about Shiloh Springs.” Gathering my long, wavy hair, I sweep it over my shoulder and weave a braid, letting the ends hang loose.

  Presley scoffs. “It was a lifetime ago. You’re not that hippy dippy girl I met wandering the Vegas strip barefoot anymore, but you’ve come a long way, friend. And thank God for that.”

  I pull at the fabric of my long skirt and stare down at my tan Birkenstocks.

  The bells on the door jingle, jerking our collective attention to a tall man in a faded gray t-shirt and dark jeans coming our way. He pulls off a pair of mirrored aviators that, on anyone else, would elicit an eye roll from Presley. Instead, she clears her throat with clear intention and wears the smile of a lioness two seconds from stalking her prey.

  He’s so her type.

  Thick, chocolate hair. Hooded blue eyes framed with dark lashes. Full lips made for all kinds of naughty things. A cleft in his chin to accent the manliest jawline this side of the Rockies.

  He’s striking. The kind of striking that makes you forget to breathe for a minute.

  I glance at Presley, who doesn’t so much as attempt to stifle the ridiculous grin capturing her pretty face. When she thinks I’m not looking, her dark eyes scan his broad shoulders and dip slowly down toward the hint of a bulge in the front of his jeans.

  I can’t have her ogling my customers like this, but lucky for her, I’m months away from closing up shop. Nothing matters anymore. Some junior high punk ran in here last week and shoved a Harry Potter book under his jacket and sprinted off. I didn’t even try to stop him. May as well let them steal it if I can’t even give it away.

  “Welcome to The Tipsy Poet,” Presley says. “May I help you find something today?”

  His eyes squint as he scans the shelves behind her, scratching the side of his brow.

  “Just looking today or . . .?” I ask. “We have just about everything under the sun.”

  My cheeks burn. I sound so lame, and for some insane reason I care.

  Okay, that insane reason might be because he’s one of the most gorgeous creatures ever to stumble in here, but still, he’s Presley’s type. I don’t even have a type. And if I did, it wouldn’t be him.

  This guy looks like the kind of man who’d pick an LA Laker cheerleader over a girl who shops at thrift stores and wears her hair sans-product. Girls like me are invisible to guys like him. They look clear through me, and I’m absolutely fine with that, because I wouldn’t waste my time on someone like that anyway.

  No skin off my back.

  “Baby books,” he says.

  Presley and I exchange looks like our thoughts are syncing.

  “You know,” he says. “Like how to change diapers and stuff.”

  Presley’s shoulders slump forward, her jaw slightly hanging.

  This man’s clearly about to become a father, which means he has a wife or a girlfriend, which means he’s completely off the market.

  “Yeah,” she says, her tone now flat. “Over here.”

  I stand back as she takes him to the tiny corner of the store where two narrow shelves house a couple of dozen baby manuals.

  He doesn’t check her out, not once. Which is a shock. Every man who walks in here drools over Presley and her cocoa hair and deep-set gaze. Her lips are almost always slicked in bright shades like ruby or fuchsia. I’m positive half of our sales come from men hoping if they buy enough from her, they just might score her number.

  “This is everything we have,” she says to the handsome patron.

  The man pulls a thick book off the shelf, cracking the spine and thumbing through.

  I yawn for the millionth time this morning, still barely able to stay awake. I’m strongly considering heading into my office, locking the door, and curling up under my desk for a little nap before Presley leaves at two. I’ll use the cushion of my chair for a pillow if I have to.

  That damn Jackhammer and his bed knocking on my wall all night. One of these days, I’m going to run into him around the apartment complex and tell him exactly what I think of his late-night rendezvous.

  “Okay. I’ll take everything,” the man says a minute later.

  “Ev-everything?” Presley says with a laugh.

  He’s got to be joking.

  “You want all these books? There are twenty-five or thirty books here,” she says.

  “Twenty-eight, and yes, I’ll take them all.”

  “Okay
, sure.” Presley throws me a look with lifted brows, grabs an armful of books, and hauls them to the cash register.

  “Do you deliver?” he asks.

  “Oh, um.” I rap my nails against the glass counter. “No one’s ever requested that before.”

  “My truck’s full of baby stuff right now. Don’t really have the room, otherwise I wouldn’t ask.”

  Presley shrugs, turning to me. “He is buying a ton of books.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Of course. I can deliver them personally. Just write down your address. Our bartender gets here around seven. I can duck out of here for a little bit and drop these off then. Would that work for you?”

  “Two hundred forty-seven dollars and fifty-five cents,” Presley says.

  “Yep. I’ll be home.” The man hands her a black Amex. He sure as hell doesn’t look like a man who’d carry one of those. I thought I had him pegged the second he walked in here. Now I’m not so sure.

  “Oh.” She looks my way.

  “I’m sorry, we only take VISA, MasterCard, and Discover,” I say.

  “Not a problem.” He pulls out a thick wallet from a holey pocket in his jeans. The second he unfolds it, I spot a thick stack of green. I bet he’s a career gambler. I’ve heard some of them make a killing. “I’ll pay cash.”

  I rip a sheet of paper from a nearby Post-It pad and hand him a pen emblazoned with our logo. “Address?”

  He grabs it with his left hand, scribbles for a few seconds, and hands everything back to me. Our fingers brush, and it sends a quick jolt to my stomach.

  “Thank you.” I yawn. “Excuse me. I can’t stop yawning today.”

  “Late night?” he asks, looking me up and down. “You don’t look like the partying type.”

  “She has this neighbor.” Presley leans forward and folds her hands together, resting her chin on top. “He keeps her up late.”

  “Presley.” I say her name through a clenched jaw.

  “I say if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” She ignores me.

  If she weren’t my best friend and highest-selling employee, I’d fire her right here and now, in front of this father-to-be.

  “Oh, yeah?” The man’s eyes glint as he smiles, laughing just a little. He’s looking at me differently now.