Vegas Baby

by Winter Renshaw

  “Don’t you though?”

  “Of course not,” I lie.

  “You must be blind as a fucking bat then, because he’s hot as hell and he reads books. Everything else is secondary.”

  I snicker. “I wish my tastes were that simple.”

  Even if Crew were my type, if we were cut from the same cloth and put on this earth only for each other, I still wouldn’t date him. Love is fleeting and temporary.

  In the end, all it really does is clip your wings and break your heart.

  NINE

  Crew

  “You need to get a DNA test.” Noelle charges into my apartment fresh off a night shift, blue scrubs, dark circles under her eyes and all.

  “Good morning to you too.”

  “I was thinking last night. You make a lot of money, Crew. She might be setting you up.”

  I scoff. “We never talked about money the night we met. Or work. Or anything. We were . . . busy doing other things.”

  My sister rolls her eyes, fishing around in her bag. “Don’t be so naïve. Here. I picked this up on the way over here.”

  She places a box on the side table next to me.

  “It’s a DNA kit. Just so you know for sure.”

  “That’s fine. I was going to do one anyway.”

  “You’re going to have to tell Mom and Dad soon. You need to know if she’s yours or not. For sure.”

  She paces the living room.

  “Noelle, you need to calm down.” I laugh. “I agree with you. I’m not naïve, I’m taking this one day at a fucking time.”

  And trying not to go insane every time I wrap my head around the absurdity of this situation.

  She groans, dragging her fingers through her dark hair that matches mine strand for strand.

  “You’re right.” She sighs. “I had, like, six cups of coffee last night to stay awake through my shift. I’m tired and I’m buzzing, and my thoughts are going a million miles a minute.”

  “Jesus, Noelle.”

  “I’m happy to help you out with her once in a while, but I gotta get my sleep, Crew. I can’t work a nightshift, watch a baby all day, get a few hours of sleep and go into work again.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re going to need to hire a nanny or take her to daycare or something. You need more than just me.” She plops into the sofa, squeezing between two oversized pillows, and covers her eyes with the back of her wrist. “I’m just going to rest my eyes for a minute.”

  As soon as Emme finishes her bottle, Noelle’s out cold. Sometimes I’m convinced her masculine snore is what’s keeping her single. Without making a sound, I slip my shoes on and take the baby for a mid-morning walk around the neighborhood.

  It’s weird being up this time of day, and it’s even weirder how quickly I’m adjusting to this new schedule.

  I carry Emme along a residential sidewalk lined with palm trees tickled by a gentle breeze. The air is scented with desert marigolds and Mojave sage, a subtle reminder that Vegas isn’t all neon lights, spilled drinks, and menthol cigarettes.

  A couple of blocks later, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I switch Emme to my left arm and swipe my phone from my pocket. My poker buddy, Dino, sends me a heads up about a high-stakes tournament tonight.

  Mid-stakes tourneys are everywhere. Online. In person. All over town. High-stakes tourneys are rare, and typically invite-only.

  Dino’s got an in. He says it’s a private tournament with a mid-seven-figure prize pool.

  I can’t pass this up.

  I haven’t hit a high-stakes tourney in months, and winnings from this could carry me quite a way. Plus, now that I have Emme, I need to get us out of that frat-boy apartment and into something decent—something in the safest part of town, because suddenly that kind of shit matters to me.

  ***

  “I owe you so big.” I could fucking kiss Calypso right now.

  She drops her bag and kicks off her sandals by my door, ambling with open arms toward Emme’s bouncer.

  “I don’t mind,” she says. “I’m happy to watch her.”

  I slip my signature black hoodie over my arms and zip it before pulling the hood over my head and evening out the drawstrings. Everything has to be perfect. I have a system and it rarely fails me.

  My mirrored aviators rest on a table next to the front door, and I slip those in my pocket along with my truck keys.

  “I should be back around midnight.”

  “Have fun. We’ll be fine.”

  She takes a seat next to Emme on the floor, a pink blanket spread beneath them, and Emme grabs a handful of her hair and tries to shove it in her mouth.

  “No, no,” she laughs, tickling the underside of the baby’s palm to get her to release it. A moment later, Calypso motions toward the door. “Go. You’re going to be late.”

  I lock the door behind me, and for the first time in my life, there’s somewhere else I’d rather be than sandwiched between two world series poker champions in some table games suite in a millionaire’s mansion on Eagle’s Landing.

  TEN

  Calypso

  Emme’s fast asleep in her crib as I page through Poker Pro magazine in Crew’s living room. A half hour ago, I washed all the bottles, and an hour before that, I threw a load of baby clothes in his washing machine.

  It’s been years since I’ve tended to domestic chores unrelated to my own feathered nest, but I don’t mind looking after Emme. She’s a sweet and happy baby, the kind any mother would be lucky to have.

  I glanced around a little bit earlier, looking for a photo or anything that might clue me into what happened between Crew and Emme’s mom.

  I found nothing.

  It’s like she doesn’t exist, which makes me think they had a pretty bad falling out. Maybe if I get the chance on Friday, I’ll work it into to a conversation. I can’t imagine any kind of circumstances that would warrant a mother dropping her beautiful baby daughter at someone’s door with no intention of seeing her again.

  The metallic clink of Crew’s key in the lock precedes the pop and twist of the door handle.

  I clear my throat and wait.

  “Hey,” I whisper when he carefully steps inside. “She’s asleep.”

  He gives me a thumbs up.

  “You win big tonight?” I ask.

  “Always.” He winks, unzipping his hoodie and hanging it on a coatrack in the corner. “Thanks for watching her. I owe you.”

  I rise, cupping my hands on the back of my hips and stretching side to side before a yawn captures my mouth.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “We had a good time. You owe me nothing.”

  “You’re too good to me, Calypso. You know that?”

  Crew tugs his sleeves, revealing his intricate and brightly colored tattoos. A drawing of four aces fanned-out catches my eye, the first card being the Ace of Hearts.

  “You have any tattoos?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I’m boring.”

  “Highly doubt that.” He pulls his sleeve higher, twisting his arm to showcase the rest.

  Instinctively, I reach for a brightly colored Queen of Hearts, only the queen appears to be bleeding from the chest.

  “Poetic.” I snicker.

  “Symbolic.” He tugs the sleeve higher on his opposite arm, showing me a drawing of three lucky sevens. “And functional. I rub this one for good luck.”

  I laugh. “You really believe your tattoos are lucky?”

  “I believe in not breaking rituals. I did it once, and it worked, so I keep doing it. It’s compulsive. You ever watch me play, you’ll see it.”

  “You’re like one of those basketball players who don’t change their socks all season.”

  “Exactly.”

  Crew wears a boyish grin, and I’m disarmed against my will. He reminds me of a kid showing off his prized baseball cards and basking in the admiration and attention he receives.

  “You keep these covered a lot,” I say. “You’re always in long sleeves.
”

  “It’s a habit.”

  I smooth my palm along his arm before tracing the outline of a pair of dice.

  “My parents kind of have this thing where they hate gambling,” he says.

  “That’s right. You said they run an addiction treatment program.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “And my dad has a bad heart. He’s had several open heart surgeries the last couple of years. We’re supposed to keep him calm as much as possible or it could set off his arrhythmia, and then he has an episode and . . . it’s just not good.”

  “You going to hide them the rest of your life?”

  Crew rests his hands on his hips, pulling his arm from mine and tucking his chin. He pulls in a breath that fills his chest and releases it slowly.

  “I live in the moment, Calypso. I don’t make plans. I’m one hundred percent present.” He shakes his head, his brows rising. “I’ve always figured things out as I go along.”

  Our eyes catch, and the flicker of the muted TV behind me shines in his.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m a fucking coward for hiding this from my parents,” he says. “It’s not even like that.”

  “You’re protecting them,” I say. “It’s noble.”

  He laughs. “I’d hardly call myself noble, but yeah. Something like that.”

  I bet his parents are good people. They have to be if they make a living helping people.

  My parents were a couple of wildflowers, high on marijuana and floating through life without a care in the world. I used to think they were just hippies, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to realize they’re just a couple of dopers who never wanted to grow up and deal with real life and real responsibilities. Everything I learned about how to function in this life, I learned from everyone but my parents.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Crew says. “My dad’s a fucking asshole. But he’s my dad, you know?”

  I sweep my hair across the back of my neck and drape it over my shoulder, catching a whiff of Emme’s powdery smell mixing with my lavender shampoo. The tranquil mixture makes me even sleepier.

  I yawn. “I should go.”

  I catch a flash of something in Crew’s eyes. A silent plea to stay, perhaps? But it’s late, and I’m half-asleep, and I’m positive I’m reading into nothing.

  He leans into me, and for a second my heart stops cold in my heart. I harbor a breath and brace myself for a kiss . . .

  . . . that never happens.

  I feel stupid.

  So. Fucking. Stupid.

  He was just getting the door for me.

  I wear a smile tinted with sheepish embarrassment.

  “Did you think I was going to kiss you?” He smirks, raking his thumb and forefinger along his bottom lip as he studies me.

  I’m burning up, wishing we could both pretend this never happened. I can’t answer. If I say no, he’ll know I’m lying. If I say yes, he’ll think I like him.

  And I kind of do.

  Hell.

  Who am I kidding?

  He’s everything I shouldn’t want and nothing I need all wrapped up in a muscled, dimpled-chinned package.

  “Not going to answer me?” He laughs. “It’s okay, Calypso. You don’t have to. I can see it in your eyes.”

  My gaze snaps to the floor.

  “The way you look at me,” he says. “You keep yourself at a distance—emotionally and physically. But your eyes give it all away.”

  I look up at him, suddenly finding him closer than before. I drown in his scent—cigars and bourbon—and I’m bathed in his warmth.

  I drag it all into my lungs and let it settle deep inside me as my heart thunders in my chest.

  “It was a reflex,” I say. “You’re reading into it. You came into my space and I tensed up.”

  “If that’s what you want to tell yourself.” His words are accompanied by an amused chuckle. “I’m trained to observe people, to catch the smallest nuances. I can read body language like a book, and, Calypso, the way you look at me, the way you move around me, tells me everything I could possibly need to know right now.”

  “Which is . . .?”

  “That you really fucking want me to kiss you.”

  I don’t have a chance to protest when, without warning, I find myself slammed up against the wall, Crew’s mouth on mine and his fingers in my hair. My body melts into his as his tongue circles mine.

  His lips are soft, a stark contrast against the hardness of his kiss.

  Intrusive thoughts threaten to ruin this moment. I try to shut them out, but they only grow louder.

  He kisses me like Mathias did. There’s a hunger there, an insatiable drive, and an entitlement. His hands and mouth command my body like he owns the damn thing, and it doesn’t put up the tiniest of fights.

  “Calypso.” He cups my face in his hands, coming up for air.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t think straight. The room is dark, and I only see him. He’s all over me. His touch, his scent, his presence. Everything about Crew Forrester permeated my cinderblock walls with one greedy kiss.

  I’ve been down this road before, and I can’t do it again. Not with him. Not when I’m leaving this city in three months, one foot already out the door. As soon as The Tipsy Poet closes, I’m gone. There’s nothing for me here in Vegas.

  “I should go.”

  ELEVEN

  Crew

  The first time my uncle sat me down with a deck of playing cards, he slipped a burly hand over my shoulder and said, “Crew, first rule of poker is you either play to win or you play for fun. Decide what you’re doing before you even sit down.”

  People think poker’s simple. Easy. They don’t realize it’s one of the deepest card games out there. It’s not just about calculating pot odds, calling bluffs, and going all in. It’s about reading your opponents, looking for tells, watching out for the skinflints, and avoiding the aggressive players with little regards to their money.

  I didn’t get where I am today by playing for fun, though it may have started that way.

  Calypso leaves, and I don’t try to stop her.

  The kiss wasn’t planned, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been on my mind since the day I wandered into The Tipsy Poet. One taste of those heart-shaped lips was all I wanted. Only problem is, now I want more.

  I kick off my shoes and lock the door before checking on Emme. She’s sound asleep, little baby snores coming from her crib and her arms resting just above the top of her head.

  She sleeps the same way I do.

  I’ve only known this little baby less than a week, but every time I look at her, I can’t help but feel I’ve known her my whole life.

  I pull her door shut with an inaudible click and make my way to my room, peeling off layers of clothes and climbing under the sheets.

  Calypso’s probably doing the same thing on the other side of the wall.

  I shut my eyes and graze my tongue along my lower lip, remembering the way her mouth felt under mine, and my lips pull up at the corners.

  It’s decided.

  I’m playing to fucking win, and Calypso’s the jackpot.

  ***

  I’m half asleep, brain fogged all to hell, when my phone goes off the next morning.

  “Good morning,” my mother’s unusually and perpetually loud voice penetrates the receiver and vibrates my phone. A piercing pain shoots through my eardrum, and I yank the phone out a good couple of inches. “Hope I’m not calling too early. You’re probably on your way to work right now.”

  I rub my eyes and check the time. It’s seven-thirty.

  I suppose if I were truly a teacher, I’d be halfway to work by now.

  “Yep.” I force some alertness into my tone. “Just heading out the door now.”

  “Okay, well, I won’t keep you very long,” she says. “I just wanted to let you know your father has an appointment at LVMC with his heart specialist Saturday morning, so we’ll be in the city. Thought we’d stop by and visit for a bit if that�
��s all right?”

  I fly up when I hear Emme’s cries echoing down the hall.

  Fuck.

  “Yeah, Mom, that’s fine.” I swipe a t-shirt off the ground and tug it over my head with one free hand before scanning the room for the TV remote. I need something in the background to drown out Emme’s cries before my mother notices.

  No dice.

  “We also need to talk about Easter weekend,” she says. “Why don’t you have your sister stop over as well? We can figure out our plans then. I thought we’d head to the house in Lake Tahoe for a long weekend. The doctor’s ordering some good old-fashioned R&R for your father. A few days of fishing in the mountains should do him some good.”

  “Yeah, that’s fine.” Emme’s cries grow louder. She’s pissed. I never knew babies could be so fucking pissed. I clear my throat, shuffle around the room, do everything in my power to manufacture some background noise. “Okay, I’ll talk to you on Saturday.”

  “No, no,” she says. “You’ll see me on Saturday.”

  “Right. That’s what I meant.”

  “Crew, you sound distracted. Do you have company?” Her voice crawls to a slow whisper.

  I laugh. “No, Mom.”

  Like I’d tell her if I did.

  “What’s all that racket in the background? You can’t possibly be alone.”

  “I’m just trying to get out the door. Running late. I’ll see you guys Saturday.”

  “Crew,” she says, proving she’s still the Queen of Stalling. Getting her off the phone is always a chore. Noelle’s been trying to teach her to text for years, but she’s still convinced it’s only a fad and she shouldn’t bother learning.

  “Bye, Mom.”

  She sighs into the receiver, her way of passive-aggressively informing me she’s displeased with my brush off.

  I don’t have a fucking choice. Emme’s screaming, and she’s probably wet or hungry or some combination of both, and she’s probably wondering why the hell no one’s coming to rescue her from baby jail.