by Anthology
Fury surged through me, and I barely held on to my temper.
“How am I supposed to get him the rest of the money?” I asked through gritted teeth.
“There’s a little thing called the post office, Ms. Graves. Mail a check.” She peered at me over the top of her glasses. “Sending a letter won’t violate the restraining order Mr. Santos has against you.”
“If I pay him his blood money, can I have my necklace back?”
“I’m not a pawn shop,” Enrique said. He wiggled his finger at me. “Restrain yourself, mi flor.”
Oh, if he only knew. Enrique needed a restraining order like I needed a boob job. Despite my former manager’s opinion, I have some seriously great tits. I wasn’t pining after him or tracking him around town. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t seen Enrique since catching him inflagrante delecto—not until today when I walked into the courtroom.
I’d moved into Enrique’s practically the day after I met him. I was between apartments. Again. Our romance, if you can call it that, was whirlwind. We burned bright and hot... until I caught him lighting someone else’s fire. We’d lived together for six weeks in sexual bliss before parental guilt forced me to go to California and see my mother. That entire trip from beginning to end had been crappy. I left early and when I got home, it went from plain ol’ crappy to downright shitty.
Other than bedroom games, Enrique and I didn’t have a lot in common. But I liked him a lot. And I was faithful to him. Damn it. We had a good thing going, and he ruined it all because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants for two whole days.
The judge smacked the gavel. “Mr. Santos, you will need to sign a document that states you received $1,500 of the debt owed to you. Miss Graves you are hereby ordered to pay the remaining sum of thirty-five thousand dollars to Mister Enrique Santos by January 5th. You understand, Ms. Graves, that if you do not honor the edict of this court, Mr. Santos can file criminal charges.”
A spiky haired woman, heavy set, but in a fancy designer, aubergine jumper bounced up to Enrique. It looked like something a pop star might wear if she had zero self-esteem. I didn’t see her face, but I could see the joy in every perky step. He put the necklace—my necklace—around the woman’s neck. He kissed her, staring at me the whole time with an evil “take that bitch” look in his eyes.
“But your honor, you don’t understand. I need that necklace. It has... sentimental value.” I couldn’t explain that it kept ghosts from harassing me. Or me from accidentally going into karmic debt because of said harassment.
“Do you understand what will happen if you refuse my orders?”
Understand? Did I ever. “I’ll go to jail.”
The judge’s smile was not reassuring. “I suggest you consider taking anger management classes. If you endeavor to continue with your current behavior patterns, you’ll end up in another courtroom.”
* * *
I stomped all the way from the courthouse to the street where my car was parked. The meter was almost on red, and I didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Overwhelmed and on the verge of crying, I yelled, “My life sucks!”
“So does mine, lady.”
I turned around and saw a homeless guy leaning against the wall with a sign: Why Lie? Need Money For Bear.
“You getting much business, old man?”
“Nope.”
“Maybe it’s because you spelled beer wrong.”
The scruffy guy looked at his sign and scratched his neck. “Never was much of a speller.” His wide smile framed a gap at the top of his mouth. Like most of the homeless who shuffled around Fremont Street, he wore his entire wardrobe. Everything looked dirty and torn and sweat-stained. It was the first week of December, but the temps hovered in the high sixties and low seventies. Vegas didn’t really have winters. Bear guy might be uncomfortable now, but he no doubt suffered hardcore in the summer. But where else would a homeless person keep his wardrobe?
How far down did a person have to go to reach this kind of ugly desperation? How much more did I have to lose before I was wearing all my clothes, leaning against walls, and begging for change? Right now, this man was probably the only human being left in Las Vegas more desperate than I was.
“How much you make so far today?”
“Six dollars and fifty-eight cents.”
I sighed. A homeless man had more money than I did.
“Hey! Hey, you!”
I turned toward the male voice. Striding toward me was a man dressed in a green polo shirt, faded jeans, and black Converse sneakers. A shiny gold badge was clipped to his belt, right next to the gun holstered on his hip. His dark hair was long, curling just behind his ears. He had blue, blue eyes, and a face carved by angels. The little crinkles around his eyes told me he liked to laugh. And his mouth? Absolutely kissable.
My gaze flicked to the badge. What the hell had I done now?
He looked familiar, and as he stopped next to me, I tried to place him. Where had I met him? How could I forget that face, and that tight, muscled body? A lot of LVPD took security jobs at the casinos. Maybe I’d seen him on the Strip.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Did he think the panhandler was bothering me? I didn’t want to get the dude into trouble. “Yeah. I’m good.”
The cop’s gaze followed mine. He frowned. “I thought you were talking to someone.”
I opened my mouth to question his sanity, but then I realized he couldn’t see the man leaning against the wall. Shit. The homeless guy was a ghost. Ghosts looked like real people to me. I couldn’t tell the difference between the living and the dead. Only the necklace had kept the spirits invisible.
I smiled brightly. “Sorry. I have a tendency to talk to myself.”
He lifted a brow.
Embarrassment warmed my face. “It’s nice to see you again,” I said. “Um…”
“Ouch.” He put a hand to his heart. “You don’t remember me?”
“Yeah. Of course I do.”
He smiled, and shook his head. “You’re a bad liar, but a fun date.” I stared into his gorgeous eyes, and I immediately recognized the flare of desire.
Ooooh. A couple of weeks ago, I’d gotten naked with this guy.
Very, very naked.
Feeling sorry for myself. Drinking too much. Singing karaoke badly. He sat at the bar, watching me, the heat of his smile, the need in his eyes zapping me right to the core. A motel shared a parking lot with the bar. He checked us in. The minute we got inside the room, we tore off each other’s clothes.
“No names,” I told him. “Just this. Only this.”
He grinned knowingly. “Ah. You do remember.” He lifted his hand and pushed my hair behind my ear. The slight touch made me tingle in my girly parts. “You rocked my world, and then you disappeared.”
He’d rocked my world too, but then I’d seen the gun he’d put under his folded jeans. I assumed he was just another bad decision on my part. I made lots and lots of them, and in my defense, I left without a goodbye to prevent making that particular mistake with him over and over again. “I didn’t know you were a cop.”
“Homicide detective. I was off-duty that night. We needed each other. But I have to admit, I wanted more. Still do.”
His words made me mute. This Greek God of law enforcement wanted more of me? Oh, this poor delusional man.
“You always hang around the courthouse talking to yourself?” he teased.
“Only on Mondays.”
He laughed. “Let’s start over.” He held out his hand. “I’m Matthew Stone.”
I accepted his handshake, and considered giving him an alias. It would probably save us both a lot of headaches in the near future. But he was a cop, and I didn’t want to lie to a man who could put me in jail. I wanted him to know my name. “Violetta Graves.”
“Violetta. That’s an unusual name.”
“Not for the nineteenth century. I was named after my great-great grandmother.”
“I like it.” He sm
iled. “I like you.”
Yep. Delusional.
“Would you give me your phone number?”
“I don’t have a phone.”
He blinked. “Are you trying to let me down easy?”
The cell phone company had cut me off last month. “No. I really don’t have a phone.”
“Okay.” He pulled out his wallet and removed a business card, and then he extracted a pen from his shirt pocket. “I’m giving you my cell number. You can also contact me at work. Anytime. I want to take you to dinner.”
I hadn’t been on a real date in forever. “I’d like that.”
“Ball’s in your court, Violetta,” he said as I took the card. “I hope I hear from you soon.”
God, staring into his blue eyes was like going on an all expense trip to paradise. Oh that dangerous, exciting spark. Would I ever learn my lesson? Thinking about his rock hard abs and his broad shoulders, I really hoped not. I nodded. He offered another melt-my-panties smile, then turned and went inside the courthouse.
Still feeling dazed by the encounter, I shifted my gaze to the homeless man. He waved and then faded, sign and all. I wheeled back to my car. The meter was almost on red. After I unlocked the door, it took three tries to open it. Goddamnedpieceoffuckin’shit. I wrenched it so hard, the top part of handle came off in my hand, and the door groaned open. I tossed the metal piece onto the passenger seat, smack dab in the middle of yesterday’s fast food debris.
I heard a car start up, and I looked over my hood to a purple convertible. Enrique slid into the passenger seat. The driver was the overweight woman with spiky black hair from the courthouse. The one wearing my freaking necklace! From the front, she looked familiar, but before I could get a good look, she revved up the engine and sped off.
I slid into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and cranked the engine until it turned over. My car was held together by string and tape and sheer will. It was old, decrepit, and almost useless. It wouldn’t go above forty miles an hour, so I couldn’t take the freeways. I’d gotten used to going everywhere the slow and long way and it was okay, because it gave me time to think, to plan, to daydream. Right now, I didn’t want to think about the stuff I wanted and couldn’t have. I didn’t want to think about the turn my life had taken or what to do about it, either. I had three options:
A. Move to California and live with Mom and hope a hamburger joint will hire a thirty-year-old smart ass to flip burgers.
B. Hit my sister up for money.
C. Take myself to Pahrump and apply to the cathouses.
I liked sex, but I’m not sure I would be a good prostitute. Being a sex worker is like being an entrée at a buffet. It’s not like baked salmon can leap off your plate if it decides it doesn’t like your mouth. The $3,500 judgment ensured I’d be broke as shit for Christmas, and probably spending the New Year in prison.
I had to figure out a way to get my loser-ex paid off. But how? Mom? I’d rather go to prison. It was less dangerous. Sis? What would Deirdre say if I showed up and asked for a loan?
Hmmm. When was the last time I’d asked her for some moola? I couldn’t remember. Good. That’s real good. Must’ve been a while since I’d begged from her.
Deirdre married a lawyer, the aforementioned lecturing assistant district attorney, and moved to Summerlin. She lived in a fancy house, wore fancy clothes, and did fancy things. She had a little boy, a minivan, and a schedule that involved dinner parties and play dates. I suspected she penciled in sex with her husband once or twice a week. Every time I had to enter her world, I got the jitters.
Deirdre, who was two years younger than me, was the favored child. After all, she gave my mother the thing she wanted most: bragging rights. A lawyer for a son-in-law. A grandson. A house in Summerlin. Darren and Deirdre. The double D’s.
By the way, when people ask, Mom tells them I’m transitioning. Finding myself. In Alaska. It is easier than admitting to her friends I’m a complete disappointment. I didn’t have a college education. I wasn’t married. I didn’t have kids. Then again, I’m not sure she looked forward to what kind of grandkids I might unleash on the world. My sister endured so many where’s-the-baby queries that I suspected Deirdre got pregnant just so my mother would shut up.
I motored down the street and began the circuitous route to Summerlin. I really needed to get my shit together. No more crappy jobs, no more living out of hotels, no more dickhead boyfriends. I needed to think about having a goal or something. I’d never had any aspirations. Not like my sister. She’d always charted her course. Hell, at the age of thirteen, she created a Life Spreadsheet that detailed what she wanted, when she intended to achieve it, and each step needed to get it. She’d followed that spreadsheet with grim determination. I, on the other hand, barely passed enough classes to get my high school diploma, choosing to excel in Partying 101. A+ for me!
Still, I’d take desperation over using the “gift.” A curse was more like it. No, no, nope. I’d rather beg Deirdre for some cash than open the gates to that personal hell. Hmph.
The gift, my ass.
2
While Deirdre poured us glasses of tea, I sat at the kitchen table and watched my nephew Justin, age four, whoosh around. He wore a pair of blue-and-red underwear, a towel cape, and black cowboy boots. His blond hair stuck straight up. As he zoomed by, I detected a whiff of peanut butter. Note to self: Peanut butter works better than mousse.
“How much sugar has he had today?” I asked when my sister joined me at the table. She slid me a tall glass of iced tea and glanced at her rampaging son.
“Go play super hero upstairs,” she said in a thin, weary voice.
Justin ignored this pathetic attempt to direct his activities. He did another vigorous and loud fly-by. He grinned at me, his blue eyes flashing with mischief.
“Hey, kid.” I grabbed his cape and yanked him to sudden halt. He stared at me, his lips curving into a mutinous frown. “Get your ass upstairs.” I leaned down into his face. “Capiché?”
“You’re mean.”
“Aw, now you’ve hurt my feelings.” I tapped his nose. “Upstairs before I get out the kryptonite.”
He crossed his arms and stomped across the dining room floor, into the foyer, and up the stairs. He proceeded to stomp around the upper level, but apparently got bored because he stopped. Nice thing about Justin—he never stayed pissed for long.
“Okay. Enough already. It is the beginning of December. You always have your decorations and tree up by Thanksgiving. There’s not even a wreath on your door. Also, you have a stack of unopened Christmas cards on your mantle. If that wasn’t tell-tale enough, your house is always pristine, your kid is never half-clothed, much less dirty, and you’re usually in pearls and high heels by now.” I looked around the messy, undecorated house, then back at my sister who still wore a robe and hadn’t brushed her teeth. “You want to tell me what’s wrong? Because I feel like I’m in an alternate reality here.”
“This is the new me,” she muttered darkly.
“The new you sucks. I’m sorry, but the role of ‘loser sister’ is played by me, and I don’t need an understudy.” I took a big sip of the tea and choked as alcohol stung my throat. “Christ Almighty! What is this?”
“Grandma’s gut punch tea,” said Deirdre. “You arrived in time for round two.”
“You’ve already had one? It’s only ten in the morning.” I frowned down into the glass. My grandma’s gut punch tea was made of vodka, tequila, rum, gin, a squirt of tea, and lemons that had been marinated in grenadine.
“How many times have you served alcoholic drinks to gamblers at seven a.m.?” asked my sister.
“I was a cocktail waitress,” I said as my eyes watered. Whew. I’d forgotten how potent this shit was. “You are a housewife with a tiny human being who depends on you.”
“I’ve always envied you,” she said suddenly. “Never let things like responsibility and integrity and … and duty … get in your way. Nope. You enjoy life. You don�
��t care about anything or anyone. You do what you want when you want and fuck what anyone else thinks.”
When she put it like that, I sounded downright selfish. It made me think of Matthew Stone and his grand ideas for dinner with me. I’d kind of blown him off, but not because I wasn’t interested. He was a nice guy, apparently. A cop. So probably a good guy as well. In my heart, I didn’t think I deserved that kind of man, at least not more than a night. Or maybe that kind of man didn’t deserve me, and my fun curse. I sometimes wondered if Grandma saddled me with her gift because she knew my life was going to suck any way. No sense burdening someone like Deirdre, who at least had a shot at a happy, normal life.
I sighed. “Okay. Now, you’re cursing. So not you.” Did she really believe I didn’t care about anyone? I wish that were true. It would make asking her for the money a whole lot easier. “Who are you, and what’ve you done to my sister?”
“This is the real me. Get used to it. The old me was in a coma. Asleep for way too long. But I’m awake now. Oh yeah. I. Am. Awake.” She slugged back the liver-damaging tea. “He got new underwear!”
“Justin’s only four,” I pointed out. “To him, super hero underwear is really sexy.”
“Not him.” My sister glared at me. “Have you recently had a lobotomy?”
“No.” Like I could afford a lobotomy. “Does it cost more than a boob job?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m talking about Darren, you putz. My husband bought boxers. Boxers!”
I wasn’t sure what to do with this information, so I waited for her to finish her rant. Obviously Darren had done something very, very bad.
“Maybe his old one had holes in the crotch. That happens. Men have sweaty balls. It’s like acid that eats away at the fragile fabric.”
“No!” She slammed her fist down on he counter. I nearly jumped out of my skin. Grandma’s gut punch tea danced around in the glasses. Dee was seriously starting to scare me.
“Okay.” I held up my hands in surrender. “The fucking bastard. How could he buy new underpants? Let’s murder him. You get the hacksaw. I’ll get the plastic bags.”
