“So,” I say after a long pause. “You liked Vegas enough to stay, huh?”
“Oh, sure.” Darlene waves a hand in the air, and a cloud of smoke hovers over my face. “It’s nice here, you know? I like seein’ all the people who come out on vacation. It’s real nice, they’re all so hopeful. Don’t mind tryin’ my hand at them penny slots from time to time.”
Hopeful. It’s the word for how I’ve been feeling since I saw Darlene’s post on social media, and I can’t seem to shake it, even now. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm and I tap my toes on the trailer floor like I’ve just downed three cups of espresso.
“Do you have any family out here?”
Darlene squints. “What, you mean besides my nephew?”
The nerves take over, wrapping around my neck and choking me. “No. Like a son, maybe.”
Darlene purses her lips, then shakes her head. I search her eyes for any sign of deception and see nothing but honesty reflected back at me. “No. I never got ‘round to havin’ kids. I always wanted ‘em, they’re just real cute. But this ain’t no Disney movie, kid. Prince Charmin’ can’t find his horse when it comes to poor white trash like me.”
“You...you never gave a child up for adoption?”
Darlene narrows her eyes at me. “No. I’d never do that. Don’t believe in abandoning babies, no matter what. I was raised up different ‘an all that.”
The iridescent soap bubble of hope pops in my chest, and for a second it hurts to breathe. My stomach clenches as the hot sweat on my palms turn ice cold.
“Aw, sugar plum, I’m sorry.” Darlene clucks her tongue and reaches over to pat me on the arm. For a second, I shut my eyes and let the support wash over me. “Were you lookin’ for someone?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly as I stand up and wipe my palms on my thighs. “I’m sorry I disturbed you. Have a good day, Darlene. It was truly a pleasure meeting you.”
Darlene says something in reply, but it’s lost to me as I push out of her trailer and into the hot Vegas sun. My head spins like a whirling tornado by the time I get back in my car and slam the door. It hurts so much – much more than it should.
I feel like such a pussy, but I can’t help it. The immensity of the pain overwhelms me, and tears bubble up. As a thirty-year-old man I know I should be over feeling this way.
I don’t let myself cry. I have too many things to do, too many projects to work on. All I need to do is forget about Darlene and today’s massive disappointment. Continue to live within the margins of life, neither here nor there, welcome or unwelcome.
As I drive away from Darlene’s trailer with clouds of dust in my wake, I make a vow to myself. It kills me, but I have to stop searching for my birth mother. This new lance of pain affected me today in a way I can’t even articulate, and I can’t take any more agony.
Gripping the steering wheel, I swerve onto the highway and begin the long journey back home.
Chapter Eight
Waverly
A sharp pain stabs the back of my neck, and I swat at it like it’s a buzzing fly. Eight hours have passed without so much as a bathroom break. Time got away from me. I groan as I reach up to massage myself with stiff fingers. When I look at the clock, it’s official. I’ve been working for so long that my body feels on the edge of collapse. It’s only in these times between projects, between tasks, that a whisper of loneliness caresses me, tempting me to consider there’s more to life than coding.
Neon is long gone. When I get upstairs, I have to flick on the lights with my phone since darkness has crawled through the Vegas skyline. I yawn and rub my eyes before padding into the kitchen and popping a pod into my Keurig machine.
As it steams and hisses into the waiting cup, I lean against the counter. Smugness tickles my brain, and I think about my meeting with Hawk. He left angry – I could tell by the way his feet stomped up the stairs – and knowing that I pissed him off makes me glow with pride. After the way he humiliated me at Defcon, in front of a whole line of hackers, I want him to really suffer.
Frustration chokes me like a Hermes scarf. He’s a local god. He’s in a position to help people learn. But instead, he chooses to be an arrogant cocksucker.
The Keurig finishes, and I reach for the mug and wrap my hands around the ceramic sides. I keep the air conditioning on in my house year-round, despite the milder Vegas winters. Cold temperatures are better for computers, and I can’t stand to sweat when I’m trying to work. But right now, it’s cold enough to cause a shiver. I grab a black hoodie from the table and pull it over my head, twisting my long hair into a knot at the nape of my neck before setting down at the table and bringing the cup of coffee to my lips.
But before I can take a sip, a loud knock snaps my head up. I look down at my watch with a frown – it’s after ten-thirty at night. The only person who would bother me this late is Neon, and he’s never bothered knocking.
Shit.
Maybe it’s Hawk – what if he was so pissed off that he got drunk and came back here to give me a piece of his mind? Or worse.
I roll my eyes and get up from the table with my coffee in hand. The knocking sounds again, loud and persistent.
“I’m coming!” I yell as I cross the spacious living room. “Hold on!”
The truth is, I have no idea what I’d say to Hawk – should I lie, pretend to be some random girl that Ostrich brought home? The thought doesn’t appeal to me, especially since there’s a chance he’d remember me from Defcon despite his dismissal. Of course, I had my hair up in a ball cap, and my figure was hidden behind folds of clothing. But when I open the door, my mouth drops open.
A middle-aged man in a perfectly cut Armani suit stands there, looking at me over the rims of his expensive sunglasses even though it’s been dark for hours. Two scruffy looking dudes stand beside him in identical black suits with black button-down shirts. Another shiver runs through me, but this time it’s not from the cold.
“Can I help you?” I ask skeptically, stepping into the space between the door and the frame so they can’t see past me. I palm my phone in my pocket.
This is a smart house with a fully digital footprint, and all I have to do is yell police, and they’ll be here within minutes. These fuckers better not be here to hurt me. Or worse, try to steal any of my electronics. I imagine my dad bringing the wrath of a billionaire down upon them in sheets of raining pain and regret.
The man smiles, but it’s an odd smile. Something’s not right about him. “Yes.” His voice has just the slightest touch of an Italian accent. “Are you Waverly Emerson?”
I straighten my spine. “What if I am?”
The man exhales. “I don’t have time for games, young lady.”
“Yes. I’m Waverly.”
“May we come in?”
I frown at the men on my doorstep. Armani Man looms over me, but the other two hug the line of scrimmage like linebackers. They probably weigh six hundred pounds combined. Even if I didn’t let them in, they could snap my measly front door in half. I lick my lips in case I have to scream.
“What is this regarding?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
Armani Man takes his sunglasses off and tucks them in his breast pocket. His eyes are dark and intense and more than a little scary, despite the neutral expression on his face.
“I have a proposal for you.”
A shiver runs down my spine. If this is related to Hawk, he’s got a lot more power on his side than I thought.
“Fine.” I step back and clear my throat. “But you can’t stay long. I’m in the middle of something very important.”
Armani Man eyes my black hoodie and rumpled black yoga pants. “I see,” he says curtly. “And no need. This won’t take long at all.”
Reluctantly, I let the three men into my house still palming my iPhone. Armani Man walks into the living room and sits down in the largest chair. The other two don’t sit. Instead, they stand by the door with their arms crossed, silent and foreboding. I’m certain t
hey’re packing heat.
“Just who are you, exactly?” I ask as I sit down on the leather couch.
Armani Man chuckles. “So sorry. I’ve forgotten my manners. My name is Dante Giovanetti.”
It only takes my brain a fraction of a second to compute that this is the man Hawk warned me about. My heart skips a beat, but I keep my face cool as I nod.
“I’ve heard of you,” I reply.
Dante chuckles. “I should hope so. After all, my casino, the Mona Lisa, is the largest in Vegas. And the best.”
“I don’t gamble.”
Dante clucks his tongue against his teeth. “Shame. But that means you’re a smart one.” He leans closer, eyeing me with a stare that seems likely to pierce holes in my chest. “The smart ones keep their money close. And their enemies closer.”
I frown. Somehow, I don’t quite know how to answer that. Does he know about my meeting with Hawk? Does he know that Hawk’s my sworn enemy? Unless he’s some kind of a psychic, he couldn’t. I haven’t told anyone until I told Neon.
“Why are you here?” Fear settles into the pit of my stomach, and it takes everything inside me to hold his intense gaze. “What could you possibly want with me?”
Dante leans back and chuckles. “I have a very tempting offer for you. A little bird has told me all about your brilliant software. I’m very interested.”
I lean back until my back digs into my sofa cushions in a futile attempt to put space between us. “I don’t discuss projects with the public.”
“Oh, no. That’s not what I meant.” He flashes me another perfunctory smile. His lips tug over his perfectly white teeth, but the expression doesn’t even come close to reaching his eyes. “You see, I don’t really care about things like software. But I do care about my casino. My legacy. And I have a feeling your software would be very, very useful to me.”
I shrug. “Yeah, maybe. It’s possible.”
“Which is why I’ve come to offer you five million dollars in exchange for the rights,” Dante says. “I’ll have one of my lawyers draw up a contract in the morning.”
I barely ingest my hiss of shock at the outlandish number. “Why would you do something like that?”
“Because I think your software is very valuable.” The light in his eyes flashes the word diabolical in pink neon.
“No, I mean, why would you have a contract drawn up? I’m not selling,” I say firmly. “I don’t need money.”
Dante looks around my house. For a second, I see it through his eyes. It’s not opulent, but it’s clean, comfortable, and serviceable. My dad always taught me to live within my means after putting fifteen percent in my IRA. “Surely you don’t want to live in this dump forever,” he says. “And five million is a very, very generous offer.”
“I don’t really care. I don’t need money, so it’s not important to me.”
Dante stares. “Then what is important to you? Whatever you want in exchange for the software, I can provide it.”
I lift a hand, palm up. “Hmm...if I need anything, I get it myself. It’s called being an independent woman.” I stand, although I don’t like how shaky my legs are. “So, if that’s all you wanted, please leave.”
Dante narrows his eyes, and I see a glint of malice shining in his dark orbs. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“There’s nothing to understand. My work’s not for sale, and neither am I. I have an idea for this project, and that doesn’t include making a buck.”
It’s true. I’ve never wanted for money due to my huge trust fund. And frankly, the idea of Dante coming here and acting like I should be overjoyed is more than a little distasteful. Money doesn’t mean anything to me – not when I’m dealing with smug, corrupt thugs like Dante Giovanetti.
“Well, we can add ignorant to your list of attributes along with independence.” Dante grunts, then gets to his feet and walks to the door. When he’s right in front of his bodyguards, he turns around to face me. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours. Think it over. Again, remember how generous I’m being here. I always get what I want. And those who stand in my way live to regret it.”
“Fuck off.” I raise an eyebrow and smirk, tossing my hard-won independence in his face. “I don’t need your disgusting money.”
Dante glares at me. “Wrong answer.” The words hurl toward me, ruthless in their quest to land.
I burst out laughing. “I doubt it. I’m not afraid of you. Do you know who my father is?”
Dante’s quivering mask of rage is the last thing I see before he slams the door and storms out into the dark night.
With a contented smirk, I lock the door, then collapse on the leather sofa and curl up for a nap.
Chapter Nine
Hawk
I sit in front of my computer screen again, staring at the cursor as it mocks me by blinking a white light of disapproval. I know I should be writing lines of code. In fact, I should be typing fast enough to make my fingers bleed, since Nixon Caldwell will be expecting me to magically resurrect all of my lost work like Christ raising up Lazarus from the dead. Most of all, I should be putting the vow I just made into practice and purging all thoughts of finding my mother from my mind, the way I’d delete an outdated or embarrassing file from my hard drive.
Instead, all I do is replay the conversation with Darlene in my head over and over, wondering how it would have gone if it had turned out that she really was my mother after all. Would she have cried? Would her tears have been from shock, guilt, anger, relief? Would she have raised her arms to embrace me, or push me out the door and tell me she never wanted to see me ever again?
I keep thinking about what people call “the sunk cost fallacy.” In many ways, it’s one of the universal laws of physics here in Vegas, like gravity. The more time, money, and energy people spend on something, the harder it is for them to walk away from it, no matter how hopeless it starts to seem. It’s what keeps gamblers pumping coins into slot machines and tossing down chips at the blackjack tables – the compulsion to throw good money after bad, the stubborn refusal to accept their losses and leave while they’ve still got money in their wallets. I’ve seen what that mentality does to people every day I’ve been here. Tourists who leave the casinos broken, drained, and shaking their heads in a disbelieving stupor at the realization that they should have known when to stop.
I came to Vegas to find my birth mother. I’ve spent so much emotional energy on the thought of reuniting with her and learning why I had to spend my childhood in a series of shitty foster homes. I’ve needed so badly for everything I’ve been through to have some meaning or purpose. What if there’s still a way for me to track her down, and I just haven’t thought of it yet? Sure, okay, it wasn’t Darlene, but what if it’s the next woman, or the next, or the next? Can I really just let this go after so many years and try to get on with the rest of my life with any thread of hope still hanging? With regret, I wish I could find someone to understand the tragic play of my life without having to re-watch it myself.
And if I can’t let go, will I end up like those doomed assholes leaving the casinos with empty pockets and empty bank accounts, shell-shocked and hollow, wondering why I didn’t back off when I had the chance?
A knock at the door shakes me out of these dark thoughts. A sliver of gratitude peeks through for the interruption but considering everything that’s happened over the past few days, I’m also nervous as hell thinking about who would drop by my place unannounced. Caldwell, checking up on my work? Dante, here to gloat about the fire and maybe have a couple of his trained apes bounce my head off the walls for good measure? That Ostrich dickhead, showing up to fuck with me some more?
Maybe, in the world’s biggest coincidence, my real mother chose today to track me down, and she’s on my doorstep right now.
The absolute absurdity of that last thought scares me a little because it makes me think I might finally be cracking up. I’ve seen it happen to plenty of other software designers and coders. They go without
food or sleep, they put their souls into their precious projects until their entire identities are wrapped up in lines of code and grandiose fantasies of their work’s importance – and then it’s all lost in a glitch or a flood or a fire, their minds shatter, and the next thing you know they’re walking down the freeway naked, screaming nonsense.
I need to hit the gym.
Another knock sounds, louder this time, and it snaps me back to reality. I go to the door and open it. There’s some kind of bike courier standing there, sweating, with his helmet under his arm and a flat cardboard envelope in his hand. He looks about fifteen, and suddenly, I feel old as hell. I mentally tally how much cash I have on hand so I can tip this guy for riding his bike through the sweltering heat.
He studies the label on it, squinting. “Are you, uh...Hawk Stryker?”
“Yeah.” I can hardly recognize my own mumbling voice. My lips feel numb, and the inside of my mouth resembles a parched desert. Hacking the medical database, wondering how the hell I can rewrite the security program in time, thinking about Ostrich’s irrational hatred of me – when’s the last time I slept for more than twenty or thirty minutes at a time? Have I even eaten anything since the few bites of steak and salad I took at Best of Both Worlds? Now that I’ve stepped away from my computer screen, I realize I can hardly see straight.
The courier snickers. “Heh. Sounds like some kind of superhero name. And why ‘Hawk?’ Were your parents, like, big fans of Spenser: For Hire or something?”
“They were big fans of minding their own fucking business,” I snap. Shit, I don’t even know if that’s true, do I? This kid looks like he wasn’t even born during the days of Spencer. And he doesn’t know he hit a raw nerve. I temper my expression.
“Well, pardon me all to hell for asking.” The courier glances at me, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. “Anyway, this is for you. I need you to sign for it.”
“What is it?”
He clears his throat. “The Vegas Chamber of Commerce has chosen to present you with an award for excellence in casino security,” he says, adopting a warm yet formal tone as though he’s about to give me the award personally. “The ceremony is scheduled for eight o’clock tonight at the Armónico. Maybe it’ll cheer you up, Mister Grouchy.”
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