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I go out and meet Miguel. He’s already out there and he looks fresher. I can’t tell where his mouth was bleeding, it must have been inside his lip. He straightened his shirt. I don’t see any marks on his jaw where I know he took at least a couple of hits. I get another guilty pang with that thought, but I shove it aside, reassuring myself again that he’s just fine, after all. But he’s still tense, I’m sure of that. “You sure this is okay with you?” I ask him. “Anything you want, baby, anything you want.” So he puts his hand on the back of my neck as we walk along, we go in and grab a booth in the back of the bar area where it’s darkest and where there’s least likelihood of roaming Romulans coming up to us. When the waiter comes, I order a Warp Core Breech and Miguel tries to get one, too, but I tell him we’ll share. He looks at me strangely. When it comes out, bigger than a goldfish bowl, purple and smoking all over the place, he smirks at me and says, “Now that is a fuckin’ drink. Trekkie fucks know how to party, huh?” As we lean in and start sucking away at our straws, I get some weird mental flash of us as if someone else was watching us. Like we’re some sort of distorted, grown-up, Gen-X, sullied version of the Lady and The Tramp spaghetti scene. Except that I’m no Lady. Or lady. And I just nearly got Tramp skinned alive.

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FINE WOMEN’S FICTION FROM ZUMAYA Progressions by Judy Lawn Just One by Esther Gerstenfeld Erman Ordinary Women, Not by Shelly Morris

24/7

BY

SUSAN DIPLACIDO

ZUMAYA PUBLICATIONS

GARIBALDI HIGHLANDS, BC 2005

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental 24/7 © 2005 by Susan DiPlacido ISBN 978-1-55410-218-1 Cover design by Martine Jardin Photography by Susan DiPlacido All rights reserved. Except for use in review, utilization of this work in whole or in part electronic, mechanical or other means now invented, is forbidden without the written publisher.

the reproduction or in any form by any known or hereafter permission of the

Published by Zumaya Publications 2005 Look for us online at http://www.zumayapublications.com Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication DiPlacido, Susan, 196924/7 / Susan DiPlacido. Also available in print format. ISBN-13: 978-1-55410-218-1 ISBN-10: 1-55410-218-9 I. Title. II. Title: Twenty-four/seven. PS3604.I664T94 2005

813'.6

C2005-900516-5

DEDICATION

T

his book is dedicated to all the dealers, bartenders, waitresses, chefs, cab drivers, housekeepers, bellmen, pool hosts and every other worker in Las Vegas. You are the ones who make the place dazzle and shine, and keep its heart beating. Specifically, to the wonderful folks at Caesars Palace, especially those late-night dice dealers and the quick-pouring bartenders.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

M

any thanks to Liz Burton for taking a gamble on me. Love and appreciation to my gorgeous, glorious Palacitas. I hit the jackpot with friends like you. Ann, Diane, Kristin, Shannon, and Meghan for their years of encouragement and friendship. To Laura. for her time and thoughts on this project. And Shelbi, for her deliriously over-loving help. You guys put the zing in my bling. Much gratitude is owed to my Zoe pals, all talented writers themselves. Steve Hansen for his insight. Kelly Jaakkola, David Johnson, Ellen Meister, Jackson Scales, Fred Schoeneman, Jonathan Redhorse and most definitely talented Jason Shaffner for their sharp eyes and sharper, helpful minds that gave me suggestions and encouragement. To Tony Farina for going every extra yard. And to Biff Mitchell ’cause he rocks. You guys help me know when the count is good…and when it's bad. Even knowing the count, I'd have never wagered high without the words of one of the all-time greats. Chuck P., if nothing else, please know that your writing made me not only want to create, but to also take the risk of sharing it with the world.

^1]

W

INNING IS A HIGH. AND I’M ABOUT TO TOUCH THE CLOUDS.

The odds are against me, but I can change that. Because I may not be lucky, but I’m damn good. During lunch break, I wind my way out of the convention area and into the main casino. Beneath the yellow lights and with purple carpet under my feet, I grab a seat at the closest blackjack table. It’s a chick dealer, and when she greets me, I just drop my eyes, smile and nod. I fish in my pocket and check my bankroll. Only a couple grand. I peel off four hundred and tuck it back in my pocket, place the rest on the felt. As she scoops and counts it, I scan the pit. A few slot machines whir and ding and clink while some of the men from the morning meeting settle at a craps table across the room. But there’s not much action, which makes this a little stupid. Puts even more eyes on me. “Changing sixteen hundred,” she calls out then stuffs it down into the bank and slides me chips. “Good luck.” I start with a twenty-five-dollar bet. The shoe is full with six decks lined up, and as she deals me I glance at the discard pile. It’s empty. Unbelievable. Perfect. I tend to have good luck at the Hard Rock anyhow, and this looks bright right off the bat. I get dealt a hard sixteen, and she has an eight showing. I take the hit because I have to and pull a three. I stand. She flips and has a four showing, making it a hard twelve. She hits and draws a three. Hits again, draws a seven. Bust. That’s one for me. I finish my count before she sweeps the cards up. I place fifty dollars down for the next hand. As I handle the chips, I make a conscious effort not to flip them through my fingers. It’s a dumb little idiosyncratic move I have, but it’s a flashy hotshot move. Making myself fade out, blend in and become completely unmemorable is what I rely on. I repeat the count in my head as she deals me. I play my hand by textbook: add the points, then watch hers unfold and add those points to the count. It’s easy, because it’s rote. I just add and subtract and play by the

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numbers. Plus is good, minus is bad. That simple. The only loopy thing I have to keep in mind is that I’m at the Hard Rock. As the Chili Peppers music pipes around me and I glance at the funky-colored chips in front of me, it’s easy to remember. They hit the soft seventeen here, so that changes the way I play a few of my hands. As the hands unfold, I feel lulled. Tranquil. All I have to do is play my cards, keep the count, sidetrack the aces and keep an eye on the discard. Increase and decrease my bet appropriately. Skill and deception, that’s all it is. I get lost during the second shoe. Not on the count—I have that perfectly tracked. Lost in the game. It’s formed its own rhythm. Silently, I say the count. I watch the cards go down and mentally name what I’m looking at and what to do, taking my time to slow the pace. Seven facing nine, hit. Eleven facing eight, double down. Ace/six facing seven, hit. And then I make the count. First my hand, then hers. Say it to myself so I don’t get lost. As she passes chips or picks them up, I say the count again. And so it goes. Count, play, count. Everything else drips away. The rest of the casino, the meetings, my life. It all slides to my periphery, tucked away somewhere safe. Lingering, but unobtrusive. Like vapor. I get a really high count going toward the end of a shoe. I’m sure it’s stacked with aces, too—I’ve only seen five of them so far. I play a huge hand, shoving seven hundred bucks with just seven black chips onto the betting circle. The dealer looks over her shoulder at the pit boss. That tells me I’m done after this hand. I draw two aces. I laugh. I have to split. After all this work and knowing that I’ve gotten my bankroll up, this could bust me if it goes bad. The pit boss comes over and watches the hand. The dealer has a queen showing. Tranquility gone, I’m wired on this action. I swallow hard and choke back the nerves. I split and double the first hand. Draw a nine. Double the second hand. Draw a face. Jack of hearts, to be exact. He’s gorgeous. I don’t even bother subtracting from the count at this point. I’m not out of the woods yet, though, if that dealer’s holding an ace under her queen, I still lose one hand and only push on my blackjack. I hold my breath and watch as the dealer flips her hole card over. Seven. She draws an ace and I exhale, letting the winning euphoria seep all through me. The pit boss hovers. Stretching in my seat as the dealer slides the chips my way, I look

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24/7 around and see more people in the casino. It’s noisier, more traffic. “Can you color me up?” I ask. The pit boss walks away. I drop a couple chips on the felt to tip the dealer, scoop the rest and hustle over to the change booth and realize I’m screwed as I look at my chips. Six thousand, nine hundred dollars. Charming. Just freaking charming. I can only cash out half. Technically, I could cash them all in and not really worry about it, but I stay clear from tax liability for my gambling. Anything over $10K, the casino must report to the federal government. It helps discourage moneylaundering schemes and protects them from sharks. Like me. Sixty-nine hundred is well below the limit for them to flag me for my Social Security number and file a Cash Transaction Report on me. Nevertheless, I try to stay way under that $10K mark. Especially when the heat from the floor could have been on me, and they could be salivating for a reason to hassle a counter. Because they’re allowed to file a report for less than the $10K, and plenty of them ask for ID at $5K. The pit boss is still eyeing me. I stuff most of the chips into my pocket, toss two little ones onto the counter and wait as the cashier counts me back twenty brand new Bennys. The green is nearly as sweet as the high itself. I slide one back and ask her to change it for me, give her a taste then go to the bar to check the time. It’s one-forty-five. Madone, I’m late. Back at the meeting, everyone is already hunkered down, listening attentively. I sneak in and grab a seat in the back until they break things up early at three-forty-five. I love Vegas-style workdays. And paydays. I tap my pocket to make sure the rest of the chips are in there then head outside and hightail it back home to Caesars.

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[2]

T

HE POOL IS CROWDED, BUT THE POOL HOST KNOWS ME SO HE GETS ME SET UP IN A

nice area. I swim then go back upstairs and watch a few innings of baseball and order dinner. As dusk sets, I shower and get dressed for the night and go to the bar, as usual. I don’t live in Vegas, but I’m here often enough. This time, I’m on a business trip. I’m going to need to keep that in mind and make this an early night. Downstairs, the black marble sunken bar is just off the main casino floor and the seats are comfy. SportsCenter plays on the TVs. The piano man taps away, echoing everything from Vegas glory-days jazz to modern slop to help fill the air, lest—as corporate-casino conduct rules certainly forbid— there be silence, dead air or—gambling gods help us—any sort of peace permeating the place. People rest their weary feet on plush black carpet while soft, warm golden light holds the mood, keeping it dark enough to make everyone look better than they are yet still bright enough to keep them awake in case they’re moved to drop a few Franklins into the hungry corporate machine that sponsors all this debauchery. There’s a couple of glitter-eyed hookers around, a few guys in suits looking to impress, some vacationing couples and a group of overgrown frat boys who just know they’re so money. And several random scattered oddballs, including me. My favorite bartender Vince has my drink waiting for me. “How’s it going, sweetheart?” he asks. I just nod and thank him. He gets some customers so he goes to work, making drinks, chatting up tourists. There’s a guy a couple seats down who’s all alone. I do my stupid routine to catch his eye. Light a smoke, flip the cigarette across my fingers, backflip it the other way then take a hit. Repeat. Flip, backflip, smoke. It’s the same as my chip shuffling and flipping tricks. If anyone realized how

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24/7 much practice it took to learn it, they’d know just how dorky it is. Since they don’t, it actually looks really cool. And it gets even cooler when they try to do it and either burn the shit out of their fingers and/or send a cascade of glowing embers all over the place. Flip, backflip, smoke. The guy is watching, and I pretend I don’t see him. He’ll talk to me eventually because he’s alone. Because that is how it works. Most people, they can’t stand to be alone in public. I suppose they’re self-conscious, and they think other people are looking at them and wondering why they’re alone. So as soon as they see an opening, they’ll strike up conversation with someone nearby. I don’t mind it, the sitting alone. I’m used to it. He sends me a drink. I accept it with a smile, and the guy gets up and closes the gap of empty seats between us. Before I can say thanks, Vince says to the guy, “Just so you know, she’s gonna cost you a lot more than one drink, buddy.” Oh, Madone. Here we go. I roll my eyes at Vince, but he just grins at the guy, who’s looking puzzled. Vince elaborates. “She’s pushing ass. Think you can afford her?” The guy stutters, smile fading before he finally asks, “Pushing ass?” “She’s a hooker, buddy.” He turns to me. Stammering: “Are…are you really a…a prostitute?” He whispers the word. “No.” I laugh. “It’s just a stupid joke. One time I told him that I wish someone would mistake me for a hooker, just because I would take it as a compliment because they’re all so pretty out here. No one ever does, though.” His face cracks into an easier smile now. “Well, you’re pretty. I like your eyes, they’re really dark brown. I think you’re pretty.” “Oh, and you’ve had a lot to drink, haven’t you, guy?” “I like your hair. You have pretty hair.” Yeah, he’s drunk. I don’t mind. I plan on catching up to him. Him again: “I still don’t understand why you’d want to be mistaken for a hooker, though.” Demurely: “I wouldn’t actually do it, you know, follow through. I just think it’d be a compliment to have a guy be willing to pay money to have sex with me.” I’m flustered suddenly and worried I’m going to say too much. “It’s, ah, um, look, it’s just a dumb joke we have, that’s all.” “Okay,” he says as Vince puts a couple lemon drop shots in front of us. Vince doesn’t charge me. Vince never charges me. He’s a paisan from

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Jersey, like me. I know the guy is deciding about me as he looks around the casino. He really is cute, with blond curly hair and broad shoulders. Suddenly, he looks back to me and scratches the corner of his mouth. Then he asks, “If you were a hooker, what would you charge?” Game on. I pick up my drink, swirl it around, lick my lips. Flip, backflip, smoke. “You mean what’s the going rate around here? Is that what you’re trying to figure out?” “No, not exactly. Well, yeah, sort of. Why, would you be the average rate?” “Well, I think average is about a grand, so…” “Average is a grand?” He nearly shouts it. “I’m serious. Ask one of them.” “Ask one of them?” He looks around. “How am I supposed to do that?” “There’s a few in here. They’ll come talk to you sooner or later.” He scans the room. “They’re gonna come and talk to me? Why?” Laughing, I answer him, “Because you’re a guy and you’re alone. Or, well, you were. I might be screwing it up for you by talking to you. Stop talking to me, and they’ll come over pretty quickly.” He leans in my direction. “No, I’d rather talk to you. I like talking to you.” “Why? Just ’cause I’m free?” “’Cause I’m still trying to figure out how much you’d cost.” “Okay, look here,” I say. “I suppose I wouldn’t have a flat fee—it would depend on the guy. Most guys, there wouldn’t be enough money.” Picking up my shot, I nod at his. “Listen, let’s do these.” After he does his, he nudges my shoulder, asking, “So, if you were a hooker, and your prices were different for each guy, how much would you charge me?” I smile but don’t answer him. He’s good-looking. And he seems nice enough. But I’m still not sure. Well, let’s get the hurdles cleared first. “Got a girlfriend?” I ask him. “No,” he says and ducks his head. “I’d like to have a girlfriend, though.” He’s cute, seems nice enough. A little dim, maybe, or just liquored up, but this is Vegas. I don’t get how he’s single. I’m almost afraid for him. He could get eaten alive in this city if he’s not careful. He seems so genuine—I

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24/7 bet he’d treat a girl like a princess. But I don’t want to be a princess. I want to be mistaken for a whore. “And you?” he nods. “Boyfriend? Are you married?” And there it is. “Nope,” I say cheerfully. Lots of single chicks my age have a problem with that question, but it really doesn’t bother me. Cocking his head to the side, he asks, “Why not?” And there that is. That question really does bother me. I never know how people expect me to respond. Honestly. So I do my best. “Because that would take the spontaneity out of dating,” I say even more cheerfully. He laughs. I get friendlier. “So, what’s your name, guy?” “Robert,” he says, and just then a gorgeous platinum-blond whore in a fur jacket takes a seat on the other side of him. I know her. Calls herself Diamond. I also know I’ve probably just lost any chance I had with Robert as she strokes his arm, leans toward him and with a saucy grin introduces herself, because she’s braless, flawless and painted and inflated in all the right areas. Sighing, I order another drink. As Vince slides it in front of me, Robert makes an effort and introduces her to me. “This is Diamond,” he says. I nod at her politely while she gives me the dumb-fucker look. You know the one. She’s not sure yet if she should give me a nasty look to make me leave or if she should back off and let me have him. “We know each other,” she tells him. Her eyes wander around the room, and I guess she’s decided to throw me a bone because she moves down a seat. Robert lights the wrong end of a cigarette, smashes it out and gives up. Turning back to me, he asks me out. I tell him it’s a little late to go anywhere. “Tomorrow?” he asks hopefully. “I’ll probably just hang out at the pool tomorrow.” “I like the pool. I can go to the pool. It’d be nice to have a lovely lady to hang out with while I’m here.” Vince comes to talk to him. “Look, buddy,” he tells him. “You want a girl for when you’re here? Forget this one.” He nods at me. “Forget hookers.” He directs that comment to Diamond, but if she heard him she doesn’t show any reaction.

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“Just go to a strip club, pick up a chick there, show her some money, she’ll do whatever you want while you’re in town.” “But she’ll only want money from me, right?” Robert asks. “No, I don’t want that, I want someone I like to hang out with.” “Then forget that, buddy,” Vince tells him. “They’re all gonna be crazy bitches. With drug problems. I’m telling you, though, it works. Unless you don’t have enough cash.” “I have money,” he says. “I have plenty. I’ll spend it on someone, but…” Diamond slides back and leans against him as he says that. She reinforces Vince’s idea he could easily find himself a nice girlfriend if he’d like. She offers to be his girlfriend for the night. His head swivels in her direction. Vince rolls his eyes and pours me another lemon drop. I stand and take a step away from them to do it. I won’t compete for a guy’s attention. I know Diamond can win him over. Like Sun Tzu says, if you know the enemy is stronger, don’t engage. It’s not because I’m afraid of rejection. I’ve had that happen enough that it’s something I can deal with. I’d rather take the chance and know for sure it wasn’t going to happen than always wonder “what if.” But this is different than a “what if.” It’s not taking a chance because I know I have no chance. If he wants her, he wants her. Period. I don’t really care anyhow. I’ve never invested much in retaining a man. Which is not to say I’ve never invested in getting a man; I just don’t want to hold on to them. Luckily, the feeling seems reciprocal. “I’m going to gamble,” I tell Vince. Hearing that, Robert looks back and forth between Diamond and me then asks if he can come with me. Pleasantly surprised, I nod, playing with the notion of giving Diamond some competition just for sport. But before he’s even out of his seat, she's up and at his side, saying she’ll tag along, too, holding his hand, and the three of us go to check out the action on the floor.

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[3]

I

F YOU’VE NEVER BEEN IN CAESARS, IT’S A PRETTY EASY SET-UP. THEY HAVE TWO

casinos. The front casino—that’s the old one, the famous one—has the lower, vaulted ceiling with the gold lights in a carousel pattern. It’s glamorous and ritzy, just enough to tip over into being baroque. Decadent and swank old-school ambience. When you walk into this casino, you expect to see movie stars. The men wear suits and smoke cigars. Dealers stand straight and look crisp. The carpet is soft and thick, and the tables, the lights and the ceiling all sigh with history. The legacy is as palpable as the smoke, but the smoke gets sucked up while clean, new air gets pumped in to keep it all seeming fresh. The vacuums run and the filters whir and polishers scrub to keep it all shiny, but the one thing they can’t remove, and would never want to, is all that history. Almost as though when they shake out an old rug or rip off wallpaper it releases not only dust but some of the essence of Jay Sarno’s 1966 dream. It’s one of the few places on the strip like that, stinking of history and with the illusion of romance and class. The Flamingo, right across the street, should have the magic allure, but it doesn’t. Instead of dripping with character and old-time gangland style it just looks like a big, corporate, mirrored nightmare that puked up Pepto-Bismol to hide its sins after a drunken orgy. I don’t know how Caesars does it. It’s been corporatized, modernized and sanitized. It’s been ripped, nipped, tucked, buffed, polished, painted, waxed, gilded, gaudied and glamorized as much as any other place around. But somehow, unlike everything else, they haven’t managed to eviscerate its soul quite yet. The older front casino is definitely the “richer” one. The high rollers play up there. There are levels of gamblers; the big ones, they’re called

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whales. Those are guys who can drop a million and not even blink. I’m not a whale. I’m not even a fish. I rate as plankton. So I go into the back casino, the newer one. Robert follows along next to me, and Diamond hangs closely to him, whispering things in his ear I can’t hear. I like the back casino better. It has a higher ceiling, with the sports book at one end, a long strip of tables and then the entrance to the famous Forum Shops at the other end. Tonight, the craps tables are crowded with men—it’s always just jammed with guys at the craps tables. I find the coolest craps crew, Edward’s crew, working the back room on a $25 table, and I can afford that tonight so I stop to play with them, ’cause Edward’s always been lucky for me. I believe in luck. I shouldn’t. I know better. But I do. I’m a sucker just like everyone else. I blame the lemon drops. First time I tried craps, I was totally clueless and a little intimidated. I told the guy dealing my end that I didn’t know how to play. “Dice virgin,” he yelled out. Man, you should have seen the heads at other tables perk up. Guys came running over to play. Supposedly, a brandnew female shooter is good luck. I was. I rolled a long time, hit lots of numbers and points. The whole time, the dealer—Edward—just kept explaining it to me. He kept taking my money and kept handing me back even more. After playing that night, I researched the game. Learned everything I could about it. He wasn’t lying about what the good bets are and what the sucker bets are. If you’re going to gamble, you really should know how much to expect to lose. Most people don’t give a fuck and don’t want to know. They just ride on luck alone. I don’t have that much faith. It’s all about the odds out here. I know the odds, I know I’m giving an eleven-percent house edge when I place certain hard-way bets. But I do it anyhow. Why? Cause hot is hot and luck is luck and sometimes you gotta gamble. As I get to the rail, I smile and nod at Robert to take a place next to me, but Diamond keeps her arms twined through his and leads him to the other end, where he settles with a sheepish grin cast in my direction. There’s a point set, so I wait for the roll then get my money and player card on the table. Stickman Bill sees me, winks and calls the roll. “Eight, easy eight. Ladies, better to get eight easy than not get eight at

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24/7 all!” “Sweetheart,” Edward greets me, handing off my player card to the pit boss as his eyes flit to Robert and Diamond with a wry grin. “I saw you last night, called your name, but you didn’t come over to see me.” “Did I hear you?” We watch as the shooter rolls, Bill calls it out: “Eight’s the point, who’s up for the hard eight?” Winking at me: “It’s what the ladies dream of, isn’t it, a hard eight?” Bill’s a funny stick caller. He gets randy when there’s no heat around. Picking up our conversation again, Edward says, “I don’t think you heard me. You were just walking around. I was just surprised to see you so soon again—it’s only been, what, a week?” The shooter sevens out, so Bill calls it. “Oh, three and four, now we’re poor.” “Two weeks,” I tell Edward. “Been a loooong two weeks away from here. Sorry I didn’t hear you.” I reach down and start to place my bets, straining with my minimal height to reach where I want. Edward holds out his hand. “Come on,” he says, “you know better than that. Toss ’em to me. Did they give you a good room this time? Get that Rain Man Suite yet, sweetheart?” I toss my chips into his palm and shake my head. “No Rain Man. They keep promising it to me but I never get it. I’m in the Palace, though. It’s pretty nice.” I lean against the railing, and Diamond leans against Robert, indignantly asking me, “Hey, girl, why you let him call you sweetheart like that?” I just shrug and search around for a drink waitress but don’t see one handy. Bill on stick calls, “Bet craps eleven, any seven, bet now while the dice are in the middle.” A big guy crowds in next to me. He’s dripping in gold jewelry, wearing a dark suit and smoking a cigar. Wannabe gangster. Pinkie ring and everything. The roller craps out immediately, Edward sweeps away my chips with a mumbled, “Sorry, hon.” “He just did it again,” Diamond bitches to me as she glares at Edward and rubs cattishly against Robert. “That’s bullshit, woman,” she says. “You think they’d call him something like that?” She points to the guy with the pinkie ring next to me. “Hell, no. They call him ‘Mister Whatever,’ I guarantee it.”

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“I really don’t mind it,” I tell her as I notice Edward roll his eyes. The roller craps out and I crane my neck, searching for a cocktail waitress, smiling up at Robert, but his eyes are focused on Diamond now. Next to me, Mr. Pinkie Ring grunts and bumps into me as he throws his chips across the table to Edward. They scatter and one of them rolls across the felt into the middle section with the prop bets. “Sir,” Edward says flatly. “Would you please not toss your chips like that? Just hand them to me.” Pinkie just grunts again, nudges into me, and Diamond perks up. “Did you hear that? Did you? He just called him sir.” “Diamond, I really don’t mind, it’s fine.” “Yeah, well, you should mind, little girl, it’s not respectful, the way they call you those things. You are a woman.” “Can I call you sweetheart?” Robert asks her with moon eyes. It annoys the hell out of me. “With enough cash, you can call me anything you want,” she answers. It’s her turn to roll, so she has Robert throw some money down for her. Bill slides the dice in front of her but keeps them far enough away that she has to lean over the rail, barely keeping her boobs in her shirt. She calls him on it, saying, “Oh, you did not just short-stick me!” “Short what?” Robert asks. “He’s trying to make me flash him! For free!” Robert puts his arm around her. Edward rolls his eyes and holds his hand out for me, so I toss him my chips, and next to me, Pinkie grunts audibly as Diamond rolls another three craps. “Where the hell is that drink chick?” I say out loud. “Relax, sweetheart,” Pinkie-ring says, annoyed. “This is bullshit.” Diamond gets loud. “Don’t we deserve respect? The same respect they show these men they call sir? Short-stick me!” “I didn’t see it.” Robert seems glum over missing a free skin shot. Gruffly, Pinkie pipes up, “You here to talk or here to gamble? Move down, gimme some room on the rail here.” He jostles me as he leans down to place his bet, defiantly tosses a few chips, knocking over one of Edward’s neat stacks as he barks his request. “Sir,” Edward warns him, “please stop throwing chips. And you give my sweetheart there some room.” “You see!” Diamond shouts. “Make him call you ‘Miss’ or ‘Miz!’ You have to demand respect in this town, woman. You gotta be lion-hearted.” “I’ll call you ‘Miss’ if you want me to,” Robert says to her. His

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24/7 subservient demeanor makes me want to smack him. I found it blandly appealing when it was directed at me, but directed at Diamond, it suddenly seems pathetic. “Really, it’s fine, I like it,” I assure her as I toss my chips to a smirking Edward. She finally rolls a number, and, “Six, hard six, the national average!” Bill dares sing out with a wink at me. I place odds for myself and the dealers as Pinkie chucks a couple chips with a high arcing toss to the center. “Hard six,” he says. “Sir, I’ll book your prop bets for you,” Edward chastises. “All about respect, girlfriend.” Diamond’s still jawing. “Well, respect and money.” “I have money,” Robert says hopefully. Bill sinks into that remark. “Then let’s see it, sir. Get in on the action here while it’s hot. Play a hard six—we all like some hard six now and then. This hard six costs less than it does from her! Thank you, sir, good choice. Anyone else? Shooooter! Dice down!” He slides the dice to her again, obnoxiously short-sticking her. She leans over, way over, and her breasts tumble forward, way forward, showing plenty of cleavage and skin. Robert sees it this time, his eyes go wide. “He short-sticked me again! Did you see that?” “I saw that,” Robert answers, eyes still riveted on her chest, agog with delight as she shakes and chicken-feeds the dice down the table. “Where is that drink girl?” I ask again. Bill retrieves the dice, announces the roll, waits for people to bet. Now he slides the dice back to Diamond, singing loudly, “Okay, shooter, come on, now—throw that six. Anybody coming? Book with your dealer now. Let’s get a cocktail waitress over here for my baby.” “Baby! They’re all doing it!” Diamond yells as she leans her boobs over the railing again. “And you! Stop short-sticking me! I’d never let them get away with calling me ‘sweetheart’ and ‘baby’ like that!” As she rolls, Bill snarks, “Miss, you don’t ever have to worry about that happening. A six and a five, we’re all live! Yo-eleven, that’s the call, good field, pay the comes. That’s why it’s always good to be coming, people, always nice to be coming.” Pinkie gives me a rough hip-check as he retrieves his come bet chips, so Edward snaps at him.

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“Hey, sir, back off. You can’t push her around like that. Move down this way.” Pinkie flips some chips at Bill. “C-and-E bet. Get some fucking numbers going at this table instead of yapping. I have the hard six—you booked the hard six?” Diamond goes, “You don’t fight for anything, do you, girl? Not your men, not respect—nothing.” The pit boss returns, slides himself between Pinkie and me to hand me back my player’s card, saying, “Here you go, honey.” Oh, Madone, does that bring the house down. I mean, honestly. “Don’t you be calling her ‘honey!’ Show some respect!” “I’ll show you respect! I want to show you respect.” “You wanna back off? I don’t have any fuckin’ room on this rail!” “Hey! Sir, don’t you push her! And stop throwing chips!” “Ten, hard ten, it’s a myth everywhere but the craps table, people. Ten, hard ten, line ’em up, let’s roll ’em again.” “Stop short-sticking me!” “He is short-sticking you. I can see it. I see it now.” “Where is that cocktail waitress?” “You want a drink, I’ll call for her.” The pit boss scampers to the phone. Chips are flying, Pinkie is bumping, Robert is drooling, Edward’s booking, Diamond’s steaming, Bill’s rhyming and I’m thirsting. “Lion-heart, baby girl! Respect! You even let me steal your man tonight!” “She wasn’t interested in me. I respect you.” “Did you book my hard ten? Gimme some room so I can reach the prop bets! Someone book my hard ten!” “Hand me your chips! Sir!” “Ten! Came hard! No field, but a good hard come!” “No one booked that hard ten for me! Call the pit boss! I want my fucking money! I won that money!” “Stop pushing her!” “My lion-heart won you tonight, didn’t it, baby?” Robert actually growls, looking directly at the area close to her heart, just slightly lower. The pit boss returns, saying, “I called for a cocktail waitress for you, hon.” “Don’t call her hon! And you stop short-sticking me!”

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24/7 “I saw that, you short-sticked her! I saw it!” “This dealer over here didn’t book my hard ten! I told him hard ten!” “He’s past posting!” Edward shouts. “And you, stop pushing her!” “Well, well, this ain’t no jive, shooter just rolled a double five! Hard ten—again! That’s a shame, sir. If you’d have pressed you could afford to get the shooter here undressed! Hard ten, pay it right here, my baby doll had a two-way with us. Come on now, shooter, still waiting on that six!” “I had that hard ten! I would have pressed it up!” “Lenny! This flea past-posted, he threw his chips and he keeps shoving the other players!” “Did you just call me a hooker? Mr. Bossman, I think your stick man here just insulted me! He don’t show women no respect! He even shortsticked me!” “I saw him, I saw him! He short-sticked her!” “You liked that, didn’t you, baby?” “Growl!” “I had that hard ten! I would have pressed!” It’s too much for me. I tell Bill to take my open bets as tokes if they hit and get the fuck out of there. * * * I go back to Vince’s bar. He sees me coming and sets me up with a fresh drink before I sit down. He checks his watch. “That was really fast.” “That was really weird,” I tell him, rapidly swallowing my annoyance and embarrassment over being bested by a hooker. “Where’s your guy?” “Ditched me for Diamond.” “Get the fuck outta here!” “You know I’m serious.” “I’m serious,” he says. “Come on now. He did you like that?” “Vince, he didn’t do me in any way. I got nothing. Nothing. He’s gonna do her!” Picking up a bar rag, he sweeps the area clean and shakes his head. “Then he’s a fucking idiot. I knew he was a fucking idiot.” “I know, it’s cool.” He smirks and flips a peanut in the air, catches it in his mouth, saying as he chews, “All I’m saying is this, if that was me you were just flirting with, I’d have run upstairs with you. No, fuck that, I’d have picked you up and carried you upstairs while running.”

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“You’re sweet, Vince. You don’t want to sleep with me, though.” “I would have, before I knew you. You were really fuckable before I knew you. You’re just too nice now.” “Well, uh, thanks…I think.” “I’d have still carried you upstairs and been happy about it, though. I’d just feel bad about it later, that’s all.” “No, you wouldn’t.” I smile. “You wouldn’t feel bad at all.” “Yeah, you’re right, I wouldn’t. Ah, well, you don’t want to fuck me, either. Too bad for us, huh?” “Hey, you’re hot. I’d have done you. Before I knew you.” “I’m not too nice,” he says. “No, you’re a pig.” Him laughing and nodding: “I know I am. It works for me, though. At least I get action. So, you’re pushing what now? The three-year mark for this dry spell?” I just nod. “Ouch. I don’t know how you can stand it. I’d be fucking anything that stood still long enough.” “I think I’m hitting that point.” He strikes a pose, motionless in front of me. “Yeah, well, like I said, we’re just pals,” I wink and stifle a yawn. He’s not boring me, I’m just tired. And I do have those meetings for work tomorrow. I dig in my pocket to find cash to tip him. “I’m going upstairs,” I tell him as I slide him the money.

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[4]

T

HE PHONE RINGING WAKES ME. I RUB MY EYES AND REACH FOR IT GROGGILY AS

I check the clock. I still have an hour before I have to be at the morning meeting. “Hi,” the voice says simply. “Hello, Nephew.” I’m not being insulting. It really is my nephew. Good kid. A little lonely for a friend. “Whatcha doing?” he asks. “I was sleeping, but I’m glad you got me up.” “So. What are you up to?” he asks again. I know he wants something—he wouldn’t call me out here just to shoot the breeze. But this is how the game is played. He’ll never ask for what he wants. His mother taught him that. Thing is, he won’t ask, but he’ll angle. He considers it a loophole. He’s pretty sly at it, too. He’ll angle until I decide to give him a break and finally offer what I think he wants, if I’m willing to do it. It’s a subtle manipulation, but I’ll wait until he’s older to call him on it. “I’m just enjoying the vacation out here,” I tell him. “Guess what. Creed announced their tour dates.” “Ask your mother. You know better than that with me. Frankly, I’m disappointed you don’t know better about them.” “Yeah. I heard Eminem is going to tour with Papa Roach this spring, too.” There it is. There it finally is. The Creed thing was a decoy—he does know better. I’m a little old to be going to see Eminem, but he’s entirely too old to be going with his mother. And she’s entirely too uptight to be allowed near an Eminem show. I’ll help him out. “Well, I could go to that.” “You can?” “Sure. I’ll make a note to buy tickets for me and Sherri.”

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“Oh.” He’s really not sure if I’m screwing with him or not. I let him off the hook. “I don’t suppose you’d like to go, too?” “Uh, well, yeah.” He tries to sound nonchalant. “If you want me to go, I could probably do that.” “No problem. Just one thing, though—you don’t hate gay people, do you?” “What?” “I’m just asking. You know, he sort of pissed off gay people by saying a lot of really nasty stuff about them. You aren’t into all that, are you?” “No. I just like the Slim Shady thing. I don’t know about that other stuff.” “Okay, Nephew. Remind me next week the day they go on sale. Ciao.” I hang up, shower off the smoke and booze from last night and then go to the meeting. The work goes quickly, and I resist hitting the blackjack tables again at the Hard Rock before leaving. I did well enough yesterday and don’t see any reason to press my luck and draw attention to myself. So I go back to Caesars to enjoy the day at the pool, but it gets windy in the afternoon, unbearably gusty by three. I go upstairs, get cleaned up and walk over to the Bellagio to play some blackjack. I figure it’s a pretty good shot. It’s Friday, so it ought to be getting busier. And since it’s where all the rich people go, they shouldn’t even notice my small money. I dress conservatively, make sure all my tattoos are covered up. I pull my hair back in a neat ponytail. I even go the extra yard and put on some mascara. Very respectable and normal-looking. I like their casino. It’s so contrary to what casinos generally are. It’s bright and airy, very classy. I don’t fit in over here. But I’m comfortable. It’s hard not to be when sitting on buttery leather chairs and drinking the best cosmopolitans in the city. I’m not going to drink a cosmo, though. Not yet. I might order a drink, but I won’t drink it. It’s time to do some work. I have the odds in my favor right now. That’s not supposed to happen in a casino. Ever. But it can. Might as well try to capitalize. They call it cheating. I call it using my brain. We both call it blackjack. It’s a simple game. Whoever gets closest to twenty-one wins. It was originally called blackjack because a two-card hand of the ace of spades and the jack of spades was rewarded extra. It still is—that combination

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24/7 pays three-to-two on most blackjack games. But so does any two-card combo of a face or ten card paired with an ace. Like I said, a simple game. Made even simpler by the fact that most of the work has already been done, it’s just a matter of taking advantage of it. Most people gamble because they hope they’ll get lucky. I hope I’ll get lucky. I just help nudge that luck along with strategy. Basic strategy is the cornerstone of playing blackjack well. And it’s easy. You just memorize what you’re supposed to do with the hand you have based on the dealer’s upcard. It’s been mathematically worked out and tested—guys like Edward Thorpe and Stanford Wong did the genius work. It’s statistically proven to be the correct way to play to win as often as possible and lower the house edge. So, I play by basic strategy. The casinos don’t mind that. Not at all. I also count cards. The casinos really do mind that. It’s not illegal to count cards in Nevada, but they are legally allowed to eject a suspected card counter from the premises. I don’t feel guilty when I capitalize by using my brain to cut their edge down. Or remove it. Or even beat it. A lot of people go through life—and especially gambling—thinking something will come to them because they deserve it. I never understood that. Whatever I want to come my way, I’ll earn. No one deserves to win in a casino. Gambling doesn’t work that way. But I can study and learn and earn some cash anyhow. That goes beyond luck. It’s an incorporation of logic, subterfuge, deception, basic math and a tiny bit of the warrior spirit. Sun Tzu said that skillful warriors wait for their enemy’s moment of vulnerability. Counting gives you the ability to see when the casino is vulnerable; then the action is in your hands to attack and exploit that weakness. Here’s the thing. Counting isn’t keeping track of every card that’s played so you know exactly what cards are left in the deck. It’s nothing like Rain Man. Counting is keeping track of what high cards and low cards have been played to determine if the deck is favorable or not. When the deck is favorable, you increase your bets. You strike. Simply put, a deck that’s rich in tens and aces is good for the player, bad for the casino. Among other things, there’s more chance of a player hitting a blackjack, and more chance of the dealer busting. A deck that’s rich in low cards is bad for the player, good for the casino. So all a counter has to do is keep a tally of high cards played vs. low cards played. Counting lets you make calculations; and based on those you know whether to retreat or attack. Because, as Sun Tzu also said, when the enemy is stronger, avoid

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him. I knew all this about The Art of War before I’d played blackjack, but none of this other stuff about counting and strategy. Once I played, I got interested. And once I get interested, I get curious, and to satisfy curiosity, I need to research. And once I research, I start to learn. And then something clicks. So I learned basic strategy. Then I learned how to count. And then I practiced. And practiced. And still practice. I use a pretty simple counting system—it’s called the Hi-Lo. All it is, is this: every card is assigned a point value of either minus one, zero or plus one. Two, three, four, five and six are all plus one. Seven, eight and nine are zero. Tens and aces are minus one. There’s no side adjustment for aces, which makes it simpler to keep the count good but also a little less precise. So, I keep a side count of those. When you keep the running count, a plus total means bet higher because more low cards have just been played and good player cards are due. Minus means back off, because casino-favorable cards are due. That’s all it is. It’s not hard to keep the count now. Frankly, it makes the game more fun. Every other game I play I expect to lose in the long run, which makes winning fun. It’s that jolt, that rush. Walking away from a slot machine or dice table or baccarat room with extra money in my pocket is just absolutely invigorating. I feel lucky. But walking away from a blackjack table with extra money in my pocket? There’s the same rush, invigoration. But I don’t just feel lucky. I feel smart. Even better, I feel bad. Naughty. Kid-in-a-candy-store, fist-in-thecookie-jar, hand-in-the-casino’s-pockets naughty. Then add in the whole sport of not getting caught. Sun Tzu said all warfare is based on deception. I’ve never had much heat put on me while counting. I’m careful, I don’t repeat my business too often. That’s why I’m coming here today instead of the Hard Rock. Plus, I don’t play big money, so I don’t really put a big hurt on the places. They don’t watch me as closely as they do high rollers. I don’t play for a living, I play for more gambling money. I don’t think I ever could do it for a living. I’m not exactly faint of heart, but I think you’d have to be made of stone and have ice water running through your veins to endure the pressure of something like that. Sure, I can turn the odds to my favor. But just because you have a winning-expectation game going doesn’t mean you’re going to win. No one wins all the time, and the fluctuations can be killer.

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24/7 The casinos have all the money for a reason. It’s not just that the odds and numbers and statistics are in their favor; it’s the resources and manpower and experience they have. They’re unbeatable. Which is exactly why some people have to try.

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[5]

I

PICK A $25-MIN TABLE. THE SHOE IS LOW, SO I FIGURE I’LL WARM UP AND LET IT play out and start on a clean one. There’s two other people at the table, but the first base chair is open so I slide into it, throw down my money and card. I shouldn’t use a player card in this situation, but screw it—I’ve always wanted to stay at Bellagio, see how the ultra-rich live, and the only way I’ll ever be able to afford it is if I work up some sort of player rating. I ease back, settle in and play a few hands. Even though it’s useless, I keep a count just to warm up. Count: zero. The cards get thrown out. I get a pair of eights—count: zero. The guy next me, he’s got a four and a three—count: plus-two. Next to him are a jack and a six—count: plus-two. Dealer shows six—count: plus-three. I split my eights, get a ten and a six. Hard eighteen always stands, hard fourteen stands on a six showing—I’m done drawing, the count is plus-three. Four-and-three draws, gets a nine—count is plus-three. He should stand with that sixteen on six, but he hits, gets a jack, goes bust, count is plus-two. Jack-and-six stands. Dealer flips the hole card. It’s a seven. Count: plus-two. Dealer draws, pulls a queen and busts. Count: plusone. I get paid. Of course, it goes much quicker than that. It actually feels like: zero, split eights, count: plus-two, plus-three, stand and stand, plus-three, plustwo, plus-two, plus-one, cha-ching. Easy, see? I fiddle with the chips in front of me, absent-mindedly flipping a few between my fingers. Why not? Let’s really see if they do notice all this shit or not. Sun Tzu would have a shitfit about me acting this way right now, but since we aren’t actually talking about lives at stake here, I want to have some fun and test the waters. The dealer looks at me once, but that’s all. No raised brow, no look over his shoulder to the pit boss. I pull a blackjack as the shoe runs out

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24/7 then lean back and light a smoke as he shuffles. I flip, backflip and smoke until he hands me the card to cut the decks. Cocky, I cut really low, don’t even leave a deck and a half to go uncounted. It’s an interesting game. The guy next to me knows how to play. The guy next to him doesn’t. He hits a hard fourteen when the dealer’s upcard is a five. He pulls a ten, which busts him. What he probably doesn’t notice is that the dealer turned up a hole card of a queen, so he took a hit and drew a six to give him twenty-one, which beat my eighteen. If the guy hadn’t taken that stupid hit, the dealer would have drawn that ten and busted and we all would have won. I’ve seen some people at tables get pretty pissed over shit like that, but I don’t. Let him play the way he wants—that’s part of the chance I’m taking when I sit down. I start playing hundred-dollar hands, which is definitely way over my head, but it’s the Bellagio. I’m playing on yesterday’s winnings anyhow, so I don’t care. After a while, when I get a count slightly in my favor, I triple my bet. The weirdest hand I’ve ever played unfolds. I have the running count at plusnine with the true count at plus-three, including three discarded decks. The triple bet is camouflaged by the previous wins, and it’s time to exploit vulnerability. I get served an ace and a deuce. The guy next to me gets an eight and a nine. The other guy who hit his hard fourteen is gone. The dealer’s showing an upcard of seven. I have to hit—I’ve got either three or soft thirteen. I tense because I’m expecting the ten to show up, but take the hit anyhow. I draw a three. Strategy says hit again, so I do it. I pull another ace. Soft seventeen has to take another hit, so I do. I don’t want to, but I do. I pull a five. Fucker. Fucker. Now I’m standing with a hard twelve against a dealer seven. Strategy says I have to hit, but I know that ten card is just waiting to come up and bust me. I’ve got five cards in front of me already and I started off waiting for the tens to come up. Sighing, shoulders tense, I tap my cards and take another hit, following the strategy for the cards. I get a freaking four. I snort out loud. I was expecting tens to come up, and instead I’m looking at six cards that total sixteen. The guy next to me isn’t showing a ten, and the dealer’s showing a seven. I can feel my heartbeat as I close my eyes and tap my cards again and wait for the ten to finally show up. I get a three. A freaking three. I can’t believe it. I exhale with a huge grin and stay on my nineteen. The guy next to me stands with his hard

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seventeen. Then the dealer turns over his hole card. I expect the ten to finally show its face. But it doesn’t. He’s got an eight under that seven. I smirk. The running count is now plus-twelve with a true count of plus-four and not a single ten on the table this hand. This is absolutely outstanding for a player—it’s almost guaranteed he’s going to bust. He draws. He pulls a five. That gives him twenty to beat my seven-card nineteen. “You are kidding me!” I say out loud and look up at him. I’m shocked for an instant. I had vaguely noticed another dealer come on but was so wrapped up in the game I didn’t really greet him or even look up at him. Because if I'd looked, I would have taken note. It’s the dealer’s turn to smirk, and he does. Speaks fluidly. “That was a good one, huh?” His gaze lingers on me longer than it should, and I try to match him. I checked out his face when I first looked up, seeing his high cheekbones, really dark short hair. But now he’s got me engrossed in his dark eyes. I breathe and it sets me straight again. I blink and look down at the table, suddenly aware of how inappropriate that was. Even more rattled at what he was potentially thinking as he looked back at me. “Are you always this lucky?” I ask him. He cocks a brow and shakes his head. “Don’t know, this is my first time.” Sweeping the cards off the felt and putting them in the discard deck, he glances over at me again. “Get out. This is your first day dealing?” I ask. “And you’re at the Bellagio?” “Nah, huh-uh. I mean, like, it’s my first day dealing this game. Twentyone.” He pulls the cards out of the shoe, and I notice that his hands do move more slowly and deliberately than most dealers. “Well, you’re doing a good job. For them. Not helping me much.” I don’t want to sound like I’m whining, so I make sure to say it jokingly. “Let’s see if you have good luck if you’re playing this side of the table. This one’s for you.” I have the count at plus-thirteen and check out my hand. Or rather, the hand I’m playing for him. He slides me an ace, finishes the table then comes back around and paints me with a jack. Now, finally, the fucking ten shows up. As he pays me, I slide the chips back to his side of the table. “That’s

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24/7 yours—I guess you are lucky.” “You don’t gotta do that, I don’t deserve all that,” he says as he collects the discards. His hands seem to move a bit more rapidly this time. They’re nice hands, nails clipped short, long fingers. “Yeah, I want to, it’s cool. You’re earning it.” Shifting his weight, he nods once, taps his hand in front of me and points. Says, “Thank you. Really, thanks.” “You’re welcome. Now, let’s see if we can get some luck for this side, too.” “Yeah.” He winks at me. “You deserve some luck.” “No one deserves luck,” I say. “But I’ll try and earn it anyhow.” Lowering his head and smiling, he starts dealing and says, “All right, c’mon now, let’s go, good cards for my cutie on the end here.” As he slides the cards in front of me, his tongue settles onto the corner of his mouth. “Yo, how’s that, huh? You like those? Not bad, huh?” Looking down, I see two face cards. “Yeah, I’ll take that. Thank you.” I sweep the table and do the math in my head. The guy next to me takes a card then holds with an eighteen. The dealer flips his hole and he has seventeen. “There you go,” he says as he pays us off. “Start of a hot streak for the players on this table.” Licking his lips, he winks at me again. I can feel someone standing behind me, and the dealer acknowledges him. “Yo, what’s up, sir? Grab a seat, it’s about to get rolling here.” He points him to a place farther down the table. I watch him as he changes the guy’s money. Dark hair, dark eyes, definitely Italian or Latino. He’s like chained energy. His tongue finds its way to the corner of his mouth again as he handles the money and counts the chips. He shifts his weight a few times, always has his body in a slight contrapposto. Most card dealers are like stone—they have only the most conservative actions and keep their bodies at rest. His one leg taps constantly. He’s in one spot, but he’s not standing still. Action in repose, that’s what he exudes. When he starts dealing us again, I ask him, “You’re a dice dealer, aren’t you?” Grinning, he nods. “Yeah, yeah, I am, man. Why? How’d you guess that?” “You just seem like one, that’s all.” “Yeah, why’s that, huh? ’Cause I suck at dealing these cards?” I stand on my hand of hard nineteen, and he goes around the rest of the

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table. “No, no, that’s not it. You’re doing really good.” As I tell him that, he flips over his hole card, which is an eight. He had a five showing. He takes a card and gets a three, hesitates for a second then busts a grin. “See that now? See? Soon as you say that I gotta count the spots to see how much I got. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen,” he says as he pulls another card for himself. It’s a six, he’s busted, but he blushes as he taps the card and adds it up. “Yo, that’s what happens with a dice dealer on a card table, can’t even add up the cards.” “That’s just ’cause the dice only go up to twelve. You’ll get used to it.” Sighing, he takes our cards away and gives us chips. “I hope so, man. I hope so. So how’d you know I was a dice dealer?” “’Cause the best-looking guys always are,” I answer and drop my eyes down at the cards he’s dealing me. Peeking up, I can see him smiling. I check out his nametag: Miguel. “You see that?” he says to the guy next to me. “See that? She’s tryin’ to distract me over there. She knows I’m new meat and she’s gonna mess with me now.” He deals me a nineteen and that guy a twenty. “Looks like it’s working, too,” the guy answers him, and nods to me. He pays us off and starts dealing a new hand. He nods again, shifts his weight then pins me in his gaze when he’s done. It must be those eyes of his, because I swear he’s trying to communicate with me. More so, I swear it’s working. Realizing I’m crazy, I look down and tap to get another card, but he just stands and leans with his hands on the rail for a second. He goes, “I bet you play dice, too.” “How would you know that?” I ask. He hesitates a second then finishes dealing our hands, adding up his cards, paying us off. “I know it ’cause not a lot o’ females play dice. It takes a certain kind, you know?” he says as he sweeps up the cards. “Oh, Madone. And what kind is that?” Dealing again, he looks at the guy next to me and tells him instead of me. “They all got three things. Three things, man. They’re cute, they’re smart. And they’re all cool.” I look down at my hand of fifteen facing his king. I have to surrender. I have no idea what the count is. * * *

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24/7 One cosmopolitan, two shoes, several wisecracks, a couple of leering glances and many hands later (won or lost on luck alone), the dealer gets tapped out. Clearing his hands for the cameras overhead, he steps closer to me before walking away. “Yo, thanks again for that hand. Really. You come see me on the dice table sometime, K?” I nod. “I might do that.” “Serious, we’ll have fun—I’m better at that.” “Okay.” “I work swing most o’ the time, I’ll be on then tomorrow.” “They didn’t trust you on the blackjack tables during the busy hours?” He laughs. “No, they didn’t, they didn’t. Good move, huh?” He glances at my hand, nods at the ring on my finger. “You gonna bring your husband with you?” “Don’t have one of those,” I answer, wagging my ring finger and explaining, “Just evening out the tan lines today.” “So you ain’t married, huh?” “Nope.” “How come?” “Why would I want to wreck a perfectly good sex life?” The pit boss comes and stands behind him, but he takes his time. “I’m Miguel,” he says and blinks slowly, impossibly long eyelashes sweeping hypnotically up and down over those deep brown eyes. They’re softer when he opens them again; he looks me dead in the eye, says, “Come see me again.” Then he walks away. I watch him go, amused by his walk. He carries one hand against his stomach, head up and shoulders a little slouched. He doesn’t walk so much as stride—long, loping steps with just the slightest hitch in his gait. I already know I’ll come play dice with him sometime. Hopefully soon.

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[6]

I

ADMIT IT, I’M A LITTLE PROUD OF MYSELF RIGHT NOW. I HUSTLED SOME DOUGH, I hustled some conversation, I hustled the spark of sexual tension out of that hot dealer. Sometimes I think I could charm a rattlesnake. There’s really no other explanation for it. I’m not Diamond the gorgeous whore. I know what I don’t have, and all I can figure is that what I do have is charm. I overestimate myself. More often, I fall under the spell of others. Like Las Vegas. Like that dealer. I don’t mind. I like it. Thrill me, charm me, seduce me. I’ll try to do the same for you. I play a bit longer but never get back into the count. I’m up a little, so I gather my things and head out. Walking through the row of shops to the exit, I remember that my best friend Sherri Bruno’s birthday is in two weeks. I stop at Tiffany and go to the back room to pick her up something sparkly. It’s tradition with my friends—if you play and win at the Bellagio, you get something from Tiffany. Other than my ring, I don’t wear jewelry, so I buy stuff for them. I get Bruno a dangly necklace. I go back to Caesars, jump in the shower, grab some room service dinner and watch SportsCenter. The season opener isn’t for another couple days so Baseball Tonight isn’t airing yet, but they do have plenty of springtraining clips. I go downstairs at midnight. Vince has my drink waiting for me. Says, “Check out what I got.” He pulls back his vest and shows off a new pair of suspenders. “Very cool,” I approve. “Yeah, you sure?” “Absolutely. Suspenders are sexy. You don’t need to wear a belt with them, though.” “Seriously?” “Yes, I’m serious. One or the other is enough. You don’t need to

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24/7 discourage people that much from trying to get in your pants.” I hang with him for a while, then, bored, it must be the drinks in me that convince me it’s a good idea to hit the blackjack tables again. It’s not a good idea. Even with the liquor in my system, I’m able to keep a good count, but the luck is gone and I lose a couple hundred. So I down some free double martinis then pull myself off those tables. Looking around, there aren’t any decent dice tables rocking, either. I consider going somewhere else. But why bother leaving here? I’m buzzed up, blackjacked out, calmed down and settled in for the evening. I’m restless in a weird way, and I know what it is—I can’t get that hot dice dealer from earlier today out of my head. But there’s no sense in going looking for him, he’s not working the late shift until tomorrow night, and I’ll be long gone by then. It’s silly to be thinking about him anyway—he’s way out of my league. He seemed sincerely interested, but all the guys in Vegas act like that. Until a prettier showgirl, stripper or simple slut turns their head. I go back to Vince’s bar to say goodbye to him. “This your last night?” he asks. “Yes, I won’t see you for awhile. C’mere and gimme a kiss goodbye.” Clearly, I’m a little drunk. He gives me a white Russian instead. “Drink this up. You’re not leaving yet.” “I’m bored, Vince,” I tell him. “Eh, it’s good for you. Drink that up.” I drink it and talk to some young musicians. They remind me of my friends when they were younger. It comforts me and makes me lonely at the same time. We do shots of chocolate cake until the loneliness fades. “Okay, look,” I finally say as I flip a chip onto the bar for him. “I’m going up.” “It’s only four-thirty,” he protests. He works till eight. He loves to have company until then. “That’s very late. I have to leave tomorrow.” “We’re kicking you out, huh?” Nodding: “I won’t see you for awhile,” I tell him. “When you coming back out?” “Probably not until November.” “That’s, like, what, six, seven months?” “Yes, so give me a kiss goodbye.” He leans over the bar, and I smooch him on the cheek.

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“That’s all I get?” he taunts. And then, “See you in a couple weeks,” he says confidently. I flip him the double birds as I walk away. * * * When I get up, I check out and then spend the day at the pool. I have time to kill in the evening—I should go to the Hard Rock and cash in the rest of those chips, but I packed them up in my suitcase, and the bellman has that. Screw it. They’ll be there. I can cash them in my next trip. I don’t feel like concentrating so I play some slots. The Megabucks jackpot is up to over eighteen million. That bores me so I move to a dice table. I lose time along with a little money. Before I know it, it’s eight o’clock and I have a ten-thirty flight. The kicker? I’ve got a middle seat for the four-hour flight home. Walking through the pit on the way out, I nod and smile to a couple dealers who call out to me and wave. Throat tight and stomach empty, I get my bags and a taxi from the bellman. On the ride to the airport, I watch the lights of the strip recede. There’s no one at the airport, and I’m not tagged for random security checks this time so I get checked in and am ready to go by eight-thirty. Looking at the monitors, I see my flight is delayed. An hour and a half it’s delayed. Charming. I get to sit around in the airport, waiting to get shoved into a middle seat for a four-hour flight. I feel caged. And dreadfully sober. I could go to the bar here and have a drink or two, that’d help me sleep on the plane. Or…

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24/7

[7]

T

O THE STRIP,” I SAY TO THE DRIVER AS I CLIMB INTO THE TAXI. Why not? The strip sparkles and beckons as I zoom along in the cab. The glamorous and exciting Las Vegas strip! That’s what the travel brochures always say. Alluring. Sparkling. Promising. Twinkly, towering, glittery, gilded Vegas. Where anything you want or desire is just a phone call or cab ride away. Wine, women, men, men-aswomen, smoke, crack, sex, money, food, fashion, jewelry, the Eiffel Tower, the Sphinx, roller coasters, rainforests, swimming pools, movie stars, showgirls, jackpots and, most of all, lights. All those fucking lights. It’s where people go to live it up and double down. It’s where people go to forget. To get away. From their boredom. From their troubles. From themselves. Vegas. Dice and dinner, craps and comics, hot slots and hookers. Free shots, loose slots and easy sluts. Las Fucking Vegas. Conceived from a dream, built on blood and with the same thing keeping it running year after year. Greed. It is The Dream. The New American Dream. Money for nothing. Only in Las Vegas. People lust for it, they crave it, they’re greedy for it. Something, anything, just a small break from the dreary monotony of everyday middleclass life. A break from the plush, pampered, dreary monotony of superrich bored life. A break from the strung-out, dreary monotony of lowerclass struggling life. Excitement, romance. Money. Las Vegas surrounds them in lights and entertainment, twenty-four and seven. No clocks, so time stands still and reality fades. The buzz of everyone else there, most of them searching for the thing that’s already found them, too—the contagion of utter hope. Layers upon ornate layers of it, making it

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all seem possible. Hardly anyone ever stopping to think why and how the places they’re spending their money in are so freaking resplendent, where all that money comes from. Not making the simple connection that it’s coming from them. Never thinking that instead of Vegas giving them what they want, they’re feeding it. Every day. All day, all night, chasing the dream and never feeling cheated when they don’t catch it. Some say it’s a wasteland, a glittery illusion plunked down in the middle of the desert, all glamour, all glitz, not a hint of culture. No soul. But they’re wrong because, in the new millennium, Vegas is the most accurate reflection of everyday American culture. And behind the seemingly innocuous neon lights, under the clink and whir of slot machines and beyond the dry sand of the Mojave, its soul is the same as ours. It wants more. Not just money, not just excitement. Something sprung up in the middle of nowhere, yelling for attention, continuously feeding and never getting filled. Greedy for hope. It’s not an illusion. It’s a lie. But it’s one hell of an entertaining, fun lie. I’d rather be here chasing the magic of hope—or at least the illusion of excitement—than anywhere else. The cab pulls up, I get out, go inside and immediately get a martini at the bar. As I suck it back, order a second one and light a smoke to take the time to breathe, I look around and laugh. It’s Saturday night, and everyone’s glitzed out, dressed up and showing off. I’m dressed comfy for the plane: shorts, sandals, cami shirt and flannel shirt. I refuse the urge to feel out of place. I gulp down my second drink instead and tie the flannel around my waist, letting my tattoos show as the liquor heats me up. I get a vodka soda to go, start walking around. It’s definitely after nine, so all swing shift workers should be on. There’s activity all along the mosaic-tiled walkways and creamy carpeted casino floor. Getting to the craps area, I scan down the row quickly. “Gotcha,” I say to myself. My pulse quickens and a small tingle goes to my head. It’s not the martinis working on me already. It’s the magic. I watch him for a minute or so as he stands there. No one’s on his end of the table, only a couple guys at the other end. He’s got his hands clasped behind his back, head up and shoulders arched slightly forward. He’s in one spot but not standing still. His one leg moves rhythmically back and forth.

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24/7 I stroll by, checking the signs on the other tables as I pass. If it’s a hundred minimum, just keep on walking, little girl. It’s not. He sees me as I’m reading the limit and breaks his stance. Placing his hands on the rail, he leans forward and gives me a crooked smile, big eyes glimmering darkly, seemingly bottomless. “Yo, there’s my girl. You come to see me?” “I don’t know, Miguel,” I say, switching on the charm. “Think I have a chance on this table, or am I gonna get destroyed?” “I don’t know, man. I don’t know.” he says and shrugs. “Anything can happen. But, c’mon, you gotta give it a shot, right?” * * * Believe it or not, I do make my plane. Barely, but I do make it. I don’t even mind the middle seat. I just sit down, buckle in, shut up and prepare to take off. I don’t realize I’m grinning as I sit there until the girl next to me says, “You look happy. Did you win?” “I didn’t lose, that’s all I care about.” “That’s the trick out here. I don’t gamble anymore—that way I know I’m not going to lose.” “You have a good time, though?” I ask. “Yeah, it was nice. Do you gamble?” Closing my eyes and entertaining memories, I answer her. “Always.” Then I’m asleep. And then I’m home. * * * I swear off liquor for at least two weeks. I unpack and start laundry. I need to cut the grass. I call my friend Sherri Bruno instead. “Martino!” she greets me. “Bruno.” I answer back. We’ve been on a last-name basis for years now. “How you doing, man?” “Good, I’m good. How are you?” “Oh. Well. Rough. But good.” “Did you do well? Did you win? Are you tired? Did you sleep?” “Yeah, won a little. Slept a little.” “Did you go to your meetings?” “Yes!” She laughs. “I’m impressed. You’re so responsible.” “I know. So what’s up with you? You get Don all packed up?”

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Her boyfriend Don is moving out of state next week. Sherri has to finish things up at her job before she joins him at the end of the month. “Yeah, he’s in good shape so he’s gonna take off on Tuesday. In fact, we’re heading out now to have a couple drinks. I just have to load up the dishwasher here, change my clothes, pull back my hair and print out driving directions for my meeting tomorrow first. Then we’re going out— can you meet us?” “Dude, I don’t know, man. I have to work tomorrow and I really shouldn’t.” “Come on, he’ll be leaving, you have to see him off. You can pick where we go.” “Okay, somewhere close. Safari.” “Oh, know what? I’m in the mood for some bocce, how about the Calabrese Club?” I meet them in an hour at the Calabrese. I get caught up on her details, get my ass beat in the first round of bocce while I tell her about my trip. She’s mildly surprised that I’m still irritated about being bested by Diamond that night at the craps table with Robert. “I didn’t think it would bother you,” she says. “Bothered me.” “I wonder why.” “Jealous.” “You don’t seem the jealous type. Did you like him that much?” “I don’t think I’d have been jealous if I’d have tagged him already.” “Whoo! Listen to you. You were thinking of ending the sex strike with this guy?” I just shrug. “Probably not. I didn’t have time to decide, really.” Don laughs. “So the first guy in a long time you could have scored with ditched you! Ha!” I fume but speak coolly. “I could have scored with other guys, Don. I chose not to.” “Uh-huh.” He nods. “So why don’t you get some, then? It might put you in a better mood.” “Because it usually puts me in a bitter mood, Don,” I say, knowing I sound too defensive. Evening out my tone: “Because most guys can’t fuck their way out of a paper bag. And I got sick of wasting my time on it to just end up even more frustrated.” “Frustrated?” he asks. “Or horny?” “Leave her alone. “ Sherri cuts him off. She looks down as she

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24/7 mumbles, “Trust me, I understand what she’s saying.” Turning back to me, she just says, “Though it is sorta telling that you were jealous of a hooker. It’s just…odd.” “I can see it,” Don says, looking directly at me. “You have that vicious streak in you.” I change the subject. “So, you leave in a couple days.” I nod to him. “You nervous?” I ask Sherri. “Yeah, I’m going to be all alone. You have to hang out with me,” she says. “Me and your brother will take care of you,” I tell her. Don, interrupting: “That should be ‘your brother and I will take care of you.’” He does this. All the time, he does this. I acquiesce to him, though. “Okay, your brother and I will take care of you, Bruno,” I repeat. “Dude, he’s no help.” Bruno shakes her head. “He goes to the gym with you,” I point out. “Yeah, and that’s all.” Don interrupts. “He tolerates going to the gym with her.” Speaking of toleration, that’s pretty much how I deal with Don. I can’t stand the guy. He’s fifty years old. Really. Fifty. Sherri’s twenty-nine. I’m pretty sure things are going to turn out very badly for her on this one, but I spoke my piece once and have let it go since. I think my exact words were, “Your boyfriend is an asshole. And he’s old.”

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[8]

T

HE NEXT DAY IS OPENING DAY FOR BASEBALL. I DON’T GO TO WORK. I CALL UP MY

nephew in the morning. Him, asking: “What’s going on?” “Nothing. Not right now. Baseball will be on soon, so I’ll be watching

it.” “Oh. I have to go to school.” “Do you want to stay in school all day?” His voice gets quiet—I know he’s whispering so his mom won’t hear. “Not really.” “I’ll be there at noon to get you. I’ll make up some excuse, just go along with it.” “What about—” “I’ll handle your mother.” Glavine pitches for the Braves and wins. Nephew enjoys it immensely. I think he’s even happier that we pick up the Eminem tickets before we watch the game. When I drop him off at home, his mother nearly shits a brick, but I back her off of him and take the heat. “I went to his school, told them you had sent me, told him the same thing. He didn’t know. He thought you did send me—don’t punish him.” “It’s bad enough you pull him out of school, but he told me about the Eminem concert. He shouldn’t be going to see him. He’s only thirteen years old.” “Oh, Dio mio! Who the hell else is going to go to Eminem concerts? He’s supposed to go at forty years old?” “Eminem is dangerous.” I crack up. “He’s a rapper from Detroit! It’s music, sorella mia. If it’s any good it should be a little dangerous.” “You know what I mean! You know the shit he says about his mother! I don’t want my son thinking that stuff. How he talks about women, I don’t

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24/7 want him treating women like that, thinking that way.” “If you don’t want him treating women like shit, then you teach him otherwise. And if you really don’t want him resenting you, then don’t forbid him the things he likes. It’s not like you didn’t rebel.” “I did it the normal way. By dating boys that drove them crazy.” She’s got that right. For every guy I haven’t dated, she’s dated three. “Yes.” I nod. “And I’ve never thanked you for the intense scrutiny I’ve come under because of that. You do realize that at thirty years old I’ve never even mentioned a date of mine to them?” “You do realize that’s because you don’t have any dates?” “You do realize that’s because you made it seem stupid to me to even bother?” “You do realize that you’re just too fucking independent and commitment-phobic to stomach the thought of a boyfriend?” “You do realize that your mouth is just as dirty as Eminem’s?” She tightens again. “You do realize he’s only thirteen?” I crack up again. “Eminem is a lot less dangerous than trying to spoonfeed him mindless, derivative bubble gum drivel all the time. Stuff that has no thought and no talent behind it. At least Eminem is…I don’t know…something.” “Ahh, abasta! I thought you hated Eminem’s music anyhow.” “You want to disapprove of everything he does like Dad did to us? Then go ahead and don’t let him go to this show.” She softens. I knew she would. The specter of Dad always works. “Slim Shady, huh? Fine. Fine. You take him. You could have taken him to Creed instead, though.” “You take him to Creed. Jesus, even I have limits.” “Could have been worse. If he was a girl he’d want to go see ’N Sync.” “Oh, screw you, you’d enjoy that. He told me you tried to get him to go last year.” “There would have been lots of cute girls there for him to meet!” I nod and back out the door. “Bye bye bye,” I sing. She slams the door in my face, so I go home. When I get there, I pull open my screen door and a bat flies in my face. I know it’s a bat because it’s furry, it flaps in my face and I just freak out. I scream, it scuttles down to my chest and I just keep screaming. It hovers a couple seconds then flies against the screen door I’m holding open. I don’t want to close the door because if I do the bat will be trapped in there and be one step closer to the door going into my place.

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So I scream more. I wonder if it’s instant karma for defending Eminem to a mother, then I just figure the bat has screwed-up sonar or something because he keeps flapping and hitting the screen. Finally, I kick at it, and it spirals down and out. I check myself, making sure I’m not scratched, and hastily open the door and get inside. Now I have to buckle down and get back to focusing on work. So I do. Work itself is never hard. In fact, I really enjoy work—it lets me focus on things that make perfect sense. I don’t have to even think about it most of the time. Or maybe it’s because I do think about the work in front of me and there’s no room for anything else to interrupt my thoughts that it’s so relaxing. Next thing I know, it’s five workdays, one lawn-cutting, two baseball games (watched on TV with my nephew), no alcohol, three phone calls from Sherri the day Don leaves, uncountable thoughts of hot dice dealer Miguel (most of them pretty dirty) and one mild gambling hangover later, and Friday finally rolls around. I’m good and caught up at work. I spend the day reading news and screwing around reading Salon online. I cover all the serious stuff in the morning, and it’s mid-afternoon and I’m reading Cary Tennis’s advice column. I must be feeling particularly vulnerable. Or left out. Or weird. Because after reading about fifteen letters about relationship problems I finally click the link and start an e-mail of my own to him. “Cary—here’s the thing. I’m thirty years old and never had a boyfriend. I don’t really mind, I don’t think I yearn for one or anything. I only find it mildly disturbing because I’m starting to wonder if there’s something wrong with me.” I halt and get a disturbing vision of a couple of young interns reading my e-mail instead of Cary. Then them going out and talking about it to their friends, laughing at me and my insecure pathos. Then one of them emailing back and screwing around with me. Signing me up for a bunch of spam for Viagra and weight-loss products. Fuck it. Give the interns something to laugh at. “I’ve had plenty of sex, but no one ever likes me. I think I’m reasonably intelligent. And I think I’m reasonably nice. I’m not all that attractive, but come ON, Cary. I’ve seen ugly people hooked up before. Is there anything you can tell by this letter that would project some severe deficiency to you? “I realize we aren’t supposed to validate ourselves solely on other people’s opinions of us. I hate to be so needy, but I’m hoping maybe you’ll write back and—”

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24/7 The phone rings, it’s Sherri. “Martino,” she says to me. “Bruno. What’s up? I’ve been waiting for you to call.” I minimize the mail window. “You should've called me.” “You’re at work, I don’t know that number,” I tell her. “Dumbass, I’ve given you the number. You can call me here.” “I don’t remember it.” “Martino…” She sighs. “How can you not remember my phone number? Numbers are what you do.” “Yeah, I know. That’s the point, I have tons of numbers in my face all the time, so I don’t remember them unless I really work at it.” “And you don’t want to work at remembering my number? Nice.” “Stop. I know your home number. I just never call you at work—I knew you’d call me.” “Whatever. Want to go to happy hour?” “Of course. Where?” “You pick,” she tells me. “The Slider?” I ask hopefully. It’s my favorite place, but she doesn’t like it there. “Mmm, do they have any beer specials?” “I don’t think they do for happy hour.” “Then not there,” she says. “Greengarden?” I try again. “Mmm, I might want something to snack on, their stuff is shitty. How about Oscar’s?” “Fine by me,” I say. I pull the mail screen back up, re-read the message then X out of it, feeling even more needy and foolish for having written it. I can’t actually send it—it’d be playing with fire. It’s better not to think about why I don’t have something I don’t want. And I don’t want anyone. I’m not lonely. I’m just alone. By choice. And there’s no point in whining about it or questioning it. So what if guys like Robert always ditch me for girls like Diamond? If I thought about it too much, it might make me miserable. And I don’t want that. I’m happy, and that’s better. Happy people are much more interesting than unhappy people. I can appreciate a tortured soul. Hell, I feel those pecks and gnaws inside my brain, too—the fears, the outrage, the insecurities. It’s not that a

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happy person doesn’t feel those things. They just steel their backbone, face them down, suck it up, grind on and look around to see what else is there besides the bad. That takes strength. That takes courage. It takes a hell of a lot of generosity of spirit to be kind and happy because there’re always so many fuckers out there trying to drag you down. I trash the message and check the time and click offline. Pull up a spreadsheet riddled with indecipherable and meaningless formulas—it’s nearly time for The Visit. I’ve already caught the sour whiff of his signature tofu hotdog wafting down the hallway. Like clockwork, he appears, fidgeting with his tie, clearing his throat and actually looking down at the border of carpet where my office begins. Hesitantly, he steps in. Saying, “Uh, good afternoon, Ms. Malino.” “Martino,” I correct him. “Uh, yes.” I still haven’t figured out if his mispronouncing my name is intentional or if he really is that aloof and diffident. He watches my fingers, probably checking to see if I hit the alt/tab to change windows. My hands remain folded in front of the keyboard. Brightly: “What’s up, Gary?” A clearing of the throat. “Uh…” He’d prefer it if I called him by his last name, prefaced with a respectful “Mister.” Not gonna happen. He takes a few brisk steps, peers at my screen. Blushes. I laugh. Not only because he just had to take a peek at the screen but because I know he’s so confused by what he sees he won’t dare ask what I’m working on. His ego won’t allow that. Gary Anderton is the new manager here at the company. He’s tiptoeing around me, I presume because he’s been forewarned about the special circumstances governing my employment here. Basically, when I got hired, I made an agreement that I’d work for less pay on the condition that I was allotted ample time off—without pay. It works fine for me. I don’t have the ego hang-up that drives some people to seek higher salaries, nor do I have the necessity for one. I feel I get compensated fairly for the work I do. And I earn what I get. This drives Gary nuts. Also, I suspect he’s having a hell of a time trying to figure out if he’s my boss or not. I think it’s ultimately his lack of anything worthwhile to do that sends him creeping around to check up on

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24/7 others. That’s how he justifies himself—he’s in charge of keeping the cogs running smoothly. I like sticking it to him. “Jeez, Gary. What? Did you think I had porn up on the computer or something?” “Oh, er, no…” “I only download porn during the lunch hour, not when it’s almost time to go home.” I can’t tell if it’s merely the word porn that makes him fidget, or if it’s because he’s taking the thought further and actually trying to picture me surfing porn, or maybe even a step further and trying to picture what sort of porn I’d look at. No. He’s not that imaginative. It’s the mere mention of the word porn. “Uh, Ms. Marino…” “Martino.” “It’s against company policy for you to use the Internet for, ah, entertainment purposes. We could, ah, check your files at any time—” “Jeez, Gary. You can’t check my computer. I have highly confidential material on here that you’re not authorized for. Hasn’t anyone told you that?” He’s blushing again. (Hee!) “Um, considering the complicated rules governing your equipment, you should be especially careful so that you don’t get a virus.” I laugh. “Who’d a thought, huh?” “Excuse me?” “I mean, about viruses. We thought we finally found a way to have sex without transmitting diseases and it turns out you can still get viruses from it even through a fiberoptic wire.” “Ahh…mmhmm.” He checks his watch, turns crisply and walks out the door. As he’s leaving, I call out after him. “That’d be a good slogan for Norton. ‘A condom for your computer. Don’t have cyber-sex without installing it first.’”

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[9]

I

MEET SHERRI AT FIVE. SHE GIVES ME THE RUNDOWN OF HER WEEK, A SCHEDULE FOR next week, finishes up by asking what’s up with me. I sigh. “I need to get some new friends.” She looks at me, horrified. “Don’t say that!” I laugh at her reaction. “Why not?” “That’s mean, don’t say that. It makes me feel bad.” “Look, how is that mean? Why should you feel bad about that? You’re moving away. I need some new friends.” “Oh. I thought you were just sick of me.” “I’m not sick of you. Don’t be so insecure.” “You know I am. We can’t all be as strong as you.” I just snort and order another drink. “I’m serious,” she continues. “I’m not like that, I worry what people think.” “So do I!” This time she snorts. “Bullshit.” “I care what some people think. Sometimes. I just do what I want anyhow.” “Yeah, but you don’t worry like I do.” She shrugs. “That’s just because you’re terrified of being alone.” “I know. I know that’s it.” “Sherri.” I call her by her first name. “Is that why you’re moving away with Don? To avoid being alone? Or do you really want to be with him?” “I want to be with him.” “Okay” is all I say. “I do!” “Okay!” “I mean, I’m sick of it here anyhow. I just need to get out of here. So why not go with him?” “Because what happens if you realize you don’t want to be with him? You’re giving up your job and apartment this time.”

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24/7 “Well, I won’t change my mind. We’re going to be together. I’m not like you, okay? I don’t want to be alone.” “Okay. It’s cool.” “I miss him. With him being gone this week? I miss him, I’m lonely.” “You’re lonely? Or you’re lonely for him?” She sighs. “I don’t know. I said I’d go with him so I’m going.” “Okay, Bruno,” I say to her. “You’ll have a good time down there anyhow.” “Yeah.” She nods. “It’ll be good. The change will be good for me.” She gulps her beer and gets us another round. When we hit a lull, I ask, “So what are we doing for your birthday?” “I don’t know. Don’s going to be out of town.” “We should go to Vegas,” I say. She goes, “Maybe I could. I’m quitting my job anyhow. And once I move I won’t have the money to take off for a while after that. I guess I should get one last trip in.” “You’ll seriously go?” I ask her. “When do I not want to go to Vegas?” She thinks for a minute. “I can go in one week. I have some calls to make this week, have to finish up packing, some loose ends, have to get some shopping done for Don’s birthday, but then I could go the next week. That’s before my birthday, but that’d be a good time.” So I book it. One week, endless anticipation and at least one hundred times planning my “hello” to super-hot dice dealer Miguel with the soulful eyes later, and we’re on the way. When we get there, we check in to Caesars and go to the pool and start sucking down the colossal green drinks that are on special. We’re in my favorite spot, the pool boys keep bringing me towels, the waitresses keep bringing us drinks and life looks pretty good. I know I won’t be playing any blackjack tonight but I do plan on gambling. I can see the Bellagio next door from where I sit. I get a little thrill thinking about going over there. Pretty soon, a guy with a cell phone starts pacing around us. I hate cell phones. So pretentious. Honestly, no one’s nearly as important as they think they are when they’re talking on a cell phone in public. He keeps looking over at us as he circles. He sighs often and shakes his head at us. Before long, he’s joined by a girl with a headset, carrying a clipboard. She eyes us anxiously, too. A few other people arrive and mill around. None of them grab chairs or sit. They just hover around us and circle like

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vultures. When people come to sit in our area, they go over and speak to them and the people leave and go elsewhere. “They’re going to ask us to leave,” Bruno says as they officially block off the whole area with yellow caution tape. Then a few roadie-looking guys come by and start setting up cameras and framing shots. “They’re shooting something here,” she says. “Yeah, I got that. I wonder what it is.” “I don’t want to leave,” Bruno says. “Flash them your tits.” “What?” “Take off your top. They’ll never have the guts to come over here and talk to us if you’re topless.” “I can’t do that!” “Why not? They allow topless sunbathing here. Just flash your tits.” “You flash your tits!” “Come on, Martino, you love to flash your tits.” “Hey! I only flash when I’m drunk!” She raises her hand, hollering, “Waitress! Can we get a couple more of those drinks over here?” “I’m not flashing my tits,” I tell her. “Well, I’m not leaving,” she says. “I’m serious here. Do not leave. It’s rude how they keep looking at us and whispering about us but won’t even come talk to us. I’ll kill you if agree to move.” “All right!” I say. “Chill, I won’t leave.” Sherri finishes her drink, and as soon as she takes a sip of a fresh one, the cell phone guy comes over and says, “Um, you’re going to have to move.” “Okay,” I say and stand up and start gathering my towel. “Hey!” Bruno yells at me. “Oh, yeah, that’s right,” I say and sit back down, steeling myself. He sits on the end of my chair. “Get up,” I tell him. “Who are you?” “We’re filming a TV show,” he says. He rambles on about the hot new reality show for a minute and then asks, “How would you like it if I’d buy you each a drink? Wouldn’t that be nice of me? And in return, you could move.” I go, “Do I look poor to you?” “What? I mean…” “I can afford to buy my own drinks. I’m comfortable here. Or as comfortable as I can be with you people hovering around me for the past two hours. Go away.”

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24/7 After he walks away, I smile over at Bruno. She looks impressed. Next thing I know, a guy in a suit is in front of us. “Hello,” he says. “I’m the director of PR here at Caesars,” he says and tells us his name. It’s Jarred something. I’m sure he wants us to call him by his last name, and preface it with a “Mr.” Guys in suits always want that. Sherri takes charge. “Listen, Mr.—” “Please, call me Jarred,” he says. Sherri smiles. “Jarred, are you going to make us leave?” “I’m afraid I have to.” “She’ll show you her tits if you let us stay here.” “Sherri!” I shout. “Oh, what? You want me to flash mine? Is that it? Would that work for you?” she asks Jarred as she starts tugging on the straps of her top. He blushes and stutters, “I’m…uh, ah…I’m afraid I’d still have to ask you to leave. But if you want to take off your top, please—” “Forget it. Why are you making us leave?” “I promised this crew they could have this area for filming today.” She sticks it to Jarred a little more. She’s really good at sticking it to people. “Well, then, why didn’t you block it off earlier before we got here and got comfortable?” “Yes, that was my mistake.” “Yes, it was. Now you’re upsetting our whole day.” “I’m very sorry, and I apologize.” Him bowing his head and looking her in the eye. She likes him, I can tell. He’s not backing down from her, but he’s not lording his authority over her. Sherri finally says, “So you need us to move now?” “Yes, I would be really appreciative if you’d move. I’ll buy you some drinks.” Jarred escorts us to the other side of the pool and settles Sherri down into a chair. “I’ll send a drink waitress over.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a paper that he marks a few things on and then signs. “This is for you, comp tickets to our house dinner show. Can I do anything else for you?” “No,” she answers him and takes the paper. “Thanks. But, Jarred, just so you know…” “Yes?” “I’m going to keep hassling that TV guy over there.” “I know,” he says with a wry grin, then walks away.

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We sit and wait for them to set up some shots. They’re allowing people to swim behind them in the pool for background. After they block out a shot and begin doing a take, Bruno says, “Well, let’s wreck his day now.” She gets up and lowers herself into the pool. As she swims into their view, she flips the camera double birds. “Cut!” cell phone guy yells. She swims back over to me and keeps her back to them. “Tell me when they’re going again. I’ve got another one.” “Okay, they’re re-shooting now,” I tell her. She unties her bikini top, walks backward into the shot, turns to the camera and flashes her tits. “Cut!” I flag down the cocktail waitress. “We’re gonna need more drinks,” I tell her and point to the frazzled director. “Put them on his tab.” Then I stretch out. “I’m getting hungry,” I say to Sherri. “Will you eat dinner tonight?” “Sure, anywhere you want,” she says. “Morton’s?” I ask, hopeful. “Mmm, how about if we do that tomorrow, I don’t feel like that much to eat.” “Want to eat at Emeril’s?” I try again. Her saying, “Know what, I’m not very hungry. Let’s just go downtown and we can grab something there.” One trip downtown, five cocktails for me and ten beers for Sherri, one viewing of the Freemont Experience and one drunk Sherri later, I walk her up to bed. I’m a little faded myself, so I figure I’ll go to sleep, too. She passes out within twenty minutes, but buzzed as I am, I’m nowhere near sleep so I flick on the TV. I flip around a few times, trying to get comfortable. I check the clock. It’s only midnight. I smoke, flipping the cigarette around between inhales. I practice with a couple decks of cards, shuffling and randomly flipping them up in clumps and taking a count. Finally, I give up. I get dressed and flip the remote next to Bruno’s pillow in case she wakes up, then I go downstairs. Vince is busy so he doesn’t see me walk up to the bar. When he turns around, he laughs and says, “Is it November already? Shit, I missed Memorial Day and Labor Day.” “And Halloween.” Sliding my drink over, he goes, “Hey, check it out,” and leans back and undoes his vest, snaps his fingers behind his suspenders.

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24/7 “No belt,” I notice. “Good for you.” “You alone again?” he asks. “No, I came out here with a friend.” “She’s asleep, huh?” “Yeah, long day.” “You’re hanging in there, though.” I nod to the other side of the bar so he knows there’s customers waiting over there. He gets busy, so I sit and watch SportsCenter, sipping at the drink, trying to relax but feeling like I had carbonation added to my blood. Antsy, restless. The piano man’s tapping out sad songs on the piano, and that just makes me even twitchier. So I get up to gamble. Over at the Bellagio.

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[ 10 ]

I

SEE HIM ALMOST IMMEDIATELY. HE’S BENT OVER, PAYING OUT A WINNING ROLL, his tongue set on the corner of his mouth. It’s a fairly busy table, he’s got three people on his side, but the spot on the curve right next to him is open. Taking a deep breath, calming the bubbling in my veins, I stand up straight and start over. I time it so I drop my money and player card between rolls. His eyes follow the cash to my hand, flicker for a second as they glance up my chest, then land on my face. His face breaks a grin, and he nods as he passes the money to his boxman, obviously reading the name on my card before handing it off. “There’s my girl,” he says. “Good to see you, amiga.” I smile back at him. “Good to see you, Miguel.” “You live here or somethin’?” “No, why?” He slides me some black chips and I do a double take, try to keep it as controlled as possible, suddenly realizing I’m at a $100 minimum craps table. I feel like kicking myself—I’d been so excited I hadn’t even checked. He must notice my glance because he leans close and lowers his voice. He slides his lashes up and down in a slow blink, meets my gaze with a pacific look in his eyes, holding me there—wordless confidence. “Place the six ’n’ eight—he’s hittin’ ’em.” I toss him a couple black chips and swallow hard. He says, “Relax, chica, I’ll take care o’ you, it’s cool, it’s cool.” The guy rolls an eight, and Miguel winks as he slides me the winnings, then starts chatting. “Nah, I just thought, you know, you live here or somethin’ ’cause I just saw you recently.” “You remember me, huh?” My stomach quickens with that thought, the carbonated blood pumps to my head. “You remember the tattoos.” “Huh-uh.” He shakes his head as he pays off another eight. “It’s your smile.”

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24/7 Liar. What a total fucking liar. He’s working me. And it’s working. I always tell myself about these dealers, the bartenders, even Vince. They’re here to make money. And the more people they can get to come back and spend more money in the casino, the more they’re gonna make. It’s time and tips and charm and oh-so cunning. Vince is hands-down the best bartender I’ve ever seen. He can take seven orders, fill them, cash them and make it look like nothing. And he also knows exactly how to grease people and keep them coming back. Those drinks are set up before you even sit down. He’ll stand and talk about you and act interested. And he can adjust on a dime. He’ll talk to me and say “fuck” every third word, but he’ll be a perfect gentleman with an eightyyear-old couple and talk about their golf game. Same with these dealers. They can count and shuffle and add and pay with the best of them. But the best of them can also read a person in a heartbeat and know exactly how to treat them. They know if they should back off and leave them alone, or if they should give them extra attention. And then they do it. And they make it look effortless. They make it look fun. But don’t be fooled. They’re doing it for the dollar. They aren’t here on spring break; this is their job. So as nice as they are to me, as much as they call me sweetie and strike up conversations, there’s still a little wall, a little border that makes me step back and wonder how real it is. Most of the time, I think they like me. Just because they’re working doesn’t necessarily negate the possibility that they might really like me. But I’d be willing to gamble pretty heavily that if I was broke, the curtain would get pulled back and poof!, just like vapor, a lot of the attention would be gone. So, as Miguel here tells me he remembers my smile, I think liar, and I know better, but I still grin and feel a rush when he winks, and part of me believes there’s actual magic at work here instead of it just being a cheap trick worthy of a whore. He remembers my smile. I do have a nice smile. I floss every day. I act casual. As he slides another chip my way from a six hitting, I nod and tell him to press it up. “Good girl.” He nods. “Smart move. So you don’t live here? You live close? LA?” “No, I’m from the East Coast.” “Yeah? Me, too. New York. So what’re you doin’ out here again so soon?

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You come out here for business or somethin’?” “No, just fun.” “Gonna take this down now a little, all right?” he asks, sliding me winnings from another six. He licks his lips and shifts his weight. “Fun, huh? Yeah, you havin’ fun right now?” I nod, looking down at my chips. “Yeah, this is a little fun.” “What’s fun? Winnin’ money? Or talkin’ to me?” Cocky. Very cocky. I like it. My only answer is a smile. “So, you stayin’ here?” he asks. “Here? Bellagio? No, huh-uh. Caesars.” “You like it there? What do they got that we don’t?” “They’re nice to me.” As I say that, the roller sevens out. Miguel shakes his head at the dice. “Guess that’s not a good start if we wanna get you to move over here.” “Actually, right now, you’re doing pretty good.” The stickman gets tapped out, and I know he’s going to move over and deal in Miguel’s spot. I’m up a few hundred bucks, but I’m still playing way over my head. I’m just too fainthearted to take five hundred bucks of odds on an eight or six if it’s rolled next. Especially with Miguel gone. So, I pick up my chips. Tossing one onto the felt, I say, “Thanks for the place bets, those worked well.” “You leavin’ already?” he asks as the stickman moves around behind him and taps his shoulder. “Back to Caesars, huh?” I nod. “Yeah, time to go.” “Thanks,” he says as he drops the chip into the toke box. The other dealers nod at me, too. “Come back tomorrow, K? Give us a fair shake to treat you good at the Bellagio here, all right?” “Ahh, I don’t know. You can try. They’re pretty good to me over there, though.” “Yeah? Maybe I should come see what they do over there? Check out the competition?” “I’ll show you around anytime you want.” The stickman takes his spot so he clears his hands then steps closer to me, leans a shoulder dangerously close. He looks me in the eyes. “I’d like to, you know—come over, check it out—but I work till three tonight.” I have to break his gaze, so I look down, speak softly. “I’ll be around, craps tables or bars. Come over if you’d like,” I say.

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24/7 Staring at my face, he goes, “I’ll be there.” I turn, walk away briskly. Do you even freaking believe that? I thought he was hot before, but when he stood next to me and looked me dead in the eye he was positively electric. And that was beyond flirting—that was outright bold what he did. As I cash out my chips and head back home to Caesars, I worry I might be susceptible to a fairly raging case of situational narcissism at this time. Because I really am impressed with myself. Mostly, I’m really impressed with Miguel, but how can I not feel smug about possibly getting this guy’s attention? Operative word—possibly. He’s not exactly in my back pocket yet. He could blow me off. I keep repeating that insecure mantra as I hike through the casino and up to my room, but even the constant crush-downs of realistic thought don’t stop, can’t stop, the coursing effervescence of possibility. Back in my room, I check the time—it’s already two-twenty. I scribble a note to Bruno in case she wakes up, or in case I’m out really late, so that she knows to wake me up to go to the pool. I grab a few condoms. I should just not even take these—if I don’t take these, there’s no chance that I’ll use these, and I shouldn’t use these, I should chill out and play it cool. Not to mention what a shitty reminder they’ll be when he doesn’t even show up and I have to put them back away when I get upstairs here alone. But of course I take them. The good girl in me says don’t be such a slut, but the slut in me says I might never get opportunity number two. He must be a hound. Just a total, fucking hound. I mean, I’m sure I put off the vibe to him—there’s no way I couldn’t have. And I was working it, too, so of course he knows that I dig him. But now I know that he knows that I dig him. And now I think he digs me. Or that he’s just a total hound. I brush my teeth and look in the mirror. I don’t even bother to lie to myself. Hell, yes—if I get the chance I’ll jump on him tonight. Boyfriend is smokin’! I drop some cash into the safe and grab a fresh pack of smokes and head back downstairs. Vince sets me up with a drink before I sit down, asking, “You get lucky?” “Not yet, but maybe.” “We talking gambling here? Blackjack?” “Hot craps dealer.” He gets a sly smile as it dawns on him. “Oh, yeah? He treat you right?”

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“Hopefully. I’ll let you know tomorrow.” I wink at him. “Where’s he at?” He scopes the casino. “Still working right now. He said he’d come over when he was done. I doubt he will, though.” Looking past me, he says confidently, “He’ll show up. What’s he look like?” “Um, he’s hot. Dark hair, dark eyes, medium tall.” Still looking past me, Vince says, “He’s here.” “Huh?” “There’s a guy coming this way. He was looking around and he saw you and he’s coming over…right about…now.” I turn around, and there he is. “Yo,” he says as he slides onto a seat next to me. “Hi. That was quick.” “Yeah, I asked for an early out an’ got it—it’s not all that busy there tonight.” “What can I get you, buddy?” Vince asks him. “Uh, Bud’s fine, an’ somethin’ for her, too, man.” Miguel nods at me. Vince looks at me as he cracks the bottle. Miguel pulls out a few bills and hands him the cash. Taking a large swallow, he looks around. Says, “So this is Caesars. Not bad, man, not bad. You like it here, huh?” I nod and check him out for the first time away from the dice table. He’s nervous, I can tell that. He’s as jittery as a butterfly with hiccups right now. I noticed before that he’s always in some kind of motion. I imagine taming him is like pinning down mercury. It’s actually quite charming. I can’t figure out why he’d be nervous around me, so I take it as a compliment. I try to ease him and get him to relax. “It’s very cool of you to come over here. I’d think you’d want to get done with work and just get off the strip.” “Nah, it’s cool, you know, it’s cool. It’s nice to grab a beer an’ chill out a little bit.” “But you’ve never come over here before?” “Oh, uh, yeah, I been in here a few times. Not too much, though. When I first came out here I walked around in here once or twice.” “Where do you like to hang out?” He shrugs. “Not too many of the big casinos, you know, more off-thestrip little joints. I like some of ’em, though. Hard Rock, that’s cool, I go there sometimes.” “I love the Hard Rock. It’s where I go when I can’t take the bubble-gum

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24/7 music anymore.” “Yeah.” He grins. “I hear you. I’m like that, too. I hardly even notice it anymore at work, though.” “Good thing, ’cause this place is full of shitty music. Hey, you want a shot or something? It sounds better with a buzz on.” “Yeah, I’ll do a shot.” “Vince, line ’em up, baby,” I say. “What do you want, lemon drops?” Vince asks. “Ask him.” I nod to Miguel. “I’ll do whatever he wants.” Miguel says one word: “Cuervo.” I nod. “One Cuervo for him, lemon drop for me.” Vince laughs and starts pouring. “Won’t do the tequila, huh?” Miguel asks. “Can’t stand it. It makes me mean.” “I can’t picture you being mean,” he says and swigs his beer. Meanwhile, Vince cracks up at that comment. “So, you know him?” Miguel asks, nodding to Vince. “Yeah, sort of.” “Yo, man, what’s your name? Vince?” Dropping off my shot and setting up Miguel’s to pour, Vince holds out his hand. “Yeah, Vince.” “Miguel,” he says as they shake. The handshake amuses me—they both hold hard, I can see Vince looking Miguel dead in the eye, almost challenging him, no hint of a smile. Miguel takes it well, though, doesn’t back down or seem the least bit annoyed. “So, you know her?” Vince answers him. “Yeah, I know her.” “You think she can be mean?” “I don’t know, I’ve never seen her drink tequila,” he says as he pours the shot. “You need lime and salt?” “Nah, I’m good, thanks.” He turns his attention back to me. “Ready for all this?” “Absolutely,” I answer him. He barely grimaces as he shoots his, I gulp a few times to get mine down, see him watching me as I lick the sugar from the glass. He swallows hard, says, “Thanks for the shot.” “Thanks for the drink,” I answer. “Thanks for having me over here.”

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“Thanks for meeting me over here.” “So how come you let me come over here and hang out with you?” he asks me. “I don’t know. How come you came over?” He laughs and avoids. “You givin’ me a hard time?” “Not really. Just fuckin’ with you a little bit.” “I see that. How come?” “Because you take it well—you’re really cute when you’re a little flustered.” He cocks a brow and smiles, turns his gaze directly on me for the first time since sitting. “Oh, flustered, is it? You think I’m flustered?” “I think you’re a little nervous, yeah.” “But you think I’m cute, too.” “Oh, come on, you know you’re a fox.” “I wanna know what you think,” he says. “I just told you that.” On the other side of the bar, Vince throws down his bar rag and grabs his smokes. “I’m going on break,” he announces to everyone. As he walks away, Miguel watches him then leans closer to me. “I don’t think your friend likes me much.” “Don’t worry about him, he just looks out for me, that’s all.” “I think he likes you a little, that’s what I think.” “Yeah? I’d rather know what you think of me.” “I came over here, didn’t I?” He raises a brow. “I thought you wanted to see Caesars,” I challenge him. “I’ve already seen Caesars,” he answers. Speaking low, leaning closer: “I wanted to see you.” “Oh. Thanks. Here I am.” “Yeah, I see that. Now who’s all flustered?” “I’m not flustered.” I laugh. I totally am. “Yeah, okay. Well, there you are. Here I am.” “Yep.” I nod. “So, you ready for all this?” he asks. “Absolutely,” I say.

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[ 11 ]

W

E BOTH TAKE LONG SLUGS OFF OUR DRINKS. I LIGHT UP A SMOKE, AND HE DOES

the same. I wish I could tell what he’s thinking as he sits there smoking. I wish I knew, because I’m not even thinking, I’m just absorbing. I’m taking sidelong glances at him and trying to note, log and detail every nuance of him. He’s wearing all black: black shoes, black pants, black T-shirt. It fits his coloring well. There’s a tiny flash of gold around the back of his neck, but it’s not a thick chain and he keeps the front tucked under his shirt, so it’s not really ghetto. He’s not as animated as when he sat down—either the Cuervo took the edge off or he’s getting more comfortable with me. He’s still in constant, fluid motion. His forearm is sinewy, every tendon moves as he flicks his ashes from his cigarette. His shirt hugs him a little tight in the sleeves—not in an exaggerated International Male kind of way, but I can see that vein, that one glorious vein that travels up the front of his biceps, protruding. Oh, Madone, he might be utterly ripped under that shirt. But even more appealing than all that is the crooked grin on his face. It’s not smug. Smug would piss me off. It seems genuine, almost sort of sweet. Almost sort of surprised. Crushing out his smoke, he turns to me and says, “Ready to gamble?” “Always,” I say. “All right, c’mon, then.” He stands up, grabs my hand, finishes off his beer and says, “Let’s do it. I wanna see just how lucky you are.” “Ah, no, you’re the lucky one, not me,” I answer him. My head rushes a bit as I stand, thanks not only to the shot but also to the heat of his hand on mine. “I am the lucky one, you know? Trust me, I know that.” He gives me a sideways glance to make sure I catch the meaning, and I do, and I think it’s corny but it also melts me. All I can think is either this guy is fucking with me for sport, or he’s a total freaking moron for not knowing how hot he is.

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He stops at a bank of slots, pulls a wad of bills out of his pocket and tells me to pick the lucky one. “All right, show me how this is done at Caesars.” “I don’t wanna play your money and lose it.” “Yo, no pressure, amiga, no pressure. Let’s just take a chance, all right?” I put my hand out to him, he forks over a Jackson, watches me slide it in a machine and press the button a few times until three sevens pop up, instantly making him a hundred-twenty bucks richer. Well, if that ain’t a way to start a night off right, I think as he lights a smoke and watches me pile silvery coins into a cup. Clutching the full container to my stomach, I turn to him and say, “Well, where now?” Miguel pulls more green from his pocket, flags down a waitress and orders, then he passes me another twenty and tells me to try again at the machine in front of me. “Not a good one,” I tell him. He smirks, leans his shoulder against the machine and crosses one foot over the other. All jitters gone, he’s relaxed and in control. “Yeah? You can tell, huh?” “I can tell.” “Well, we gotta wait for these drinks. Find one that is.” So I do. The machine doesn’t hit right away, and it doesn’t hit big; it just keeps chipping up little by little, losing a few bucks then winning a few more. By the time the waitress returns with our drinks it’s up to a hundred bucks. I click the cash-out button, and the cascade of heavy coins clinks and clacks into the tray beneath. As I’m scooping them into the plastic cup, Miguel leans into me, asking, “How come you quit?” I shrug. “I think it was about done—no point in being greedy.” He laughs. “This is Vegas, baby, everybody’s greedy out here.” He’s smiling at me, and I know I’m a little buzzed because everything is humming around me, and he looks so charming, and he’s acting so charmed and it’s all just so irresistible. There’s really only thing left to make it near perfect, so I do it. I lean in close and kiss him. It’s not a big one, nothing salacious. Little more than a peck, mostly on the corner of his mouth. But his lips are soft and warm, and I know as soon as I pull away that I’m going to want to do it again. Soon. “I’m having a good time,” I tell him.

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24/7 “Yeah? Me, too.” He grins and lets me look directly in his eyes. I believe him. “I’ve kind of had a crush on you for a little while,” I admit. “Yeah? Me, too.” “You’ve had a crush on yourself for awhile?” “You’re fuckin’ with me again.” He blushes, finally dropping his gaze. We wander then stop at a roulette table, watching the action—so European, such blind luck. Miguel pulls out his winnings, over two hundred bucks now, and tells me to play them. “Are you freaking nuts?” I ask. “Nah, go ahead. Go ahead. We’re winnin an’ shit.” “Dude, you’re winning, that’s your cash. You bet—I don’t know what to pick.” “I don’t know dick, man.” He laughs. “I wanna see if you’re, like, as lucky as I think. ’Sides, you won all this, not me.” A little drunk and actually feeling lucky, I drop the bills, slide the chips onto red. “You sure?” Miguel asks. I nod once. Reaching in his pocket, he pulls out a few more Bennys, changes them and puts his chips on red next to the ones I’d put there. “What the hell are you doing?” I ask and reach for them. Tense. It’s making me tense all of a sudden. Dry-mouth, stomach-tight, bubbleblooded tense. Gambling and losing my money is one thing, but losing someone else’s money, someone I really sort of want to like me, is entirely another. He pulls my hand back. “Relax, chica. I’m bettin’ with you. On red.” “You sure you wanna do that?” He nods once. Then he watches as the dealer drops and spins the ball, tongue set on the corner of his mouth as I nibble on my bottom lip as the white marble moves around the wheel. Eighteen. Red. I jump. Hot damn, we really do have it going on tonight, I think as he nods and looks pretty damn impressed, too. I’m never this lucky, so I know it has to be his luck driving all this good fortune, which just makes me feel even luckier to be with him. We cash out and sit back down at Vince’s bar, and Miguel asks him for drinks and a couple shots of Cuervo. I don’t argue because I’m liking this. All of it. I’m not sure if it just feels good to be out after being cooped up in a plane all day, if it’s from all the drinks, if it’s from Miguel being so

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contagiously fun or if I just really like winning that much. But I also don’t really care. I’m relaxed. Looking over at him as he raises his beer and takes a slug, all my niggling little insecurities just seem to vanish. It’s all left behind somewhere on the casino floor, maybe between a slot machine and a roulette wheel. Either way, for now at least, gone. Vapor. He nudges me. “How you doin’?” “I’m doing just fine,” I answer. He squints at me. “You come here a lot? How come I never seen you before?” “I don’t go to Bellagio too much, I guess.” He laughs. “’Cause we ain’t nice to you like they are here?” “Yeah. I think Bellagio sent you over here as a customer relations thing.” “Yeah, I’m a spy. Tell you what.” He nudges me again. Then he turns and peers directly at me. His eyes flash serious for a second then soften as he says, “I haven’t seen everything here yet. I’d kinda like to see what the rooms are like.” “Oh…well…” It takes me a minute to get what he’s saying. “Oh! Oh! Ooh, okay, um, well…” “Nah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” “No, it’s okay, it’s cool. I, um, you just surprised me.” “Well, to be honest, then, I did mean—” “Oh, I know what you meant. I just mean that, well…” “It’s okay, really, forget it. Forget it, you know, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—” “No, no, no,” I interrupt him. “You should have. Here’s the thing—I’m not alone.” “Yo, you got a man?” “No.” I laugh. “I’m here with a friend, and she’s upstairs, sleeping. I can’t go up there and wake her up.” “Oh. Well, you know, you showed me around. How ’bout I show you around?” “Um…” I hesitate, weighing how much I trust him against the potential for danger. “Okay.” “Yeah?” He sounds surprised. “Yeah. I mean, if you want. If you’re tired or something, and you wanna

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24/7 go home, that’s okay, I understand.” “Actually…” He meets my gaze and holds it. “…I was thinking o’ there—my place. Thought maybe you’d wanna see how real people out here live.” “Okay.” At that moment, Diamond the gorgeous whore takes a seat behind Miguel and winks at me as she pulls her chair closer to his. Pulling a bill from the pile of cash in front of me on the bar, I hold it up and say to her, “I’ll give you a hundred dollars to go away immediately.” Reaching over, she plucks the bill from my hand and says, “Not exactly how a lion would handle it, honey, but whatever you want.” And she saunters away. Miguel looks at me questioningly, but I fend him off with a simple “Don’t ask. Please.” He nods and slugs the rest of his beer. Asking, “You ready to go?” “Yeah.” I nod. I grab my smokes, finish my drink, and as I stand up, he takes my hand and pulls me along next to him. I hope I haven’t made a dumb choice. Hands woven together, his thumb rubbing the top of my hand as he pushes through the big glass doors out into the night. I think I made a good choice. When he drops my hand to reach in his pocket for the valet ticket, I shiver in the cool night air, reflexively crossing my arms to keep warm. Handing the ticket to the valet, he slides his arm across my shoulders and brings me close to him. I can feel he’s warm through the T-shirt, and I turn into him more but resist putting my arms around his waist. I’m pretty sure I made a good choice. Dipping his head, he puts his other arm around my waist and grazes his lips across my mouth. I tilt my face to meet his and he goes for it. He’s tentative at first, just a soft, light kiss, but I close my eyes and gently respond. Then he takes another kiss just like that first soft one, then another. He shifts and moves the other way, kissing the other side of my mouth, still keeping his touch light, but before ending that one he gives the smallest flick of his tongue. He backs off and hovers for a second, then he moves back in and really lays one on me. His arms close around me, pulling me tight against his body. He goes hard and deep, working my upper lip, lower lip then slipping me some tongue, making my blood sing. I kiss back because suddenly I can’t get enough—head dizzy, legs weak, I take hold of his sides and now I’m

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tugging at his waist, sliding my arms further around his back so I can press up against him. He’s spectacular at it. Salty and tangy from the booze and bitter from the smokes and he’s kissing and biting and sucking and licking all at once. I back off and break it before I start melting right on the sidewalk. He catches my bottom lip between his teeth as I pull back. Now I know I made the right choice. His eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded now, long lashes moving up slowly, and he cracks a grin. “Huh. Hmm,” is all he says, still looking at me. His eyes gleam—no mistaking what emotions they’re conveying. “Mm. Mmmhmm,” is all I can say. The valet pulls up, and Miguel nods. “This is us.” “You okay to drive?” I ask him. “Yeah, I’m fine, it’s not far.” I look at what the valet drove up—it’s a liquid black Cadillac El Dorado. “This is your car?” “Yeah. You don’t like it?” “Are you kidding me? This car rocks!” “Think so?” He opens the door for me “Oh, you know it does,” I say as I slide into the cushioned seat. “I know it does, I was just wondering what you think.” He goes around and gets in the other side. “I have a Jeep,” I tell him. “I love it, but it’s nothing like this. This rocks.” The seat is like sitting on a buttery leather cloud, the inside is black with soft-glowing green lights. As he pulls forward, I don’t even feel the faux cobblestone road beneath us. The car just absorbs the bumps, and it feels like we’re riding on a cushion of air. “Kinda cold out tonight,” he says. “C’mere and keep me warm.” I slide over next to him, he clicks something on his steering wheel and the radio comes on. It starts playing the Chili Peppers really loud, so he clicks it down a few notches then he rests his arm around my shoulders again, pulls me against him. “You wanna listen to somethin’ else?” he asks. “No, this is good. So, do you like living here, in Vegas?” “Yeah, it’s cool, I guess. I been here awhile now, six years, so it’s not all that exciting, you know? Like, when I first moved out here it was all new.” He pulls onto the strip with its glittering lights and constant motion and beckoning signs and promises of riches and dreams come true. “Now, though, I dunno—it’s sorta been there, done that.”

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24/7 “So you’re bored?” “Yeah, and no. I like it. I fuckin’ hated winters, man. I like boxing— there’s always good fights goin’ on out here. I even got to fight out here.” “You’re a boxer?” Nodding as he steers. “Uh-huh.” “And you’ve had a fight out here? Championship?” “Fuck, no!” He laughs. “No, I ain’t all that. It was an undercard, though,” he says, a little proud. “No shit. That is really cool. What weight class?” “Super middle.” “Like Roy Jones Jr.?” “Nah, he’s a light heavyweight. You know ’bout boxing?” “I know a little. Not a lot.” “You know Roy Jones,” he says, smirking. “He’s always on HBO. Anyhow, I’m just saying. It’s very cool. That’s exciting.” “Yeah, it was cool. I mean, I like it here. It’s just not as exciting as it was at first, that’s all.” “Because you’ve done everything?” “Yeah.” “You haven’t done me.” He stops at a red light and kisses me again. It’s great. It lights me up brighter than any neon sign in sight. I open my eyes during the kiss to see him looking back at me, watching my reactions, then I close them again, trusting he’ll do the same. Reaching over, I slide my hand across his chest, kiss him hard, move my hand down to his stomach, rub across it a few times then slide it lower. Between his legs. Breaking the kiss, I ask him, “Have you done this before?” Then I bite his neck. Cars behind us honk, I check the light—it’s green. I glance at his face, watch him snap out of it and remember where he is, get the car in motion again. On the stereo, Frusciante sets down a few slow, bended blue notes, and it puts the devil in me and I go for it. I rub him harder, feeling him rise beneath the fly of his pants. I trace the line of his jugular with my tongue, lick along his jawline as I fumble with his belt. He’s wordless next me, staring straight out at the road, but he likes it, I can tell. He loves it, I’m sure. He’s strung tight as piano-wire, white-knuckled around the steering wheel, breath coming shorter already.

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I get his belt unhitched by the next stoplight, and he turns to kiss my mouth again, really hard and deep, plenty of tongue, much hotter, fullcourt-press kissing. He starts making noises into my mouth as I fiddle with the zipper. They’re short “mms” and “ahhhs” until I get the zipper all way down and reach inside, over his boxers, beneath his jeans. He growls, a libidinous guttural sound, long, drawn-out and stuttering. The light turns green, so I tell him to drive. Licking his lips, he hits the pedal and we go forward as Anthony Kiedis unleashes a high-pitched wail. Dipping under his boxers, I grab hold of him—he’s hard as can be already. I ask him again, “You ever done this before?” Breathing harder, chest rising and falling exaggeratedly, he stutters, concentrating on the road. “Uh, huh-uh. No.” I debate about a half-second before deciding he’s earned this. He made me feel spectacular, so, well, reciprocity and all. I release him to dig into my pocket and pull out the little square. Quickly, I rip it open with my teeth, spitting the little piece of foil paper on the floor with a decidedly unsexy “pfoot” as Flea plucks away pizzicato on his bass. I take the condom out and toss the wrapper onto the floorboard. Miguel doesn’t seem to mind the littering. At another the red light, I take hold of him, stroke lightly while he’s still bare-skinned and ask, “You ready for this?” He nods quickly, meets my gaze, says, “Absolutely.” I get him covered, then I hold him firmly and wait a few seconds. The light switches green, Smith hits a downbeat, I lean over, Miguel hits the gas and I take him in my mouth. “Yesss,” he hisses above me. I’m not squished against the steering wheel, the latex taste isn’t too distracting and the seat is soft and comfy. He’s obviously loving this, not choking me at all, fully hard and responding already. So I go at him the best I know how. I figure if I’m gonna give it, I’m giving good. I go in time with the music, letting its rhythm set mine. He strokes his hand across my back, tangles it in my hair. His legs shift, the car slows and we glide to a stop again. I go at him really good then, wanting him to keep making those noises. And he does. He keeps encouraging me with yesses and moans, slightly grinding his hips back into the seat further then up into me, nearly squirming. Considerately, he brushes the hair from my face, gathers it in his free hand and says, “Your hair, uuhhhh, it’s fuckin’ gorgeous, UUUHHH!” I love that, so as he hits the gas and we’re in motion again I go really

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24/7 deep. Thumping bass lines pulse around us, he writhes beneath me, groans really loud, “Fuck, that’s good!” I have to back off a little before I start to choke, so I lick, add some tongue. As I do, he mumbles in Spanish and picks his hips up pretty high. That turns me on so much I nearly squirm, and I start sucking, picking up the pace again. We’re still moving, he’s still ahhhhhh-ing, the lights keep twinkling around us, and I start going harder and faster. He’s panting above me, gets even hotter in my mouth, and I can feel our steady movement picking up smooth speed. I know he’s close, really close when his hand tightens in my hair and he presses up into me even harder. So I take him as deep as I can, as hard as I can, all the way, and clutch his thigh with my hand. Above me: “Ahh…Ohhh…Shiiiiiit!” He jerks, hisses some more, and I stay on him as he comes. Easing up, still working him for every last bit, every aftershock, I swear I feel the car pulling, swerving to one side. He’s still moaning, “Oooh, shiiiit.” Just as I pull off him, the car jacks violently over a bump. Ca-chunk! A big one. Head still in his lap, I can’t see, but I feel it. Hear it. Thud! Then him: “Ahh, shit!” His thigh beneath my hand moves quickly. Slowing, turning, the car jerks again. A loud screech of the tires, a horrible, teeth-jarring metallic scape—Scriiiitch! Then him: “Aw, shit!” We slam to a stop. Rising up, I look around. “Oooh, shit.” We’re on the sidewalk, the fucking walkway in front of the Riviera. The Crazy Girls statue is to my right and behind us. He hit it. He hit the Crazy Girls statue. I smirk inwardly. Possibly outwardly. He jumped the curb, went on the sidewalk and nailed one of the most famous and luckiest statues on the strip. The Crazy Girls. Good. Good for me. Good for him. Good for me for making him do that. Good for him for liking it so much he did that. “Oh, shit!” he says again and looks around. Luckily, miraculously, no one is really close. He didn’t hit anyone, the statue looks pretty much okay. He couldn’t have been going that fast. And, given the timing, he’s pretty lucky I had just lifted my head instead of biting down when I felt that crash. “What the fuck? What the fuck do I do?” he asks. I scan the area—oh, there’s a few people around. It’s never empty, is it?

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It just can’t be completely desolate. Well. What are they gonna do? They aren’t that close. They noticed, though. They’re staring gape-mouthed at the black Caddy on the sidewalk. “Go,” I say. “Go? I should go?” “Do you want to explain this to cops?” He throws it back in gear and hits the gas, checks the traffic, then pulls out onto the street, letting the car thump back down over the curb. Turns down the first side street and keeps going. A couple blocks later, still fighting off the smirk, I say, “I am really so sorry.” “Nah, don’t be, it’s cool,” he says, but his jaw clenches, his eyes are steely hard. He reaches down and peels off the used condom, carelessly tossing it out the window. “Guy, you hit that thing, didn’t you? That’s what I heard, right?” “Yeah, I fuckin’ hit it.” “You wanna see if the car’s okay?” He pulls into a 7-Eleven, tucks in, zips up and gets out. Walks around to my side of the car and peers at it. His jaw clenches again, and I swear I can see a throb in his temple. Bending down, he takes a close inspection then stands up and sighs. I’m a little scared, concerned he’s going to go off on me pretty good now. And I’ll have to slink down and take it because it is my fault. I’m fairly clumsy and bad luck in general when it comes to shit like this. Miguel’s jaw clenches again, now he glances in the window at me. He smirks. “Oooh, shit,” he says with a laugh. I get out and look. My heart sinks. There’s two large gashes in the door that extend to long scrapes all the way to the back end of the car. “Miguel, I’m so sorry, I don’t…I don’t know what to say. This is all my fault.” Still smirking, he grabs my hand and pulls me next to him. “Yo, s’all right, serious. Don’t feel bad.” “Your car, your beautiful car. This is…I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for it, I’ll— ” “Yo, relax, baby.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders again. “It was worth it, you know. Wasn’t your fault. I just sorta got, like, distracted.” “But that was my fault, I shouldn’t have done…that.” “Yeah, well, that was great. I’m glad you did that.” “Was it something new?”

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24/7 Hugging me close, he laughs again. “That was definitely new. That was…intense, is what that was.” “So you’re not pissed off at me?” “Fuck, no! I’m a little jacked at myself—I guess I closed my eyes or somethin’. I don’t know, I just sorta got…well, you know, it was intense. I don’t know what I did to deserve that, but I’ll take it.” “No one deserves that,” I tell him. “You earned it.” “C’mere,” he says and leans down to kiss me. I pull back just a bit, but he swoops in anyhow, holds me tight, gives me a pretty good one. Convinces me he’s not pissed at me at all. His hands start roving up and down my back and he gets more into it. Gently, I back him off as I scan the sky. The dark isn’t as inky thick anymore, stars are fading out. “I really ought to get back to the hotel,” I tell him. “Huh? You don’t wanna come home with me no more?” “No, I want to, I just don’t think I should. It’s really late, and I should be there when my friend gets up.” He slits his eyes at me. “You’re friend ain’t a guy, is he?” “No, she’s a girl, I told you. I don’t have a man like that.” “Yo, I see what’s up here. You make me fuck up my car, you know, then ’cause you don’t like the sneak preview you’re skippin’ out before the movie.” “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?” “Yeah, little bit. You sure you wanna go back?” “I’m sure I don’t want to go back, but I really should.” He kisses me again, a little longer one, makes my knees weaken. Softly, he says, “’Cause I really liked that preview. I’d love to see the whole movie.” The sky above lightens even more, dawn is close. It made me pretty hot, hearing him moan and groan and come so easily for me. But I suck it up and say, “I’d love it, I know I would, I just don’t know if I want to get back in a car with you driving again.” “Ooooh, that’s harsh.” He grins. I want to climb right inside his T-shirt and feel his bare skin against mine. I want to kiss him all over, taste the curve of every muscle. But… “I should go,” I say instead. “I just feel bad, you know, like…” He nuzzles my ear, whispers to me. “I got everything, what about you? I’d like to do something for you. I wanna thank you.” “You’re welcome. I had a good time, really.”

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“Yeah?” “Yeah,” I reassure him. “Very good. Did you have a good time?” “I had a fuckin’ great time. You kiddin’ me?” “Then I really should go.” “K, I’ll take you back—if you trust me to, that is.” “Thank you.” “Can I have another kiss?” I lean in and give him a good one, full tongue, hint of teeth. He’s a rare one—he’s just as good at getting kissed, easing back and accepting it, as he is at giving kisses, moving in and working me. “Mmmmm,” he sighs as I pull away and climb back in the car. He slides in and turns the ignition over, shuts the stereo off. “C’mere.” He motions for me to slide next to him again, so I do. Cuddling into his side, I’m struck by that. He still wants me close to him even after he got what he wanted. All the lights on the strip are still on, but in the fading darkness they don’t seem as bright. Pulling up in front of Caesars, he lets go of me to take the Caddy out of gear. “Want me to park it and walk you in?” he offers. “No, I’m fine—thanks, though.” “So, um, what’re you doing tonight? Later? I gotta work again, but—I don’t know—can I call you or somethin’?” “You want to see me again?” He kisses me as his answer, so I give him my room number, open the door and climb out. As I’m shutting the door, I take a long look at him. He’s still, no leg shaking, no head nodding, no snapping of his fingers. He’s just leaned back in his seat, gazing at me, completely at ease. Calm. His dark eyes meet mine, and even in the growing daylight and with a fading buzz, they still seem brilliant. “Thanks.” He grins, but his eyes look melancholy. “You know, for everything.” “Drive safe,” I say and close the door. It’s more the walk of pride than it is the walk of shame as I wind through the hallways to get upstairs. Although I can’t wait to brush my teeth. Sherri wakes up when I come in, sits up and lights a smoke, so I join her. “What time is it?” she asks groggily. “A little after six,” I tell her.

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24/7 “And you’re up already?” “Sort of.” “You went out again, didn’t you?” “Yeah, for awhile.” “You have a good time?” “Well, yeah. It was interesting.” “What’d you do?” “I gambled a little, won a little bit. Gave a really hot dice dealer a highway hummer, made him crash his car.” Crushing out her cigarette, she says, “I’m going back to sleep. You can tell me about this at the pool.” Fair enough.

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[ 12 ]

T

HREE HOURS OF SLEEP, FOUR AT THE POOL (SEVENTY-EIGHT LAPS AND TONS OF

sun), two hours of serious blackjacking ($800 down) and zero phone calls from Miguel later I ask Sherri, “Want to have some dinner?” Her, sighing: “All right, you pick where.” “Morton’s?” “No, not in the mood for all that.” “Okay, how about Battista’s.” “No, I don’t really want Italian. I’m sort of in the mood to just hang out here. We have those free tickets anyhow.” So that night we go to the dinner show at Caesars. Caesars Magical Empire, they call it. I know Bruno’s smashed because as we’re getting dressed she bitches a little and says, “Dinner? What the fuck are we supposed to do at dinner?” “It’s all the wine we can drink,” I answer. “Oh, okay, then we’ll go. I hate magic, are they gonna do magic?” “I assume so, considering the name and all.” “Magic sucks, it freaks me out.” “Dude, magic is cool.” “It’s not real. It’s just tricks to make us feel stupid.” “No, you’ve got it all wrong. You’re not supposed to feel stupid just because you don’t know how they did it. Just be impressed and roll with it. So what if it’s sleight-of-hand? It’s still pretty cool that they have that skill.” “Oh. What are we doing there again?” “Having dinner.” “I hate dinner. I don’t want to go.” “It’s all the free wine we can drink.” “Okay, I’ll go. Just let me smoke a cigarette, put on some lipstick, curl my hair, pick out some shoes and then I’ll be ready.” It’s a nice show. Outside, they have a wizard-looking dude doing closeup sleight-of-hand magic like David Blaine. I’m impressed, Bruno’s

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24/7 amazed. “I really like that,” she says. “Where’s the wine?” “Inside, they’ll have it inside.” Once we’re seated in our dining chamber, she reaches for her wine. She takes one sip and passes it to me as she grabs the waiter. “I can’t drink this, she’ll drink this. Can I have a beer?” I drink her wine, I drink my wine, I ask for more wine. By the time dinner is over, I’m on the same level as she is. They escort us out of the dining chamber and lead us to a dark area with a bar and a huge fire pit. There are wizards walking around doing tricks for people, and there’s a fortuneteller. “We have to do that,” she says as she drags me to the fortuneteller. “Do you believe in this?” “Um, no. I believe in free will over fate. I don’t think it can hurt, though.” “Yeah, well, I believe in it.” I don’t bother telling her that even more than believing in free will I believe the chick sitting here is a pure entertainer, not a psychic. But the girl looks cute, she’s all dolled up in sparkly jewels and an outfit that looks like she blinked her way out of I Dream of Jeannie re-runs. She says her name is Sabina. “You first,” I say as we sit down. “Want me to leave?” “No, you can stay,” she tells me, then turns to the girl. “What do I do?” “Well, first you ask me three questions that you’re wondering about. Then I’ll have you draw the cards, and I’ll read them for you and answer you.” Bruno has her questions all ready to roll. Impatient, she blurts them out. “Will I get married? Will I have children? Will I live a long time?” Sabina lets her pick out some cards, and then she lays them out. I tune out on the answers when a particularly handsome wizard walks in front of me. I watch him cross the room and do a card trick for another couple. As he finishes and disappears down a corridor, I shift my attention back on Sherri’s reading. “You should be very happy, and your family will all live long, prosperous lives,” Sabina says. I look at the cards. I know nothing about the tarot deck, so I have no idea if she was actually reading what was on the cards, or if she just answered Sherri with what she wanted to hear. Sherri’s all into it, though. She’s leaning forward, hooked on every word and listening intently.

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“So the guy I’m with now is the one I’ll marry?” “Yes, that’s what I see for you.” “And that’s the right thing to do?” Sabina stumbles briefly with that question. “It’s only what I read in the cards.” Very skillful reply. When Bruno finishes, she seems rather pleased. “That was really cool,” she says. “You should go now.” “All right,” I say as we switch chairs. “Lay it on me, Sabina.” “First, is there anything you want to ask me?” “Um. Okay, will I hit the Megabucks jackpot while I’m out here?” She smiles at me. “I don’t think I have to read your cards to answer that one, but good luck anyway.” She arranges the cards and peers down at them. “Well, here’s what I see. You’re a natural leader, people like to follow you. And I see a great deal of strength here, the kind to overcome or obtain nearly anything.” She pauses, and I suddenly wish I had listened to what she said to Sherri more closely. Where is she pulling this from? I assumed she’d just tell us what we wanted to hear, use the clues from our questions to go on. “Sabina,” I interrupt, “how long have you been doing this?” She blushes. “Only a couple of months. That’s what takes me awhile, I have to think about what the cards mean sometimes.” “So you did study how to read a tarot deck?” “Mmm-hmm.” She nods, then continues. “I see an awful lot of wealth here.” She looks up at me, beaming. “Maybe you will hit the Megabucks jackpot!” “Do you see a hot guy in there?” She shakes her head. “No, I don’t see anyone.” “Excuse me?” “I see you working hard, and…focused. But I don’t see any loves.” “Wait a minute,” I say, shaken. “You don’t see anyone in there for me? Ever?” “No, I don’t. You’re very…brave. I see that.” “Oh, come on, you have to see someone, some man. Someone loves me, right? I love someone?” “Nothing like that.” Well. I mean, honestly. This is not supposed to bother me. This is what I claim to want. I don’t want a boyfriend. I don’t want anyone chaining me down, holding me still and smothering me. I don’t want marriage and a

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24/7 picket fence and children and dogs or any of that. I want to roam and party and flirt and live free. But come on, man. This chick is actually telling me that no one is ever going to love me? This is definitely coming out of her tip! “Well, thanks,” I tell her and toss the money down on the table. I turn to Bruno for some support, to tell me how whacked the chick is. “Dude, she nailed you,” she says. “She’s really good, don’t you think?” We walk around and check out the magic acts in the other rooms then go back upstairs to the casino. “What do you want to do?” I ask her. “I’m sort of tired,” she says. “I was actually thinking of sleep.” Sure, she can sleep easy, she was just told she’s going to have a grand long life with loved ones and happiness surrounding her, while I was told I’m going to live a prosperous but shallow existence with no one even knowing I’m here. “All right, I’ll walk you upstairs,” I offer, resigning myself to a boring night. But up in the room, the message light on the phone blinks. My heart skips, thrumming in hope that it’s Miguel. Sherri picks up the phone and presses the button, holds the receiver to her ear. “Ahh, it’s Don,” she tells me. Thud. I give her some privacy and go to the bathroom. Hollow-hearted, I start brushing my teeth and concentrate on pushing aside visions of his crooked grin as well as avoiding my own reflection. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. Because that’s the killer part. Being rejected or blown off or whatever isn’t hard. That part is okay. It’s the build-up of hope beforehand that’s the killer. It’s the difference between being pushed off a curb and being pushed out an eighteenth-story window. The hope takes you higher. It’s the height that kills, not the push. “Hey, you got a message on here, too,” she yells in to me. My heart double clutches. “Meeeeguel,” she taunts as I feel my face flush. “He says he’s on break, he’ll be done at two tonight. He’ll meet you same place as last night. You want me to save this message so you can listen to it?” “Of course.” “You going to meet him?” “Of course.”

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“You like him, don’t you?” I just shrug. “Sounds like he likes you,” she says. “Huh, yeah. He just knows he has a good chance of getting lucky with me.” “Nevertheless. He sounded nice on the phone.” “Yeah, well, according to that tarot-card reader no one will ever really like me,” I remind her. “Oh, fuck her, the bead-wearing bitch.” Glancing at the clocks, she says, “It’s almost two now. You excited?” I shrug. I’m totally excited. I can feel it all through my body, in the rushing in my head. I know it’s more than the wine doing this. I start throwing clothes around, trying to find something I’ll look good in. Bruno tries to calm me down. “You look fine,” she assures me. “I don’t want to look fine, I want to look hot.” “Oooh, he has you all tied up.” “All right, fuck off, okay?” I grab a tight shirt and small skirt. “How about these?” I ask her. “It’s white, so my tan will look good, and the shirt is tight so it should make my boobs look good.” “Let me see it on,” she says. I go in the bathroom and change. Suck in my stomach as I look in the mirror. My boobs do look amazing in it. My ass looks horrible. I go out to check with her. “Don’t lie to me,” I say. “Dude,” she blinks. “Go like that. Go exactly like that.” “What about my ass? My ass looks really, really fat.” “No, it doesn’t. And with your tits no one looks at your ass anyhow.” “Do I look too sleazy?” “Hell, no. I’d wear that!” “I’m changing,” I say. “No! You’re going to be late, you have to go.” “You just want to go to sleep, don’t you? You’re getting rid of me.” “Yeah, but you do look good. And I don’t care how late you’re out, I’m waking you up to go to the pool at eight,” she says as she lies down. I grab a fresh pack of smokes, a couple bills and head downstairs.

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[ 13 ]

H

E’S ALREADY SITTING AT THE BAR WHEN I GET THERE.

I have to say, I’m pleasantly surprised to see him. I mean, I know he called and said he’d be here, but still, you never know. I’ve gotten blown off before. It happens. He looks better than I’d been visualizing. He’s wearing black again, but this time his shirt is a wife-beater. His arms look great—he is ripped. They’re like pythons, pure muscle, really defined and cut. There’s black ink staining his one biceps, and even from here, thirty paces away, I can see that vein running up the front. Exhaling, I halt, shaken. What does this guy see in me? He’s clearly out of my league. I nearly turn and walk away, but he looks around and sees me. I smile and go over to him. He stands and kisses me immediately. “Yo,” he says and pulls out a seat for me. Vince has my drink set up and he just stares at me for a few seconds. Blinks a couple times, looks me up and down. “You look fucking hot,” he finally says. “Really?” I ask. He just nods and walks away, looks over his shoulder and nods again. “He’s right,” Miguel says. “You look great.” “I got some sun today,” I say. “You look good. You get out early again?” “Yeah, I’m s’posed to work till four most nights, but I got ’em to let me out. I been covering lots o’ weird shifts since I started dealing cards, so they cut me some slack.” “I’m glad. I’m glad you called.” “Yeah? Me, too. You want a shot?” “Please. Tell you what, I’ll buy—you gotta save your money to get your car fixed.” The chain that was tucked under his shirt last night is free to dangle with the neckline of his shirt being considerably lower. It’s a small gold cross, and it glints under the soft luminescence. It calls attention to his

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neck, which leads my eyes to his bare shoulders. Unable to resist, I reach out and touch his arm, drag my fingers across his tattoo. “So when did you get this?” I ask. “It’s old, got it when I was still in New York, ’bout ten years ago.” “I like it, it still looks new. I like the design. So where exactly in New York are you from?” “The Bronx,” he says. “Ahh, you don’t sound like the Bronx, though.” “Yeah, I guess it’s sort of faded. I don’t know if I ever talked all goofy, though. Least, not with an accent, you know.” “I like the way you talk, it’s not goofy.” He just eyes me and raises his shot glass, so I match him and throw mine back, too. I was already buzzed—I’d have never left the room looking like this if I wasn’t. But that shot kicks in quickly, heats me right up. Just sitting with him is heating me up. We drink and talk as SportsCenter plays, machines clink and people mill around us. I get all sorts of good information about him, pertinent vital stats and more. How old he is (thirty-three), why he moved here (he figured he’d be able to make more money dealing than anything at home), if he’s a baseball fan (the Mets) and whether or not he sort of likes me (I think he does). I even get his last name finally (Rodriguez). When I get his name, I also ask him what his bloodline is. “I read your name on your card,” he says. “You’re Italian.” “I know what I am, what are you?” “Puerto Rican,” he says. “You speak Spanish, right?” “Sí,” he answers. “That’s cool, I can understand a little Spanish, sometimes. I took four years of it in high school but don’t really remember much.” “So you can say hello and goodbye, then.” He grins. “Hola and…” I pause to think. “Um, I wanna say ‘ciao’ and I know that’s wrong. I can’t remember goodbye. Oh—ádios.” “You speak Italian, huh?” “Si,” I answer him. “You full-blooded?” he asks me. I already know where he’s going with it, so I smile and nod, waiting for the line. “So you ain’t got any Latino in you?” He sets it up. I steal the punchline from him. Bold: “No, but hopefully I’m gonna in

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24/7 about an hour.” As he’s smiling, another couple comes and takes seats right next to us. They’re all decked out, best of everything, but it comes together in a rather austere way. The woman glances at us, disdainfully drags her eyes up and down us both then turns back to her husband. She says something to him—I can’t hear what—but he looks us over then, too. I think Miguel’s aware of it, because he leans closer to me and his grin fades. I can smell him, and it pulls my attention back to him. Reaching up, he brushes the hair off my shoulder and locks me in a smoldering look for a couple seconds. I’m about ready to fall completely into him, willing to let him overwhelm me. Then the guy speaks. “Good evening,” he says, and I know he’s talking to us. So I look over and nod at him with a half-smile. “Hi, how are you?” “We are doing quite well,” he says. “Glad to hear it,” Miguel answers. “Are you out here on vacation?” the woman asks. “Oh, um, I am, yeah. He lives here,” I say, pointing to Miguel. “Are you staying here?” “Yeah, I am.” “Really?” She says it in a manner that if it were written on a page I’d actually be able to see the disbelief and disdain dripping off it. “Hmm. We always stay here—we stay in a suite, they’re just wonderful. It’s expensive, but if you could afford it, it would be worth it.” She sniffs and shakes her wrist. It’s weighed down with a fantastic sparkling diamond bracelet. I see Vince roll his eyes behind the bar. “It looks like you got some sun today,” she says to me. “Oh, yeah, it’s finally warming up out here.” “We were outside—they gave us a cabana at the pool, wasn’t that nice of them? But I tried to stay out of the sun. Besides, he…” She waves to her man next to her. “…was busy playing in the high-roller area so I figured I’d go out shopping.” She scrunches her nose at me, making what I can only assume is a face she thinks is cute. “Then I went to the salon here. Have you been in there yet?” I shake my head. “Nope, haven’t checked it out.” “You should go,” she says, shaking the bracelet on her wrist. “I bet they could do something with that hair of yours.” She looks past me and at Miguel, gives him a wink. “That’s a very nice bracelet,” I tell her to change the subject.

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“Tiffany’s at the Bellagio,” she says. “My wonderful husband here just bought it for me today.” “That’s great. Good for you,” I say politely. “I deserve it.” She laughs. Her husband grins and looks at Miguel. “Fine women will have fine things, I’m just lucky to be the one keeping her in the diamonds she deserves.” He laughs. Miguel leans close and whispers in my ear. “Hear that, huh? Bet that was one hell of a blowjob she gave to get that. Wonder if he jacked up his Porsche on the sidewalk as she finished him off.” Choking back a laugh, I elbow him lightly. The guy, her husband, he speaks up now. “So, are you winning?” “Oh, doing okay. No diamonds from Tiffany, but having fun,” I say, hoping he’ll pay attention to his wife and let me fall back into Miguel. “Well, that’s nice,” he says. “It doesn’t look like that’s your style anyway.” “No, I guess not. Not really down with the bling,” I say. “I see that. Why is that, exactly?” I shake my head slowly. “Don’t know, really—just don’t care for it.” “But you have tattoos—isn’t that like jewelry?” “Yeah, well, sort of, I guess you’re right,” I say, hoping he’ll give it up. He doesn’t. Instead, he looks directly at me, briefly at my face then lets his gaze wander down and linger for a time on my boobs. I knew they looked good in this shirt. He lingers too long, though, so I turn my body slightly toward Miguel. I know he’s noticed all this, because he’s staring at the guy, not a hint of humor in his expression. His jaw clenches as he speaks up. “Yeah, you know, beautiful as she is, she don’t need anything to show off.” Not believing he just said that, I look up at him and he gives me a wink. Not breaking his gaze into my eyes, he lightly traces his thumb over my shoulder, outlining the pattern of my tattoo, following it down across my back, giving me a tiny shiver up my spine. Then he lazily rests his hand against my back, warm but subtle. He leans over and kisses me on the temple. It’s so sweet and hot all at once I just want to climb all over him right there. But the guy is relentless. He keeps at it. “So what is it you don’t like about jewelry, exactly?” he persists. “I see you wear a ring at least.”

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24/7 I look over at them, annoyed. She’s sitting upright, board-up-her-ass posture, looking smug and proper and classy and oh-so bottled blonde. She drips of money but there’s obviously something missing because she’s not satisfied with her diamonds, she’s satisfied with showing off her diamonds. I almost feel sorry for the pathetic, pampered little priss. Because her husband next to her, he’s not leaning into her the way Miguel’s leaning into me. Instead he’s looking past her and at my boobs. Most aggravating, they’re distracting me from Miguel. From the heat of his body only inches from mine, from the feel of his warm hand on my back, from his dark eyes and crooked grin. As I think of him, I soften up, decide I’m being too touchy. Then I glance back over at them, and the woman is looking at Miguel. She’s looking past me, diamond-clad arm perched beneath her chin, and her eyes are locked on him. She licks her lips. So I tell the guy what I don’t like about jewelry. “Well, I don’t wear gold, because it’s pretty ghetto. And I don’t wear diamonds because the slave labor and civil war in Sierra Leone is tragic and I can’t bear the thought of people living in hell and dying in bloodbaths just so I can exploit them and have a high-priced piece of shiny fossilized coal to wear.” Miguel smirks just as I get a guilty pang. Maybe I was too harsh, maybe they really didn’t mean to be acting snotty and be putting us down and I just insulted them for no reason. Maybe I’m just an insecure bitch. The lady speaks up again. “Yes, well, I don’t know about that, but I do think it’s nice when people know their limits and are content within them. You know, instead of wanting more, things they know they can’t have. That would be a horrible feeling.” Okay. So. They are snotty, skinny, arrogant bitches. Her husband laughs really loud. “Luckily, we don’t have that problem,” he says. “But it’s true. Most people are suited for what they have anyhow. Like you two.” He nods at us. “So, I take it you two aren’t married, then?” “No,” I say. “We’d like to get married, but his wife is against that.” Temple visibly throbbing, Miguel waves Vince over, “Couple shots right here,” he says and turns to me. “What do you want?” “Cuervo,” I answer him. “You two want a shot or something?” he offers to the couple. “Tequila?” The guy says. “I think we can do better than that.” He orders a bottle of their best champagne from Vince, who proceeds to finish pouring our shots first then starts filling a bucket with ice. “See, that’s how Vegas has changed,” the guy announces.

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“Oh, my, yes,” his wife agrees as she clicks open a gold cigarette case, probably Cartier, and lights up a long, skinny cigarette. “It used to be a different breed out here. Champagne, tuxedoes and cocktail dresses all the time. It’s different now, though.” Her husband signs the tab as she inhales and rakes her eyes over Miguel again, fixating momentarily on his arm, his hand on my back. Miguel nudges into me, nods at our shots. We raise them and down them. It’s an instant burn, a path of liquid lightning going straight from my throat to my gut. I have to concentrate to not gag or cough. Sucking in a breath, I look over at Miguel, who’s got one eye squinted shut as he drags off his smoke. Grinning, he rubs his hand up and down my back, saying, “You all right?” The husband distracts me again. He says, “See, smooth,” as he swirls his champagne around in the glass. Locking eyes with Miguel, he continues, “When you can afford the finer things in life you acquire the taste for them. People are like diamonds in that way. Some of them are just rough, need to be polished up a bit. But some will just always be rough and uneven, some are just coal.” He’s staring at Miguel, and I know Miguel’s not breaking the eye-fuck, and I can only imagine how intimidating his glare could be, so I watch the guy. Before long, he chuckles and takes a sip of his champagne. Pussy. I turn back to Miguel—he’s still staring at the guy, but with a look of passive calm. The only tell I can pick out is his clenched jaw. He might be a little drunk right now, and he might be dumb enough to be hanging out with me, but it doesn’t take Freud to figure out when you’re being insulted. It really pisses me off. I’ve seen it before at the tables. I’ve seen how some of these rich bastards come and just love giving a hard time to the dealers. Miguel probably puts up with that shit every day at work, and now he’s gotta deal with it here when he’s trying to have fun. And worst of all, it’s most likely all my fault. If he was somewhere else, this wouldn’t have happened. Or even if he was here with someone else, it wouldn’t have happened. First I make him fuck up his car, now this. Yeah, he’s got to be grateful he met me right about now. “Sorry,” I whisper to him. “Ain’t your fault,” he mumbles, turns to whisper in my ear. “Sorta funny, in fact. They’re insulting us and hitting on us at the same time, right?” His breath and voice send a delighted chill down my back, and the

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24/7 actual words strike me as really funny. “Yeah,” I answer. “That’s pretty much it.” He whispers again, “Thought so. Just makin’ sure.” Next thing I hear is the couple next to us saying goodnight. He scoops up the ice bucket, and she rises fluidly and glides away next to him. Miguel asks me, “Ready to have some fun?” “Always.” “Good,” he says and stands up. Grabbing my hand, he pulls me along as he follows the couple over to the elevator bay. I keep up with him easily, know he’s up to something. I don’t know him all that well yet, but I’m trusting he’s not going to beat the shit out of the guy. We’re standing only a foot away from the other couple, Miguel close behind me, waiting for a bell to ding and the doors to open and take us up. I wonder what the hell he’s doing, basically wanting to just stay the hell away from them. My gaze wanders around, admiring the dark green reflective walls, the gilded elevator doors. Frank Sinatra croons all around us. Miguel’s hands rest on my shoulders, tingling my hot skin, making it sear where the cool air can’t reach. He leans down and starts sucking on my neck. I lean into it with a grin and a giggle, shyly eyeing the other couple then looking back down. He’s breathing hotly in my ear, sending spikes of pleasure through my whole body, warming me even more. My head tilts back as I lean into him, he’s starting to mumble some words. “Beautiful” I hear as his teeth graze my lobe and work it back and forth a few times. One hand keeps massaging my shoulder, moving lower, stroking up and down my naked arm as the other moves to the front of my neck. He slides it up and down my throat, lightly across the top of my chest. I want to moan as the tingles from his hands and mouth work through my whole body. Slightly drunk, being rubbed and kissed, feeling so relaxed, but I remember where I am and open my eyes, glancing into the reflective walls again. I see our reflection, darkened but crisp, staring back at me. I’m stretched out in front of him, his hand is roaming up and down my arm that’s dropped at my side. His naked shoulders are hunched into me, his mouth is buried against my neck. He’s streamlined edges, straight and angular. I’m full curves, lush and rounded. I see him look up, still kissing my neck but eyes meeting mine in the reflection, both of us so dark and seeming to sparkle. I think we look stunning together.

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Then I notice his hand, still lightly stroking across the top of my chest, and underneath it, my breasts rising and falling with my already heavy breathing, my nipples, darkening and hard, poking at the thin cotton material of my shirt. Out of the corner of my vision I see the other couple, he in a crisp suit, her in black silk knee-length dress. Her shoulders are bare too, and her man stands behind her, hand on her waist. They’re so neat, so squeaky clean. They’re thin-lipped and blonde, tight and groomed and proper. And they’re watching me. Demurely, suddenly feeling so very trashy, I look down, bite on my lower lip. I catch Miguel’s glance and try to take a step away, start to raise my arms to cover my full chest as I slouch down. His hands quickly grasp my wrists and bring them back down to my sides, and he whispers one word in my ear: “Don’t.” His chest presses into my back. It makes me straighten up and pushes my chest up and out again. My cheeks burn hot as my stomach tightens, but his hands sliding up and down my arms soothe me as he whispers again. “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, baby,” he says and licks again at my neck. A tiny ding sounds, and the golden doors of the elevator open up. He tugs on my hand as he moves from behind me, walking into the car behind the other couple. I see him wait for them to press a button marked PH, then he reaches over and hits a few more, a lot more, acting like his hand slipped. He pulls me close to him again and claims my mouth before the door even closes. His tongue slips out and a sudden pulse surges through me. Remembering myself, I pull back, trying to stay cool and discourage him. He moves right back in, urging me with his mouth, his hand squeezing mine. His other hand skims over my shoulder again, sparking my hot skin in the cool air. My eyes close as his jaw opens wide and he lays into my mouth and tongues me deep. I feel him turning me around, dizzying my head as my body lurches with the sudden upward movement of the elevator. I loop my fingers around his belt on each side to steady myself. His hands graze over my neck and shoulders again as he turns me more, gently pushing me back against the cool mirrored glass wall. It’s an enjoyable shock contrasting my fevered skin. He’s still tonguing me, just the right hint of teeth, and I give in to it. Fuck it, why not make out in an elevator, I figure, surrendering to his demanding strokes. Miguel’s hand on my shoulder starts rubbing, and he moves from my mouth back to my ear. He whispers in Spanish to me, then English, rolling

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24/7 the words off his tongue. “You’re my girl, do this for me,” he says. He pushes at the thin strap of my top, moving it off my shoulder, still leaning close against me, shielding me, pressing me into the chilly green reflective wall. He tells me to relax while he works the strap lower down my arm. I shrug into him, tucking my head down and bashfully curling up, arm rising to cover myself. He catches my wrist and pulls it back down, places it against his side. The edge of my shirt pulls against the top of my breast, strap pulled taut across my biceps, but he’s kissing me, breathing in my mouth, my ear, his hand possessively stroking my naked shoulder. The elevator stops at the first meaningless number Miguel had punched. No one’s waiting to get on, and I faintly hope he’ll drag me out and end this, or that the other couple will get off, just take another elevator. I’m breathing hard, fully turned on from his attentions, the heat from my skin deepening and mixing with the liquor throughout my body. The elevator door closes again, no luck at being alone. He pushes the strap lower, all the way to my elbow. Then his fingers stroke across my collarbone, all the while he keeps kissing me, sucking on my tongue, biting my lips. His fingers dance lower, nails teasing under the line of tight fabric, rubbing back and forth, pulling down. Miguel tugs at it and slides it over my breast, rolling it all the way down as I shiver in response. He shifts his weight and moves slightly to the side, leaving me completely exposed. I can feel it, the cool air hitting me without the protection of his body, his fingers whispering over my naked nipple, hard and sensitive to his touch. It feels so tingly good, but I’m suddenly hyper-aware. Inside, I’m thrumming with excitement and dying of embarrassment, half-naked for the whole world to see. He whispers to me again. “Touch me,” he commands. Swallowing hard, I reach down, blindly following his lead. Thinking, Madone, it won’t be so bad if it’s him, too. I inhale at his neck, breathing him in as I stroke his thigh, find nothing there. Smoothing my hand higher, I find his erection pressing against the fly of his pants. I stroke him, biting on my own lower lip. I steal a glance at Miguel’s face. He’s not watching me, he’s leering over at the guy. His hand cups my breast, his thumb strokes lightly over my nipple. Too late. It’s gone too far to push him away, to try and stop him. To stop this. The damage has been done anyhow. My eyes dart to the mirrored wall in front of us and I catch another reflection—him pressed close to me but

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standing to the side, my shirt off my shoulder, large, round tit fully exposed, dark nipple hard, his hand proudly setting it off. It’s hot to me. Oh, Lord, it looks so sexy, him possessing me and smugly showing me off while I rub up against him. But my eyes flit over and catch them, the other couple, the proper, frosty ones. They’re standing stiff, trying not to look but unable to stop looking—she’s stealing disgusted glances, still longing on Miguel, though, and he’s outright gaping through upraised eyes as his fists squeeze around the ice bucket. And Miguel’s wickedly watching him. Miguel’s watching him watch me. My face blushes hard and hot. I bury my face in Miguel’s neck and shoulder, finding safety there, hiding my shame and my lust. But he moves, exposing me again. He bends down to kiss my neck, and—oh, fuck, no, don’t do it, I think, and shiver. But he does. He leans lower and runs his tongue across the swell of my breast. Lower. Licks right across my hard, exposed nipple. My mouth drops open and I suck in a deep breath, squeezing my eyes shut and turning to the mirrors to escape because it sends a mild volt through me. Now his teeth are on it, rubbing it between them, and I fight off a moan, strangle it in my throat, won’t allow that embarrassment. Then his lips are circling, tightly, tighter, drawing it in. And then he sucks. Hard. The sensation shoots straight to my crotch, rocking me against my will. Sucking in a breath, I force my eyes open as the elevator crawls to another halt. Praying they’ll leave, I squirm involuntarily as Miguel sucks deep once more. I watch them, just standing there, the woman’s bracelet sparkling in the golden lights, both of them stiff and unyielding. They’re not going to leave. They’re staying because they’re enjoying this. They’re enjoying the show, but more than my body, more than Miguel working on it, I know they’re reveling in watching me struggle. They’re stealing glances to see how far I’ll go, how much I can try to fight off. How this is killing me, because they know I’m truly turned on. That I can’t fight him off because I don’t want to. I know they won’t admit it, either. I know Miguel knows that, too. They’ll finally leave at some point, and me and Miguel will haunt them. They’ll talk down about us, never admitting to each other, or even themselves, how much they loved watching it all. Fuck them. Fuck them, their bracelet and their champagne, I think as the elevator doors close again and Miguel takes another drag on me, pulling me deep, shooting the sensation right to my throbbing crotch. I want to shift my legs but I fight it off, trying to give up, give in as little

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24/7 as possible. I’m pulsing, though, burning with heat, can feel my own juices dripping and seeping through my panties. Almost like a mind reader, Miguel snakes a hand up my thigh. I swallow hard, knowing how ripe and hot I already am. His hand moves higher, so I squeeze my thighs together to shut him out and I silently beg him to stop as the elevator lurches up. He rises up, whispers that it’s okay, tells me to give in. I see him eye them briefly then look back to me. “Unzip my pants, take me out,” he instructs. He kisses my neck as I reach for his belt and swiftly undo it. He helps me get his pants open and I reach in for him immediately. He’s hot and hard as can be, twitching in my hand already. I can’t stop it, it’s out of control, I’m long gone. Obviously, so is he. Then Miguel reaches under my skirt with both hands and clamps them around my panties. I can feel his fists work against my lower stomach as he uses all his strength to tear them off. And then, oh, dear, sweet Jesus, the guy, the other guy, actually drops the ice bucket and bottle onto the floor. I can’t bear it. That final indignity, I’m sure it’ll kill me on the spot if I come. Worse, I know I’m going to. I’m one big, raw, excited nerve now. Miguel’s breathing shallow in my ear, dying for me, making me higher. And me, my head’s spinning, my whole body’s rushing and flushed and I’m itching, throbbing, dripping wet. I know it, as soon as he touches me there I’m going to come. I’m going to shudder and blush, and they’re going to know, I won’t be able to hide it, the pleasure and humiliation all at once. I try to figure out how I let this go so far so fucking fast, so much want and lust and, yes, goddamn need for it now. Miguel dips down slightly, I bury my face in his shoulder and raise my leg around his waist. Still holding his cock, I feel him twitch again as I line him up, start to guide him into me. Then I let go and hold on to his neck. He wraps his arms around my waist. Swift, strong, he shoves up and back, slamming me into the glass wall, lifting me off my feet and entering me deep. We both gasp and I start to die. I explode immediately, come so hard it nearly hurts. Pleasure and heat bolt through me. My face is tucked in his neck, his down in mine. My legs clamp around his waist. My back arches. He powers into me a few more times, making me shudder intensely, suddenly coming harder. Waves thunder through me, I choke back a scream. I feel him dig his fingers into my sides as he squeezes me. I spasm again, blood rushing hard. He shoves again, sending another shock through me. He grunts, loud, right by my ear, goes stone stiff in my arms. Gripping him tight, I can feel him coming in me,

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hot, wet spurts. He shudders violently, right along with the volts running through me. Slowing, aftershocks still going through me, him still deep inside, I start to breathe again. I hear a hollow, distant ding as the elevator lurches to a stop. Miguel pants against my neck, his grip around me loosening, his stance slumping. Swimming back to coherence, still shivering, I ease my grip on him and look up to see the elevator doors open, the couple walking away. There’s another guy on the landing, gaping in at what he sees. He just stands there, staring at me, not daring to get on. Then the doors push closed. “Ooh, shit,” Miguel says, catching his breath. “That was a good one, huh?” Then he starts to laugh, still holding me up. “You’re such an asshole,” I tell him. He laughs harder, slouching into me, shaking me with it. “Such a fucking asshole,” I repeat and laugh with him. “Suits my taste,” he says in a mock voice, laughing again as I slide down off of him, legs weak and quivering. “White folk,” he says simply, as if that explains it all. I shift as he reaches between my legs and wipes at the stickiness on my thighs with my torn underwear, his hand gentle and smooth. Wordlessly, I watch as he quickly wipes himself off with them and then zips back up. As I feel the elevator slowing, I reach down and straighten my skirt, pull my shirt back up and arrange the shoulder strap. “Asshole,” I say. “I can’t go back and sit at the bar in just this short skirt.” “C’mon, I got an idea,” he says and grabs my hand, pulling me along again, this time out of the elevator. I flash the peace sign to the camera as we exit. He’s smirking as he weaves through the casino, past rows and tables of slots and out into the white marble hallway. We walk up a long line of shops, and I wonder what he’s doing but just follow his lead, happy to have my boobs tucked back in my shirt. When we reach a sundry shop, he ducks inside, pulling me along after him, looking around. He weaves through the clothes racks until he gets to one with underwear on it. He looks it up and down, then cracks another wide smile as he plucks a pair up and waves ’em at me. They’re white, but they’ve got sequined dice on the front, and they read “Viva Las Vegas” across the ass. “Oh, Jesus,” I sigh as he flips them on the counter and pulls out a

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24/7 couple bills, asks for a box. The clerk looks at him oddly as he asks if they have changing rooms and points them out to him. Still just following his lead, I let him push me into the room. He flips the panties out of the box and hands them to me. “Christ, Miguel, if your tastes suit you then I am one trashy chick,” I say, pulling them on. “Hey, viva, baby! Viva Las Fuckin’ Vegas! Ain’t diamonds from Tiffany’s but it’s somethin’ sparkly,” he says and slaps my ass with a wink. Then he pulls my sticky ripped ones out of his pocket, drops them in the box and pulls me out, striding out the door and dragging me back to the front bar again. Back there, he waves Vince over and says, “Know those two who ordered champagne? They charge it to their room?” Vince nods. “Any chance we could get their name and room number off that receipt?” Vince goes over to his drawer and pulls out the receipt, walks back over to us. He waves it around a second and says, “I really can’t give you information like that, wouldn’t be right.” He waves the receipt again until it slips out of his hand and floats onto the bar. “Shit, could you hand me that?” he asks Miguel. Miguel picks it up and reads as he hands it back. “Thanks, I owe you one,” he says, then quickly pulls me away again and heads back to the store. Confidently, he struts up to the counter, tosses the box holding my ripped panties onto it. “Yo,” he says to the clerk. “Yeah, we, uh, we just bought this, and we don’t wanna carry it around. Can you, like, um, have this sent up to our room?” I feel my eyes go wide, and I choke back a laugh as he reels off their name and room number to the clerk. Then I’m being pulled along again, back toward the casino, following willingly. He slows down at a line of half-full tables, pauses at an empty one, digs in his pocket, pulls out a smoke and lights it up. He nods for me to sit down and so I do, not having a clue what I’m doing and wondering if he does either. I turn and look at the dealer, a sweet-looking older lady who shakes her head slightly. Miguel digs in his other pocket and pulls out a wad of bills and throws them down. My eyes go wide as I stare at the pile, my throat clenches tight.

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My heart flutters nervously as I hear the dealer. “You don’t want to play me one-on-one,” she says. “Oh, no?” Miguel says. “Deal her.” I watch him as the dealer sorts through the bills, trying to hold on to my cool. I consider scooping the pile up and running off, certain by the time he catches me he’ll realize what a bad idea this really is. “Changing seventeen-fifty,” the dealer says loudly. She places the bills over a slot, uses a thin silver card to shove them down, and just like that, I watch all Miguel’s money disappear. The dealer’s fingers walk across a few chips; she scoops them up, taps them on the table once and slides them across to Miguel. She does it again then adds one more of a different color. I watch with horror as Miguel slides the whole pile in front of me in the play area and coolly takes another drag on the cigarette wedged between his teeth. Things move in slow motion around me. The Sinatra sounds recede, the clinking and whirring of machines dulls. My peripheral vision falls away as I take another look at Miguel. He seems confident—relaxed, even. I swallow hard and think my feet are numb. I blink and shift my gaze. The woman, the dealer, is sliding her hand down the stack of cards. One sticks to her finger, and she slides it over in front me turned face up. My heart thuds in my ear, once, as another card gets slid in front of me. It’s dead silent around me as I blink again and force myself to look down. My whole world tunnels down onto the two cards laid in front of me there. I don’t know the count, I don’t know what’s been played, I’m lost on this table. But I know this. “Blackjack,” the dealer says, and the silence shatters. Coins clink into trays, Miguel’s hand is warm on my back and I’m staring down at an ace and a jack, both hearts. “Congratulations, Miss,” the dealer says and begins sliding more chips my way. “Whoa,” I laugh and grin over at Miguel. I want to ask him how he did that as he starts picking up the chips. It was like a magic trick. He meets my gaze, Marlboro dangling from his lips, and winks at me. “What do you wanna do now?” he asks me “Anything,” I say, still mildly shocked but more than happy to oblige. “You want a bottle o’ champagne?” I smile at him. “No, I think I’m starting to like Cuervo,” I say.

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[ 14 ]

A

N HOUR LATER, WE’RE AT THE ROUND CENTER BAR AT THE HARD ROCK INSTEAD OF

the cooler Viva Las Vegas Lounge, Miguel has his arm around my waist and I couldn’t be feeling any better. He says, “I wanna thank you, you know, for doing that for me, earlier.” I blush, trapped between ashamed, proud, embarrassed, and still turned on by the whole ordeal. “You’re welcome,” I say. “It was something new, right?” “Yeah, it was. It was weird, you know, like, at first, I just wanted to fuck with them. But then I forgot they were even there, and I just had to fuck you. I can’t believe you let me do that.” “I can’t believe it either, I can’t believe you did that. I was getting worried you were gonna kick the shit out of the guy.” Smirking: “Thought about it. Woulda liked to crack him pretty good, you know, but figured that was even better.” “Oh, I think we can safely say that was better for everyone involved.” “It was pretty intense, huh.” He nods and catches my eyes. “Can I tell you somethin’? Know what the hottest part was? You didn’t just let me do it, you know? You were like…I mean, I could tell that you didn’t wanna do it, but then you couldn’t stop, and then you just…let go. And when you did, you did…I think I’m right, right?” I just nod once, and he goes, “Yo, when you came like that—shit, man, that was just intense for me. I loved that.” “Miguel, here’s the thing. I never did that before.” He laughs. “Yeah, well, me, neither.” “No, I don’t mean the where, I mean the other thing. I should thank you, because no one ever made me feel that before.” He squints at me. “You’re fuckin’ with me.” “No, I’m not.” Suddenly embarrassed all over again, I try to pull away from him. “Look, forget I said that, it’s dumb anyhow.” “No, wait a minute here, wait a minute. I wanna get this straight. You’re

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tellin’ me you’ve never come before?” Swallowing hard, feeling like an idiot, I squirm further away. “Well, sort of. I mean, I never have with anyone else around. Know what I mean?” “Never?” “Huh-uh. I’m a little freaked out about it, you know, that that made me. That you made me. It’s like you…I don’t know, I’m sorry. You know what, I don’t know why I’m even telling you this, it’s stupid, just forget it. Let’s have a drink or something.” “No, hold up, it’s not stupid.” He tightens his grip and pulls me back into him. “What about boyfriends? You ain’t never had one that could…?” “No. Well, I’ve never had one of those, either.” “Never?” “Never.” A heavy pause. He’s staring at me, so I babble on, try to explain, I guess as much to myself as to him. “Maybe that’s why no one was ever able to make me…come.” I whisper the word. Classy. I’ll do it in an elevator in front of a couple of strangers with a guy I hardly know coaxing it out of me, but I won’t say it in a normal speaking voice. “But it was your first shot, and you did it, so…whatever. I don’t know what it was, I just thought you’d want to know, that it’d make you feel good.” “Yeah, I feel good. I feel fuckin’ great, man—we’re gonna need a couple security guards to help me carry my head outta here you keep this up.” He smiles. “I just wanna make sure on all this. You’re sayin’ you never had a boyfriend, and you never had anyone make you come before.” Squirming again: “Yeah, that’s pretty much it. I’m a freak.” “C’mere.” He pulls me back in. “Relax, chica. Relax. I wanna tell you somethin’. You ain’t a freak, I’m just that fuckin’ hot.” “Asshole.” Ignoring that, cocky, he gets rolling. “Yeah, that’s right, I’m the man.” “Shut up.” I grin. “Who da man?” “Miguel…” “Yeah, that’s right, Miguel’s da man.” “You’re a freak.” “I ain’t a freak, I’m da man, baby. Who’s your daddy, huh?” “Don’t ever say that,” I tell him. “Don’t ever ask me that. My friend Sherri—Sherri Bruno—she was getting it on with her boyfriend, and he started joking and said that—who’s your daddy—and she answered her

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24/7 actual father’s name.” “Now that’s a freak.” “I know! It freaked them out so bad they didn’t have sex for two weeks.” “All right, I don’t gotta be your daddy. But I am still the man. Admit it, already.” “Fine, Miguel, you da man. Happy?” “Almost. One more. Am I your man?” “Huh?” “You heard me,” he says low. Looks me in the eyes. “Am I your man?” “Do you wanna be my man?” “Well, like, I’m claiming you as my girl, so I guess it’d only be right.” “You’re claiming me?” Playing: “Yeah. Technically, I did that earlier, ’bout the eighteenth floor at Caesars.” “Stop!” “So am I? Huh? Say it. Tell me who I am.” I want to kiss him again. In fact, I want him again. His grin fades, and I see the same thing reflected back at me on his face. He wants me. He. Wants. Me. Even after he’s already had me. He didn’t hesitate to kiss me after I sucked him off. He kept me close on the car ride home. He called me to see me again. Everything about him is cool, everything is good. His walk is cool, he’s smart enough to deal dice. He didn’t lose his cool with Vince, or the car, or even that assholey couple. His crooked smile, those nervous jitters, his big dark eyes. These arms wrapped around me. He’s nice to me. He made me come. He leans in and kisses me. It’s beyond great. It’s lips and tongue, it’s hot and sweet all at once. He sighs in my mouth, or is it a slight groan? It’s The Thunderbolt. That’s what it is. It’s white-hot, razor-sharp, intensely electric and deadly accurate. It’s mind-crushing, heart-breaking, reason-shattering, pulse-quickening, life-changing, serendipitous old-blackmagic, cupid’s arrow, lie-cheat-steal for him, die for him, kill for him, back-scratching hot, cheek-kissing sweet, over the moon, under-your-skin, cry-in-your-beer, laugh-out-loud, silly, giddy, tempestuous, dumb-lucky thunderbolt love. And it strikes me. Ain’t that a fucking bitch.

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He pulls away, slides his heavy-lidded dark sparking eyes open and in a breathy low growl asks again, “Who am I?” And I say, “You’re my man.” And…

Poof! Just like that. Thirty years alone, too many disappointments, zero boyfriends and one previously unblemished sterling record of staunch independence and singledom are shattered, tattered and irreparably (and previously inconceivably) vaporized by that little statement. Targeted, struck and destroyed by a tiny, trite little admission. If only he knew how much I just gave in to him. It could burn off, flame out, fizzle down or just smoke away into absolutely nothing, but it can’t ever be undone. Because for right now it’s not a lie, it’s not a hope, it’s not a deceptive cheap parlor trick. For me, at this exact moment, it’s real. It’s a gamble. Love. I’m such a sucker. Just like everyone else. I blame the tequila. I suppose he senses it. Maybe not entirely, but at least that this is cutting a little more deeply than just me playing around with him. Anyway, on my end it is. But he handles it, whatever it is he picks up. He softens his grip but leans closer. Holding my gaze, he asks, “Ready for all this?” Ahh, slick. That man of mine, gotta love him, huh? I swallow thickly, my heart thuds hard. I could laugh, I could cry. Frankly, I could even throw up. But that just wouldn’t be me. So I pull together and suck it up. If I’m gonna do it, do it right. I don’t deserve it, but I’ll earn it. “Absolutely,” I say. He kisses me. “Want another shot or something’?” “Um, actually, no. I think I’m pretty good.” “K. Well, you wanna—” “Miguel? Is that you?” A high-pitched voice close by interrupts him. Turning to see who it belongs to, I catch sight of a stacked blonde walking up to us, to him. She throws her arm around his neck and cuts her body between us. He looks placid, but that somber look creeps back in his eyes as he stares at her. No smile, he quietly says, “Hello, Mindy.” “It’s so good to see you,” she says. He doesn’t hug her, doesn’t say a word. She’s wearing tight leather

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24/7 pants and mile-high clear heels. She’s got on a glittery barebacked haltertop, and as she pulls back from him after placing a kiss on his cheek, I can see her boobs aren’t suffering in the least from a lack of a bra. Fake ones, no doubt—they’re like headlights. Glossy lipstick and glittered lashes, all of this stuff draped and painted onto a body from hell. Hairspray and nail polish, silicone and strapless, she’s a frat boy’s wet dream. I hate her immediately. She looks an awful lot like Diamond. She says, “Miguel, God, I’ve missed you, you look great! I’ve been really good, we’ve been out all night, my friends are over there, we’re just leaving, this place is dead, but I saw you and had to come over and say hi!” I swear, she squeals with glee. Miguel clears his throat. His eyes flutter over to me, and he motions in my direction. “Mindy, this is—” “Okay.” She cuts him off again. “I gotta get going now! But, sweetie, it was so good to see you, call me! I miss you.” And off she flutters, as quickly as she appeared. Miguel looks at me sheepishly and pulls me back close to him. “Sorry ’bout that. She’s just, ah, I know her.” “I figured that. She an ex-girlfriend or something?” “Um, well, yeah.” “Wait a minute, you’re serious. You dated her? For how long?” Licking his lips, his leg starting to bounce up and down rapidly as he stutters, “Yeah, uh, we broke up, I guess it was…I don’t know, um, like, nine, maybe ten months ago…we went out for a year or so.” Poof! “A year? Oh. A year. So she was, like, your girlfriend. Okay. All right.” I want to cry. I laugh instead. Flagging down the bartender, I order a couple of shots. “Thought you had enough,” he says, still nervous. “I could use one now. That okay?” He backs off. “That’s fine.” “I just don’t get it, that’s all. How…how you could go from her to me, that’s all?” “Don’t be pissed,” he says. “I’m not pissed. Seriously, I’m not pissed. It’s just…I don’t get it, that’s all.” “Look, I know she ain’t all that, but I was…I don’t know…” “Did you just say she’s not all that?”

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“Yeah, I mean, she’s sort of ditzy and all, but…” “But she’s gorgeous!” I nearly shout. “Where are those shots?” Miguel laughs. “I get it. Is that what this is about? You think she’s pretty.” The bartender drops off the shots, and Miguel slides him a couple bills. “She’s not pretty,” I tell him. “She’s stunning.” “But so are you,” he says, still amused. “Oh, fuck you, Rodriguez.” I slug the shot, fumble around for a smoke. He keeps laughing. “I like that, we’re on a last name basis now. That’s cool with me, Martino.” “That’s Miss Martino to you.” I glare at him. “C’mere.” He pulls me next to him. “You really don’t know, do you?” “Know what?” “That you’re beautiful.” I want to believe him, but I know better. I don’t know how I let myself fall down this bunny-hole in the first place. I feel sick. “No, I’m not.” He nuzzles me, puts both his arms around me tightly. “Yes, you are. Yo, listen to me, just listen. I don’t want her. I want you.” How does he know how to do this? Why is he bothering to do this? He runs one hand soothingly up and down my back. Sighing, I curl into him. He says, “Can I tell you somethin’ else?” “Okay.” “Hot as that was—before, in the elevator? It’s not enough. Like, I can’t wait. All I wanna do is get you all naked, naked in my bed, and climb all over you, just get primal, man.” Talking into my ear, he whispers, “I wanna second shot. I still owe you one from last night. I wanna see if I can make you come even harder.” I laugh. “I doubt that.” “Wanna bet me?” “You’re so cocky,” I tell him. “Ain’t cocky. If I enjoy doin’ somethin’ I work real hard to do it right.” “And you enjoy doing that, huh?” “I enjoy doin’ you, Martino.” “All right, look.” I push him away. “I have to go to the ladies’ room, then let’s get out of here.” “Talked you into it, huh? I’ll walk with you, I can stop, too.” Hand-in-hand, we walk through the casino. Me and my man. All in the space of ten minutes or so I got a man, had my first jealous freak-out on him, and he talked me down.

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24/7 Walking past the Sports Book, he nudges me and asks if I’m sure I don’t want to bet him. Says maybe we could get them to make official lines on it or something. “Yeah,” I snort, “they can consult the tape at Caesars for play-by-play analysis.” “Oh, shit, they have cameras in the elevators, huh?” Apparently, that hadn’t occurred to him before. Patting his stomach as he struts along, he seems even more pleased with that realization. Mindy is in the ladies room when I get in there. She’s at the mirror putting on mascara, a couple other girls just like her by her side. They’re still there when I come out of the stall, she’s fiddling around with her lipstick. So, as I wash my hands, I give her the obligatory half-smile in the mirror, and she says, “You’re here with Miguel, right?” I nod and work really hard to not compare our reflections lest I get spooked again. After that last shot of tequila I think I’d rather just believe him and take what I’m given for the night and not even worry anymore. “I guess you’re the flavor of the day right now. He sure does like the women,” she says. “But he’s also a sweetheart. Sometimes.” “Yeah, he seems really cool,” I say as I pull a paper towel. “And he’s a great fuck—seeing him makes me think I want another tumble with him,” she says as I’m leaving. “Yeah,” I answer her over my shoulder, “I’m about to find out. Thanks.” He’s waiting outside for me, so I just take his hand and keep on walking. Halfway out, I break and speak. “Can I ask you something?” “Mindy was in there, wasn’t she?” “Yeah, how’d you know?” His jaw clenches. “Heard her fuckin’ mouth.” “She’s, um, she’s kind of mean, isn’t she?” “Yeah, you could say that. She fuck with you at all?” He halts and does a half-turn, as though he’d be ready to go back there. Tugging on his hand, I pull him forward. “Not really. I think she was trying to, though. I think she wants you back.” “Yeah, well, let her want.” “Did you know she was kind of bitchy when you started going out with her?” “Yeah.” He sighs. “Guess so. You really wanna talk about this? ’Cause I don’t. I told you, she’s over. My mistake, that’s all it was.”

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“Okay, I was just wondering.” “I thought you were jealous of her.” He squeezes my hand. “Yeah, I was, but I’m not now. I have you for the night, Rodriguez, she doesn’t.” “You can have me a lot longer than tonight if you want,” he says. “’Cause I’m not a bitch?” He waves for the sole taxi to pull up. “’Cause a lot of things,” he says. “I wasted a long time on her, it was stupid.” “It’s not stupid. I just think you can do better,” I say as he opens the door for me. Climbing in, he slides close and puts his arm over my shoulder. “I am doing better.” He reels off his address to the driver, then he settles against me. I check the time up front. It’s 5:49. Oh, he’s gonna just love this one. Sliding my hand back and forth across his stomach, I work up the courage. “I really ought to be getting back, it’s late.” He throws his head back against the seat and groans. Saying, “Fuck.” “I’m sorry, but Sherri’ll be really pissed at me if I’m not there when she gets up.” “K. How ’bout this. You come over, an’ you can call her, see what she says.” “She’s gonna say I have to come back. Seriously.” Still rubbing his stomach, I glance up front and see the cab driver’s eyes flitting to the rearview, waiting to see if he’s going to have to change direction. “Just come over an’ call her,” he says. “I’ll talk to her.” I laugh at that. She’d have him twisted around faster than he got my underwear off in the elevator. “I want to come over, I really do. I’d rather do that.” “Then there’s no problem. Just, screw it, come over. Let her be pissed.” “I can’t,” I say. “I’d feel guilty the whole time then.” “’S all right.” He sighs and swipes a hand down his face, rubs his eyes. He’s playing cool, but I can feel the tension in his body next to me. “Yo.” He leans forward. “Change that, just take us to Caesars,” he tells the driver then leans back. “I’m really sorry.” “’S all right. I think you like teasin’ me, though.” “Oh, dude, you didn’t,” I say. “You could not have just called me a

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24/7 tease.” “Every night, man. Every night you get me dyin’ for you, then you gotta go.” He’s keeping his expression flat, but I know he’s screwing with me. “Yeah, well, Rodriguez, I think there’s a car door and a pair of underwear that would prove I’m not exactly a tease.” Swiftly, fluidly, he turns and pins me back against the seat. Leaning above but not touching me, he stares down at me. It makes me nervous and excites me at the same time. I’ve never been good at prolonged eye contact, and he makes a point of doing it. I love it, it draws me into him, but after a couple seconds, it makes me completely self-conscious, wondering what he’s seeing as he looks at me. He dips his head down, still watching me, and I wait impatiently. But instead of kissing me, he flicks his tongue across my lips. Lightly, he licks across the top one then drags his tongue across the bottom. Closing my eyes, I part my mouth for him, but instead of diving in, he just keeps doing the same thing, barely touching me. Teasing me. I lean up and try to go for him, but he pulls back, waits for me to settle. I open my eyes to see him still watching me. He hovers above me, not pressing his weight into me or pulling me close to him like he usually does. He keeps his body inches away, his arms braced on either side of me. He inhales, I inhale, and it makes our chests almost touch. It amps me. He licks his own lips, lets his tongue settle on the corner of his mouth, concentrating. Rhythmic, shallow breaths. He moves his head quickly, only an inch to one side, and as I follow him, I’m suddenly aware how intently I’m watching him. Player! I want to shout. Hovering there, finally he gives me something. He strokes his thumb against my shoulder, thrilling the nerves there, making the ones nearby beg for similar attention. Leaning closer, he does the tongue trick again. Won’t even give a full lick against my lips, though, just flickering, fluttering touches, his breath the heaviest contact of all. I’ve never wanted anyone more. Anything more. I want to pull him down, drag him close, run my hands all over his body. Keep him above me, around me, get him inside me. Desire sweeps through me then settles as an aching throb in my crotch, a knot in the base of my spine. He suddenly pulls away. I could scream. Flopping back against the seat, he doesn’t cuddle into me. “That, Miss Martino,” he says, looking out the window, “is what you do to me.”

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Fully rattled, nerves jangling, I sit up straight and fester. I don’t speak, determined not to let him know how well that worked. I’d have to clear my throat, and I’d probably sound bitchy. And I know I’d lose if I reach across for him. So I just sit there. He laughs. “You’re pissed.” Grinding my teeth, I try to sound calm. “I’m not pissed.” “Yeah, you are.” He laughs again. “I wish you could see yourself, you’re wound tight, baby.” His leg starts jittering up and down. “I’m not pissed, and I’m not trying to piss you off,” I tell him as we pull into the hotel’s driveway. “I know,” he says as he climbs out, stands to the side to let me out. “It’s cool.” I move toward him, but he closes the door and evades, fishes in his pocket for the valet ticket and drops some money to the cab driver. He hands the ticket over to the only guy on duty, who quickly takes off. Shivering, he crosses his arms. “Let’s leave it like this,” he says, still not reaching for me. Head swimming, nerves itching, I’m stunned. He’s done with me. I pushed him too far, and now he’s done. I fight for something to say but can’t form coherent words. I want to walk away but can’t make my legs obey. Finally, digging deep, watching him look down at the pavement instead of at me, I nod. “If that’s what you want…” “I mean, just for right now,” he says, shifting his weight. “Not for a long time. Just tonight, this morning, you know, whatever. I’ll see you later, right? I gotta work, but I can see you after that?” “Yes,” I say, relieved, still not stepping toward him. Feeling the chill, I rub my arms, wish he’d move over and hug me close and warm me up. His car gets pulled around, scratched and dented door facing us. First I feel a pang of guilt, then I almost want to laugh. He grins, then that dies, and I know, I just know what he’s thinking—he’s thinking about what made him do that in the first place, and he’s not angry. He looks over at me and nods, quickly draining the humor away from me and making me want to reach out to him again. Making me want him. Stepping off the curb, he walks around to the driver’s side. “I’m gonna call you. And then somehow, yo, I don’t give a fuck how, or when, or whatever, but I’m takin’ you home, and I’m gonna throw you in my bed, and then we’re gonna—” “Rodriguez!” I stop him, because I can’t stand to listen anymore. The

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24/7 sound of his voice, the mental picture he just put in my head, his gleaming eyes, the way he’s just laying it out there, almost giving me orders, it’s just too much. “I’ll see you later.” “That’s my girl,” he says with a wink. “It’s cold out here, go inside.” So I do. I stumble slightly, suddenly aware of how drunk that tequila made me, but I’m still not sleepy. Head-to-toe, I’m wired. Almost— annoyed? Horny. That’s it. Vince waves from behind his bar, so I go on over, no one else around. The whole time wondering, what the hell is wrong with me? I just had him, it was only a few hours ago, in the elevator. But that seems so surreal, so far away. “How’s your night going?” Vince asks as he hands me a drink. “Dude, I can’t drink that, I’m sorry.” “Had enough?” “Yeah, I gotta go up, get some sleep.” “Ahh, you’ve got a couple hours yet, keep me company a while.” I look around, it’s really dead. There’s a few night owls still out on the floor, some early risers starting to trickle in, but no one here with him. “Gimme an orange juice,” I say and take a seat, lighting up a cigarette. “Where’s Miguel?” he asks. “Ahh, you’re calling him by name now.” Shrugging, Vinice admits, “He seems all right.” “He went home, has to get some sleep,” I tell him. “Yeah, right,” he says. “You sent him home.” I just grin slyly. “I see that look,” he says knowingly. “Good for you. Finally broke that long streak of yours. About time. Was it worth the wait?” I can’t keep a smile off my face. “Yeah, he was.” I change the subject and ask him about his night. I chain-smoke four cigarettes and drink two glasses of orange juice, which tear up my stomach but help clear my head. When we hit a lull, I flip him his tip for the night, tell him I’ll see him later. When I get upstairs, Sherri’s still asleep so I strip off the tight clothes and pull on my pajamas, laughing at the sequined underwear as I toss them into the dirty clothes pile. Edgy, I flip on the TV to the Weather Channel, keep the volume off, slide under the covers and light a smoke. I flip it around through my fingers, flick the ashes incessantly. As soon as I crush it out, I light another one.

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“What’re you doing?” Sherri rasps from her bed. “Sorry, I can’t sleep yet.” “What time is it?” “Almost seven.” “You have a good time last night? What’s his name?” “Miguel. Yeah, we had fun.” “What’d you do?” “Um, we gambled a little. I drank tequila—I don’t think I’m gonna do that again.” “Is that it? You do anything else?” she asks coyly. “Well, yeah. As a matter of fact, I fucked him in an elevator.” “What’s that? What did you just say?” “In an elevator. You know, those ones in the Forum tower. Did him there.” Rolling over, she picks up the phone and orders coffee. Sits up, lights a cigarette. “I’m going to the bathroom, then I’m going to have my coffee. Then I’m getting dressed and going down to the pool and ordering a beer. You can tell me about this then,” she says and goes into the bathroom. I give up on sleep and take a shower before getting on my suit and going to the pool with her. Thankfully, once down there, she drinks pretty heavily, so I know she’ll be ready to take a nap this afternoon. It’s a weird day. I keep drifting off to sleep between conversations then jerking awake with a feeling of restlessness. So I go swim a few laps, the whole time running down the events of the past couple nights. I tell Sherri the bare bones, conveniently leaving out how I think I got struck by the thunderbolt. But I know it wasn’t just the liquor, I know I did get zapped, and zapped good. We talk about Don and her moving. We talk about what she’ll do down there. We talk about her leaving her job. But the whole time, I’m thinking, Miguel. When I doze off, when I do the laps, even when I should be intently listening to her, there he is, lurking in the back of my mind. On my third dip in the pool, I finally figure out why it’s nagging me so much. I can’t research him. Usually when I get struck with a new passion, I have to research and learn everything I can about it. I’ll pull encyclopedias, I’ll go to the library, I’ll scour online. But I can’t do that with him. All I have to go on is what I already know, flipping the facts around, dissecting every look, every nuance of speech. And even with that, there’s a cloud of doubt around it all. How much is how it appeared to me, and how much is what I’m imposing onto the picture? It’s not fact. It’s subjective. What’s really

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24/7 going on could be different to him than it is to me. He charmed me out of my underwear in an elevator. I charmed him into buying me a new pair. I wonder if all this is even more hardcore because I’ve never felt it before. I wonder if I’m obsessed. Or… If this is what the start of love really is like? He said now I know how he feels. Is he serious? Does he really feel like this? I’d like to slap him for doing this to me. But I’d like to fuck him again first. I can’t believe I fucked him like that. Like I’d lost my mind. In the bright sunshine, buzz gone, still itching for him, another thought thumps in my head. It had nagged me before, but it’s really bad now. Bruno actually brings it up. Out of nowhere. “You know how you said it was so quick, in the elevator, that you just did it?” “Yeah,” I say, knowing where she’s going, knowing I deserve the knockdown. “How did you…or even…did you guys use a condom?” Sheepish: “No.” “Dumbfuck.” “I know. I know.” “Especially ’cause, didn’t you say you saw his ex?” “Yes.” “And?” “Skeevy.” “Martino…” “I know. I know. It was stupid.” “Very,” she says, then lets it die.

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[ 15 [

A

FTER THE POOL, WE GO BACK UPSTAIRS. SHERRI DOESN’T WANT TO NAP, THOUGH,

she wants to keep rolling, so I humor her and agree to go to Planet Hollywood for lemon drop martinis and lunch. She gets wrecked and cries about missing Don. Then she gets more wrecked and cries about having to move away with Don. Then she’s ready for a nap. Just as I get her down in bed and pull the drapes, the phone rings, jarring her out of sleep. I snatch it up and hear one word. “Yo.” It sets me off. Tired as I am, it thrills me to the core. “What’re you doin’?” I ask him. “Callin’ you. An’ workin’.” “You’re at work already?” “Yeah, when I got home there was a message from this dude who wanted to know if I’d switch with him and take his card shift. So I came in at one.” “Aren’t you tired?” “Nah. I got some sleep. Little bit. Enough.” “Sorry I kept you out so late.” “Wish you’d kept me out later. Anyhow, check it out, I’ll be done at nine tonight. So you think it’d be all right if I hang out with you and your friend?” I look over at Sherri, sawing logs already. “Yeah, it’d be great, if she’s awake. She just passed out, I don’t know if she’ll be getting up again or not.” “Well, like, it’s cool by me if it’s just you.” “How about this—I’ll come over there, maybe around eight or so, I’ll play some cards with you before you’re done.” “You’d do that? Come see me?” “Yeah, I want to. I’d come now, but I haven’t slept much yet. Just some catnaps at the pool.”

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24/7 “Yeah, rough life you got, you know, I feel bad for you.” “I appreciate the sympathy.” “Yo, take a nap now. I don’t want you all fallin’ asleep on me tonight.” “I’ll see you around eight, Miguel.” “Ohh, I’m back to Miguel now, huh? You must be tired—softenin’ up like that. Or is that just how you think of me when you’re ready to fall asleep and dream about me?” “You’re so cocky. And cheesy.” He just goes, “See you at eight. And, oh—act like a tourist, not my girl.” Excited but exhausted, I go out like a light once I hang up. It’s a heavy sleep, and when I groggily roll over and peek at the time again, it’s 7:09. Madone. Sitting up, I light a smoke. Yawn. Stretch. I feel good. The tequila’s drained out of me, I feel limber from all the swimming, rested from the nap. And still dying for Miguel. “Bruno,” I call over. “I’m getting a shower and going out. You gonna come?” “I’m gonna sleep some more,” she mumbles. “Want me come over and get you in awhile?” “Yeah.” “Miguel’s going to be with me, is that okay?” “Fine. Just tell me what time to be ready.” “Be ready around nine-thirty.” Hesitant: “Bruno, will you be nice to him?” “Depends,” she says. “On what?” “Is he nice to you?” “He’s really nice to me.” “Then of course I’ll be nice to him.” The shower is easy, though I do take special care as I’m shaving not to cut myself. I moisturize really good, utterly shocked at just how tan I got today. I comb out my hair, brush my teeth. Floss. Always floss. I’m screwed when it’s time to put on clothes. Torn in theory and utterly screwed in execution. Do I want to look hot for him? Or should I look nice for the Bellagio? And whichever way I go, I don’t even have anything to go either way. It’s 7:51. I’m already going to be a little late, the longer I have this stupid debate the worse it’ll be. I wish Bruno’s clothes would fit me. Skinny bitch. I go back in to the bathroom and put on mascara, blink at myself a few times. I grab some condoms. Get some money, key, cigarettes, lighter, lip

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stuff. I give it up and throw on a black low-cut sweater, dress shorts and higher than usual platform sandals. Hopefully a nice cross-section between hot (boobs accentuated) and nice (ass is covered). I hoof it over to Bellagio. I find him easily. He looks really good, but I’d never guess him for the highway hummer-getting, car-wrecking, elevator-fucking, tequila-drinking, got-me-tied-in-knots, Marlboro-smoking, tattooed Puerto Rican object of lust and love I’ve been thinking of all day. Wearing his crisp white dress shirt, red velvet vest, shuffling those cards, tongue on the corner of his mouth, he’s looking so straight and normal. He catches my eye before I sit down and he shifts his weight, flashes a crooked grin at me. Yeah, he is that guy, isn’t he? My guy. It almost blows my mind. I dump my cash down once he’s done shuffling. The guy next to me cuts, and he puts the yellow card right up close to the front. We don’t talk much, though he does say “Fifteen hundred for the pretty girl” as he slides me my chips. It occurs to me that if I sit here and count and play, and They know that I’m counting, and if They know that we know each other, he could get in big trouble. Turns out it doesn’t matter, because I can’t concentrate anyhow. He’s not distracting me, not really talking to me. No one else at the table is distracting me. It’s calm and quiet, and with a new shoe and generous cut, I should have it made. But by the third hand I realize I’m having to think really hard. Really hard. I’m having trouble keeping up the running count as the cards are dealt out, I forget to add or subtract on subsequent cards played. I have to think, actually stop and think about what to do when I’ve got an ace/four against his three. I get it and take the hit, and it all happens really quickly. But usually those moves are just done by rote. And having to think about that stupidly simple move makes me miss the subtraction when I draw a king. Exactly what in the fuck has he done to me? Bullshit, this is utter bullshit. I stop thinking about it. Not so much because I want to play to win, but just because I want to play right. I give up, take a deep breath, relax and decide to trust myself. Then I go. I stop thinking and let it rip on automatic for the hand playing. Two hands after I do that, the counting falls in line. I

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24/7 ease up, give up on watching him deal and instead just scan and add as everyone plays their hand. I know my previous count was probably off, but when it spikes up a little, right after a hand of no faces plays, I triple my bet anyhow. I pull two aces and split and double down on them. Get a blackjack on one, nineteen on the other. He busts with twenty-five. Paying me, he starts to chatter. “So, how you doin’ tonight?” I make the small talk with him, still trying to keep a mental side tally of the cards being played. It doesn’t work. I get lost within two hands. He sweeps up a bust of mine before I can do the subtraction, pays and scoops a blackjack farther down the table. He moves faster than when I first saw him dealing. Much faster. The count dropped anyhow—a big chunk of face cards had just shown—so I back off and drop down to my original bet. Miguel nods at my drink. Says simply, “You like cosmopolitans? They make the best ones in the city over there.” “Thanks. That’s a good tip, I think I’ll try one tonight,” I say and slide him a chip as a toke. “Thank you,” he says graciously, but I can tell a smirk wants to come through. The best part, it starts a chain reaction. The guy next to me slides him a few chips, then the guy next to him. Next thing I know, he’s being tapped out and clearing his hands. “Seriously, go try one over there,” he says as he brushes by me, leaving the pit area. I know he’s got to go somewhere to change, so I play out a few more hands and finish my drink before taking off, cashing in and going to wait for him. Before long, he brushes past me at the bar. Hand against his stomach, strutting along with that loping gait, looking killer sexy out of his work clothes and just as him. I follow him through the shops, out the side door. Outside, he waits for me. Squints as the evening sun glints in his eyes. Says, “You look great.” “So do you. That didn’t get you in trouble, did it?” “Fuck, no, it’s cool. So, where you wanna go?” “You mind if we go next door and pick up Sherri, just for a little while?” “Nope. She gonna give me a hard time?” “She gives everyone a hard time. You hungry?” “Fuckin’ starved.” “We’ll get some dinner, get her looped, drop her off.” “Then you’re all mine?” He full-on leers at me.

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“Then you’re all mine.” “You go get her, I’ll meet you out front o’ the place with the car.” Bruno’s ready when I arrive, and I beg her to be nice to him. “Not a problem,” she promises. He’s pulled up and waiting for us, so I lead her over, open the door and push the seat forward for her to climb in back. Once in, she extends her hand up front to him and says, “Hi, I’m Sherri, nice to meet you.” “Miguel. I’ve heard a lot about you.” “This is a great car,” she says. Straight-faced now: “So, what happened to the door over here?” Poking me in the side, Miguel asks me, “Is she fuckin’ with me?” Hearing him, she answers, “Yes, Rodriguez, I’m fucking with you.” “Another one,” he sighs and pulls out. “Where are we going?” she asks. “Dinner,” I answer. “Dinner? Ahh, man, I hate dinner,” she whines. Tipping the scales at one hundred-two pounds, naturally she hates dinner. “What are we going to do at dinner?” “Drink,” I answer her. “Oh, okay. Then I’ll like it. Where are we going?” “You pick,” I say, figure that’s the least I can do. “No, you decide, I don’t care, anywhere.” Hopefully, I go, “Morton’s?” “No, that’s too much to eat.” “How about, um, how about Rock Lobster in Mandalay Bay. We can go to the shark exhibit after that.” “Can we drink in the shark thing?” “I don’t think so.” “Then not there. How about that place with the free wine you like,” Sherri suggests. So we decide on Battista’s, just around the corner. It’s good, reasonable Italian food, but the best part is that they give you all the free wine you can drink. Red and white. None of us are wine aficionados, which probably works in our favor. The white is smooth and fruity, the red is dark and pungent. It’s served Old World style, in carafes with short, stemless glasses. I go for the white, Miguel reaches for the red, and after sampling them both, Sherri sits back, looks displeased and says, “I don’t like it.” “Get a beer,” I tell her. “But the wine is free.”

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24/7 “Look, I’m buying, I just won a couple bucks over at Bellagio, so get whatever you want.” She perks up. “You won at Bellagio just now? Did you buy me something sparkly?” she asks hopefully, flagging down the waiter and ordering her beer. “No, but I’ll buy you all the beer you want.” “You know my birthday is coming up. You know how I like the sparkly stuff.” “I know, Bruno.” “I always wanted an engagement ring from Tiffany’s.” Miguel cuts in, asks me, “So, you call that winning a little?” “Yeah, not bad today,” I answer as I refill my wine. “So, like, you always win?” Sherri fills her wineglass and nods at me, says, “She wins most of the time.” Holding out her arm, she shakes her wrist and shows him a silver bracelet. “This is what I got last time she won.” I kick her under the table, but Miguel’s already cutting his eyes at me, staring intently, and I know he noticed the kick. “Miguel’s a dealer at the Bellagio,” I tell her. “Oh, that’s cool,” she says, takes a gulp of wine, and apparently the alcohol helps kick the synapses into gear because she nods her head slowly and just says, “Ooooh.” Leaning back, Miguel lights a smoke then drapes one arm over the back of my chair. “Uh-huh. You know, we’ve been winning. Like, the past couple nights, we won more than a couple bucks together. I still gotta give you your cut o’ that.” “No, no,” I protest, picking up my empty glass and waving it at Sherri. “You fronted all that money, that’s yours. I didn’t do anything, that was just luck.” Bruno pours me a new one, fills up her glass then reaches for the red to top off Miguel’s. “You better be careful,” I warn him. “That red is a lot to handle.” “I can handle it just fine,” he says. When she’s done pouring, she raises her glass, we say, “Salute,” bang our glasses on the table and gulp down the entire glass. “That was interesting,” Miguel says. “An Italian thing?” “Not sure. Maybe.” I grin at him, wine starting to loosen me up, his arm behind me starting to heat me up. Pretty much happy that the gambling conversation is over.

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“Yeah, that’s interesting, you know. Not quite as interesting as someone who consistently wins out in Vegas, though.” Okay, maybe it’s not over. He’s leaned back, looking oh-so-cocky, taking a long drag off his smoke, one eye squinted shut, the other on me. I try to force myself not to squirm. Instead, I light a smoke. Inhaling deeply, I hold it in a second longer than usual then exhale. Flip the cigarette around a couple times through my fingers. “Know what else is interesting,” he finally continues. “What you said about us winning, how you didn’t do nothing, it was just luck.” I shrug. “Yeah, it was.” “Oh, I know it was,” he says quickly. “It was on, you know, dice, and slots…what else we play?” “Roulette,” I answer. “That was the first I played that, it was kind of cool. You know, Dostoevsky was a huge gambler, roulette was his game.” I start rambling to change the subject. “Who?” Bruno asks. “Is that someone you work with?” “Never mind,” I say. “He’s a famous writer. Crime and Punishment?” Miguel nods, finishes his wine, pours us all another one. “So how’d he do at it? Dostoevsky. He lucky? He win a lot?” “Um, no, actually, it nearly destroyed him. He wrote about it.” “See that’s how gambling is,” Miguel says. “It’s a little luck, for a while, you know, if you win at all. But the games are fixed, you ain’t s’posed to win. Eventually, everyone’s a loser to the house.” He pauses, hits his smoke again, looks directly at me. “’Cept you, huh?” “No, I lose. I lose plenty,” I say and start turning my ring around on my finger, double-flicking my cigarette. “When you’re not trying? When it’s just luck?” Ooooh, the sneaky little bastard. How, how, how does he know? I play it cool, though. “It’s always luck.” “That’s, like, not how you made it sound a minute ago, you know.” “That was just a figure of speech. I was just saying that I don’t want the money—we were just lucky and you put up the capital, so keep it.” He laughs. “Yo, I don’t think that’s what you meant. I think you meant you didn’t earn it. You’d take something you earned, right?” I lose my cool. “All right, Kojak, what the fuck? Spit it out already.” He laughs again, harder. “Don’t get pissed,” he says. “I’m not pissed, Rodriguez. I just want to know what you’re getting at.” “I’m not stupid, you know,” he says and leans into me.

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24/7 “I know you’re not stupid. I wouldn’t like you if you were stupid.” “All right. Well, I’m just sayin’, I know you’re not stupid. I knew that right away, first time I met you. When I was dealing blackjack.” He nudges me. “You remember that?” “Of course I remember that. I had that seven-card nineteen and you freaking beat it. And you looked really hot doing it.” “See that? Right there. You remember that hand.” “It was a fucked-up hand!” I say. “Yeah, but you remember it ’cause you were concentrating.” He catches my gaze and leans even closer. “I just figured it out today, chica. You, uh, you think I just happened to start talkin’ to you today after you won that split/double?” I never saw that coming. Didn’t recognize it when it happened. Now, only with his prodding, looking through the rearview, do I see things as they really unfolded a little while ago. He distracted me. Intentionally. Isn’t that what snake-charmers do? “You were fucking with me,” I say, incredulous. “Yeah, I was fuckin’ with you,” he answers. “Told you, I ain’t stupid.” I lean back and cross my arms, but that only puts me back against his arm, still leaning on the back of my chair. He rubs his thumb against my shoulder. I raise my glass to Sherri and we down the wine as the waiter brings our salads. Sighing, I turn to him and say, “You’re a company man.” Grinning, he looks at me and says, “An’ you’re a cheat.” Challenging, I put my wrists together and hold them in front of him. “Congratulations. Book ‘em, Danno.” “Don’t get pissed,” he laughs. “Shit, I ain’t pissed.” “You’re not?” “No. Well, I had to fuck with you, you know, I knew what you was doin’, I didn’t wanna get busted ’cause I know you.” “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just…it’s habit. And it’s not cheating.” “Yeah, well, to them it is.” “Yeah, well, fuck them.” “Hey, I don’t care, Martino,” he says. “Go for it. If you can do it, then do it. Takes guts. Takes smarts. I like that. Just, like, don’t ever come play at my table again.” “Okay,” I say. “I mean it.” “Okay. So, we’re cool then?”

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“I’m cool.” He nods, leans into me, whispers in my ear. “But you’re fuckin’ hot.” Downing her glass of wine, Sherri says, “I miss Don.” Dinner is good, I tear through it. I know I’m supposed to be dainty and not eat in front of a guy, especially a guy I’m trying to impress. But I’m hungry so I dig in, the wine feeding my appetite. Miguel goes through his steak and pasta like a man possessed. On her second beer, Sherri sighs and comments how she misses Don again. On her fourth beer, and after they’ve refilled our wine carafes, I move on to the red with Miguel, and Sherri warns me off it. “I thought you couldn’t handle the red,” she says. “Yeah, I’m only having a little. Just to level the playing field for him,” I say. “Don’t you fuckin’ worry about me,” Miguel says, “I can handle it just fine.” “Don can’t handle red wine,” Sherri says. Now she’s really drunk. Glassy-eyed, hiccup-jarring, slur-her-words drunk. “You have to make sure I get back okay tonight,” she says. “We will,” I reassure her. She points at Miguel. “He shouldn’t be driving, too much wine. He’s smashed.” “I ain’t smashed,” Miguel says. “You’re both going to leave me,” she says. “All alone. And I don’t want him driving me, he already fucked up his car. ’Cause of you.” She points at me. “I’ll be fine to drive you back,” Miguel tells her. She digs in. “Yeah, as long as there aren’t any statues on the sidewalk to run into.” She laughs. I smirk, but shake my head, mouth the words “shut up” to her. “Or as long as you keep your mouth off his dick,” she says. Oh, Madone. Honestly. I kick her again under the table, but she yelps and gives me a look. She’s not being mean, she’s actually being nice, just trying to bust balls—it’s what she does. But I don’t know how Miguel’s going to take it. Pouring himself another glass of wine, he says, “You’re just jealous, Bruno.” “Yeah? Of what?” “’Cause you know I can take her home…” He points his fork at me.

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24/7 “an’ slap her ass an’ say, ‘Who’s your daddy?’ without worrying about incest undertones popping up.” I guess he takes it pretty well. I crack up, her eyes go wide and Miguel just keeps chewing his steak. On her sixth beer, Sherri says, “I don’t want to go back there. Not all alone. Don’t leave me alone again tonight.” “What do you wanna do?” Miguel asks her. “We got all night, we’ll do whatever you want.” “Really? Okay. I’ll tell you what I want. What I want is what I don’t want. I don’t want to move there,” she says as the waiter brings our cappuccino. “I don’t want this,” she says to him and tries to hand the steaming mug back. “I didn’t order this, I don’t want this.” “You don’t wanna move where?” Miguel asks. “North Carolina,” she says. “So don’t move,” he tells her with a shrug. She looks at me for an answer. “Bruno, listen,” I say. “They don’t have Italians in North Carolina.” “You guys are big on that, ain’t you?” Miguel asks. “Huge!” Sherri answers him. “But it’s not just that. You listen, then you tell me if I’m being stupid, you’ll tell me, right? You’ll be honest with me?” He sits back, lights a smoke, says, “Shoot.” Sherri gives him her story. “My boyfriend,” she starts. He stops her and points to the ring on her finger. “Don’t you mean fiancé?” “Yeah, him. He had to move to North Carolina for work. So now I have to move down there. I have to quit my job—” I interrupt her. “She has a really good job right now.” “Yeah,” she agrees. “I have to quit that job, and I don’t have one down there. He makes good money, but he can’t sell his house up here and he bought a new one down there, a second mortgage. He wants me signed on it with him, and I won’t have a job to pay anything yet. That’s too much debt, it’s too much for just him and me.” “That freaks you out,” Miguel says. “Yeah! And now I won’t have a job, and he’s in all this debt, and I don’t want to be in all that debt, and we’ve started fighting—” I interrupt her again, more for her benefit than Miguel’s. “They fight a lot.” “Right,” she says. “And there’s no Italians in North Carolina. He’s fifty, did I say that yet? He’s fifty.”

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“Is this the first time you’ll be getting married?” Miguel asks her. “Yeah,” she says. “Tell him,” I say. Sighing, she slugs the last of her beer. “This is my fourth engagement.” “Fifth,” I correct her. “You ever move before?” Miguel asks. She lights a smoke. Stays quiet. “Tell him,” I say. Exhaling, she turns and looks to the wall. “I’ve moved away with two of them.” “How’d that work out?” he asks. I answer for her. “She was back within six weeks both times.” “Yeah, but those were different, they ended up being assholes,” she says. Miguel leans in. “You still wanna know what I think? Don’t go. You started all this by sayin’ you don’t wanna go. So don’t, it won’t work.” “But I want it to work,” she says and stands up. “Excuse me, I have to go the bathroom.” When she’s out of earshot, Miguel asks, “She gonna be okay?” “Oh, yeah, she’ll be fine. She does this. Every day since he’s been gone she does this. She’ll move away then be back within six weeks. Listen,” I say and nudge him, “thanks for doing this. I really appreciate it.” “I’m havin’ a good time,” he says. “Glad to meet my girl’s friends.” I shiver as he calls me his girl, know it’s not the wine making me want to get even closer to him. The wired buzz I had going on all day amps even higher. “You handled her really well. She likes you—she wouldn’t bust ’em for you if she didn’t.” “Yeah, she’s cool. A little high-maintenance. I gotta say, though, I don’t care so much what she thinks of me, I care what you think of me.” “You know what I think of you. I’ve been thinking it all day, too. That was mean, what you did to me last night.” “Yeah.” He grins. “Wasn’t mean, though, just tryin’ to level the playing field.” “So you think I’m high-maintenance?” I ask as I slide my hand down to his knee. “Don’t know. Don’t think so. Doubt it. Are you?” I laugh. “I don’t know, you’re gonna have to tell me. I feel like I am. I feel like I’ve been an ass. I messed up your car, I freaked out last night

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24/7 when I saw your ex and I could have gotten you in trouble today.” “Yo, huh-uh. Last time, okay? You didn’t mess up my car. And you think that was a freak-out last night? Then you ain’t high maintenance. That was low-key. And today’s all right.” He smiles. “I handled that.” “Oh, you handled that, huh? Are you saying you can handle me?” I squeeze his knee. Cockiness gone, he answers, “Honestly? I’m not sure. But I’m gonna try.” Swagger returning, he says, “’Sides, guess I gotta now, it’s all official and shit after meeting your friend.” “No, no, it’s not official till I meet your friends, too.” “Yo, that ain’t gonna happen.” “You don’t trust me, huh?” “I trust you,” he says. “I know you’re all into me.” “Oooh, Rodriguez, watch it.” Laughing, he says, “Nah, I’m just sayin’ I don’t trust them.” “So, you don’t think I could handle it?” “Didn’t say that. Didn’t say that. I’m just sayin’—” “You’re still trying to handle me, is that it?” “I don’t know, sorta.” Reaching up, he runs his index finger down my forehead, along my nose, traces around my lips with a grin, saying, “Statue lips. I didn’t handle them at first, but don’t you fuckin’ worry, I can handle you just fine.” Sherri comes back. Sits and pours another wine. Says: “Okay, you have to take me back now, I’m drunk.” Outside, as we climb into the car, I check with Miguel. “You okay to drive over there, Rodriguez?” “I don’t know,” he says. “Serious. That was a lotta wine.” I can see the glow on him from it. “Then don’t drive,” I tell him. “I’m not walking,” Sherri says. “I’m getting a ride back to the hotel and you’re walking me upstairs. I’m going to get changed, have one last cigarette and then go to sleep. In the morning, we’re going to the pool. Together.” “We’ll get a cab.” I look back at him. “I knew you couldn’t handle the red.” We escort her upstairs. As the elevator doors close, we move to opposite sides of the car. Bruno looks over at Miguel and says, “Thanks for keeping it in your pants at least until the twenty-second floor.” After saying goodnight to her, as I close the door behind me, out in the hallway, Miguel reaches over and takes hold of my hand. Twining his

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fingers through mine, he rubs his thumb against my palm as we walk along the thick carpet. “What do you wanna do?” he asks. Thrumming inside, thinking, I want you to take me to your bed and throw me down and then—I cut off the thought, but it’s already done the damage. “I don’t care.” “Wanna gamble.” He nudges me. Reaching the elevator bay, I look over at him. “I don’t care. Not really.” “You wanna get somethin’ to drink?” “I thought you had enough,” I say as an elevator arrives. “I could have one, or not. I feel better now.” He pulls us into the car. “I don’t want to get a headache from stopping drinking, especially since it was wine,” I say as he pushes a button. “Well, you wanna stop an’ get a bottle o’ wine, then come over to my place?” “Yeah, that’s pretty much exactly what I want to do.” As the car lurches down, he drags me closer, bends to kiss me. I pull back. “Don’t kiss me right now,” I say. He tilts his head to the side, confused. I place my hand against his chest, lower my gaze. “I mean it, I can’t take it right now. All day, I’ve been dying for you, thinking about you. I feel like something’s wrong with me…” He shuts me up by lurching and kissing me. Hard, crushing, deep and wet. He overwhelms me. Brutal. He bites my lip as he pulls away, dizzying me. Weak from it, I think, Please, no, not right here again, but the doors ding and open, and he tugs at my hand. Hoarse, he just says “C’mon” as he pulls me out. The rest of the walk is in a daze. I’m good and lit up from the wine, people are buzzing everywhere. Machines clank, heels click on the marble floor, Sinatra croons all around, interrupted only by the bark of stickmen and cheers of winners. Snippets of other people’s conversations float around me; everyone’s painted, everyone sparkles. Everyone looks excited and flushed. Happy. Miguel halts at a bar. “Yo, if we get a bottle here it’s gonna be expensive, but we don’t have to stop again.” “Get it here,” I tell him. “You sure? ’Cause we could—”

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24/7 “Get the bottle. Now. Get two.” He places the order, and I hand him some cash for it. He starts to protest, but when the bartender returns, he gives in and takes care of it. “I don’t want change,” I say. He gulps, grabs the bottles and starts pulling me along again. Outside, the night is still warm, dark has settled in comfortably and beyond the fountains all the lights twinkle away. We both stand speechless, watching the water pumping out of the fountains, waiting for a cab to pull up. When it does, I slide in, him after me, both of us sitting straight, a good foot of seemingly empty space between us sparking with energy. I don’t even look over at him. Not once, the whole way. The ride is befuddlingly fast, painfully slow. Turned off the strip, all the lights, gamblers, hookers, dice, cards and comics left behind, I feel my throat tighten. By the time we pull up to his apartment building, I have no idea where I am, and mixed with the heady buzz and overpowering desire already consuming me, a new twist takes a grip on me. Nervousness. Shift-in-your-seat, full-blown anxious, hand-wringing, fidgety, fussy nervous. I take his hand to get out of the car, and when he grabs the back of my neck as we walk along, I nearly jump out of my own skin. He guides me up a couple stairs into an elevator that takes us up, steers me down a hallway, hands me the bottles as he fumbles with keys, opens the door as he flicks on the lights. Chewing my lip, I force my feet to move forward, through the door. I’m not scared. It’s not that paralyzing “Oh, shit, what have I done, he could rape/murder/beat/hurt me” heart-pounding terror thing. It’s that drymouthed “Oh, shit, what if this sucks, what if I suck, what if he hurts me” heart-fluttering insecurity thing. He senses it. Takes the bottles from my arms and nods for me to follow him. He leads me to the kitchen. Opens the fridge and puts one of the bottles in, starts rummaging through drawers, I presume for a wine opener. I drink him in, feeling foolish for watching him so intently then force myself to look around. It’s nice. It’s really nice. I’m not exactly shocked. I mean, I know he’s got a nice car, I know dealers at Bellagio do pretty well, but that’s not it. It’s clean. Everything seems in order but not in an impeccable way. He lives here, but there’s no dirty dishes, the floor is clean, all the counters and cupboards are polished.

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It’s all new, from the appliances to the floor. His schedule is posted on the fridge with a Bellagio magnet—he was supposed to work the past few nights until four. Neat people don’t generally rearrange their schedules. That strikes a chord in me. All day, I wished I could learn more about him somehow. This is like hitting a home run. This is all his. It’s the ultimate resource for research. Paydirt. “Fuck,” he says and heads into another room. I follow into the living room. Huge television, black leather stuffed couch and matching chair. Soft slate-grey plush carpet, just vacuumed—I can see the lines from where the sweeper ran. Nice stereo, oodles of CDs lined up near it, speakers all around the room. And he’s behind a bar. He’s got a freaking bar in his living room. I knew I liked him. “Finally,” he says as he produces a corker. Sheepish, he says, “I don’t drink much wine usually.” “Me, neither,” I say. “I’m impressed you have one of those things.” “Me, too.” He laughs and starts on the bottle. “This is really nice,” I tell him. “What?” “Your place here, where you live. This is—great.” “You like it, huh? Yo, pick out some tunes, anything you want.” I scan the CD’s—they’re alphabetized, and he’s got all sorts of good shit. I grab Ben Harper and put it on as he pours out the wine. Handing me a glass, he says, “You a big old stoner?” “Once upon a time,” I say. “I’ll catch a buzz now and then, but only if I get hooked up with kind bud. I’m not chronic.” “We get tested at work so it usually ain’t worth it. I’ll still blaze once in a while if I know I’m in the clear. I hope this stuff is okay,” he says about the wine and takes a sip. I try it. “Works for me,” I say. “I can’t believe how nice this place is.” “Yeah, ain’t Caesars, but check this out,” he says and moves to the other side of the room, pulls open floor-length drapes and opens a large sliding glass door. I follow him out onto a balcony. “Wow,” I say. “Not bad, huh? Not bad.” Directly below is a lighted, sparkling blue pool, a few other structures and shorter buildings. And beyond that, reaching into the mountains on the horizon, more sparkling lights of the city that overtake the desert. Overhead, the sky sparkles back with stars. It looks like someone took a

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24/7 handful of jewels and tossed them all over the place. Leaning against the railing, he nudges me, says, “Breathe, señorita, breathe.” “Working on it,” I answer. “Yo, I bought this place ’cause o’ the view,” he says as he looks out across the panorama. “The rest of it’s not bad either.” “Yeah, I got lucky to find it, but the view, that’s what did it, you know? Like, I never had nothin’ like this back home.” His one hand bounces up and down on the railing next to my arm as he shifts his weight to move a smidge closer to me. He sniffs, looks down at the pool then back over the sparkling lights. Saying, “Like, first time I came out here, it felt really different from home, but not all freaky-flaky like LA. You ever been to LA?” I nod with a grin and he goes on. “Then you know what I mean—West Coast thing, I guess, you know. And, like, it’s nice there and all, but I’m just more…I don’t know, it’s different in the East…” “You’re very East Coast,” I tell him. He looks over questioningly so I nudge him. “In a good way,” I say. “I mean that in a good way. You have more energy.” “You mean I’m hyper.” He laughs. “No. No, it’s not that. It’s just…yes, I know what you mean about the difference between East and West coast in this country, that’s all. I like East Coast.” He grins and looks back down. Gets his hand to stop bouncing and extends his index finger and lightly moves it back and forth across my forearm a couple times. “You’re East Coast, too,” he says. He still seems weighted, like he was saying something and I veered him off-course and he’s not sure he wants to go there again. So I prod him. “So you love the view of Vegas. Or did you think it’d be romantic and would help you score more?” Grinning: “Nah, it ain’t that. It was just for me, you know?” He sniffs again, shuffles his feet. “Like, it was crazy out here. Everything was so bright, know what I mean? An’ it wasn’t like a whole other world than home, it was just…I don’t know—better somehow. My first time here, I went up an’ checked out the view from the Rio, you ever been up there? Yeah, you see the whole city, not just the strip but the whole city. An’ nothin’ ’bout it looked ground down or beat. It didn’t look like a grind. ’Cause everyone was out there partyin’ an’ shit. They weren’t locked into this life. It’s, like, people decide—they choose—to come here, you know? They

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ain’t just here ’cause they was born here and got nowhere else to go. I don’t know, I ain’t makin’ any sense, huh?” “Yes, you are,” I say. “I am? Huh. So, like, I think that’s why I decided to move here—you know, ’cause it all looked different. Like nothin’ would be ordinary or somethin’. Like I wouldn’t get bored. So that’s why I got this view. It ain’t the strip, but it was all bright. I didn’t see it during the day when I looked at the place, but I could picture it. So I came back the next night an’ checked it out—it was just like I’d imagined it. So I got the place.” “I like that,” I say. “So you come out here and check out the view and it amps you up.” “Nah,” Miguel says, shakes his head. “That’s the thing. I stopped comin’ out here. This is the first I been out here in a while.” “How come?” “’Cause I was out here one night, an’ it hit me. Just hit me, you know. It ain’t any different down there. All those lights, at first they seemed like all this excitement, all this, I don’t know, somethin’. Then this one night, I finally got it. All them lights, they’re just people. And they ain’t all that excitin’ or different. They just get up in the morning and grind it out, same as everybody else. Day after day, go to work, go wherever. Even the ones on vacation and shit, this is just a temporary break for them. “And then I seen that I had my light on, and I figured that someone else, someone with a higher view, was probably lookin’ down on my light. But they wasn’t even seein’ my light, you know? It was just one little part of the whole view. Nothin’ different ’bout it, just blurred in with all the others, just addin’ to the whole picture, but not even that, really. ’Cause if I’d shut off my light, no one would notice, you know. It wouldn’t really affect the view at all. It’d still be the same. “That’s when I got it. It hit me really hard—I’d become part of the grind. I hadn’t meant to, you know, it just happened. And I wasn’t all that special, and this place wasn’t all that excitin’ no more. It’s just the same old shit, over and over. So I stopped comin’ out here and lookin’ at it. Too fuckin’ depressing. Too ordinary.” Holy shit. I don’t know what to say. I want to reach out to him. I want to make it better, but I don’t know how. It’s the juxtaposition of him that gets me. All that outward strength, the hard, coiled muscles, the cockiness and swagger. But what he just said and the murkiness in his gaze counterpoint all that. It makes him more human. He’s right, he’s just like everyone else. He’s fragile.

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24/7 And yet, he’s not like everyone else. He’s nothing like anyone else. Despite what he just said, he seemed pretty happy the past couple nights. Maybe he’s one of those people who can push through the mundane or depressing, fight their way back up to still see the lights sparkle. And it doesn’t make him weaker because he showed me his chinks. It makes him stronger. “You’re not ordinary,” I say thickly. His index finger strokes across my arm again as he looks over at me. “Can I tell you somethin’? Tonight, right now, this view looks really good again.” He moves into me, and I jerk, breath catching in my throat. He moves slow, places an arm around my waist. “We can go. Like, if you don’t like it here, we can go. I didn’t mean to scare you.” “No, I want to be here. I like it here. I’m just nervous, I don’t know why. It shouldn’t be, so…whatever.” “I know. I kept givin’ you a hard time, though. You know, I don’t want you to think you gotta do anything.” “Oh, I want to,” I say. “You do?” “You don’t?” I ask. “Oh, I do.” Slowly, he dips his head, and I stretch up into him. He brushes his lips across mine, takes his time working up to a kiss. It’s soft and slow, tentative and reassuring. When his tongue finally peeks out, I’m tingling all over. Stopping, he leans his forehead against mine. Gravelly voiced, he asks, “Wanna go inside?” I let him lead me in, his hand rustling through my hair to rest on the back of my neck again as he leads me that way. He stops to grab the bottle of wine, guides me through the living room and down a hallway. “That the bathroom?” I ask. “Yeah, go ahead,” he says. “I’ll be right back there.” He points to the room at the end of the hall. His bedroom, I think as I duck in and fumble around for a light switch. Clicking it on, I close the door, exhaling deeply and trying to clear my head. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I so nervous? It’s not like I’m a virgin and this is my first time. But that’s how I feel. I feel like this is prom night. I look around. Just like the kitchen, it’s immaculate. It’s black-andwhite checks, which is a little disorienting, but it’s spotless. Clean tile, clean

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towels hung on the racks. Peeking in the shower, there’s no soap scum anywhere. Everything is neat and orderly—his soap, shampoo, everything. There’s a speaker on the wall, and I turn the dial, music from the living room comes floating through. That cracks me up. I pee, hoping that’ll relieve some of the throbbing. It doesn’t. Washing my hands, I peer into the mirror above the sink, searching for some glimmer of what he thinks he sees, why he’s attracted to me. I don’t know, I don’t see it. But I have no choice but to trust it at this point. Exhaling, I get distracted. Talk about a fount of information. I peek behind the mirror. Nothing extraordinary. Razor, shave cream, cologne, toothpaste, toothbrush, aspirin, Band-Aids, no floss—bad Rodriguez. A big box of condoms. Unopened. I smirk, but that also pulls me back to some form of reality. I march back to his bedroom, determined. Shoes off, he’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, but he hops up when I enter. The music’s playing in here, too. It’s another good-sized room, another big TV, sliding door-mirrored closets. Thankfully, the bed’s not at an angle to look into it. He’s got the main lights off, just a neon beer sign in one window, a pretty cool illuminated wall clock, a big fish tank and a string of white Christmas lights going around the perimeter of his ceiling are giving off soft warm light. He has Christmas lights strung as mood lighting. So very bachelor. so very grown-up stoner. So very player. There’s another window open, slight rush of air audible, moonlight and city lights seeping in, but it’s not cold. Same thick grey carpet as the living room, big black bedspread on a huge king bed. Gulp. “Pour yourself more wine,” he says and brushes past me, into the bathroom himself, I presume. I chug some, set it back down and climb onto the bed, kicking off my shoes. When he comes back, he stops in the doorway saying, “I been dyin’ to see that.” “What?” “You. In my bed.” “Come here,” I say. Climbing up slowly, he lingers and places a kiss on my knee then stretches out to meet me face-to-face. On our sides, heads propped on hands, he leans in for a kiss. “Rodriguez.” I stop him. “I have to tell you something. I looked in your medicine chest,” I admit.

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24/7 He smiles. “K,” he says. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have, I just…” “It’s cool,” he says. “I’d look in yours.” “You would?” “Fuck, yeah, everyone snoops around at first,” he says and rubs his stomach. “I’ll give you carte blanche, look anywhere you want.” Grinning, I say, “I might do that. Later.” “Yeah, I was hopin’ it’d be later,” he says and tries to move in again. “Here’s the thing,” I say. “When I looked, it reminded me of something. You have a big box of condoms in there.” I stop, checking for his reaction. Not much of one. “Well, last night, when we, you know…” “In the elevator.” He smirks. “Yeah, we didn’t use one,” I say. “And we should. I mean, don’t worry, don’t get freaked.” “I’m not,” he says. “Good, ’cause you don’t have to worry, I’m good and healthy, I know I am, and I’m taken care of, I won’t get pregnant or anything, not that I’d hold you responsible if I did, of course,” I know I’m babbling, and thankfully he stops me. “I’m not worried,” he says. “Well, I don’t want to insult you, either, it’s just, you’re really freaking hot, and…” “You don’t have anything to worry about,” he says and takes my hand, stroking my fingers. “I’ll wear one if you want, but I had to get tested just a few months ago.” “You did?” I don’t want to pry. “I’m a boxer,” he says with a shrug. “Gotta get tested all the time, ’fore I get in the ring for an official fight.” “Oh.” “So, I’m careful, too. Then I just had to get tested again.” “You did?” “Yeah, well, I didn’t have to, but I got this.” Dropping my hand, he lifts up his shirt and shows me a pink, raised scar stretching across his ribcage. “So while I was there, an’ bleedin’ anyhow, I made sure, just ’cause, well, you know…Mindy an’ all, an’, well…Don’t hurt to keep gettin’ checked.” Reaching out, I run my fingers along the new scar. “What’s it from?” I ask him. “Make you a deal, I’ll tell you later when you’re goin’ through my closets.”

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“Okay,” I agree and start to lean in to him. “So you want me to get one?” “Huh?” “You want me wear a condom anyhow?” “You trust me?” I ask. “Absolutely,” he says. “Then I trust you,” I say. Knowing better. But looking into his huge dark eyes, serious but soft, inviting me to get closer. “K,” he says. “I’m gonna kiss you now.” And he does.

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[ 16 ]

T

HE GREY EARLY-MORNING LIGHT OF PRE-DAWN FILTERS THROUGH THE WINDOW TO

wake me up. Blinking, I don’t even have to sit up to realize I’m still drunk. Not drunk on wine, drunk on him. I’m comfy. I’d like to slither down next to him, breathe the same air as he is for a while. But there’s such a thing as overkill. There’s such a thing as sobering up. I’d rather go like this and have it all stay good in my memory, have a couple of “what ifs” lingering instead of staying and having him sober up, break the spell and start flopping around his bed in discontent, waiting for me to leave. Worse, have him wake up and be grouchy to me. I don’t think he’d do that. But right now, I’m not willing to make that gamble. And Bruno will be expecting me home soon. So I slip from beneath his arm, his leg tangled over mine. Still under the covers, I feel a coolness across my back as I peel away from him, spooned up behind me. Shivering, dry-mouthed, I sit up and reach for the glass of wine and take a gulp. “I don’t have to work today,” him saying groggily. He must be a light sleeper. “I know,” I say as I throw back the covers and start searching the floor for clothes, wishing he was still asleep. Hoping he doesn’t sit up and watch me crawl around naked like this. “I know you know, you read my schedule on the fridge. You’re not stupid.” “Neither are you,” I tell him, finding my underwear. “Go ahead and go back to sleep, you’ve really earned it.” “So’ve you,” he says as I pull my sweater over my head without bothering with the bra first. “C’mon, come back up here, I’m cold. Warm me up.” Sliding the underwear on, I realize the sweater is inside out. “I’ll close this window,” I say and walk over and twist it shut, shivering in the breeze. Parched, I know he must be, too. “You thirsty? I’ll get you some water.”

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I stop in the bathroom, put on my bra and fix the sweater. Grab a few aspirin from the medicine cabinet since I know it’s there from my previous inventory. Walking to the kitchen, I notice how sore I am. My arms and shoulders are tired, but my legs are absolutely raw. It’s the deep-burn sore from a heavy workout, concentrated mostly in my upper thighs. Upper, inner thighs. Even my stomach feels a pull as I reach in the freezer for ice. It feels great. As I fill the glass with water, I wonder if he’s sore anywhere. Or if he’s used to this. Back in his room, I try not to stare at him as I walk over. He’s stretched out on his back, one arm over his head on the pillow, the other across his stomach. He looks even more handsome. How does he keep getting betterlooking? My lungs tighten, I suddenly feel weak and shaky. Probably the start of a wicked wine hangover. “Thirsty?” I hold the glass out for him. “I brought aspirin, too.” He sits up, pops the pills, slugs half the glass of water in one pull. Sets it down next to the empty wine bottle. He props his pillow up, leans back against it, eyeing me. “You ain’t comin’ back to bed, are you?” “Sherri’s waiting. Get some sleep. Call me when you’re up if you want to.” “You still ain’t gettin’ it, huh?” “Getting what?” “I’ll wanna call you, baby.” He grabs my hand and pulls me to his lap. He feels great. Warm. Soft and hard at the same time. Asking me, “When do you sleep?” “I don’t know. I’ll sleep when I get home.” “When’s that?” “We leave Tuesday.” I’m pretty sure it’s not my imagination that he hugs me tighter. I get bold. “If you want you can come over and hang out at the pool with us.” “Yeah? That wouldn’t piss off your friend?” “No, she’d only be mad if no one was there. You can come over.” “How about this. Why don’t you call her an’ see if she wants to come over here. We got a nice pool. That way you can stay here and sleep some more.” “Do you have cocktail waitresses at the pool here?” “No.” He laughs. “Then she won’t come over here.”

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24/7 Sighing, he says, “All right. What time should I come over?” “Doesn’t matter. Here, I’ll leave you a key so you can get in. There’s three pools, we’ll be near the one with the bar, not the topless one. Get some sleep first.” “Shit,” he says. “I left my car at that place, how’re you gonna get back?” “I’ll call a taxi, no problem.” “That’s not cool,” he says. “It’s fine. Bring clothes for later tonight, too.” I kiss him lightly and struggle to my feet, thighs aching as I move. “Get some sleep. If you feel like I do, your body can use the rest.” Smirking, he leans back and yawns, watches me like a lazy cat while I finish getting dressed. Says, “So you don’t hang out at the topless pool, huh?” Leaving his place, a couple of big guys, one shaved bald, look me up and down as I exit the elevator and they get in. I smirk as I walk past them. Usually I’d feel pretty sleazy right about now, I’d have avoided their gaze. Instead, I smile at them brightly. On the way back to the hotel, the lights on the strip are off, it’s not buzzing with daytime activity yet. But the place has never looked more enchanting. More magical. That’s what last night was. Magical. Three times it was magical. No denying it now. It might not last. The magician could step from behind the curtain and take a bow, suddenly making me realize that, just like everything else in this city, he conjured the spell, distracted me as he arranged the smoke and mirrors to make me believe in what was simply an illusion. A lie. But last night, it wasn’t the sparkly lights, it wasn’t the contagious energy, it wasn’t the promise of hope or lust for greed. It was magic. I love him. I shudder. When I get back, Bruno’s still asleep so I grab a shower and get dressed for the pool. She’s awake when I’m done and she asks if I had fun. “A lot,” I say. “He might come over for a swim today,” I add and leave it at that. No details. Suddenly hungry, I call room service and order her coffee and some pancakes for me and then listen to her talk. It’s a good distraction. I swim a lot even though I’m already exhausted, and then I read. I don’t see Miguel coming, I have my nose down in a book when I feel his hand on my shoulder and he leans down natural as can be and gives me a smooch.

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“Yo, Statue Lips,” he says and stands up straight, looking around. I drink him in as he swaggers over to get a chair. He picks one up and sets it down next to mine, the muscles flexing beneath the black patterned ink on his right arm as he lifts it and swings it around. Dark hair shining in the sun, eyes hidden behind black shades. He’s gorgeous. He’s here to see me. I can’t help but watch as he strips off his shirt and gets comfortable. I can’t believe I was touching and kissing all over that exact body last night. That he was rubbing and grinding against me. That it was my ear he was talking into, that it was his shoulders I clung to. I can’t comprehend how lucky I am, that it was my lips he panted against as his body—that body right there—shuddered, his arms wrapped around me. Three times. I can’t believe I want him again. I know what he looks like now. I know what he feels like, how he sounds, how he smells. What he tastes like. All different parts of him. Before. During. At the moment. After. He’s experienced all that about me. Oh, Jesus. Leering over at me, he’s thinking the same things. It’s obvious. Even with his eyes shaded and hidden, I can tell it. He’s still dripping with sex. Wordlessly, he reaches over and grasps my hand, rubs my index finger a few times then raises it to his mouth. He kisses my hand, briefly sucks on the finger. Ohhhh, Christ. “This place is nice,” he says with calculated cool as he leans back in his chair, still holding my hand. “Want something to drink?” I offer. “I do,” Sherri says and gets up. “I’ll get them, what do you want?” “Just water for now,” I say. “Yeah, that’s good for me, too,” Miguel says. “Lightweights,” Sherri hisses then heads up to the bar. As she’s walking away, Jarred, the green-suited guy who handled the TV show fiasco the other day, walks up to me. “Hi, Jarred,” I say. “How you doing today?” “Pretty good,” he answers. “You don’t have any bitchy chicks yelling at you, huh?” He smiles and goes, “No, not today, but that would probably make my day better. How are you, can I get you anything?”

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24/7 “No, you’ve done quite enough, thanks,” I tell him. His eyes flit over to Miguel, so I introduce him. “This is my friend, Miguel Rodriguez.” Miguel starts to get up, still not letting go of my hand, but Jarred waves him back down and they shake. “Pleased to meet you. Let me know if there’s anything I can get you,” he says. “I’ll send over a couple of drinks for you two. Where’s your friend?” “Thanks, Jarred,” I say and point to the bar. “She’s already up there.” “Enjoy yourselves,” he says and heads up to the bar next to Sherri. “Nice guy,” I say to Miguel. “Yeah, he seems all right. How you know him?” “We had a little thing here the other day, had to get moved around, long story.” Miguel watches him as he talks to Sherri. Saying, “Can I ask you somethin’?” “Shoot.” “How come you called me your friend?” “You aren’t my friend?” “No, I mean, how come you, like, picked that word, ’stead o’ boyfriend?” He rubs my fingers a little more roughly as he asks it. “I–I–I don’t know. I didn’t know I should. Do you want me to?” Raising my hand to his mouth, he kisses my fingers again, looks over the top of his shades at me. “You ain’t gotta. Was just wonderin’, you know, why you didn’t.” “I don’t know,” I say. “The term ‘sexual overlord’ came to mind first, but I censored myself from saying that and so ‘friend’ just popped out.” He laughs, so I change the subject. “You get some sleep?” I ask him. “Yeah, a little, thanks. You?” “Not much yet,” I say. “Guess I’ll have to try harder next time to wear you out, huh?” Next time. Try harder. Wear me out. Gulp. “Oh, I’m tired. I’m really tired. And stiff.” I grin over at him. “Me, too. Feels okay, though. I’ll be ready to go again any time you are.” Jesus Christ. I thought there was something wrong with me. Something horribly, dreadfully, nastily wrong with me for still wanting him. I had him in the elevator, but I can see why I’d want him again, to really get to feel him all over, even after that. But then, last night, it wasn’t once, it wasn’t twice, it

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was three times. Three times. I mean…honestly. And now he’s sitting here, and I’m dying for him all over again. I’m not certain, but I think it’s even worse today. Stranger yet, he sits there grinning at me, rubbing my fingers, looking relaxed but absolutely radiating the same vibe. I am certain of it—he wants me. Again. I know the what: sex. I know the where: anywhere. I know the who: me, him. I know the when: anytime. I do not know the why. And I can’t speculate on the how simply because it’d cause too many dirty thoughts to cope with in a ladylike and classy manner here in public. But…why? He must be fucking deranged. He’s cool and smart and handsome and normal, but he just has to have some serious deficiency, derangement, depravity or dereliction going on because not only is he hooked, he’s hooked on me. Nobody’s ever been hooked on me before. That tarot card reader promised me no one ever would be, either. The contradictions of this whole situation could drive me mad. I’d rather be happy, though, so I’m willing to just look at it as some sort of rip in the cosmic fabric of my life for the time being. Especially because I’m gone on Tuesday—if nothing else ends all this strange, great stuff, that surely will. Sherri’s still talking to Jarred up at the bar. Miguel’s leaned back, still rubbing my fingers and palm with one hand, his other lazily draped onto his stomach, thrumming away in time to some tune only he can hear. I can’t concentrate on my book, can’t flip the pages with only one hand, and I’m mildly self-conscious about lying around like this with my fat body exposed for him to see. Granted, he got a pretty good look last night, but yet—not. He was mostly pressed up against me or concentrating on one area at a time whereas this is an unobstructed view of everything at once. Plus, he was drunk then. I was drunk then. Sober, daylight vision is a whole different animal. And last night I didn’t have a hundred-two pounds of Sherri right next to me and hundreds of other perfect bodies in close proximity to accentuate the differences between us. So I go for shelter. “Wanna swim?” I ask him. “Yeah, it’s hot,” he says. We swim until Sherri has enough and decides to go upstairs and get showered. “I’m getting hungry,” I tell her. “Where do you want to eat tonight?”

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24/7 “I don’t care. You pick,” she says. “How about Morton’s?” I try. “No, that’s a production. How about that place with the drinks you like?” “Samba? Fine by me.” “Do they have beer, too?” she asks. I nod, so she agrees. Then before leaving, she says, “Okay, I’m getting another beer at the bar over there to take upstairs. I’ll jump in the shower and get all ready. Then I’ll be set to go tonight.” Once she’s gone, I ask Miguel, “Wanna go to dinner with us?” “Yeah, but, like, I gotta go home and shower first.” “Shower here, you can use ours. Do you have clothes to put on?” He nods. “Won’t she mind?” “Hell, no. We’ll stay down here while she showers.” I take him to the whirlpool. There’s no one around so I sit right next to him, hot bubbles and steam surrounding and fevering us both. He gets frisky. Pulls me onto his lap, makes out with me. It’s strange at first—I’m not the least bit buzzed up. But he looks hot all wet. He tastes great, too— salt mixed with the chlorine. Under the water, over my suit, his hand slides over my breast, and I crack up as I push it away. “Don’t even think about it in here, Rodriguez,” I warn him. We get pretty randy until other people show up, then we reluctantly back off, gather our things and make our way upstairs. Getting in the elevator, still damp and warm, he slides next to me, but I push him away, warning, “Don’t even think about it.” He just laughs. Upstairs, Bruno’s ready and waiting for us. I don’t have time to obsess and worry about what to wear. I just grab some clothes in a hurry, taking only seconds to decide, and jump in the shower. I don’t let Miguel join me, no way, huh-uh. When we’re all ready to go, we walk over next door to the Mirage, Miguel holding my hand the whole way. On the people mover outside, slowly going past the dolphin statues and mini-waterfalls and coin ponds with the tropical foliage, I just sigh and take it all in. It’s a little different from what I first loved—the sound of Steve Wynn’s voice is gone, but the water cascading around is the same. It still smells like coconuts. Pennies and quarters shine from the pools below—apparently people feel they don’t leave quite enough of their money inside so they happily toss even more to the place as they go in and out.

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Mirage: it’s what its name sounds like. An illusion. Even though Steve Wynn no longer owns it, his dream still clings to certain areas of the place, lingering like hope. Elusive like vapor. Here’s the thing. I don’t know if it’s the place, or the day, or probably just Miguel himself, which is a bit scary. But for some reason, I squeeze his hand and share with him. “I love it here, this is the first place I ever stayed out here in Vegas.” “Did you already know how to count when you came here that first time?” “No, I didn’t learn for a long time. How about you, did you take up dealing soon as you got here?” “Dealing dice? Nah,” he says and swings my arm back and forth as he strides along, his other hand lightly set against his stomach. Walking next to him, holding his hand for everyone to see, I feel like the luckiest girl in the place. In the city. Hell, in the world. “So, what did you do at first?” I ask him. He shrugs. “Honestly? I sorta fucked around, did some stupid shit for a while. I just started dealin’ craps a few years ago.” “I’d have never guessed that. Seriously, you’re really good at it.” “Think so?” “I know so, I’ve played with you. Besides, you have to be good to work at Bellagio, that’s top of the line.” “Yeah, I guess,” he says. “Where’d you start?” Grinning, he says, “It sucked man. School was six weeks, then right off to the freaking Cortez.” “Never heard of it.” “Be glad. It’s off the strip, it sucks. Dealers who been around awhile come in all the time to bust balls for new meat, you know, give ’em a hard time and shit. Didn’t make dick, either. Sucked. Then I had a friend get me into Binion’s.” “Did that suck?” “Yeah, pretty much.” He laughs. “It was all right, but—I don’t know. Then another ’migo of mine got me in at the Nugget, that was all right. Then when the takeover happened, I got moved to the MGM for awhile, ended up at Bellagio.” “’Cause you’re that good,” I say. “Yeah, I do kinda rock, don’t I?” He says it with a wink. “Still suck at dealin’ those cards, though,” he says as we weave through the slots to get to

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24/7 the restaurant. An odd look crosses his face and he squints down at me. “So, what the fuck do you do?” “Past couple days I’ve been doing you, Rodriguez,” I say and swing his arm. “No, I meant, like—” “I can’t wait for a mojito,” I say as we walk up the wooden steps between the giant yellow plantains and up to the maitre d’. “Reservations for Martino,” I say to the woman, and we follow her into the back room and get seated amidst the trippy burgundy and purple in a red velvet wraparound booth. Me and Miguel get the Brazilian barbecue special, Sherri just orders a side salad, and all of us get mojitos to drink. Sherri doesn’t like hers and gets a beer, and instead of sipping at the remainder of the drink, she passes it on to me to finish off. I slam it. I love the things. They taste like minty 7up. It’s a good time, good food. I’m having fun, but I also can’t stop anxiously fidgeting. I twist my ring around, I flip my cigarettes around. I chew the ice in my drinks. Miguel’s leg bounces next to me, his fingers thrum on the table. He’s a sport and has a second mojito before switching to beers. I have four. I get a little drunk. After, Sherri’s pretty well buzzed, and she starts sticking it to me. “You’re not taking me back and ditching me, I’ve had it with that,” she says. “Okay, what do you want to do?” “I don’t know, but I’m sick of being blown off out here,” she says. “You two just can’t wait to get rid of me and play kissy-face, but you can wait, this is my vacation, too.” “Okay, you want to gamble?” “I don’t gamble. You gamble,” she says. So I gamble at the Mirage, just some slots. Sherri plays some video poker at the sports bar while me and Miguel refrain from playing kissy-face. He stands between us at the bar, giving her advice and watching her play, making small talk with her, but all the while he constantly has some part of his body in contact with mine, either holding my hand, pressing his leg next to mine or stroking my knee. When Sherri’s bored with the video poker, she says she wants to go over to Treasure Island, so we do. We watch the pirate show on the gangplank. During the show, he stands behind me, one strong hand on my hip. All my exposed, sun-drenched skin feels the chill of night, but inside I’m warm

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with him so close. My head’s all buzzed up, drunk and tired, but it won’t give up or shut down. I’m willing to hold on and hang in as long as it takes. The show’s good, too. All those explosions so close, all those guys doing swashbuckling things, swinging from ropes and diving from high up on the masts. The pirates being the dashing good guys—that’s got to say something, be some clue as to what’s going to happen to your money once you walk inside. But everyone just cheers along with them anyhow. Me included. Inside, Sherri wants to hang out at the Swashbuckler bar, and I give a silent prayer she’ll keep her mouth shut about the past. She doesn’t. She gulps her beer and sticks it to me. “Hey, Martino, I wonder if that bartender you fucked still works here.” I groan “Madone,” and give her a look to stop, but she looks at Miguel, who puts his arm around my waist and clenches his jaw. So she goes on. “We got free drinks from him all night.” “It was a long time ago,” I explain, but he just squeezes me tighter, his eyes get steely as he looks straight ahead; then his brows knit together, and there’s a crack in the steel. Looking away from him, not wanting to see what lies beneath that hard edge, I focus on her. Not smiling, I beg her in Italian. “Abasta. Per favore.” “Yeah,” Sherri says. “That was a long time ago. And only once. She only does guys once. Either she doesn’t think they’re worth it or they don’t want more of her, I don’t know which it is.” “’Sta da zeet!” I snap at her “Yo, I’d guess it’s more of her not liking them,” Miguel says, I suppose more for my benefit than Sherri’s. He bites my earlobe and says, “I want more, I know that.” It sends electric thrills through me, and it stops Sherri cold. So she orders another beer and talks about Don. Gamely, Miguel tries to console her. “You know, I think that dude at the pool today sorta has a thing for you.” “Jarred?” she asks. “Jarred! Whoo!” I whistle. “You must notice him, too, if you remember his name.” She goes, “Give it up, Martino. I can’t go out with him. I don’t cheat.” “I know.” She doesn’t. I try to convince her to break up with Don and go out with Jarred, but she just rolls her eyes, talks about Don until she ventilates the subject and then has no other options. “I’m drunk. You have to take me back.”

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24/7 “Okay,” I say. “Will you stay in the room with me tonight?” she asks. “No.” I don’t even bother humoring her. She makes her unhappy face, but we walk her back. I’m still really goofy from the mojitos, but Miguel says he’s okay to drive back to his place, so I trust him.

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[ 17 ]

W

E SIT CLOSE IN THE CAR, HIS ARM AROUND ME.

WE START KISSING IN THE elevator on the way up. We’re making out as soon as he gets the door open, me pulling his shirt over his head, kicking off my sandals, him tugging at the zipper of my pants, dragging me inside. Going down the hallway, stumbling, clothes falling—his shirt, my shorts. Fumbling in the doorway with his belt, me unbuckling it, and always more kissing. Hard, wet kisses. Kisses with teeth, touches with nails. He picks me up. Throws me, my heart beating even harder as I land on his bed, him jumping on top of me, panting. He’s panting, kissing, rubbing all over me, pulling at my clothes. We get my underwear off, we get his pants unzipped, peeled back. My shirt still on, his shoes still on, he tries to pull away to finish stripping but I can’t wait, I pull him down to me, cooing to him, “I’m yours, fuck me,” reaching for him, stroking him and guiding him to me. He crushes my mouth with another kiss, full tongue, the bite of teeth, as I wrap my legs around his waist, try to press up and make him enter me. Breathless, he groans, “We gotta slow down or I’m gonna come.” “So am I,” I pant, crazy with desire. He pushes in. Swift, hard, he enters with a grunt, forces one out of me with the impact. Shameless, I move against him, grip him tight as he starts thrusting away—no tamed control, no working into a groove, just grinding into each other. “Mine,” he growls as he pumps away. “Mine, uh, mine, you’re mine.” I don’t know if it’s his words, his voice, the mojitos or just his mojo, but I love it. “Te quiero so fuckin’ bad. You, too—you get off…get off on me,” he orders. He plunges deep and stays buried inside, stopping his movements. Sliding a hand down, he massages demandingly at my hot spot, pulling even more feeling out of me. Rubbing hungrily, he moves his hips, picking up the same frenetic pace he’d just interrupted. I groan at the power of it, shiver

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24/7 with the goodness of it; he groans right in my ear in answer. I feel it starting to build, everything getting too intense, rushing too hard, feeling too insanely good. Then he falls to single words panted out, Spanish and English mixed together as his chest heaves right up next to mine. Growling: “You…mine…caliente, vienes…ahora, come…ahora. I’m…uh…uh…I’m yours.” That does it. I come instantly—from both areas. It sweeps through me as he sucks my tongue, and it’s like a clap of thunder hitting. His hand outside rubbing, his dick deep inside pumping, those words, “I’m yours”— all colliding together and…crack! I wail from it, simply can’t choke it back. Can’t talk, can’t tell him I’m having an orgasm, but he has to know, I’m not grinding against him, I’m just shuddering—hard. Grabbing his wrist, I pull his hand away, unable to stand it anymore, but he keeps pumping inside, even harder, forcing more breath, more shudders, more shocks out of me. I bite his shoulder and that must do it for him—something does because he starts shuddering, groaning loud, gives a couple last involuntary thrusts deep inside. He hisses and shivers but doesn’t pull out, just collapses down into me. Neither of us moves for a while. I’m not sure I can move. He’s heavy on top of me, moist breath exhaling onto my neck. I stroke my hand up and down his back as he softens and slips out. What was only a few minutes ago an overwhelming animal desire is softened, morphing back down into something less wild but altogether more dangerous and just as powerful. I know he felt the other. I wonder if he feels this, too. If he feels the same toward me. This…whatever it is. Wordless, still stroking his back, I think it really hard—I love you. His eyelashes brush against my cheek as he blinks his eyes open, the first outward signs of motion. Now he sighs, dropping a kiss on my mouth. Then he peels up and away from me. Him kicking off his shoes, stripping off his pants, saying, “Get that shirt off, get under the covers,” walking out of the room. I obey him, carelessly tossing my shirt and bra on the floor and pulling back the thick comforter, climbing in and waiting for him to come back. He gets a phone call but doesn’t pick it up, lets the machine answer it. I hear a deep voice speaking to him. “What up, dawg? Where you been? Let’s go find some bitches when you’re done workin’ tonight, a’ight? You know my digits. Peace.” It was a velvety baritone—one of his homies, amigos, whatever. Another player. Naked, he comes back, arms and hands full. He sets a glass of water

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down on the table next to me. He tosses down smokes, a couple beers. I think he’s blushing as he says, “Sorry ’bout that call—fuckin’ Marion. I, uh…” “It’s all right, dog. Not a problem.” He crawls next to me. Finally. He’s got a washcloth and he reaches down between my legs with it. Wipes at my thighs, saying, “So you don’t gotta be sticky.” He moves up, gently moves it across my lower abdomen, dives down into my crotch. Still sensitive, even with his tender touch, it sends shocks and I hunch up, shudder with it. “Mm,” he says and does it again. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn away from him, grab at his wrist and pull it away. Saying, “Rodriguez, don’t.” “How come?” “Just ’cause.” Reaching over me, he drops the damp cloth. Settling back down, he turns my head back to face him, pushes the hair off my face. Says, “Thought you’d be tired.” “I am.” “You don’t seem ready to quit yet.” “Ready to quit? With you? Never.” “You like me a lot,” he says confidently. “Yes,” I admit. “Can you tell if I like you?” “I don’t know.” He strokes his hand across my shoulder, kisses me softly. “Now can you tell?” “I think you like me a little at least,” I say. “Try again,” he says. “A lot.” “Mm-hmm.” “It’ll wear off soon, don’t worry,” I tell him. “Why you like that, huh? How come you think I’m gonna back off?” He searches my eyes, and I really do want to cry or back down. Heart racing, I wish he’d see how hard this is and that he’d back down for me. But he doesn’t. So I’m honest. “Because you’re too good for me,” I say. Laughing hard, he says, “You’re a fuckin’ idiot, Martino.” I inch away and tuck my head down, swallow hard and blink rapidly to push back the tears that are welling up. He keeps laughing but catches me

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24/7 with his arm and pulls me back. “Such a fuckin’ idiot, man. I’m too good for you, huh? Can I tell you somethin’?” “At this point, I’d rather you didn’t,” I answer, still curled up and avoiding him. “Yeah, well, I’m gonna anyhow,” he says and pulls up on my chin, forcing me to look at him. Staring at me for a minute, I don’t know what he sees, but I feel like he’s looking right through me and seeing everything. I’m a little pissed off at him for pushing me like this, but mostly, I’m scared. Knowing, just knowing that I’m right and this is too good, he’s too good. Knowing that at any time he’s going to wake up, sober up or smarten up and kick himself for wasting all this time with me. And it’s going to be all that much worse because parts of me believed in him. Because unlike every other man, I actually care what he thinks. He gives me hope. He stops laughing, all mirth draining away. He halts. “Jesus, you’re serious.” I pull away and flip over, turning my back to him. “Leave me alone.” “Listen, just, like, listen to me—” “You listen,” I say. “Either fuck me or go to sleep so I can leave, okay?” “No,” he says as he wraps himself around me. “I wanna tell you somethin’.” “I don’t want to hear it,” I snap. “You’re scared.” “Fuck you, Rodriguez.” “Fuck you, Martino, you’re scared. But you like me.” “I already told you that.” “You never liked anyone before like this, have you?” “Please just shut up?” I’m shaking, I feel stupid, I feel weak. This is more torturous than the elevator fiasco, more agonizing. More humiliating. More personal. “You’re fuckin’ amazin’,” he says and nuzzles his cheek next to mine. I give him everything I’ve got but that’s not enough for him. He has to lay here, with me tired and drunk and exhausted, all softened up, worn down and turned out, and he has to talk all about it. Dig around, dig up, break down and break through. And piss me off by making me feel so small. Piss me off because all I want to do is actually believe him. “Look, dude,” I say, “I didn’t jerk you around. I’m not one of those The

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Rules girls. I didn’t try to manipulate you so just…just please stop fucking with me. It’s mean.” “I’m not bein’ mean, I ain’t jerkin’ you around.” He keeps rubbing against me, wrapped all around me, warm, comforting. “Yes, yes, you are. You got what you wanted, and you got plenty of it. I’m not asking anything of you except to leave me alone now.” “You think I got what I wanted? Tengo ganas de ti. That’s what I want, that’s all I want.” “I’m leaving Tuesday. If you stop being a freak you can have me till then.” “When you comin’ back here?” “I don’t know,” I say. “Doesn’t matter.” “Yeah, it does. I want you back soon. You said you come out here all the time.” “Please stop,” I beg. Squeezing me tight, he goes, “You gotta believe me, I ain’t tryin’ to hurt you.” “Okay,” I say. “I mean it. I don’t wanna hurt you.” “Okay, you’re not.” “Yes, I am,” he says. “Okay, you are. So stop.” “You’re breakin’ my heart right now,” he says softly. “I don’t mean to be doing that,” I tell him. I do feel bad now. I feel like a freak. I’ve turned this all crazy for zero reason. I don’t even know what the fuck started all this, but I believe him— he doesn’t want to hurt me. And the last thing I want to do is hurt him. I squirm in his arms, flipping back over to face him. For the first time, he breaks eye contact and looks down, but in that brief couple of seconds before he looks away I see more dejection than I’ve ever caught there before. It breaks my heart. “I’m sorry. It’s okay, I didn’t mean to upset you or snap at you.” “’S all right,” he says. “Yo, I didn’t mean to freak you out, I just…I forget this is new for you.” “Yeah,” I say. “I can’t believe you haven’t broken a thousand hearts already.” “Okay, you’re going to piss me off again,” I tell him. “No, come on, don’t. Get over it. Just, like…can I ask you somethin’?” Sighing. “All right. Shoot.”

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24/7 “How many guys you been with?” This time I crack up. Laughing: “You’re a fucking idiot, Rodriguez. You really want to ask me that?” “Yeah, I do.” “Oh, Madone. All right. Here’s the thing, though…” “Tell me the thing.” “I, um, I was a virgin through high school, wasn’t sleazy, nothing. But then, in college, I got sort of wild.” He nods. “Away from the parents, partyin’, that sorta thing.” “Yeah,” I admit. “Back then, I drank a lot,” I say. He laughs. “An’ you don’t now?” “No, I do, but, anyhow, back then, it was all new, so I just sort of did all I could.” “Everyone you could,” he teases. “Yes.” I laugh. “And that had to be a lot, considerin’ you and everything.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask. “’Cause you’re hot. I bet guys would line up for you.” “See, that’s not true. I don’t know what you see, but I’m not that hot.” “Yeah, well, I don’t know what you see, ’cause you’re slammin’.” I blow off the comment altogether instead of letting myself get worked up again. “Anyhow,” I say, “I was wild. So it was a lot. I honestly didn’t keep a count.” “Estimate. Over twenty?” Silence. He tries again. “Over thirty?” I don’t answer, so he goes again, his voice getting higher. “Over fifty?” “Around fifty,” I lie. It’s a grotesque lowball, but I had to stop him before he started squeaking out the numbers and got really freaked out. “So, you were a big slut,” he says with a big smile, and I just raise an eyebrow at him. “K, lemme ask you this, then—how many guys you been with more than once?” “A few,” I answer. “How many you been with three times or more?” “None.” “No one ever?” “I said no.” I get a little testy. “Except you.” “See, I like that,” he says. “’Cause out o’ all these guys you was with, I’m the only one you come back to.”

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“Keep pissing me off and I won’t be back again.” “Yeah, you will,” he says smugly, still stroking my back. I nod. “Don’t get snotty about it, though, it could be just ’cause it’s been a while since I got any.” “Three years,” he says. “Yes,” I agree. Confused now. “How’d you know that?” “Your friend the bartender. Vince. He told me.” “He told you that?” “He was impressed I was back for a second night. He says you don’t put up with assholes.” “So, what—he just blurted out that detail to you?” “Yeah. No. I don’t know. I mighta asked,” he says. “You asked? Guys are pigs. Vince is a pig.” “Nah, he’s cool. I just…it’s not like you think. I really liked you, and I didn’t know if you were gonna string me along. I couldn’t believe you was goin’ out with me at all.” “Shut up,” I say. Something dawns on me then. “That’s why you weren’t worried about using a condom, why you just went for it that first time.” “Yeah, sorta,” he says with a grin. “I bet after that first night, in your car, you thought I was sleazy as all hell.” “Oh, I still know you’re sleazy,” he says, laughing. “You’re fuckin’ crazy—I love that. But I was hopin’ it was also at least part me that you did it for.” “It was mostly all you that I did it for,” I say. “It still is.” “I know. So you’re serious about none o’ them other guys gettin’ you off? That’s why you didn’t give ’em another chance?” I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t really like them either, though. I mean…this is hard to explain. I did like them, at the time. But then, I don’t know, it just went…poof.” “Well, they’re all fuckin’ idiots for not fightin’ for you.” “Okay,” I say. “I mean it,” he says, propping his head up on his hand. “I ain’t gonna let you squirm away from me. Not without a fight. You’re worth a fuck of a lot more than that. That’s why I try hard, you know, to get you off.” “You do a good job of it,” I compliment him. I swear I can see him blush as he looks down and away from me. “You fight it, you know that, right?” He sweeps his eyes back up. “I don’t think I fight you at all,” I say.

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24/7 “You fight off a lot,” he says. “That’s prob’ly why you scare off most guys. You’re, like, all this sugar but underneath pure steel, and under that…I’m gonna get to that.” “You give me too much credit, I’m not that strong,” I say. “You’re stronger than I am. That’s why you’re always winning.” “Winnin’ what?” “Me. You win me over, you break me down,” I admit. “No one else can do that.” “I don’t wanna break you down,” he says. “I wanna win you over, I never wanna break you down.” “You come close. You almost made me cry,” I say. “I don’t wanna make you cry.” “If you ever do,” I tell him, “I’ll hate you.” “I know. That breaks my heart,” he says. I nod, understanding. He really likes me. “I’m gonna try to stop being an asshole,” I promise him. He laughs. “You ain’t an asshole, that’s not what I mean. It’s just you fightin’ it. Same as how you try to fight off gettin’ off for me.” He blinks slowly, starts stroking the front of my body again. “But you end up givin’ in to that.” “You make me,” I say softly. “No, I don’t. I couldn’t make you do anything. You just end up lettin’ yourself.” He kisses me and it shivers me. He starts pressing against me, but I back him off. “Huh-uh,” I tell him. He tries to duck in for another kiss, but I turn aside from it. “My turn now.” “Huh?” “You got to interrogate me, I answered you, now it’s my turn, guy. I want to ask you some things now, that’s fair.” Him, pressing his hips into me: “Now?” “Now. Please?” Him, sighing, nodding. Sitting up straight. “All right, but I need a smoke and a beer then.” So he lights up, grabs a beer, props up the pillows and leans back against them. He’s got one eye squinted shut from the wafting smoke. “Shoot,” he says. “Can I sit on your lap?” I ask. “Fuck, yes,” he says, opening his arms to make room. “Does that count as one of the twenty questions?” I settle against him, get really comfy as he places an arm behind me,

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keeping me secure against him. “You’re the best,” I tell him. “I can handle these kind of questions all night long,” he says, taking a drag. “Shut up, this one is important. What do you think of the DH?” “Huh?” “Baseball. What do you think of the designated hitter?” “Why you think I’m a Mets fan?” Shrugging: “I don’t know, you seem to dig Italians, I thought maybe you had a thing for Mike Piazza.” “Yo, I was a Mets fan long before Mike was there. And the DH sucks.” “Okay, that was the only appropriate answer. What other sports do you like?” “Boxing,” he says. Feeling his coiled muscles, I wonder how much is natural strength and how much comes from the training. “Were you good?” “I was all right,” he says. Not cocky. Makes me curious. “Do you think you’re good at sex?” He grins, then that fades. “I’m hope I’m all right.” “So obviously you were really good at boxing,” I say. “You said you were all right, like you don’t do it anymore.” “I don’t.” “When did you quit?” “’Bout four months ago.” “How come?” Shrugging: “I’m old.” “You’re not old.” “For a boxer, I’m old.” “Oh. Will you show me some moves sometime?” I ask. He tightens his arm around me, saying, “I’ll show you some moves right now.” “I mean boxing moves,” I say, rubbing my hand across his skin. I outline his scar again with a gentle touch, consider asking about it but decide against it. So I move higher and stroke across his chest. “So you said you get high. Anything else? Coke?” He nods, looks away and takes a deep drag on his smoke. I can feel his entire body tense. “I done my share. But not anymore.” “How many girlfriends have you had?” “Shit,” he says.

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24/7 I take hold of his hand, bring it to my mouth and kiss his thumb, rubbing his palm with my fingers. Sucking on his index finger, I mumble, “Tell me.” Sighing, he says, “You don’t wanna talk about that. You’ll get pissed.” “No, I won’t,” I promise. “You got pissed when you saw Mindy,” he says. Looking up at him, I say, “I wasn’t pissed, I was jealous, that’s all.” He’s silent, so I set his hand down and wrap my arms around him. “You were pissed earlier when Bruno brought up the bartender, but I answered you anyways.” “Yo, I wasn’t pissed,” he says. “Yes, you were.” “I wasn’t pissed at you. I was pissed at her.” “Okay,” I say, catching his hand and shifting my body around. Still sitting on his lap, I back up, get one leg on each side of him so I’m facing him, straddling him. “Then I just want to know about you. So come on. Tell me, I won’t be pissed. How many serious girlfriends?” “Uh…six,” he says. “Have you ever been in love?” “Yeah.” “Mindy?” “No. My first girlfriend—I was fifteen.” “That’s sweet,” I say. “How come you broke up?” Shrugging: “Got sick of each other. We grew up, changed.” “Anyone else?” “Not really. Thought I was for a little while. Tried.” “Have you ever cheated on your girlfriends?” Looking me in the eye: “Yes.” Honest. Very honest of him. I can tell he didn’t like that one, and he didn’t like answering it, either. I’d really like to ask more about it, but unwilling to let things get sketchy again, I figure it’s best to move on, not press him about things he doesn’t like. “Did you get sick of Mindy?” “I got sick o’ her an’ her shit,” he says. “Did she cheat on you?” “Yes.” I kiss his forehead, running my hand through his short hair. I can tell he doesn’t like talking about this stuff, so I decide to ease up. He’s being

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good enough to humor me, answer my curiosity—and that’s really all it is, curiosity. I want to know about him, all about him. But not at the expense of causing him any pain. That’s when it hits me—he doesn’t like answering these questions, he doesn’t like thinking about these things. He was worried how I’d react, but it bugs him, too. For all his confidence, all his swagger, he has chinks in his armor. I place soft kisses all over his face. “Have you slept with as many people as I have?” “Probably.” He sighs, pulling on my waist, bringing me closer against his body. “I’m almost done,” I say, gently holding his chin, forcing him to look at me. “Were you as nice to them as you are to me?” “No.” “Are you serious?” “Yeah. I can be a prick.” Rattled, I stop stroking him. “Why?” Him shrugging, saying, “Don’t know. ’Cause mostly they was bitchy anyhow.” “How come you’re so good to me?” “Am I?” he asks, tugging at my hips, raising his knees to pull me right up on him. I can feel him pressed against my lower belly, hard and ready to go again. “You’re extremely nice to me.” “’Cause you’re sweet to me,” he says, voice low. Wiggling up against him, I grab his shoulders for support and start gently undulating against him. Glancing up, I see him watching me. Ask him, “So as long as I’m nice to you, you’ll be nice to me? Do we have a deal?” He swallows hard, and I stop moving for a few beats. Then I lean in and kiss him, start working up and down again, rubbing my whole body up against his. Him, breathing deep, saying, “Long as you’re so sweet to me, long as you put up with me, mmmm, I’m gonna try an’ give it back double.” Still rubbing: “Did those questions suck?” “I’m liking them now,” he says. “One last one?” I pause, wait for him to give the okay. He nods swiftly, so I raise up a little and ask, “Can I fuck you like this?” He nods swiftly. Licks his lips, presses his hips up into me. I raise up more, reach down and take hold of him, all the while intent on watching

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24/7 him react. He’s breathing hard, his eyes drift closed as I grasp him, but he opens them again as I line him up. He’s so hard for me that it’s easy, I let go and ease myself down on him. I have to inhale as he goes deeper, slowly absorb him all the way. Once he’s deep, I press down hard, get to see his brows knit together, mouth drop open. Keeping him inside, I squeeze him tight and watch his face, wincing with pleasure. I linger, running my hands across his torso, along his smooth chest, bending to taste his neck, the pungency of his liquor-and smoke-tinged mouth. I ride him slow, waiting for his movements to tell me what pace to set. When he starts pressing up into me, I pick it up, feel his hands in my hair. I speak to him in Italian: “Ti voglio.” Then the same in Spanish: “Te quiero.” I place my hand against his chest, feeling his heart thudding wildly inside his relatively calm body. I let his rhythm syncopate my movements for a while then slowly fall in tune with him. I hold his throat, feeling the vibrations of his subtle growls. But he doesn’t speak, so I mumble for him. “So warm, so strong,” I tell him then bite my own lip to stop myself from saying too much. “Is this okay?” I ask. “Is this good?” He nods, so I keep going, let myself rush with the feeling, really get a heavy pace going, every thrust intensifying the pleasure. When it starts getting really heated, I catch my breath, try to keep myself down. He grabs me, grinds his hips up into me, puts a hand behind my neck and the other around my waist, pulling me down against him roughly. He finally speaks. “Do this,” is all he says. He looks me up and down— my face, chest, breasts, stomach all naked and exposed for him to see as I ride him. There’s a thin sheen of sweat breaking across his forehead, across his upper lip. His jaw clenches, a single vein meandering up from one brow to his hairline gets bigger. I lean in to kiss it, taste the saltiness, still keeping the rhythm for him, keeping myself from getting swallowed by the increasing groove, mentally ignoring, blocking out the sensations each push against him creates. His hand on my neck pulls me back, and I see him panting, gritting his teeth. “You’re gorgeous,” I tell him as he stares back at me, naked and glistening under me, in front of me, straining as I try to get him off. He presses up into me, hard, jolting me, making my heart clutch, breath halt momentarily. Too good, way too good to last much longer, my spine starts to tighten and my skin flushes all over. I try to back off, but he forces me down on him, drives up into me.

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“Do this,” he says. “You do this,” keeping me rocking into him with his eyes. So good, but I want to stop, want him to take over, not do this by myself. But it is so good, so good I don’t want it to end. He’s watching, so I close my eyes to concentrate, shut him out. His hand on my neck tightens, shakes me. Still rocking, even faster, knees braced on each side of him, wildly moving my hips against him, onto him, keeping him inside, catching the heat, letting it get intense, suddenly realizing he’s not moving up into me anymore, he’s not pushing me down, I’m grinding away, thrusting onto him. “Look at me,” he demands. I snap my eyes open, but he holds my neck tighter, growls it again, “Do this, baby, c’mon,” he encourages. Blushing hard everywhere, I ease up a little, still going up and down, back and forth, but slower now, and he groans in protest but doesn’t pick up the pace, doesn’t drive into me or drag me down. Still on the edge, I whine to him, “Miguel. I want you to feel good. I wanna watch you, feel you. I wanna see you come.” “Then make me,” he says, so I rock harder, feeling it deep inside me. “Make me,” he says again, still refusing to help me out. So I ride him, set a demanding rhythm, but it starts overtaking me. His hand clamps on my neck, I know he’s close, but I’m worried he’s going to outlast me. If I keep going, keep working myself on him like this, I’m going to lose it any minute. It’s supposed to be for him but instead I’m driving myself to the brink, and he’s seeing it all. It’s obscene, I’m obscene. Breath in short, shallow pants, lungs tight and heart pounding recklessly and I just can’t stop. He’s not coming, I’m holding it back but it’s getting rougher, swirling through me, rocking against him, grinding on him, furiously pumping away on top of him, friction, friction, frantic flashes of pleasure. Almost too much to handle. I stare him down, try to force myself to concentrate on something else—to think of something to bring me down and still keep the motion for him. I can’t do it, I just can’t do it—to work myself up to a fury like this against him, in front of him, on top of him, is bad enough. But I can’t let him see the rest, that ultimate pleasure. God, I just can’t make myself, let myself, come like that—all over him, not with him watching. Not without him working me and forcing it from me. His one hand gruffly shakes my neck, the other digs into my hip. “You do this…you go,” he pants with jagged breath. And I see him, he’s holding on, holding back, I keep working him hard as I can, rocking and squeezing, my thighs burning, trying to hold back the lightning threatening

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24/7 to shoot through me. But the more I work him, the more I work myself up. “Oh, God, baby, please,” he grits, “do this, let go…do it now.” I go faster, harder, get the rhythm to a crescendo—pushing, grinding—all-out fucking him, fucking him, fucking him severe as possible, but it kills me, overwhelms me, and I start to shake. He groans again, really loud, brows furrowed, sweat dripping, jaw clenched, muscles tight, hands clamped into me, veins pumping—and… Me the same, burning hot everywhere, impaling myself on him. Raw. Frenzied. Every muscle exhausted and taut, dying for air, heart pounding hard, quivering, wanting to see him, ashamed I can’t hang on but knowing—him really loud, “Do this…God, now”hand on my neck really digging in—it’s what he wants. Mesmerized, I can’t look away from him even as, even as… I can’t… I can’t…hang on… Him shouting, “Come on!” I can’t hang on…I start to… He yells it at me. “Come!” But I already am. Blushing, rushing, spasms overtaking me, biting my own lip, failing to keep the noises locked down, nearly painful pleasure and merciful release cascading at once. Trembling, hot and cold mixing, still rushing—and finally…him. Miguel groans, pulls me down, shocking me more, squirts deep inside. His body jerks and tenses, hips press up into me, eyes still fixed on me, then he starts shaking and unwinding, his grip on me finally easing up. Weak, boneless, I fall against him, wiping the slickness from his forehead, kissing and licking at the salty wetness on his face. It’s only when he loosely puts his arms around me and runs a hand down my slick back, tangles a hand in my damp hair, that I realize I was sweating as hard as he was. Catching his breath, still panting, he says, “Holy shit,” with a shiver. Shaking his head, covering his eyes with one hand, he repeats it. “Holy shit. I thought you were gonna kill me for a minute there.” He knocks his head back against the wall, pants a few more times. It’s not until he peels me off of him, holds me in front of him to look at me that I realize how closely I’d tucked myself against him, notice that I’m still shaking. Stranger, it’s not until I see a worried look on his face, until he swipes a finger under my eye that I realize I had a tear streaming down my face. “Holy shit,” he whispers.

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I didn’t feel it. I hear him now but not all the way, like through a fog. I know I’m still breathing harder than normal, my heart’s still thumping pretty hard. But it’s all slowing, fading back down. Everything is blurred. I don’t feel it at all, really. I just feel… Obliterated. So fucking exhausted, so weak and tired. So…good. But mellow. Depleted. Drained. Defeated. I only see him. Right in front of me—him. I can feel the air. It’s so dense, so thick and dense and balmy with sex I can feel it. And him. “You okay?” Miguel asks. It takes me a couple seconds to realize he’s talking to me, and then I nod. “Holy shit,” he repeats. “Yeah,” I say. He reaches up and strokes my hair. It’s nice. “You hate me now?” “Why?” He traces a finger down my face, whispers, “You had tears…” His voice trails off. “You mad at me?” “No.” “You hate me right now?” Silence. I fall into his stare. Concerned. So open, letting me see that vulnerability. I want to take the pain away from that look. “You hate me?” he asks again. “No. I love you.” Miguel doesn’t flinch. He brushes his hand across my neck, sweeping thick locks of hair over my shoulder. Air hits my damp skin there, cooling it. He leans in and kisses the area he just exposed, warming it. One hand wraps around the other side of my neck, under my hair, same place as he’d been clutching at me, shaking me, controlling me and digging into a few minutes ago. But now it’s gentle, caressing. He kisses my mouth. I don’t kiss back, but I like it. Between kisses, he sighs. Says it breathy: “I love you, too.” Now he kisses me again. Moves across my cheek, nuzzles against my ear, drops the words right there with a tantalizing whisper: “I love you.” He’s so nice to me. I wrap my hands around his shoulders, tilt my face into his voice. Simply, without accusation, I state, “You broke me.” His arm around my waist hugs me closer. “No, I didn’t.” “That was so hard,” I admit. Confused, feeling dumb. “I know, baby, I know.”

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24/7 His only answer is a kiss. Another sigh. Another stroke up my back. Another look in my eyes as he says it again. Sweet supplication. “I love you.” Lazily, I fall into him, melding against him, finding comfort there— pillow-soft, ember-warm and iron-strong. I close my eyes and the hum of sleep languidly creeps in. Miguel pets my back again, long, drowsy strokes, as he asks, “You okay?” “Tired,” I think I answer. Then I’m out.

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[ 18 ]

I

WAKE WITH A START THAT JANGLES MY NERVES, JUMP-STARTS MY HEART. FREAKED, I bolt upright and blink, confused in the dark. Where am I? There’s stirring next to me, which frightens me more. I recoil from the movements, too afraid to scream. Now contact, something grabs my leg and I jerk away, blinking and straining to get my bearings. A groan and more rustling—the panic subsides but the unease deepens. I croak it aloud: “Where am I?” A voice answers. Hoarse, slurred and scratchy with sleep, deep. “‘S all right, baby, relax, you’re with me.” Instant recognition: Miguel. Relief washes over me as he touches my leg again. “Mm,” he croons. “You okay?” “Miguel,” I answer, heart slowing. “Yeah, you okay?” “I was lost for a minute there.” “You’re all right,” he soothes, sitting up, putting his arms around me. “We’re at my place, you was asleep.” Heart calming, I go, “I don’t remember lying down, going to sleep. Then I woke up and it was dark, I didn’t know what was going on.” “You didn’t lie down. You sorta passed out is all. You’re okay.” He keeps me close and slithers back down into the covers, arranges the pillow for me. “Go back to sleep,” he prods. Lying there, head on his shoulder, it suddenly rushes back. Like a cascading panorama of flashing pictures, only with emotions instead of colors illuminating and bleeding through it all. Sweating and fucking and breathing and sweetness and relief and humiliation and pride and pain and pleasure all knotted together, twisted nearly beyond recognition, all punctuated with that brainless, guileless comment… I love you. Charming. Utterly charming. I’m an idiot.

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24/7 And him, poor him, being so sweet and making it seem okay, repeating it back. He fucked me senseless (no, I fucked myself senseless on him) and then even worse than letting it all go and letting it all out, I let that declaration escape, too. I suddenly realize the magnitude of my fuck-up. I start to get up, and he groans, “Yo, you gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.” “What?” “You ain’t leavin’ now. It’s not even morning.” “I just have to go to the bathroom,” I answer as I roll out of bed, thankful for the cover of darkness to cloak my nakedness. I stumble, bump into the doorway on my way out and stagger to the bathroom, queasiness growing. Once in there, I close the door behind me and flick the light switch, sudden bright florescence piercing my eyes, ratcheting up the sickness. I lurch and gag, cough violently a few times but don’t vomit. Dry heaving—it strains my body just the same. I flip on the faucet and splash my face with cold water then actually do have to pee, so I do. Washing up from that, I look into the mirror. Insipid. Absolutely appalled with myself. How could I do that to him? Paint him into that corner. Before turning away, I notice it—a dark spot on the side of my neck. Leaning closer, I pull my hair back and am horrified. The dark spot is his thumbprint, bruised into my flesh. The mark grows as it curves around, outlining where his hand had dug into me. Looking down, I see a similar mark at the top of my hip on the other side. I don’t bruise easy. But here it is, his handprints dug right into my skin. I let him do that to me. I let him hurt me like this. I enjoyed it, got off on it. I test them and they’re sore to the touch. Goddamn endorphins. He’s like a fucking drug to me—I get all high and hopped up and lose control and lose my freaking mind, blowing my wad and spilling my guts. Suddenly, remembering a lost detail: I was clutching onto him, probably just as hard, my hands clamped and digging into his shoulders. Did it hurt him? Did I do this same thing to him? Holding on for dear life like this until he was sore and raw? Speaking of which… The tightness and burn in my muscles is even more intense than yesterday. I’m sore and raw all the way inside, deep inside, not just my muscles but burned from too much friction of him rubbing and thrusting

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inside me, not to mention literally bruised outside. My body is all fucked up.

I love you. My mind is all fucked up. I give up. I just give up. It feels good. All of it. It all feels good. I don’t care if he lied to me. Let him lie to me. Let him fuck me stupid and sore because, let’s be honest—no matter what his truth is, mine is that I’m enjoying this. It makes me feel alive. Goddamn endorphins. I flick off the bathroom light and go back to the room, trying not to wake him as I slide under the covers. He’s not asleep yet, he’s got the Christmas lights flicked on so it’s not pitch black anymore. He tucks me against him, faces me as he stretches, throws a leg on top of mine, an arm around me. “You’re so pretty,” he yawns. “That’s ’cause it’s dark in here.” “C’mon, ease up, all right?” he pleads. “That was—you were—you were the sexiest thing I ever seen. In my life, in my whole life, that was it, man.” “Are you still drunk?” He nudges me. “Yo, c’mon. I mean it.” “That was disgusting is what it was.” “No, it wasn’t.” His leg slung over mine rubs back and forth a couple times. “I knew you’d think that. But if you coulda seen yourself…” “I gave in to you again, that’s all you like about it.” He must be tired, because he lets it go and flips the script. “Yo, I got the day off again tomorrow. Will you hang out here?” “You know I can’t do that. Sherri would kill me.” “Mets play the Braves tomorrow,” he says. “I have to go with her to the pool. I’d like to watch the game, I would. I’d love to watch it with you ’cause the Braves are gonna kick their ass.” “Oooh, think so, huh?” “I think Glavine’s pitching, so, yes, I think so.” “Ready to bet on that?” he asks. “Always. What’s the wager?” He grins wickedly. “Blowjob.” I laugh. “Fine. What do I get if I win?” “That is if you win, Statue Lips. I’ll let you do it.” “Asshole.”

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24/7 “Yo, c’mon, I’m fuckin’ with ya. I’ll come up with somethin’ good if somehow your Braves win.” “The Braves are going to win.” “Piazza’s gonna homer to beat them.” “Piazza might homer, but the Braves are going to win.” “I can’t get over how fuckin’ hot that was earlier,” he says. “You’re back on that?” “You blew my mind. I can’t fuckin’ believe I was able to hold on like that.” “I can,” I tell him. “Nothing you do surprises me much.” “It doesn’t?” “Hmm-mm. Except that you’re with me.” “Fuck, man, what is it? Why you always like this?” “Just…just listen to me, okay?” He’s quiet, so I go on. I don’t know what compels me, but it’s like this deep nag, pulling me on, telling me that if I don’t tell him I’ll regret it. “When I first saw you, I was concentrating on something else…” “On countin’ cards, that’s what you were doin’.” “Well, yeah. And that takes a lot, and I was in a groove. Then I looked up and saw you. I couldn’t believe how good-looking you were. Then I got it together, and you started talking to me…you were sort of flirting with me or something, I don’t know what it was, you probably weren’t, but…” “Oh, I was.” I smile. “You were?” “Fuck, yeah, I was flirtin’. I was tryin’ to think o’ anything to get you to smile.” “Well, it worked,” I tell him. “Yeah, I can see that.” “Anyhow, then from there you just kept getting better. You’re just so…I don’t know how to explain it. I just can’t believe you even bother with me.” He rolls his eyes, but I go on anyhow. “It’s not just that you’re so goodlooking, but you are that. Lemme tell you, you are that.” He smiles—he knows he’s hot, no debating that. “But it’s not just that,” I tell him. “I can tell when you get pissed, but you don’t just go off and freak out. You didn’t yell at me when your car got messed up. I mean, I know you said it wasn’t my fault, but a lot of people would have really screamed about that.” “You don’t like gettin’ yelled at, huh?” “I hate it, I just hate it.”

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“Me, too, man. My pops used to ream my ass out good and I’d take it, you know, I had to. But I can’t take it from no one else. Pisses me off.” “Me, too,” I admit and nestle myself closer against him. He makes me feel safe. “My dad yelled all the time. At me. About everything. Everything. I never did anything right in his eyes. I’m always afraid people are going to yell and be mad at me.” “He still yell a lot?” he asks. I just nod. “Yours? Or is that why you moved away?” “He left when I was seven,” he says. “Ain’t seen him since.” “Oh, I’m—” “Don’t be sorry. I’m not.” He goes quiet, and I don’t know what to say. But then he reaches up and brushes hair off my shoulder. He smirks, asks, “So what else you like about me?” Egomaniac! Apparently, I’m not particularly drawn to his humility. I think it over, come up with a safe reply. “You don’t have a cell phone. I love that you’re not always answering the phone and talking to someone else.” Him looking guilty, saying, “Martino, I’ve got a cell phone.” “You do?” “Yeah, what sort o’ freak don’t these days?” “I don’t,” I tell him. He laughs. “How can you not have a cell phone?” “I’m just not that important that people need to call me all the time.” “Yeah, well, I ain’t, neither. But it makes us all feel cool and important.” “Exactly,” I say. “Yeah, I know, some people’re obnoxious as shit with ’em.” “Hey. If you have one, how come you’re never getting calls?” Casting his eyes downward, he answers, “’Cause I shut it off the first night so’s I could concentrate on you. Then I just left it here past couple nights. Same reason, I guess. I didn’t need idiots buggin’ me all the time.” “That’s the coolest thing I’ve heard,” I say. “You’re almost—perfect.” “I’m not perfect,” he says. “Oh, fuck, no, you’re a Mets fan with a cell phone, you’re not perfect.” “I’m a Mets fan who’s gonna be gettin’ a blowjob this time tomorrow.” He snorts. I snort. “And that’s what you like about me, huh? I give good head?” “No,” he says, “you give great head.” “You’re a jackass.” He says, “Wanna know what I like about you, huh? You get all pissed off

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24/7 when I try an’ tell you, so lemme show you.” He takes my hand. Under the covers, he guides it to his chest, presses my palm against his heart and says, “You get to me, right here.” I feel his heart thrum for a few beats, then he takes hold of my wrist and brings my hand up to his face. He bows his head, kisses my palm, places it against his forehead, saying, “You get to me here.” Sliding his eyes open, he blinks heavy a few times, starts guiding my hand again. His shoulder shrugs up with the movement as he dips back under the covers, runs my fingers down his chest, across his stomach, the bumps of his abs. His tongue peeks out, settles onto the corner of his mouth as he moves me lower, between his legs. Gazing at my face, he places my hand around his penis—erect, stiff and hot—wraps my hand around it as he blinks slowly. Him saying, “You get to me here.” Speechless, I swallow thickly. How does he do this? How can he be ready to go again like this? It hits me like a hammer—he’s more insane than I am. Still covering my hand with his, he starts to guide me along the length of him, incredibly slow, very light pressure. Looking at me, he asks, “Tell me again. Say it.” I know exactly what he’s talking about, but I play dumb. “What?” “You know what,” he says, controlling my movements on him, soft and easy. He looks up, imploring with upraised eyes, says one word. “Please.” He helps me stroke him, increasing his pressure around my hand, getting me to hold him more firmly. “Tell me,” he begs. “I love you,” I tell him. As I say the words, his eyes close, his hand momentarily stops guiding me but squeezes tighter. He sighs roughly. “Mmmm,” he groans. Then: “Kiss me,” he says and releases my hand. I keep the pace and pressure, still relatively slow and light, continuing to rub him, being careful because he’s hot but dry, as I inch closer and kiss his lips. Slipping him some tongue, I kiss insistently, stroking him firmer then murmur it against his mouth. “I love you.” Miguel answers me back finally. Muffled, slurred—“Love you.” He kisses me back. “I love you, too.” I stroke him in appreciation, and he moves now. Picks up his leg that’s resting on top of mine and slides it beneath mine to open me up, wrapping his arm around my back and urging me closer. “I don’t know if I can,” I whisper, but he just keeps kissing. “I’m sore,” I protest gently, keep stroking in hopes that’ll be enough. “So’m I. I’ll go easy,” he says. “Promise.” My heart flutters. I’m ready but hesitant, concerned it’s going to be too

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painful. Somehow, he’s enduring my touches on him, apparently enjoying them, even, but I can’t do that again, my body can’t handle it. I can’t handle it. He kisses me some more, starts purring in my ear, soft and low, “Te quiero,” rolling the words off his tongue. “You don’t wanna? You don’t want me?” Soft, malleable to his touch, I answer, “I want you,” but still holding back. “Mmmm, please,” he whispers. “Want you so much, to be in you.” Kissing my mouth, humming as he does, mumbling, “We’ll go slow, just wanna be in you. Let me…” more kisses, a sigh, “…Please? Lemme…Love you…Lemme love you.” I give in, let him pull me up against him as he keeps kissing and crooning. I release him with my hand so he reaches down and takes hold, takes his time lining himself up. “Ready?” he asks. “Mmmm,” I say, holding snugly to his shoulder, bracing myself against the potential discomfort. He smiles against my cheek. “Huh-uh.” He moves and whispers in my ear again, “Ready for me?” “Absolutely,” I answer, and he starts to move in. Good on his word, he goes slow, not pushing, not a thrust, just a really slow, controlled glide. It’s not bad, not bad at all, actually pretty good. There’s a little bite to it, but even that edginess feels pleasant. And he hums as he enters, wrapping his arms around me as he works his way in, still mumbling, always encouraging, reassuring, swaying into me, supple, pleasing. The air around us is already heavy and balmy, but he pulls up the thick comforter, dragging it over our heads, cocooning us inside our own little space. That’s soft above us, the bed underneath cushy and plush. He barely moves, content to just be embraced and inside, our hands roaming across each other with syrupy deliberateness. It’s lazy, hazy and dazy, everything clouded and shrouded in an almost unbelievable peace and grace. He utters the word that sums it all up: “Sweeet,” he says, dragging it out, repeats it breathy, right in my ear. “So sweet.” I’m not sure if he’s talking about the feeling, or me, or just the general atmosphere, but it fits. Quiet susurrations from us both—sweet, warm, soft, good. Placid movements, wandering hands and smooth undulations, tight embraces and long, slow, wet kisses, and neither of us forcing, neither of us holding back. Until it’s so sweet I know it can’t last forever. A quiet entreaty in my ear, his

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24/7 warm breath tingling me there, too: “Tell me as I come.” Kissing my cheek, as he strikes a bargain. “I’ll do the same, I’ll do it for you.” And then, with mellow spasms, hushed shocks, I’m coming, and he’s saying it, making me believe him, “Pretty girl, all mine, love you.” Clinging to him, knowing he really wants it, I give him everything I’ve ever had to give, more than I ever expected. “I love you,” I whisper, making him shiver. Holding him tight, I make the promise. “I’m yours, only yours. All yours.” He’s coming with it, right along with me, loving the attention, loving the feeling, loving the pleasure. Loving the love. Loving me.

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[ 19 ]

F

IVE HOURS OF REALLY DEEP SLEEP (HE WAS UP BEFORE ME,

I WOKE TO HIM stroking my back), one phone call to Sherri (she stuck it to me for being late), twelve innings of baseball (Glavine didn’t pitch, Piazza homered— twice—and the Braves lost 7-6), five orgasms (two for me, three for him— I paid up on my wager) and a few more hours of sleep later… It’s almost time to go home. I’m at his place, morning just breaking, still groggy, pretty well beat, getting ready to go meet Sherri at the hotel, pack up my shit and then get on a plane. I’m picking my clothes from the night before off the floor and shaking them out, wishing I had something clean to put on, and he says to me, “You know, I got two more days off.” “My shirt is ripped,” I say, holding it up for him to see. “What the hell?” He grins smugly, probably thinking of when he did it—I hadn’t even noticed it at the time. “I’ll give you somethin’ to wear,” he says. “Can I get a shower?” I ask. “Can I join you?” “Can I actually get clean if you do?” He shrugs, saying, “All right.” Staggering to the bathroom, still hazy with sleep, still tired, I pee as I listen to Miguel in the other room. He’s sorta babbling, still going on about the Mets winning, saying he’s hungry, really needs some more sleep, has two more days off—he worked two weeks straight, gets five off in a row, so wait, it’s only Tuesday, he’s got three more days off, he doesn’t go back to work until Friday swing shift, and so: “Hey, why don’t you stay longer? Stay with me?” That one sticks with me. Why don’t I stay longer? Why don’t I stay with him? I wash my hands and look in the mirror. Why…don’t…I…stay…with…him? (Him, mind you, not “in Vegas,” but with him.) No fucking clue.

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24/7 Staring in the mirror, I realize I really don’t have any idea. How am I here now? How did all this happen? What’s going on, exactly? I feel like I’m tripping. He wants me to stay longer here with him. I don’t know if I ever really decided to be with him in the first place. I just sort of rolled with things and ended up here. I look around at where here is. Black-and-white checkered tile. “Huh,” I say into the mirror then turn away, satisfied that the answer isn’t in my own reflection. I realize it for the first time. I don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe it’s from never being here before, I think. Not here as in his place, but here as in a (gulp) relationship. Relationship? I fell into the routine of not having to make decisions or figure things out. All’s I’ve had to do was live my life and let it pull me around, go with the flow and know that I’d be satisfied and happy no matter how the chips fell. So now this is what that’s done? I can’t even wake up in the morning and decide if I want to stay a couple days longer with this guy who’s been turning me out and turning me around? If I should stay here, even. Miguel’s saying something in the other room. I can smell a cigarette burning out there. I look over at the checkered-tiled shower and think about it for a minute. Thinking, I oughta get a shower. But I want a smoke, too. Shower or smoke? I stand frozen like that for several seconds, debating which one to go for. Should I get a shower, or should I have a smoke? What should I do? Should I stay here longer? “Fuck it,” I say and climb in the shower, not sure it’s the right decision, but at least it’s something. Before I can even start debating any more decisions Miguel climbs in with me, and I don’t have to think about that decision in the least, that’s pure instinct—slippery, soapy, slick…good. His hands slide all over me, he innocently enough asks again, “So what do you think, huh? Wanna stay longer with me?” I just know it’ll be a big thing if I think and talk and try to figure this all out and tell it to him, and it’ll probably piss him off somehow, or I’ll get pissed off somehow, and the hot water probably won’t last that long and I really, really don’t know anyhow. So I make it easy. “You really want me to stay longer? I will if you want me to.” Right away, I know I made the right move there because his hands don’t miss a beat, they keep sliding all over my skin and he nuzzles into me, seeming very pleased. I’m sick of thinking and worrying and counting and thinking. Always keeping my brain on overload to analyze the shit out of things—everything

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works out when I just lay back and let it roll anyhow. When I get so brainless I utter “I love you.” And I do know what I want. I want to eat and smoke and drink. And I want to sleep, peacefully. On soft beds, after getting drunk and eating good food and gambling for a long time. And then, mostly, I just want to fuck. Exactly like I’m doing right now. I just want to fuck and forget about that long time when I didn’t—when no one wanted me, when I didn’t want anyone. Specifically, I want to keep fucking Miguel. Because he’s good. And as much as I like it, I like the way he likes it—the way he calls my name, the way he’s not indifferent to me, the way he just wiggles and grunts and loves it so much and lets me turn him out right along with me, I just cannot get enough of that. I get lost in it. And that’s good. So that’s it, everything else can come and go. Eat, drink, sleep and fuck. Fuck my brains out, fuck his brains out. What the fuck, I think, bright lights, I’m sure that here more than anywhere else I can fuck my mind into nothing in Las Vegas. Lost and fucking in Las-fucking-Vegas with Miguel fucking Rodriguez. Aces by me. Out of the shower, he tosses me a T-shirt to put on and I look at it and say, “Are you fucking with me?” as I glumly hold up the blue fabric and inspect the word “Mets” sprawled across the front in their official-looking writing. “Yeah, I’m fuckin’ with you, Martino.” “I can’t wear this,” I say. He laughs. “Yeah, you can.” “Aw, come on, Rodriguez, my shirt’s ripped, I need something to wear.” Playfully, he slaps my ass as he walks by, drops his towel and starts getting dressed. Loudly: “I’m serious here, I’m not wearing this.” “Won’t bother me a bit if you just wear a bra. Maybe they’ll give you the Rain Man Suite if you walk in there flashing your tits.” “Sometimes you’re a funny guy. Then there’s now.” Laughter. “Please give me something else to wear?” “Nah, don’t think so.” “And you want me to stay here longer, to put up with this shit?” “Yo, tell you what, we’ll go double or nothin’ on today’s game. Double or nothin’. Your boy Glavine’s pitchin’ today. You wear that as punishment

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24/7 for shootin’ your mouth off ’bout yesterday’s game.” “I already paid up for yesterday’s game.” “Oh, yeah.” He grins. Shrugs as he pulls on a pair of jeans. “Whatever.” “This sucks.” I glare at him as I pull the shirt on. “Look at it this way, you paid on the bet yesterday. This is to reinforce it so’s you won’t be all trash talkin’ for today’s game.” “I’m gonna reinforce my foot in your ass if you make me walk in public like this!” He fastens a watch around his wrist, saying, “Shouldn’t you be makin’ some calls or somethin’? Change your flight reservation?” “I have to do that from the hotel, all my stuff is there.” “We gotta go get Bruno, right? Take her to the airport?” “Yeah,” I say. “Then let’s go,” he says, pulling on my arm. “Is this what you meant when you said you can be a real prick sometimes?” More laughter is his only answer. I keep my arms crossed in front of me as we walk through the hotel. At one point Miguel just says, “Could be worse. Could’ve been a Yankees shirt.” Back at the hotel room, Sherri’s waiting, got her stuff all packed up. She looks me up and down as I come in the door, breaks a fat-ass smug grin, staring at the T-shirt as I go through my wallet, looking for numbers. Nods at Miguel, saying, “You did this?” She high-fives him. “Listen.” I pick up the phone. “I’m not going back today, I’m going to stay longer.” “What are you talking about?” Dialing, I say, “I’m calling right now, going to try and get a flight later this week.” “I’m not flying home alone.” “Okay, I’ll change both our flights,” I say. “No, I’m leaving. I’m going home—today. In a couple hours. I’m having a cup of coffee, I’m already finished packing, then I’m calling a cab and we’re both going to the airport. We’re going to get on the plane, and my brother is picking us up. I’m not flying alone. You’ve blown me off enough this trip.” “Fine,” I answer, avoiding looking at Miguel, just as an operator at the airline picks up on the other end of the phone.

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This is why I want to get lost for a while, people always wanting things from me. Whereas Miguel, he just seems to want me. This is crazy. This is all craziness—I’ve known the guy five days. But I’m having fun. I could have more fun. This could all disappear, I could never have a shot at any of this again. And it could also turn to disaster. Like a junkie shooting too much, too fast and bam!—instead of the buzz overtaking him, instead of magic floating around me, it could be a fatal OD. Poof! There’s a move in blackjack called doubling down. It’s mostly used when your two starting cards add up to either ten or eleven. Basically, it’s self-explanatory—you double your original bet and get one more card, then you play that hand against the dealer’s. It’s a fun move. It’s a smart move at the right times. I double down every chance I get. With both of them listening, I make the arrangements. I book another flight, round trip. Leaving from home to Vegas early this evening, from Vegas back home on Friday. All I have to do is fly home with Bruno this morning, turn around and fly back to Vegas. Only ten hours in the air, eleven round-trip, I’ll be back here tonight by ten. It’ll give Miguel some breathing space without me for a day, keep him happy with me coming back. It’ll keep Bruno happy with company on the way home. As they hear me doing it, they both start to protest, but I shut them down with a fairly solid stink-eye to each one. No one can give the old Italian malocchio like I can. I hang up and dial downstairs to the front desk, ask them to extend my stay another couple days. They say they’re booked. Sighing, hating doing this, having to ask someone for a favor, I ask them to put me through to the casino host. He answers, I tell him what I want. A pause as he looks up my account, then: “Ms. Martino, my pleasure. We are booked up, but I have a few comp rooms available. If you don’t mind moving to another room…” “That’s no problem. I don’t mind paying, though, I just don’t want to leave.” “No, no, you’re a player, you’ve earned it. I’ll send someone up for your things right away, get you moved, give you another key.” “Listen,” I say, “you’ve been a big help, I appreciate it. Um, any chance I could get the Rain Man Suite, though?” I mean, honestly, if I’m going to go for it, I might as well go for it, right? “I’m sorry, Ms. Martino. It will be a suite, though. Not that suite, but a nice one.”

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24/7 “Get out! Really? Thank you.” I hang up from that call and smile over at the two of them. “All set,” I say. “We just have to wait a minute for a bellman, he’ll move my stuff to another room, we’ll get him to take your luggage downstairs, too, Bruno.” She stares at me for a few seconds. “Have you lost your fucking mind?” “Maybe. I think so. I don’t care, I’m glad. I wanna stay longer, you don’t want to fly alone, fine, here you go. I’m going home with you, then I’m coming back out.” Miguel looks shocked at it all. I wonder if he’s suddenly wishing I’d just gone home, but then he speaks. “You didn’t have to get a room here, you know, you could’ve just stayed with me, that’s what I meant.” I knew that’s what he meant, but I just couldn’t make that leap yet. No safety net at all. At least this way, if things turn to hell and he’s sick of me, I still have someplace to stay, I won’t be homeless in Vegas. “It’s free,” I tell him. Bruno says, “My birthday is Saturday.” “I’ll be there,” I say. The bellman comes with a couple new keys for me, takes my stuff to a new room. It’s not nice, it’s magnificent. The regular rooms at Caesars are something to see in the nice sections—they have hot tubs and stand-up showers and mirrors in cool places and they’re all plush and spacious. But this—this shit the casino host hooked me up with is really something to see. It’s got a foyer and living room and huge TV, a great view of the strip and two full bathrooms with frosted glass doors and multi-nozzled showers and marble everywhere. A giant Jacuzzi in one of them, another hot tub in the bedroom, fully stocked bar, mini-fridge. Very swank, very high-roller. Miguel looks around, whistles. “Yeah, all right, man, we can stay here.” Sherri goes green, says, “Yeah, I could have stayed here.” “Yeah,” I answer. “Too bad, we gotta go now.” Miguel carries Sherri’s stuff downstairs, offers to drive us to the airport, but I tell him no, don’t bother. I slip him the room key, tell him to hang at the pool, nap in the room, whatever. “I’ll pick you up at the airport later, what time’ll you be back? Ten?” “Yeah, ten-fifteen, if there’s no delays. You don’t have to meet me there, that’s a total pain in the ass, you can’t come in anyhow, and I’d have trouble finding you outside.” “Then I’ll find you,” he says. “I’ll be there. I wanna.” He gives me a kiss, a really good one, too.

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[ 20 ]

A

T THE AIRPORT, I’M IN NO MOOD TO DRINK, TOTALLY EXHAUSTED, BUT BRUNO

starts bugging me about it, because she doesn’t want to drink alone, it’s the last day of our trip, I blew her off enough so I figure it’s easier to sit with a drink in my hand than it is to listen to her complain, and I give in. It’ll help me pass out on the plane anyhow. I go nose around a bookstore a while, pick up a copy of MerriamWebster and look up a word. Research. Love Pronunciation: ’l&v Function: noun Etymology: Middle English, from Old English lufu; akin to Old High German luba love, Old English lEof dear, Latin lubEre, libEre to please Date: before 12th century 1 a (1) : strong affection for another arising out of kinship or personal ties <maternal love for a child> (2) : attraction based on sexual desire : affection and tenderness felt by lovers (3) : affection based on admiration, benevolence, or common interests b : an assurance of love 2 : warm attachment, enthusiasm, or devotion 3 a : the object of attachment, devotion, or admiration b (1) : a beloved person : DARLING—often used as a term of endearment (2) British—used as an informal term of address 4 a : unselfish loyal and benevolent concern for the

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24/7 good of another: as (1) : the fatherly concern of God for humankind (2) : brotherly concern for others b : a person’s adoration of God 5 : a god or personification of love 6 : an amorous episode : LOVE AFFAIR 7 : the sexual embrace : COPULATION 8 : a score of zero (as in tennis) 9 capitalized, Christian Science : GOD - at love : holding one’s opponent scoreless in tennis - in love : inspired by affection Hmm. Interesting. I re-read it several times, trying to commit as much as possible to memory. Now I check the verb form, read that definition. Sherri comes in and starts browsing by me so I snap the book closed and leave. I duck into a clothing shop and pick up some fresh underwear to put on. I glance around at T-shirts, but I don’t buy one. Here’s the thing: sure, I’m annoyed as hell at having to wear this Mets shirt. But it’s also Miguel’s, and he gave it to me to help me out. Yeah, he was screwing with me, but it is pretty funny. And more than being annoyed, I’m appreciative that he did it. No one’s ever taken care of me and been as nice as Miguel is to me. He just handed it over, didn’t even act like it was a pain in his ass. So I’m sort of proud to be wearing it. On the plane, I contemplate the word love as we take off. I close my eyes and try to remember the definition. That’s the problem with too much booze and not enough sleep. Sure it lets you get lost and brainless and book same-day returning flights, but memorization skills get shot to shit. But I’ve got some of it: To like or desire actively. Warm attachment, enthusiasm, devotion. I remember those. Before I get too deep into it, Sherri nudges me and starts talking. She asks about Miguel, exactly what’s up with us. “Those claw marks on your neck are starting to fade now at least,” she says. I touch my neck briefly, smirk a little. “You really like him,” she says. “Can we not talk about this?” I close my eyes. She relents talking about him. She talks about her agenda instead. About Don. It’s damn near monotonous at this point. We’d pretty well ventilated the

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subject even before the trip out here. I tune her out. I fake nodding, start thinking about Miguel again. About the monotony of it. Wondering. When is it going to become monotonous, this thing with us? Because it’s a matter of time is all. Right? It’ll wear off. It’ll turn to shit. Everything does. I don’t care, though. Let someone else worry about the timetable of how and when it’ll end because, right now, it’s fun. I know what fun is. And this is it. Still not sure on this whole love thing. What was that again? Attraction based on sexual desire. Check. Benevolent concern. To fondle, that was in there, right? Fondle. Long as neither of us is a priest and the other is a choirboy, it’s not nearly as dirty as it sounds. Or maybe it is. Check. To like or take pleasure in? Wasn’t that one of them? To like or take pleasure in. Sounds a hell of a lot like fun! to me. Check. So I’ve doubled down on him. It seems like a logical bet. * * * When we get home, I get Sherri outside and say hi to her brother, who looks strangely at my clothes, grab another smoke, then I turn right back around, go inside and can’t wait to board the plane back. It’s cold and shitty out, which makes me even happier I’m going right back into warmth. I plop into a chair, body sore and mind humming, and think about the word Love. Still not really getting it. It’s not uncommon—I’ve heard it my whole life and understood what it meant. Or thought I did. Now it’s different. Before, it was a concept. Like, an idea. Something I knew of. I love Mom and Dad. I love baseball. I say that all the time. I know it’s true. I feel that kind. But now, it’s really different. Changed. Now it’s like a mouth-watering, pupil-dilating, heart-thudding desire. But…more. Now it’s really personal. For the very first time, I actually felt it directed back at me. It was like Miguel was speaking a foreign language when he said it to me. Not the first couple of times—it was somewhat agreeable, and I understood what he was saying, or I thought I did. Until he was inside me, and I had just told him, and he was telling me—then I felt it. I wasn’t quite comprehending it, but I was feeling it. And weirdest, I believed him when he said it. It wasn’t like he was just parroting back my words or reflecting back what he thought I wanted to hear. It was like he was genuine about it. Like he not only wanted me to know, but like he had to tell me. Like he meant it. Like it was strange for him, too. And it was good. It was finger-licking, melt in your mouth, come on the

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24/7 spot good. It permeated me or something. I understood it. And it wasn’t a feeling to be brushed off, an emotion to be covered up, a thought to be turned aside. It was real.

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[ 21 ]

A

FTER GETTING OFF THE PLANE IN VEGAS ONLY ELEVEN HOURS AFTER I’D GOTTEN on one, I step outside the wide glass doors into the pleasant evening air, and there he is. Standing only a few feet off to the side, waiting for me. He’s leaning against the wall, one foot crossed over the other, looking totally confident and in control, looking fresh and pressed compared to my grungy and rumpled. I’m overcome with a feeling of intense affection and a passionate attraction. I feel loyal and tender and amorous. And I really desire to fondle him. There’s something strange about it, though—I’m not surprised. I’m not the least bit surprised he’s here. I’m happy he’s here, but it’s not a shocking disbelief, a wondering what in the hell he’s doing here, why he’s here. He said he’d be here, and I just accepted that. I believed that. I trusted him. Seeing me, he comes over and asks, “Ready to go?” “Absolutely,” I answer, take his hand and start walking to his car. “I tried to catch some of the game, but they had CNN on instead of ESPN in the airport bar.” “Mets won again,” he says, swinging my hand even harder. “Merda. Did Glavine pitch?” “Yeah, Astacio beat him, 3-1. Mets are in first place.” He grins. “Maddux pitches tomorrow, he’ll win. Listen, thanks for picking me up here, it’s really nice of you.” He squints down at me. “Yeah, well, thanks for stayin’ longer,” he says. “Thanks for asking me to stay longer.” “Thanks for bettin’ on that game again today,” he says. Cocky. “So what’d you do today, you get some sleep?” I ask him. “Yeah, little bit. Couple hours. I picked up a day shift, worked till eight tonight.” “How come?” He shrugs. “I slept awhile, they called, asked if I could. I was sorta bored so I figured fuck it, why not, take the cash. You get any sleep?” “Not much, little bit on the plane. You hungry?”

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24/7 “Fuck, yeah, starved,” he answers emphatically. “Me, too. What sounds good to you?” “Anything. Whatever you want,” he says, letting me make the decision. “How ’bout this,” I propose. “If you can stay on the road and drive safely, I’ll pay off my bet on the game today and you drive us wherever sounds good to you.” He swallows hard. Says, “Ain’t we goin’ on tomorrow’s game, too?” “Oh, we’re on for tomorrow, but I’m paying off my debt for this one now. If you can handle it this time. If you’re ready.” Opening the passenger door for me: “I’m always ready, if you really wanna.” “Oh, I really wanna,” I answer. It’s true. “Shit,” he says then kisses me roughly. “I love you.” I presume right now he’s feeling the more amorous, desirous of fondling kind of love as opposed to the benevolent concern kind. Fuck it, as long as he’s not talking about tennis, it’s all good. So we slide in his car, he takes the wheel and I lean down, making it even better than all good. My hair’s tied back in a ponytail so it stays out of the way and he can concentrate on the road instead of that. He gets loud, he just loves to talk and encourage me; he never stifles the grunting, either. He squirms a little, lasts a lot longer than the first time, but I don’t feel any swerving from the car so I guess we’re safe. When I’m done, which is when he’s done, he lights a smoke and passes it to me. Says, “I bet you want somethin’ to drink now, huh?” “I haven’t flossed yet today,” I say dumbly. “Sorta late for dinner,” he says as he drives down restaurant row, passing my beloved Morton’s, which is done serving for the night. “Anywhere. McDonald’s is fine at this point. In fact, that sounds good. Fries.” “Yeah? You got it,” he answers and takes us there. Miguel asks me what I want and orders all of it and pays for it, too— double cheeseburger, large fries, chocolate shake, even an apple pie. We both wolf our food down. See, that’s something else—he waited to eat with me. He was done at eight, had a couple hours and could have eaten. Or, well, maybe he did, but he’s eating with me again. I dip some fries in my shake and tell him I love him. He earns it. Every bit of affection I have for him, he’s got coming to him. “What do you wanna do?” he asks me. “Drink,” I say. “Get stupid.”

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“All right. Where?” “Let’s go to the Hilton and have a Warp Core Breech,” I suggest. “K,” he says. “What the hell is that?” Surprised, I explain. “You gotta get one. It’s at the Star Trek bar in there.” Laughing, he asks, “You a Trekkie?” “No, no, hell, no. But this drink rocks. It’s huge, and it smokes at you. Dry ice or something in it. What time is it?” He checks his watch. “Quarter to twelve.” “They’re closed at midnight on weeknights. Can we go tomorrow?” “Yo, I ain’t gonna feel right now till I have a drink smoke back at me.” “So what should we do tonight?” I ask. He shrugs, and all I can get from reading his face is that he’s pretty content to do whatever I want. Shit, I’d made the Hilton decision. So I try again. “I’m sorta beat. Wanna just go back to Caesars? We can drop off your car, have some drinks with Vince, check out that suite.” “Let’s roll.” No disagreeing, no looks like “that was wrong,” no problem at all. So that’s what we do. Vince is on by the time we get there, and he’s got a drink for me and a beer for Miguel set up before we even step all the way up to the bar. He looks at my shirt and snorts, says to Miguel, “You do that to her?” “Yeah, she lost a bet.” “On the game?” Vince asks. “That was stupid, I’d have bet her a blowjob on it.” I just sip at my drink and watch SportsCenter on the TV as Rodriguez smirks. We catch up with Vince, hear about his weekend. He had his son over, got him to cut the grass for him, kept his girlfriend happy. He went to the Peppermill last night, says it was okay. “Never been there,” I say. “It’s a nice place,” Vince says. “You know it, right?” he asks Miguel. Miguel nods. “We can go tomorrow, you’ll like it.” After awhile, he says, “Wanna gamble?” “Sure, what do you wanna play?” “I wanna watch you play blackjack.” I laugh. “I’m kind of fuzzy right now, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” I know it’s not a good idea. I know from how I couldn’t memorize that definition of love earlier today that my brain just isn’t firing all that

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24/7 clearly. Most of the playing is by rote, but I have to be quick to keep a count. He nudges me, though, saying, “C’mon. I’ll play, you just tap me when it’s a good count or somethin’. We’ll be a team.” “Okay, I’ll try. No promises, though, I might not be able to keep up. Oh, wait.” I feel in my pockets. “I don’t have much money on me.” “I got it, I got it,” he says, pulls out his wallet and leaves Vince a fat tip, hands me a fat wad of Franklins. “That’s money we won from the other nights, we’ll use that.” Vince gives us another drink for the road, and we head out. * * * The odds are against you. Let’s say that again. Make sure it’s understood. THE ODDS ARE AGAINST YOU. It all comes down to numbers. Add them up, do the math. The numbers have been carefully and smartly arranged to insure the big winner is not you. Twinkling lights, the ghosts of Sinatra and Elvis. Bugsy’s dream, Hughes’s money, Steve Wynn’s vision and sparkling showgirls. Singers, comics, free booze, stunning atmospheres and $5 prime rib. It’s smoke and mirrors, that’s all it is. And everyone, everyone knows what it’s hiding. Numbers and greed. And they know the odds are against them. Strongly against them. But they drop the dollars anyhow. I do the math and manipulate the odds, and now Miguel believes that the odds are in our favor. They should be. But this isn’t a long-term proposition. The odds are over the long haul, the inevitable outcome of mathematically perfect averages where inconsistencies and breaks from the norm get smoothed over. In the short term, we can still get slaughtered. But we’re going to drop the dollars anyhow. I recognize one of the dice dealers working a table, so I nudge Miguel over to that one, saying, “He’s a craps dealer, I bet this is new for him.” “Meat,” Miguel smiles. “You gotta be nice. Maybe we shouldn’t go there, since he does know me.” “Do you know everyone here?” he asks. I just shrug, and he leans in close, speaks quietly. “All right, you want me do the playing? You wanna just

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keep count? Like, how’ll I know when it’s good, what’s your sign to let me know?” “You’ll know,” I say. “I’ll rub up against you or something like that. You know what to do, right? Just double the bet, and if I give you another sign, double it again. But that might never happen anyhow. Um, you know how to play, right?” He gives me an astounded look, saying, “I’m appalled.” “I just…I just meant, like, you know how to play by the book, right?” I press him. “Yo, I am appalled. You really do think I’m fuckin’ stupid, don’t you?” “No.” I laugh. “I really don’t think that, not at all. I just, I don’t know, not a lot of people know how, and…” “It’s my fuckin’ job,” he says. “Yeah, but I didn’t know if they taught you how to play or just how to deal, that’s all I meant.” “You’re serious?” “How the hell am I supposed to know what you know? I don’t know how to deal!” “All right.” He softens. “Well, just so you know, yeah, I know how to play.” “Okay, I’m sorry,” but I don’t let it die. “Um, not trying to be a bitch, but do you know how to play different when I tell you the count is good? Like, to buy insurance?” He squints down at me, saying, “Just shut up and pick the table, Martino.” So I direct him over to the dice dealer I know. The very first seat is open. In fact, there’s only two other players at the table. He pulls the chair out, slides into it and pulls me right next to him, one leg on each side of me so I’m right up at the table, too. I toss down the pile of cash and the dealer looks up at me, saying, “My lady, the guinea from the East Coast. How you doin’, honey?” To Miguel now: “No offense, really, I’m a guinea from the East Coast, too.” “Hi, Edward.” I smile at him. “You just start dealing this?” “Yeah, they’re makin’ us learn this now, too. This is my third night, total pain in the ass.” He looks at Miguel and says, “This is a good girl here. She’s got her finger on the pulse of Vegas all right.” I roll my eyes, saying, “I prefer to think of it as my teeth in the jugular.” He slides us stacks of chips in different denominations, says to Miguel, “Treat her right.”

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24/7 It’s a nice low table, $25, but Miguel starts off with a $100 bet, which is just about perfect by me. It’s mid-shoe, so there’s not much I can do, but I start a running count anyhow, just to warm up, see if I can keep up. Miguel plays, and I watch a couple hands and see that he is playing basic strategy. Surprisingly, I am able to keep the count. Maybe it’s easier because I’m not actually bothering to separate tasks and play hands. I stop watching what he does altogether. I just watch the cards and add or subtract. Before long, I don’t even know if Miguel’s winning or losing right next to me, I’m just engrossed in the cards falling, faces and numbers, highs and lows and nothings. Now the shoe gets shuffled. Edward takes all the cards from the discard deck and mixes them back in by the deck-full with the unused ones, shuffling them together and stacking again. As he struggles through that, Miguel gently glides a single finger up and down the back of my arm, rests his chin on my shoulder. I turn to him. “How you doin’ back there, slick?” “I could use a beer, man,” he says and looks around. “Want me go get you one?” “Nah, the waitress’ll be by, I’ll flag her when she comes.” I settle back as Edward offers the guy at the other side of the table the deck to be cut, and then I feel like I’m gobbling the cards up as they get laid down, just zipping through the count, easy as can be. Miguel gets a waitress, and by the time she’s back with drinks, the count spikes up, so as she hands me the drink I take it with one hand and with the other I squeeze Miguel’s knee, watch as he goes $200 on the next bet, gets dealt a couple of queens, but more low cards spill out across the rest of the table. Talk about working out nice. I squeeze his knee again, hard, and he goes $300 the next hand, which is sort of a pisser, he pulls a hard seventeen facing a dealer eight. But Edward flips his hole card and has a seven, so he takes a hit and busts as a king shows up. The count drops with that hand, so I don’t do anything, and Miguel drops back down to $200, which is smart of him. It gets choppy after that, and I squeeze his other knee when I want him to drop back down, hoping he gets it. He hesitates, drops a couple blacks on the bet area, so I squeeze again and he starts to drop another one, but I squeeze really hard and he gets it, backs off and doesn’t add that one, swipes one off before Edward starts to deal, cutting it back to $100, and I lean back into him so he knows he did good. And so we go.

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[ 22 ]

T

WO SHOES IN, I THINK HE’S SORT OF HAVING FUN. I JUST SQUEEZE HIS KNEES, right

for good, left for bad, and he dips up or down accordingly. It doesn’t always pan out, as it won’t with gambling. And I haven’t really paid much attention and don’t know what’s going on in the big scheme of things with him winning or losing. I did notice him tip Edward a few times, though, and we’re still standing here, so I figure he’s not getting slaughtered. When a new shoe gets lined up and he drops $500 as the opening bet, I realize he must be doing pretty good. I look back at him and he stretches, kisses my cheek and says, “Relax, chica, we’re cool.” I turn around, let him sweat the money back there. I just fall back into doing my job for him, letting him know when the high cards are due, when they’re overplayed and to be careful. In the middle of the fourth shoe, I really have to pee. It’s a fairly high count, so I squeeze his knee a couple of times to let him know that then tell him where I’m going. “I’ll play out this shoe and meet you,” he says, turning to let me out. “I’m getting us drinks,” I say as I walk away. “Meet me at the bar.” Back at Vince’s bar, he sets me up a fresh drink and I gulp and ask for another, order Miguel a beer, empty out my pocket for his tip. “Where’s Miguel?” he asks me. I look around, don’t see him yet. “He’ll be here, he’s still playing.” “How’d you do?” “I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention, let him worry about winning or losing.” Vince grins, says, “He seems all right.” I nod. “He does seem all right, doesn’t he?” “When you going home this time?” “Huh, I went home today.” “No shit?” “No shit. I had to fly home, but came back.”

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24/7 “Oooooh. You’ve got it bad,” he says. “He must be better than all right, he must be really good.” His eyes flicker at the fading marks on my neck, but he doesn’t ask, and I just look at him and blush and smile, and he says, “Good. Good for you.” Miguel ambles over now, hand set on his stomach as he slides on up to the bar. He kisses me on the temple as he grabs a seat. Wordless, he picks up his beer, waits for me to get mine. He clinks my glass as we drink together. His leg starts jumping up and down, but he looks pretty smooth in the face, so I don’t worry about it much. Downing his beer, he orders another and tips Vince with a couple black chips, so I assume he did all right. Vince comes over, slides the chips in his pocket. Miguel orders shots, so I ask him, “You trying to get me drunk?” “Yep,” he says and toasts me. We do the shots, he gets another round immediately. “Shit,” I say, peering down to the other end of the bar. “The gang’s all here tonight.” Diamond the gorgeous whore waves, so I salute her with my shot glass, down the drink, and she comes over and sits. I ask her, “Wanna meet my boyfriend?” I pat Miguel’s shoulder, tell him, “This is Diamond. She’s gonna try and pick you up now, I’ll be right back.” As I get up to go the ladies room, Diamond gives me a quizzical look, says, “You still don’t get what I mean about fighting for what you want, do you?” “Ah, I get it. I’d fight for him, but I don’t have to. He’s mine already.” “Want me find out for you?” she toys. “Whatever.” When I come back from the bathroom, Diamond is on the other side of the bar, far from Miguel. He puts his arm on the back of my chair, hands me another shot, leans into me and says, “That chick, she tried to pick me up. Went right for me.” “I figured she would,” I say and down the shot as he does his. He winces a bit from his, says, “I turned her down, o’ course.” “I figured you would.” I sip my drink, already catching a heavy buzz. Lighting up a smoke, I say, “I think I’m gonna start hitting on you now.” “How you gonna do that?” “Wanna go upstairs?” “That’s the best you got?” He laughs, and I just nod. “Well, it worked.” “Good. Let’s get drinks to go with us.”

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He orders them from Vince. Inspecting him, I think he’s a little lit up, too. I understand he’s very lit up when he drops another black chip on the bar, says to Vince, “Gracias, ese.” Yeah, he’s good and lit up because he swings my hand as we walk through the halls, laughs at jokes in his head. I let him make out with me in the elevator, he even gets his hand up under my (his) shirt, but then we’re there before it gets out of control. He’s got a key, so he lets us in, and I plop in front of the mini-bar and say, “I’m eating whatever chocolate they got in here.” “K,” he says. “What else you wanna do?” “I feel icky from being on planes all day. I wanna take a big Jacuzzi bath.” “What else?” “I want you in it with me.” “What else?” “Isn’t that enough?” I ask. He smiles, sits down next to me and helps me open the mini-bar cabinet. Says, “That’s about all I want.” “Hey,” I say as he pops it open. “This shit is expensive, can we afford it? You make any money tonight?” He digs in his pocket, pulls out a fistful of chips, drops the pinks and blacks on the carpet, reaches in and gets some more, throws them down, too. “I don’t know what’s there,” I say, “but if it’s a lot you gotta be careful cashing it in or else the IRS is gonna take a nice bite out of it.” Then I look up into the fridge. “Oh! Butterfinger!” “Wanna know what’s there, Martino? Enough for you to have a Butterfinger, that’s for sure. Have all of ’em. Have a fuckin’ Almond Joy if you want, too.” “You’ll buy it for me?” He unwraps it for me, takes a bite himself first then hands it over. Says as he chews, “You bought that. You made that money tonight. You earned it, okay?” “I’m gonna have two of ’em then,” I say as I sink my teeth in. Sugarysweet, chocolatey-smooth, and buttery-rich, all coming together in one satisfying crunch. “Yummm,” I say as I chew, take another bite, let it melt across my tongue before I swallow. I break off a piece and hand it to him, lay back on the thick carpet, my heart beating harder already. He kicks it up higher by leaning over me, asking. “Two, that’s all you

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24/7 want?” “That’s all I want of those, yeah. You want more?” He tosses the piece of candy bar aside, says, “I always want more.”

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[ 23 [

T

HE PHONE RINGS. IT DOESN’T JOLT ME, POSSIBLY BECAUSE I’M SO DEEP THAT IT

takes a few rings just for the sound to sink in and drag me back up to consciousness. Wearily, I reach over Miguel as he stirs with a groan and answer it. “Ms. Martino,” a crisp voice intones. “Uh-huh,” I say. Sitting up. “Yes.” “This is Madeline, I’m a casino host.” “Yes,” I say. “I understand that Jack put you in that suite yesterday.” Silence from me, so she goes, “He shouldn’t have done that, Ms. Martino. I need that suite for this evening.” “I ate all the Butterfingers,” I tell her. “We’re going to have to move you to another room, ma’am.” Ma’am—this is serious. She’s not fucking around. Ma’am. It’s precisely because of the word ma’am that I really enjoy being called “sweetheart.” “Ms. Martino, are you there?” “Yes. I heard you. What…what do you want me to do?” “Get your things ready, I’ll send a bellman up and he’ll move you.” “I’m sleeping,” I protest. “Can’t this wait a little while?” “It’s after ten a.m., ma’am, we need to get you moved and get that suite ready for my guests.” Oh, I see. Her guests. Apparently, her guests spend more money than Jack’s guests do. “All right, whatever,” I say, hanging up. Miguel’s back asleep, flat on his back. I lay down on top of him, but he doesn’t wake up. He just loosely drapes one arm over me, makes a noise, then goes on breathing the deep breath of the sleeping. He’s gonna be pissed, man. He’s gonna say, “If you’d just come to my place we could’ve slept,” and he’ll be right. I’ve never had to wake him up before, either. What if that makes him cranky?

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24/7 Shit. Swallowing hard, I work myself up and just do it. I do it gently, patting his chest and calling his name in his ear. He just “mmmms” a little and blows it off, still asleep. I try again, a little louder, but he still doesn’t rise. Who the hell would get up? He’s only had a few hours of sleep, he worked a full shift, which is on his feet the whole time, then he drank like a fish and fucked like a champ, and he’s barely even getting time to breathe before I’m pulling him to his feet again. Shit, he’s gonna yell at me. “Miguel,” I call again, shaking him harder. Then, sort of loud: “Rodriguez!” “Huh?” He lifts his head and blinks his eyes, closes them again as he leans back. “You hungover, baby?” I ask. “Mmm, dunno yet,” he mumbles, trying to go back to sleep. “Sorry I had to wake you, you can go back to sleep soon.” “Less go back now,” he says. I flinch but do it. “We can’t. We have to switch rooms again.” He blinks his eyes open. Says, “Fuckin’ pendejo.” “I’m so sorry. It’ll be quick and you can go right back to sleep then. I’m so sorry.” He yawns. “Yo, this sucks, man.” He rubs his eyes, saying, “They wouldn’t pull this bullshit at the Bellagio.” I get off him, and he sits up. Still bracing myself for a pretty sound asschewing once he gets awake enough to get pissed, I hurriedly throw on his Mets T-shirt, pull on underwear and shorts. Gather up his clothes and bring them to him as I toss the few things I’d taken out of my suitcase back in. Him saying, “You know, since we gotta get up anyhow, we can go to my place if you want, then we won’t gotta move again.” Silence. He groans and stands up. “I know it ain’t Caesars, baby, but, like, how come you don’t like it at my place?” “Is that what you think? That I don’t like it there?” “It’s pretty clear,” he says. “I like it fine, it’s not that. I don’t like you driving around. This is free, we’ll move right now, you can sleep more, then if you want we can go to your place later.” “An’ stay there?” “Uh-huh,” I say. “I just…I just really want to get a swim in today, I’m

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really tight and sore.” I can feel him leering at me, ready to say something dirty, so I add, “Everywhere. I’m sore everywhere.” “Oh,” he says, disappointed. “Especially there, though. You’re killing me, Rodriguez. Killing me.” “Yeah?” Happier. Hopeful. “You know, I bet if you added up all the sex I’ve ever had in my whole life, except with you, it wouldn’t add up to last night alone.” “Shut the fuck up,” he says. I consider it as I zip up my luggage. “No, I’m serious. That was sort of epic.” “Epic, huh?” He hugs me from behind, nuzzles down into my neck. “Aren’t you going to yell at me for dragging you out of bed?” “Not after you called me epic,” he laughs. “Spic—heard that one before. I been called that, been called that a lot, but never epic.” The bellman knocks, and I wiggle away from him, calling out before I open the door, “I didn’t call you epic, Rodriguez, I called us epic.” “Whatever, Martino. Whatever,” he says and follows us out with a cocky grin. In the new room, Miguel takes a look around as the bellman sets down my bag and hands me new keys. Nodding, he simply says, “I guess we been downgraded.” It’s still nice, but not a full-blown suite. It’s in the Forum tower, got a big hot tub in the bedroom, nice bathroom with frosted glass windows. There’s a mirror on the ceiling above the bed. Classy. No mini-bar or fridge, though. “Dammit, we should have grabbed more from that mini-bar,” I say. He throws his shit on the bed, dumps out the bag with a sly grin. There’s some clothes and deodorant in there. His wallet and watch. A bunch of candy bars and tiny bottles. “God, I love you,” I tell him. So he goes back to sleep, and I go down and swim, then nap in the sun. He comes down and joins me, and in the late afternoon we go back upstairs to watch the final game of the Mets-Braves series. “So how are you gonna pay up when Maddux wins today?” I ask him. He doesn’t answer, and I decide to stop shooting my mouth off before I end up wearing an official Mets uniform as punishment. I get my suit off and climb under the covers to watch and nap, he pulls the drapes so the light is dim, and we settle in like that. He orders room service, and I feel more decadent, relaxed and happy than I ever have before.

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24/7 Maddux gets knocked out of the game in the first inning just as room service arrives. Miguel’s busy tipping the waiter and misses it, but once he has that handled, he strips naked, climbs in next to me, passes me a burger and looks at the TV again. He cracks up when he sees Maddux gone and starts munching away smugly. “Man,” he says between bites, “you sure ain’t catchin’ a break here, huh?” “Zip it,” I tell him. “But, I’m just sayin’, you know…” “Zip it!” He laughs. We fool around a little between innings, and that’s nice. He makes love to me during the seventh inning stretch, actually from the bottom of the sixth till the middle of the eighth, that’s even nicer. Not quite as nice as that, but still nice is that the final score is 2-1, Braves on top. I don’t even feel the urge to gloat, final score vindication enough. I do wonder how and when he’s going to pay up, but I figure I’ll let him think about it for a while. I ask him what he wants to do for the night, and he says, “Want me take you to the Peppermill?” “Yes. Perfect.” “Want one o’ them drinks at the Hilton? What’s it called?” “Warp Core Breech.” “Right on. That was it,” he says. “How’s that for a start?” “Perfect by me.” “You’re easy,” he says. “You didn’t figure that out the first night, guy?” Laughing: “I thought you said that was just ’cause you couldn’t resist me.” “Rodriguez, will you do one other thing for me tonight?” “Name it,” he says. * * * So we get cleaned up and dressed, and before heading out to the Peppermill, I lead him to a back corner of Caesars, to the entrance of the Magical Empire Show. “Grab us drinks? While I find her?” I look around, and it doesn’t take long. Sabina’s here, walking around the room in her blue I Dream of Jeannie outfit with the beads and sparkles. I ask her if she’ll do a reading for me, tip her up front and start picking out

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cards as Miguel ambles over, sipping his beer and setting down a drink for me. “I was here before,” I tell her. “Really? How’d I do?” “Well, I don’t think very well. I just want to check and see if things in the cards have changed. I mean, I know this isn’t serious or anything, but it just sort of bugged me what you said.” Laying the cards out and glancing over them, she asks, “What’d I say?” “Well, you told me that no one would ever love me, I’d never have a man.” “Ouch,” she says. Her brows crinkle together and she starts tapping the cards with her fingers. “Hmmm,” is what she says. “So, has that changed? Look any different?” “Well, actually, no,” she says. I straighten my back and stare at her. Saying slowly, “Excuse me?” “I see some interesting things here,” she says. “I see a whole lot of strength.” “Yeah, you said that before.” “I did?” She sounds astounded. “You know, I’m still sort of new at this.” “Yeah, but, like, you aren’t actually claiming to be psychic or anything, right?” I ask. “This is just a job you do to entertain, right?” “Well, sort of. I’m new to tarot, but I do come from a family of fortunetellers…” “Okay, whatever,” I say. Miguel cuts in. Sharply. “Yo, wait a minute here. You’re tellin’ her no one loves her? No one’s ever gonna love her?” “I just don’t see anything like that. I really don’t. I see some serious, sudden change right here…” She points to a card. Sliding her fingers to another one: “And this, wow, it’s like, violent or something. But I see you overcoming everything.” “Yeah, you said that before.” She beams. “This is bullshit!” Miguel says. “Yo, I’m her boyfriend. Understand? You’re tellin’ me I don’t exist? I don’t matter?” She goes, “I just don’t see you on the table here.” “Well, who the fuck do you see?” “Uh, no one, really. But look, like I said, I’m new, and this is just—” “Look at her!” he says loudly, says something really fast in Spanish that I don’t catch. “I mean it, man, look at her. She’s fuckin’ cute! Know what

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24/7 else? She’s sweet. That’s right. She’s so sweet she’d never sit here tellin’ someone that no one’s ever gonna love ’em!” “Rodriguez,” I say softly, getting up. “It’s okay, really. It’s not her fault. It doesn’t mean anything anyhow.” “Ahh, this is whacked!” “It’s fine,” I tell him, taking his hand, dragging him away. “Yeah, but that’s just bitchy o’ her,” he says, reluctant to back off. “It’s okay,” I say, tugging him away through the winding exit. “Doesn’t matter. I just wanted to show you off to her. Her saying I’d never have anyone, and here I have you, I just thought that’d be cool. And I did that. So thank you for doing it.” “It’s still shitty. I don’t fuckin’ believe that shit, man, you know, pisses me off.” “Yeah, well, I don’t believe it. Fate, whatever.” “You don’t? What do you believe in?” I squeeze his hand. “You. That’s enough.” “Yo, fuck her,” he says. “She pro’bly told Bruno she’d get married and have kids, some shit like that.” I laugh. “That’s exactly what she told her.” “See that, she’s a fuckin’ hack, baby. She’s just fuckin’ with you. What did those cards say to you?” “How the hell would I know? I can’t read a tarot deck.” “You can’t?” Mock astounded. “Serious? Somethin’ you can’t do. Here I was thinking’ you knew everything.” I punch him in the arm, a little hard, and it makes him laugh.

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[ 24 ]

W

E SAUNTER THROUGH THE CASINO ON A LAZY WEDNESDAY NIGHT, HAND-IN-hand,

as I convince him not to drive so that he can get all liquored up with me, and we head out into the fairly cool night air to catch a taxi to somewhere new. The Peppermill turns out to be a cool place. Off-strip, no gambling— not even any video-poker machines drilled into the bar. It’s dark and bright at the same time; it’s cozy. It’s got a fire pit at one end, and that’s exceptionally cool, the fire coming out of a neony white pond of water. The booths are comfy, romantic in the most oddly Vegas way, like a ’70s fern bar. There’s lots of mirrors around. As Miguel slides next to me into a booth, I snuggle up to him without hesitation, and he grins, says, “You know, people come here just to make out. It’s known for it.” “Really? Is that why you brought me here?” His only answer is a quick Eskimo kiss before a waitress comes to take our order. We hang out, he drinks a couple beers, I suck down a couple vodka sodas, and when he tries to get us to do shots, I tell him to hold up, that he ought to be in decent shape to handle the Warp Core. He looks at me like I’m nuts and gives me a kiss. As he pulls away, over his shoulder, I catch a guy leering at me. He’s so bold as to wag his tongue at me until I look away. The tattoos, I figure. Some guys see all this ink on a chick and just know she’s gotta be some sort of sleaze or rough or something. So I blow it off and go back to concentrating on Miguel. “So how you gonna pay up on the game today?” I tease him. “Ah, Statue Lips. Waitin’ for that, huh?” He leaves me to go to the men’s room, and he’s barely out of sight when the tongue-wagger approaches. He takes a long, deliberate look up and down my body, still leering. There’s something vaguely familiar about him,

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24/7 but I can’t place it. Then he slides into the booth next to me. “Buena,” he says, licking his lips. “You looking pretty tonight.” There’s something off. I wouldn’t go so far as to call him sinister, not even menacing. But he’s not friendly—the vibe is all fucked up. Still, that’s not unusual with some guys and how they hit on chicks. I’ve had worse, that’s for sure. They put off this attitude that’s beyond macho, bordering on psychotic. I think it’s a protectionary mechanism so that if they get rejected they can call the girl a lesbian bitch and wag their tongue at the next one. I try to blow him off gently. Say “Okay. Thanks,” then turn the other way, slide away from him. As I’m moving, another guy with his head shaved slides in on the other side of the booth. He doesn’t push in as close, but he keeps me from getting up. He smiles at me nicely. His friend runs a finger along my forearm, and I snap back to him as I pull my arm away. I’ve never before been able to pull out this easy excuse, so I try it on for size. “My boyfriend’s in the bathroom, he’ll be right back.” “Fuck your boyfriend,” he says. From the other side of me: “Yeah, fuck your boyfriend,” the bald guy repeats. Okay. So. It didn’t exactly work out as well as I’d hoped it would. “Yeah, I do fuck my boyfriend, he’s the only guy I’m gonna be fucking.” “Don’t be a cunt,” the tongue-wagging guy says. I’m shocked. I mean, I’m really shocked. Honestly. I’ve been called a cunt before, but usually there’s a little more that I’ve done to earn it, or at least a little more animosity in the works. I back off, not wanting to get him all pissed off and have Miguel come back out here into a hornet’s nest. “Look, I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to sound bitchy. I’m sure you’re really cool, I’m just not interested. Nothing personal, okay?” “Don’t really care what you want. Buena crica, huh? Your boyfriend’s a cabrón.” Parroted over my other shoulder from the other guy: “Buena crica.” I don’t know what the first thing he said means, but I know what he just said about Miguel, and it really pisses me off. “You know him?” I ask. “I know he left you here. Alone. With me.” “He’ll be right back,” I say, glancing around. “I bet you’re a sweet piece of pussy. He eat you out the way he should?” Face flaming, I refuse to back down from him, I just glare and he goes on.

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“I know he doesn’t.” He grabs my chin and forces me to look at him as I try to turn away and back up. “I’ll do that for you.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, “but—” “It’s called cunnilingus, sweetheart. That’s what I’m talking about.” My skin crawls with the thought, but I try not to piss him off; he’s aggressive enough already. “Look, no offense, really. But I’m not interested.” “We’ll see,” he says. His eyes flit for a second, then he moves and twists into me, really fast, very forceful. He pins me against the back of the booth. He paws at my boob. Sticks out his tongue and lurches his face near mine. His hand squeezes hard on my breast, his tongue licks across my face. Yelping, I shove him back as hard as I can. I don’t think it’ll be enough, so I get ready to kick, but there’s a blur, and quick as he was on me, he’s off and there’s Miguel standing between us, growling, “Back off.” He must have pulled him off as I was shoving against him. Straightening up, I peel myself off the booth, but before I can stand up, Miguel puts one arm out, motioning for me to stay directly behind him as he points his finger menacingly in the gross guy’s face. He says something in Spanish I don’t get, follows up in English that I do understand. “Don’t you ever fuckin’ touch her.” Then he clocks him. Hard. No warning. Just a sudden, sharp, powerful punch right in the face. Drops the guy to the floor. Miguel curses at him in Spanish again, spits on the guy’s feet, turns and grabs my hand, pulling me up, helping me step around the guy on the floor, and then pushes me in front of him, leading me out of the place. The guy sitting on the other side of me never made a sound or moved a muscle as Miguel nailed his friend. He’s got a whole new look on his face that I’ve never seen before. Maybe I’ve witnessed shades of it—when he first jacked up his Caddy, when he was passively glaring at that guy who was insulting us at the bar. But this is an entirely different level. His forehead vein that usually only pops out when he’s working really hard during sex is showing. His jaw is clenched and eyes are gleaming, resolute. Fierce. I start to babble. “I’m so sorry, Miguel, I swear, I didn’t…I didn’t flirt with him or anything, he just came over and I tried to be nice, but…but…” “I know,” he says, pulling me outside into the cool dark. There’s no taxis around, he’s leading us through the parking lot and toward the street. Behind us, I hear a door slam and glance over my

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24/7 shoulder, seeing the guy emerge, and the other with him. It’s dark out. We’re in back of the place, off the strip, no other people around, no bright lights, no hum of activity. Safety isn’t a phone call or snap of the fingers away. And they’re walking fast, closing the small gap between us. “He’s coming,” I tell Miguel. “Shit,” he hisses, stops in his tracks and turns around. And there they are, in front of us. The crude fucker, ordinarily just another tired joker who crossed a line but, with reinforcement with him, suddenly a serious threat. I fight off a shiver, whether it’s from the cold outside or the vile feeling of danger creeping through the pit of my stomach, I’m not sure. But Miguel takes a half-step in front of me, his lips thinning, standing up straight to his full height, shoulders back, legs slightly spread. “Don’t even fuckin’ think about it,” he says, voice low instead of a yell. My eyes go back and forth between the two guys, pause on the one with the shaved head, and it’s like an alarm going off. Now I’m certain I’ve seen them. My dad always boasts of having a photographic memory with instant recall. Eidetic is the technical term for it. I remember in pictures, but not like he does. And all the booze, the lack of sleep fucks with me now. I start flipping through pictures like pages in a catalogue—craps tables, bars, restaurants, the pool, anywhere I’d have seen these guys. Nothing fits, I can’t zero in on it. Just like how I couldn’t memorize that definition of love in the dictionary, I can’t get the pieces of this puzzle to come together. The only sound is my own heartbeat in my ear, everything unnaturally lit by the heavy glow of a far-off, high-above security lamp. Then the tongue wagger speaks, points at Miguel. “It’s called respect, asshole. And you need to learn it.” “Respect,” his reinforcement reiterates. “Respect, huh?” Miguel mouths back. “That’s what you showed her back in there? Get the fuck away from us.” No warning, the bald guy punches Miguel in the face, and Miguel barely staggers. He drops my hand and cracks him with a serious right-hand closed-fist punch. As they start brawling, the tongue-wagger is on me again. His hand goes around my throat. No thought, reflex only, I kick him, hard as I can. He shouts, his hand loosens, but before I can pull away, he’s standing up again. Closed fist, cat-quick… Crack!—right into my face.

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I drop. Instantly. I don’t go out, though. Blunt, hard pain and exploding pressure in my eye. I’m on the ground, blinking and rocked. Struggling to get up. And then I see him going for Miguel, to double up on him. Miguel’s still tangling with the bald guy, and this one goes at him, lunging, takes him out with a hard tackle. They roll to the ground, bald guy kicks at Miguel from above. I’m up. I tackle him, the bald one, flailing, kicking, biting. Screaming. Insane, just whaling on his ass. Somehow, he gets on top of me. He sits up, rears back. And there’s Miguel. Small trickle of blood from his mouth, face contorted with rage. He gets his arm around the guy’s throat, pulls him up. No fucking around now—he slams his face into the blacktop. I squirm away, see the other guy, tongue-wagger, staggering up to Miguel again. “Miguel!” I shout. He turns, not in time. The guy whacks him in the face, making him reel. But before the guy can hit him again, Miguel gathers and unleashes a furious punch into the guy’s chest. It rocks him, and Miguel drops him with a few savage face hits. He was a good boxer for some reason pops into my head. Miguel keeps pounding on the guy, so I struggle to my feet again, get above him and start calling his name, trying to grab his arm to slow him down. “Miguel!” I shout, getting my arms wrapped around his shoulder. “Stop! Stop!” He does. Panting, he straightens up and looks down at the guy, face bloodied, out cold. He glances around, spots the bald one, also knocked out, face down in the parking lot. Then he looks up at me above him, grabs hold of my waist and presses his forehead into my stomach, still catching his breath. I hold his head in my hands for a few seconds, knot my fingers in his short hair, then say, “We have to go.” He nods against me, pulls himself up. “You all right?” he asks. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Are you? You’re bleeding,” I point to his mouth. He blows that off, saying, “He knocked you good, I saw it. You all right?” “I’m fine,” I say, but he keeps looking at my face, all viciousness gone from his expression. “We have to go,” I repeat. He nods, squats down and tugs at the guy’s jacket as I look around

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24/7 nervously. No one’s in sight, but that doesn’t mean no one saw us. He’s stuffing something in his pocket, ruffling around some more. Is he actually rolling the guy while he’s out? Well, fuck it if he is. He gets a set of keys and stands up. Takes my hand and starts leading me away. “You’re bleeding,” I tell him again. And this time, as we walk briskly, he licks at his mouth, swipes at it with the back of his hand. “It’s nothin’,” he says as we get to Paradise Road and he steers us left, carelessly tossing the keys into a trashcan. “Where are we going?” I ask him. I’m shaking, not from the cold, but from the adrenaline still coursing through me. It’s over, but the nervousness sets in as though I was just getting ready to dive into it. “I don’t know, gonna look for a taxi, you know, whatever.” “I’m so sorry,” I tell him, getting even more jittery. “I’m nothing but one disaster after another for you, this is all—” “This ain’t your fault,” he says coldly. “You sure you’re all right?” “I could use a drink. And a smoke,” I say as he flags down a taxi. “Are you fuckin’ serious?” He opens the door and climbs in behind me. “Uh, yeah,” I say as I start wringing my hands, squeezing on my ring, getting more freaked as the images of what just happened keep replaying in my head. That guy on me in the booth, licking my face. I swipe a hand across my cheek roughly, setting off shocks of pain. I picture his tongue and wipe some more, ignoring the hot jolts with a shiver. “Where to?” the driver asks, and Miguel says Caesars, but I shake my head. “I don’t want to go in there.” Not like this, I leave unspoken. “I need a drink,” I repeat. “Are you okay?” I ask Miguel. He nods, and I ask again, he nods again. “Hilton,” I tell the guy, “back entrance, the Star Wars bar.” “Star Trek,” he corrects me. Whatever. “Is that okay?” I ask Miguel and he nods again, staring at me now. Mentally, I see the guy over me, ready to unleash, and my stomach does a flip. Squeezing my eyes shut, another picture appears—the bald guy kicking Miguel in the ribs. Sour bile rises in my throat, I snap my eyes open. Just as that one fades, another pops like a camera flash—the tongueguy over Miguel, smashing him across the jaw. I shake, all the fear suddenly exploding through my guts, exposing itself as nervous tremors. I look up at

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Miguel to center myself, reassure myself that he’s okay. I grab onto him, ask him again, “Are you sure you’re okay?” “I’m fine.” He seems to laugh. “Calm down, it’s all right,” he soothes me. He fumbles in his pocket, pulls out a smoke and lights it up, passes it to me as he exhales roughly. He’s got blood on his hand, I don’t know if it’s his or the other guy’s. Because of me. My fault. He could have been killed. I take it and inhale deep as I can. From up front: “No smoking in my cab,” and the window next to me goes down halfway. I hit it again and toss it out the window. By the time he drops us off, I’ve got it pulled back together, convinced myself that I’m okay, Miguel’s okay, and no, no one saw us, no one knows us, he’s not going to get busted for this whole thing. And even if someone did see it and report it, I’m there to say those crazy fucks started it. So it’s all okay, it’s all good, Miguel says he’s fine and I just have to chalk this up to one more fuck-up. Though I still can’t exactly figure out what I did to provoke this whole thing. As soon as we get out, I ask Miguel for another smoke—I dropped my pack on the ground at some point, or left them at the Peppermill when he pulled me out so quickly, don’t really know for sure. But he lights up a couple, passes one to me. He seems tense, coiled and ready. He wasn’t shaking like I was in the cab, but he’s not laughing yet either, he still seems reticent, maybe even pissed. But he’s not bitching me out or anything, and I know I’m not normal yet, so I just roll with it. I lead in, going past the game room, stopping at a restroom along the way. He says he’ll meet me in the hall, he’s gonna stop, too. Inside, I go to the sink and splash some water on my face before looking in the mirror. Dumb-ass, I forgot I was wearing makeup and when I look up I have black streaks running down my face. I get those cleaned up and wash off the lick area again, take another look. It’s not that bad. There’s a mark, that’s for sure. It’s a bit of a welt from where his fist thumped me, but it’s not all that bad. Combined with the fading marks on my neck, though, I guess it could look like I’ve been into some serious shit. I step back and check the rest of me. I wash off a couple of small scrapes, one on my knee, one on my elbow, but they aren’t bad. I pull my hair around, cover up my neck. If I don’t tuck it behind my ear, it even covers the deepening red splotch on my face. I go out and meet Miguel. He’s already out there and he looks fresher. I

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24/7 can’t tell where his mouth was bleeding, it must have been inside his lip. He straightened his shirt. I don’t see any marks on his jaw where I know he took at least a couple of hits. I get another guilty pang with that thought, but I shove it aside, reassuring myself again that he’s just fine. But he’s still tense, I’m sure of that. “You sure this is okay with you?” I ask him. “Anything you want, baby, anything you want.” So he puts his hand on the back of my neck as we walk along, we go in and grab a booth in the back of the bar area where it’s darkest and where there’s least likelihood of roaming Romulans coming up to us. When the waiter comes, I order a Warp Core Breech and Miguel tries to get one, too, but I tell him we’ll share. He looks at me strangely. When it comes out, bigger than a goldfish bowl, purple and smoking all over the place, he smirks at me and says, “Now that is a fuckin’ drink. Trekkie fucks know how to party, huh?” As we lean in and start sucking away at our straws, I get some weird mental flash of us as if someone else was watching us. Like we’re some sort of distorted, grown-up, Gen-X, sullied version of the Lady and The Tramp spaghetti scene. Except that I’m no Lady. Or lady. And I just nearly got Tramp skinned alive. We suck on it in silence for a while. Finally I say, “This is rum. That all right?” He nods and sucks. I can feel it starting to warm me up, loosen the knots of dread still cramped up inside me. “Want some Scoobie-snacks?” I ask him. “You wanna fuckin’ roll tonight? When’d you pick up X?” “No, not real ones. These shots they make here, they’re really good. I don’t know what they call them, I just call them that ’cause they make me really happy.” “They make you happy? Get ’em.” I wave over the waiter and try to order the shots. I don’t know what they’re called, and he starts hassling me, as he’s supposed to do. They have everything in this bar named after Star Trek stuff, and part of the fun is that they make you talk the talk. But I just want the shots, so I tuck my hair behind my ear and say, “Please don’t screw with me, just bring me a rack.” I don’t know if it’s the tone of my voice, the look on my face or the look of my face, with the welt that I can now feel blazing away on it, but he softens and nods. Before he gets away, Miguel asks him for a glass of ice.

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He comes back with a wire rack loaded with six shot glasses of milky green stuff and the ice. We each pick one up and shoot it, the cool minty smoothness of them a nice contrast to the warmth of the rum. Miguel nods and hands me a cigarette. We both light up, and that’s even better. I’m unwinding, but I can’t tell if he is. He seems to be controlling himself rather than relaxing. He keeps watching me then looking away if I try to catch him in a long stare. Fingering the gold cross dangling around his neck, he quickly tucks it back inside his shirt. He wraps some of the ice into a napkin. Hands it to me and tells me to put it on my cheek. “You’re pissed at me,” I say. “No, I’m not.” I look at his hand, knuckles puffy and banged up. “Your hand, it’s—” “It don’t hurt, it’s fine,” he says. “I’ve had worse.” “But aren’t they gonna be pissed at work?” “Nah, they know I box, it’s happened before, you know, no big deal.” “Shit. I’m so sorry,” I say. “Just. Look, stop sayin’ that, all right? You didn’t do nothin’. I’m sorry,” he says. “For what? For saving my ass?” “I gotta tell you somethin’,” he says. “Those guys are assholes.” “Yeah, I figured that out,” I say and take a deep slurp. “No, I mean…Like, I know them.” “You do?” As I ask that, there’s another sudden flash in my head and I’ve got it. Leaving his place that first night. Getting off the elevator, I passed a couple of guys who leered at me. I was feeling plucky that morning, I didn’t look away, I smiled at them brazenly. Two big guys, one bald. It was them. I take a last drag on my smoke and crush it out. Snuffing his next to mine, he clears his throat. “That was all my fault,” he says. “They know me, they were fuckin’ with me, and…and…” “Fuck, man,” I say and take another sip, fiddling and adjusting the cold ice against my face, another level of tension draining right out of me. “Thank God.” “What?” “Rodriguez, do you have any idea how guilty I’ve been feeling? I thought I fucked up again and caused you all this trouble, that you got hurt ’cause of me. It was making me sick to my stomach.” He meets my gaze, staring at me gravely. Quietly: “Then you know how I

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24/7 feel.” His eyes are soft but pulled down with sadness. So much hurt radiating from him. Another new look. First the fierce one, then that raging one, now this. This one is awful. I’ve seen him look sad—he has it hidden deep beneath the surface but shimmering up every so often anyhow. But this is out there, everything I was feeling playing right across his face, reflecting in his dark, deep eyes. Only more intense. I reach up and stroke his face. “Miguel, I’m fine. And it’s not your fault. That guy was just a total pig. You should have heard the shit he said to me.” I kiss him lightly on the jaw. “And you kicked his ass for me.” I smile. He grabs my hand and pulls it down. “What did he say to you?” “Um, well,” I think, recalling it. “You wanna know? I’ll tell you, but remember, you already kicked his ass, okay? It’s already been taken care of.” “Just tell me,” he says. “Well, he pretty much ran the table on insults. First he called me a cunt—” “He called you a cunt?” His teeth grit together, eyes flash. “See, I’m not gonna tell you if you get all pissed off again.” “Why’d he call you that?” “I don’t know! Because he’s an asshole! I swear, I didn’t do anything,” I plead. “I know you didn’t. I know it, I told you, this is my thing. My fault.” He leans down and kisses my hand so sweetly, but his brows knit together in deep worry and he doesn’t look at me again. “Miguel, please,” I beg him. “Don’t do this.” I drop the ice and stroke the back of his neck. Play with the edges of his hair. “I’m okay, Rodriguez. You didn’t do this. They’re the assholes, you said it yourself. And I’m fine. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize how bad you kicked their ass, the funnier it gets.” He sighs heavily, but I swear I can detect him lightening up a little, so I go on. “Can you imagine it? Can you? If someone busts them out there before they wake up? What would they say? One guy and a chick beat them senseless?” I laugh as he looks up at me. “We are so badass,” I tell him. “You’re badass,” he says, starting to grin. “I saw you, you know, I was keepin’ an eye out. You—you fuckin’ rushed that guy and went postal on his ass.” “I know! Holy shit, I was freaking out. I bit him! I bit him pretty hard,

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too, the goofy bald fucker. You know him, right? He a little slow or something?” “What?” Miguel asks. “No!” “Oh, all right. He just seemed…odd. I don’t know who he thinks he is, anyhow. Vin Diesel can go bald, not his lame ass.” Miguel smiles at me at that. So I say, “Come on, guy, do a shot with me, Mr. Badass. Nobody calls your woman a cunt and walks away from it.” So we do a shot, slurp some more at the giant drink as the smoke emanating from it slowly starts to subside. Him asking, “So what else did he say?” “Oh, shit, who cares?” “I care.” He puts the ice back on my face. “All right. Um, let’s see. I saw him first, before you went to the restroom. He was behind you a ways, and he stuck his tongue out at me.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “’Cause I didn’t know! I thought it was just some crude, random idiot. I blew it off. I thought if I told you it would start some whole big scene and I didn’t want that.” He smirks. “Guess that didn’t work out so good then, huh? What else?” “Then you left and he came over, he was hitting on me and it was disgusting, and I blew him off. Oh, I know, this is cool. Usually when guys hit on me and I want to blow them off, I have to just do it on my own, but this time I actually got to say ‘My boyfriend will be right back.’ So that was very cool.” I beam at him. “Guess that didn’t work out so good either, huh?” “No, that’s when he called me a cunt. So I tried to be nice, and he said something in Spanish, I didn’t know what it meant, though—‘good’ something.” “You remember the word?” “Um, yeah. Crika, I think?” “Crica,” he corrects me. Gets a little pissed off. “What’s it mean?” “Never mind,” he says. Then I remember something else, how he called Miguel a cabrón. I remember that because I know what it means, and I don’t know if I should mention it to him. I glaze right over it, go to the tongue part, how he licked my face and grabbed me. “Anything else?” Miguel asks. I leave out him talking about eating me out, saying how Miguel doesn’t.

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24/7 Primarily because, well, Miguel doesn’t. It doesn’t bother me; I don’t expect him to. I know it’s a macho thing with a lot of guys—they just won’t do it. And since he manages to completely get me off anyhow, I really don’t care. I’m not about to make an issue out of it, especially because of some tonguewagging dickhead. I make him do another shot with me after repeating all that stuff. I’m getting a little lit up. It feels good to be unwinding, especially after all that. And I think it’s the best way to get him to come down, too. I light a smoke, he does the same, and I flag down the waiter and get us another rack of shots and a mini-Warp Core. “So,” I say. “I told you mine, you tell me yours. How do you know them?” He scratches his thumb across his forehead, and I let him think. Finally: “We used to be tight,” he says. “You? And them? Were they assholes even then?” “Yeah, guess so. I don’t know, it didn’t bother me, you know. Didn’t bother me, or I didn’t notice it.” “So I take it Kojak was the brains of your group and Tongue-guy was the sexy one.” He doesn’t answer that, so I press him. “Well, when did things turn to shit?” “A while ago,” he sighs. It seems like he doesn’t know what to say, not so much that he’s unwilling to discuss it. So I try another angle. “Did they ever fuck with Mindy like this?” “No, she fucked him,” he says and looks directly at me.

Cabrón. “Where the fuck are those shots?” I crane my neck to look for the waiter. That explains a hell of a lot. Cabrón. I know he doesn’t eat you out. And this one: has a girlfriend ever cheated on you?—Yes. Mindy. Mindy told them stuff about him and fucked around behind his back. I’d like to fuckin’ kill her. I’d like to just grab her and rip her hair out for hurting him like this. Did I just say that out loud? “’S all right,” he says. “I’m over it, she ain’t worth it.” Yes, I did say that out loud. “I’m so sorry, Miguel. You have to know I’d never do something like that, right? I wouldn’t cheat on you. You know that, right?” He nods, and I pull him down close to me, wrap my hands around his neck and kiss him. “I’d never do that. I’d never do that to you. I wouldn’t

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want to.” “Even if you was pissed at me?” “Never. I won’t ever do that,” I say right in his ear. “I don’t think I could anyhow. You’ve wrecked me, Rodriguez, you’ve wrecked me for other men.” I feel him grin against my cheek, his eyelashes flutter as he blinks. I pull back as I see the waiter coming with our next round. “You need a shot after all that,” I tell him. “There’s more,” he says. “Shoot.” “I don’t really feel like talkin’ about it, though,” he says and slouches down a little. “Okay,” I nod. I’ve seen enough hurt from him for one night. If he wants to take his time with this, I can wait. I can understand that. “But I’m gonna have to tell you. Sometime. Soon.” “Okay.” “It’s not good,” he says. I swallow hard. “Okay.” “Yo, let’s do these shots now,” he says. And we do them. And they’re good. And then we suck on the fresh smoking drink. And then I ask, “That’s how you got that scar, on your ribcage? From them?” “Yeah.” He nods. And that’s all he says for awhile. We just sit and drink and smoke, getting pretty drunk. After the last of the shots, he reaches over and tucks my hair behind my ear, caresses my cheek, lightly running his fingertips over the injured area. He looks sad as he does it, gazing at that instead of my eyes. “Snap out of it, Rodriguez,” I say, knocking his hand away. “I’m fuckin’ fine, all right? Shit. I’m ready for round two. Let’s go scrape them off the parking lot and kick their ass all over again.” “Yo, I believe you,” he says with a laugh. “Yeah, I’m not fuckin’ around. I’m not afraid of them. Not if you’re on my side. You were a good boxer, weren’t you?” He doesn’t answer, instead asking, “You weren’t afraid of them, were you?” I snort. “I don’t know. I was more scared after. I don’t know what I was then. I think I was pissed.” “You looked pissed.” He laughs. “I’ll never forget how you looked, man.”

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24/7 “You looked pissed,” I tell him. “Yeah, I was, man, I was. But you—shit. I swear I scare you more than they do.” “You don’t scare me at all,” I say. “Yeah, I see you. I can see when you’re scared. Don’t ever try an’ play poker, Martino. Stick with the card counting. ’Cause you show everything you’re feeling before you remember to hide it.” “Oh, that’s bullshit, that’s you.” “Nah, huh-uh. I let you see things in me. But I’ve seen you get scared with me. But you didn’t give an inch with them. You just attacked, baby.” “Told you, I’m badass. They pissed me off, fuckin’ with my man. Listen, they know where you live.” “Yeah,” he answers. “We can stay at the hotel tonight, right?” I ask. He nods and grins. Saying, “I won’t let them hurt you again. I promise.” “Rodriguez,” I say, “I wasn’t worried about me.” He puts his hand over my face and shoves me away, mock disgusted. I let it go because I know he means it—he’ll do anything to keep me from getting hurt. And I wasn’t joking. I’m more worried about him, but I won’t insult him by pushing the point. He proved he’s a big boy, he can take care of me, he can take care of himself.

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[ 25 ]

S

WARP CORE, SIX MORE MINTY SHOTS, SIXTEEN OF HIS cigarettes and one cab ride later, with three scraped knuckles and one swollen cheek, I convince him to get the taxi to drop us off at the Barbary Coast so we can get some more drinks and walk along the strip, even if it is just across the street. He humors me as we do shots at the Barbary Coast, seemingly a bit amused by me. I know I’m more than amused with him. “C’mon,” I say, “let’s go somewhere else now.” “You’re drunk,” he says. “Baby, you’re gonna be ready to pass out by the time we get to the next place.” I blink a few times, see him go in and out of focus as I do, the room lurch around me a little. He’s right. But fuck it. I want him to get all beyond repair with me, and I can’t tell if he is. “You’re drunk,” I tell him. “Yeah, I am,” he says. “But you’re more. I can tell.” “Oh, you think you know me, huh?” He laughs and pulls me close. “Fuck, yeah, I know you.” I squint to focus. “Then how come you like me so much?” He holds me, his strong hands keeping me steady, saying, “That’s why I like you so much. ’Cause I know you.” “Shit. I know you.” “You do, huh? I don’t know about that. I hope you still like me once you do.” “I know you. Badass,” is the only way I can articulate it. He’s still holding me, and it seems effortless for him. I knew he was strong. I knew it by looking at him. But it’s one thing to know it and entirely another to see it in action. See it being put to use. All that power. All that rage. All that sudden burst of uncontrollable violence. A silvery frisson runs up my spine. It scared me to see him like that, O ONE MORE MINI

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24/7 pounding away on someone. But even deeper, I knew he was doing it because of me. To keep me safe. Knowing now as I look at him that he’ll never use that sort of force against me. I trust him with that. “I wanna walk outside an’ see the lights,” I tell him. Brushing the hair off my shoulder, he nods. “Whatever you want.” He takes my hand, lets me lead him outside. As we walk into the crisp night air, I admire the view and turn to catch him admiring me. I look around and take a beat to soak it up. It should be dark out, dead of night now, but the streets and pavement shine and pulse with manufactured lights. Pinks and golds, rippling and oscillating around neon flamingoes. White and silver softly cascading around desert palms. Reds and yellows chasing around crossed swords. All of them flashing and beckoning— promising. Contagious electricity. “Come to me” they say. “Come to me and I’ll entertain you, I’ll make you happy. I’ll make you a winner.” Inviting. Hopeful. I pick the pink lights of the Flamingo right next door, quickly realizing he was right and that I am pretty crushed. I hum as we walk along, thinking about him and how this all happened. How he thinks he knows me. How he probably does know me—I’m not all that complex, I’m not all that deep. And he likes me anyhow. And I think about him. How he got me so wrapped up and brainless that I stayed here longer just to drink up more of him. More of his body, more of his soul. The one that seems so sad at times, but that I can seem to ease, even make happy. I don’t know how I’m doing it. I never wanted to do this, don’t know how to do this. I’m brainless and clueless. But not hopeless. He’ll help me. He’ll help me figure it out. So we find a bar amid the glassy pink splendor of the Flamingo, and I get him to do another shot as I order a piña colada. By the time the drink gets to me, I have to look at him, and finally give in. As I always do. “I’m tired,” I tell him. “You’re drunk.” He laughs. “Oh. Shit. I’m not drunk. You’re drunk.” “I know,” he says. “You wanna go?” I just nod and wrap a fist around my frothy drink, this time letting him lead me out, trusting him to get me across the huge, busy street without getting iced by the traffic. He leads me up across a walkway and I crack up, just looking at him and saying, “I knew you were smart,” as we pass over

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the traffic below. He guides me up the long pathway through the fountains back into Caesars, steadying me the couple of times I stumble. He leads me through the hotel, leans against the door as I fumble with the key card before getting the door to open. Walking in behind me, he pulls off his shirt and lets it drop to the floor, flops on the couch and flips on the TV, motions for me to sit in his lap, so I do, then he reaches for a smoke and simply says, “Aww, fuck.” “What?” “Out. No smokes. Get up, I gotta get some, I ain’t wakin’ up without smokes.” I lean in and smooch his neck. “I’ll go get ’em. I wanna. You look beat. I’m getting another drink anyhow.” Laughing: “You don’t need another drink, Martino. You’re wasted already and you don’t even know it yet.” “I’m not smashed. C’mon, I’ll go do it.” “You’re all fucked up, you know, you’ll probably start gambling an’ get lost and shit an’ forget my smokes.” “Just…Just gimme some money, I’m capable of buying smokes, drunk or not.” “Okay. Listen. Just get the smokes, an’ I want change, okay?” He pulls a fold of bills out of his pocket and looks for a small one, passes me a Benny against better judgment. “How ’bout this—I’ll, like, fill up that hot tub while you’re gone, K?” Nodding and pulling my shoes back on, I stumble on my way to the door. “Oh, Jesus,” he says. “You know what? Fuck this, you’re wasted, man, I’m gonna go.” “I am fine,” I insist. “I can get around this place drunk and blindfolded if I had to,” I tell him and hurry out the door. “And I’m not all that mashed anyhow.” * * * So here’s the thing. I’m trying to convince the desk clerk guy to tell me where my room is. He won’t, because I don’t have my ID on me. I try explaining it to him as I suck away on a piña coloda Vince fixed for me, how I’m just confused because they keep moving my room. Vince could have told me my room number, except I hadn’t charged anything at the bar tonight so he doesn’t have it on record, he only had last night’s room number on the receipts, and I didn’t figure out it was the wrong room till

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24/7 I’d gone up there once. And this guy, this suit, he won’t tell me my room number because I don’t have ID on me to prove that I’m me. I give up and call upstairs. Four rings in, Miguel finally answers with “Yo.” “Yooooooooo,” I say back. “Where the fuck are you?” “You gotta come ’n’ get me,” I say. “Where the hell are you?” “Downstairs.” “What the hell are you doing?” “‘K, don’ get mad at me, K? K?” “You’re fucked up, ain’t you?” “Rodriguez…” “Martino,” he repeats back in the same tone. “I jus’ got a little…confused. ’S a big place here, know?” “So you got lost?” “Well, I’m… no, I’m here, I know where I am.” “Where’s that?” “The lobby. They let me call you ’cause I told ’em you’re my boyfriend. And you’re really good-looking, I told ’em that, too.” He laughs at me. “Who let you call me? What the fuck are you talking about?” “I forgot our room, and they won’t tell it to me, but they let me call you, Rodriguez. I’m just confused, see, ’cause they keep moving me around in here! “ I say that part loud, more for the concierge’s benefit than Miguel’s. I plead with him again. “Meee-guel.” “Martino.” “Hmmmm?” “You fucked up?” Sheepishly: “Yesss,” I admit. I cover the phone and start talking to the concierge. “Told you he’d come an’ get me, you’ll see, ’at’s our room he’s in…” “Martino,” I hear from the phone in my hand. His voice, loud: “Martino!” “Yo—ooo. ’ats what you say allatime. Yo.” I laugh. “Thought you said you weren’t drunk before.” “Yeah, I was frontin’. ’Cause I’m badass.” “I’ll be right there,” he says. He finds me double-fisting piña coladas from Vince. I’ve got six beers

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for him on the concierge’s desk and a bag full of smokes and T-shirts. He leads me back upstairs, both of us smirking as the elevator carries us up. He’s got the hot tub fixed, so I get undressed and scramble in. I dig it right off, bubbly and warm, overlooking the sparkling lights down on the strip. Yeah, I’m drunk. Wiping my eyes, I look around for Miguel, call out for him. He doesn’t answer me but walks out of the bathroom, naked, carrying my drink, his beer and another little bottle. He hands me the drink and slips in behind me. “Wha’s that?” I ask, slurring more. “Fuckin’ bubble bath, man—they got all the shit here.” “Wait, wait,” I warn, pointing to a metallic plaque nailed by the faucets. “Says don’t use that shit in here.” “Why, huh? What the fuck, man? It’s a fuckin’ bath, man, it’s made for this shit.” I settle back into him, he dumps some of the pink liquid from the bottle on my shoulder. I squeal and flinch as the cool gel hits my warm skin. I suck on my drink, draining the last of it as he splashes my shoulder and rubs at it, massaging it around, me leaning back into him, slippery and wet, pink and gold lights from outside reflecting off our glistening skin. Setting my glass down, I turn around and smooch him. Miguel sits up straight as I splash into him and he slides his tongue out quickly. Mind buzzing, stomach tight, I wonder what’s wrong with me, how can I be wanting him again? Seemingly always. I reach underwater and find him—soft. I move from his mouth to his ear, blowing thick foam aside to lap at the lobe. Kissing around his neck, I stroke him. I try to send a shock through him as I pinch at his nipple and squeeze between his legs. I suck at his neck, slide into him, pinch and stroke. His whole body tenses even as his dick fails to cooperate. Suck, slide, pinch, stroke. Nothing. Again: suck, slide, pinch, stroke—he jerks hard. But… Still nothing. Hard as I’m trying, nothing. He groans. I’m itching on top of him, my own movements turning me on with nothing to move against. So I suck, buck, pinch and stroke again. “Martino,” he says low. Sitting up, I lick my lips and stroke again, trying to find a rhythm. He grabs my wrist, halting me. “Baby, don’t, it ain’t…I, uh, I had a lotta shots,” he says. I wiggle with frustration against him, groan and stroke till he pushes my

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24/7 hand away. Giving up, I look up from his neck. “Shit!” “Sorry,” he says. “I’ll, uh, I’ll take care—” “Not that,” I say, moving off him. “We’re flooding the place.” Bubbles are cascading over the edge of the tub, running down the marble steps towards the carpet. “Shit!” he hisses. Pushing me aside, he scrambles up and out. “Yo! Get a towel, mop that shit up,” he says as he flips the switch to shut the tub down. Shivering as I get out, I run to the bathroom and grab all the towels. I wrap one around myself, toss one to him and throw the rest on the floor. Using my feet, I mop the mess up. “Guess that’s why you’re not s’posed to use bubble bath, huh?” “It get the carpet wet?” “Uh-huh.” “That,” he says as he slides behind me, “is why we stick to beds when we’re fucked up. Nothin’ strange.” “Yeah, well, sounds like we won’t be stickin’ to anywhere tonight,” I tease and elbow him. He reaches up and grabs my towel, yanks it off, picks me up, carries me over and throws me roughly on the bed. I watch as he piles up a couple pillows and nods for me to lay down. “What’re you doin’?” I ask, heart already thrumming for him as my head swims and threatens to pull me down the other way. He saunters across the room, picks up his jeans from the floor and fishes in the pocket, pulls out a few things. As he walks back over, opening up a silver cigarette case, I figure out what he’s got. A little vial, I know exactly what’s in it. He hands that to me then perches himself on the edge of the bed, pulls out a razor blade and straw from the case, hands me the straw then tosses the case aside. Taking back the vial and opening it, using the tiny spoon attached to the lid, he dips into the small pile of powder, makes a fist with his other hand and drops a spoonful on it. He cocks a brow and licks his lips. “This’ll keep you up,” he says and nods at me. So, what can it hurt at this point, huh? I don’t even bother to ask where he got it from. I’m bent on booze and stupid from sex, but I’m not all brainless just yet. When he went through that dude’s pockets, he palmed this shit. I knew he took the keys and ditched them just to mess with the guy, but I saw him stuff this first. I don’t care. I’ll do it. Used to love the shit. So I lean down, index finger holding one nostril closed, straw near the

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other one, align it with the end of the line on his hand and snort. And—bing! I sit up, inhale again and swallow. The bitter aspirin taste drains down the back of my throat as my body blinks awake. Still hazed from all the booze, but now a wired buzz courses through me under it. Subtle elevator rushes from my stomach to my spine start to sway me and zoom me at the same time. He nods for me to move over then stretches out beside me, taking the straw from my hand. He sets it with the rest of the blow and the blade on the bed behind me. His hand smooth and soft, caressing me, possessing me—all his. All just his. Anything he says. “I can’t believe you did that tonight,” he says. “You know, earlier. Went so ballistic on those guys. How come you weren’t scared?” I sigh. “I trust you. I knew you’d take care of me.” “I trust you, too,” he says. “All the way. You really do love me, huh?” he asks. I nod and stroke his hair. Bowing down, he presses kisses into my tummy, flicks his tongue into my navel. He’s warm against me, I can hear him breathing, feel my own tension rise as he kisses lower. He grabs at the sheet and rubs it across my stomach, drying me off. Then he reaches to the other side of me and picks up the vial and dumps the rest of the coke in a pile onto my stomach just above my belly button. “Don’t move,” he says as he strokes my thigh. “What about getting drug tested?” I ask him. Reaching across me again, he picks up the blade and the straw. Says, “I just did, it’ll be a while, it’s cool.” He scrapes the blade across the skin of my ribcage. Concentrating, tongue set on the corner of his mouth, careful not to cut me, he razes the blade back and forth a few times like that. When I shiver, he grins and warns again, “Don’t move. Trust me.” I stay leaned back, whole body wired and thrumming as my head spins lightly. His breath tickles my skin and the razor sends mild chills everywhere it touches. Being still is about the last thing I want to be right now. My one foot wiggles involuntarily as I chew on my lower lip, loving the forced restraint as he keeps dragging the blade across me, moving the coke around and lining it up. I glance up with a slow exhale and get startled for a second as I catch motion, quickly realize it’s a reflection. The mirror above the bed. Oh, Madone. I look away, then curiosity gets me and I peer back up

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24/7 again. I watch him in the mirror. Him leaning over me, his naked body relaxed against me. He looks like something by Michelangelo. As he leans down and kisses my nipple, I watch him do it in the mirror, then see him turn his head, looking up to my face. He sees where I’m looking instead of down at him, and he quickly turns his head and looks up over his shoulder. As he meets my gaze in the reflection, a sly smile spreads across his face. Now he turns and goes back to work with the blade, whispering it across my skin. I keep watching him, finally letting myself take in the whole scene. I don’t recoil or snap my eyes shut. Just like when I saw us together in front of the elevator, seeing him draped over my body, the two of us together—it’s a turn-on. We look good. Miguel angles the razor and makes a long diagonal swipe to cut the powder into a thin line stretching across my stomach. He sets the blade in the hollow of my chest, between my breasts, leans down and snorts it in one pull. He inhales a few times as I’m sure the rush shoots to his head. Then he leans back down and slowly licks across my skin where the line had been. Lifting my head, turning away from the mirror, I change perspective and look down at him now, rubbing his tongue across his gums. Scootching up, he plucks the razor off my chest. Inching higher, he steadily holds it out for me to lick. I flick my tongue out, carefully run it along a flat side of the blade, then the other. Bitter, but good. Numbing tingles through my mouth. Winding a hand around the back of his head, I pull him in for a kiss, same tastes mixing through the tingly half-numbness of my lips and tongue. He throws the razor and vial off the bed as I start to rise up to him, but then he pushes me back down. He presses a kiss into my throat and then moves lower. He laps at my ribs and licks and kisses across my stomach. Goes to work on my breasts, massaging one and kissing the other. Working his way around the nipple slowly with his mouth, teasing the other between his fingertips. I arch into it involuntarily, sensations building there. He finally satisfies the one he’s teasing by kissing it directly, then sucking on it; sizzles of delight course through me. “Don’t move,” he says yet again and swirls his tongue across my lower abdomen. He pushes my knees apart and slides his body between my legs. Lifting my head, I look down at him, not quite believing it as he licks the top of my thigh. I lean back, running my hands through his hair. The room lurches and spins, dizzying my alcohol-soaked brain while my pulse beats strongly from the coke. He kisses the inside of my upper thigh, and I blush.

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It’s like the elevator all over again. Like when I was grinding on top of him and getting myself all worked up. He’s never done this, wouldn’t kiss any lower than my stomach. Sometimes he’d lap at my legs but then skip directly higher. Then I think of it, of him kissing me…there. I squirm with the thought and feel myself on edge. He flicks at my thigh with his tongue, seemingly reluctant. Undecided. He’s tasted me before, does it all the time—he licks his fingers—and he doesn’t have a problem kissing me after I’ve gone down on him. Which is really odd for a guy. I know what he’s debating, though. I know what it is with him. He’s just not supposed to do this. I dig my fingers in and massage his scalp. Tough guys don’t do this. Real men don’t do it. He works hard and makes sure I get off, I know he takes pride in that. But in his mind, this is different. It would be showing submission. Subservience. I’ve never had it done much to me. When guys would try it, I’d stop them. It wasn’t working, and I didn’t want to have to feel indebted, like they did me this big favor. I didn’t want to give them that sort of control. Intimacy. I know they think they’re docile and bottom when they do this, but I don’t think that when I give head. I feel like I’m in control, it gets me hot because it’s a powerful feeling to make someone else hot. Miguel licks really high up on my inner thigh again, and I figure, fuck it. I have been so sweet to him, doing anything he asked. And I’m panting now, tangible waves radiating from me for him. I’m buzzing, not just my head, not just my whole body, but throbbing for him right there, the thought of it alone making me wet. He’s so hot, so good at getting me tingly and turning me out. He’s never done this before, though, what if he sucks at it? How sad would that be, how humiliating for him? God, what if I have to fake it? That would be terrible, I wonder if he’d know the difference? I consider pulling him up to me and ending this. I breathe hard, make that decision. Better to avoid this altogether. So I sigh, reach down for him to get him to stop, and now, resigned, I breathe hard again, and suddenly, he just— Does it. Bows his head, parts me with his tongue and takes a long, deep, slow lick. I yelp out loud, buck and twine my fingers tight through his hair. Nice job, Rodriguez. He peers up at me as I look down, wide-eyed and shocked. He smiles wickedly and grabs my wrists with his hands. Pinning my arms down close

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24/7 against my sides, he does it again. I blush and sigh, wanting to push my legs together and tell him to stop. But he licks once more and it sparks me— hard. He stops for a second; I look down to see him rubbing his tongue around his mouth. Oh, Madone, he’s tasting and deciding. Dear Lord, he’s probably finding out for the first time that not everything strange and exotic tastes like chicken. I struggle against his hold, I work to dig into the sheets and squirm up away. But he goes again, splitting me right up the middle, going slow until he finds that little nub he usually searches out with his fingers. And I’m wet and engorged already so he knows to work that area specifically. I struggle to stutter his name. Tell him he doesn’t have to— “Uhhh!” He doesn’t have to do this. But shit, is this good. I clench my fists into the sheet and try to pull away from his grip, but he just tightens his hands around my wrists, clasping me tight. I suck in my breath as the room spins around me again and I still can’t really believe he’s doing this. That I’m letting him do this. That I’m squirming against him shamelessly as he does it. And that— “Ooh, shit!” He’s doing it like that. “Like that?” he takes a break to ask as I pant. “Merda!” I answer as he goes back in, working even quicker. “Yes,” I encourage. “Like, aah, that.” Because that’s…really…good…deeply, thoroughly good. It’s making my whole body hot, but right “There!” Awww, that’s sweet. My arms are straining, but he keeps them locked down. I stare up to try and get control, but that makes it worse. Much worse, as “Oh, Dio mio, yessss” I see what’s going on. I’m sprawled out and starting to writhe, and he’s tucked down between my legs, his dark hair shining as his head moves around, serving me, pleasing me. It’s the most pornographic thing I ever imagined—in the hottest way imaginable. And his arms are tensed, I strain against him again, try to jerk away, but his muscles harden and pop out even more—triceps, his back, his forearms tensed and cut. All that power clamping down on me and controlling me. The same power he used earlier to knock out two guys— “MMMMMMeeguel!” I buck but he stays on me. Just like those two, overwhelmed by him, but

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instead of using his force and strength to hurt me, he used it to protect me— “UHHHH, Rodriguez!” And now he’s using it to dominate me this way, with pleasure. Soooo much pleasure. Such intense pleasure. So fucking strong and powerful and proud, such a man, my man, and doing this, just like— “That!” I pant. “There…uhhhhhh, yesssssss.” Just like that, just for me. And I don’t even want to stop writhing with it, I want him to know how much it’s appreciated, how he’s doing good by me, making me feel so good, pleasing me, making me so happy. Like only he can. Then he slows down to draw it out. l moan in protest, twitch and strain, begging for more. He glances up, and I get it. He wants to watch me do this, see me struggle and fight as it overtakes me anyhow. So I let him have what he wants. “Miguel,” I say. “Don’t.” Throwing my head back in the pillows, watching him dive back in, going more quickly. “Don’t stop. Piacere, please,” I plead against him. His mouth, his tongue. That sets me close. He’s doing this with his tongue. I close my eyes because more than watching this I want to feel it. Feel his mouth, hot and slick. I want to shudder for him. Let him feel that. See if he can recognize it this way. I’m electric, close. “I’m…I’m gonna come,” I stutter to him, warning him, congratulating him, hoping he doesn’t pull away too quick. “Baby, I’m—God, Dio, veniro—UHHHHH.” I can’t speak words anymore, please don’t let him stop yet. He doesn’t. He’s holding my wrists as I buck and strain with all my strength, nearly pushing him off, but he drives deep again, laps at the same spot on my clit even as I shudder. Rapid-fire contractions, involuntary shivers just for him as I dig my fingers into his wrists that are still holding me clamped down. Slowing, he doesn’t pull away yet—knowing by instinct, I guess, maybe by what he likes—how to drag it out. He’s driving me nuts, the room’s not even spinning anymore. Just as I think I’m done he presses and licks again. Slow. Rough. Until I have to beg him to stop. So he does. He licks his lips and releases my wrists as he inches up. Rubbing his face against my stomach, he presses kisses into my navel. Climbing up between my legs, I feel his dick throbbing as it brushes against

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24/7 my leg. Every inch of him is sizzling with heat, palpable waves of lust coming off him. He couldn’t, it occurs to me. He couldn’t before. Okay, the coke woke him up, that’s understandable. But this got him. This got him revved up and ready. He licks at the sweat on my neck as I’m still and quiet beneath him. Softly, he growls in my ear, rolling my name off his tongue. “Marina. Mahrrr-eeenah,” he croons. “I want you…now.” Emphasizes in Spanish: “Ahora.” I smell the sex hovering around us as he leans down close. Sucking in a breath as his hand meets mine and catches hold of it. He grabs my wrist again, this time moving it and pinning it up by my head as his other hand finds the other and does the same. Lifting it off of him and clamping it down. He’s leaning over me on his elbows, his hands holding mine down tight again as I breathe hard under him. Him whispering, “Tengo ganas de ti, baby.” My legs still spread around him, relaxed and tired. He slips his tongue in my mouth as he moves his hips. He slides against me a few times till he finds where he wants to be. Hard enough, aligned, he doesn’t need a hand to help him in. Mouth to mouth, his tongue against mine but holding still, concentrating elsewhere instead of kissing, he pushes and works his way inside me. I lift my legs, taking him fully, burying him deep, straining and contracting, super-sensitive so early after just finishing an orgasm. Then he’s pumping, and I’m pushing. He thrusts, I clench. He moves left, I move right. He kisses, I suck. I breathe, he pants. I pulse, he thumps. We roll, we switch and, mostly, we sweat. Hard, then backing off and going soft. Deep, then backing off and going shallow. Driving ourselves, each other… Crazy. The whole time, him never releasing me, always holding my wrists, either pinning my hands and arms down into the bed as he plunges into me or vised down on either side of him if I’m on top. Then we fall into a groove. The groove. Together. Sex-high and liquordrunk, both of us completely into the same rhythm. Slow, ancient—primal. His tongue hangs out, a bead of sweat trickles off his forehead, meanders across that throbbing vein, drops down onto my face. He flips me to the top, commands me from below with the same groove, still not releasing my hands. I gave up trying to escape his grip a while ago, exhausted, unable to

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pry away. He watches in the mirror, and I don’t back off or try to hide. He’s liking what he sees, I know that. I don’t think he’ll be able to actually hit that last high and get off. I don’t think I will, either. It’s right there, so close, just out of reach. His eyes move from the mirror and back to me, that’s when he finally releases my hands. Reaching up, he rubs his hands across me, all over me, finally pulling me down right on top of him. Starts talking to me. “Ahh, mi amor, caliente, muy caliente.” Then he rolls me under him and takes over again as I wrap as tight around him as I can, my arms, my legs, pulling him down into me. Holding my breath as he goes harder. We go harder. I’m raw. It really is starting to sting, burn even, but behind that pain is all that pleasure, and more lurking, threatening, trying to escape. Pumping, thrusting, licking, sucking. Sweating. Grooving on…with…each other. Then, holding our breath, we get there. Ultimate satisfaction. Shaking, spurting, grunting, quaking. Rushing. And collapse. Slipping an arm around my waist, Miguel snuggles up next to me and rubs his nose against my cheek. I lay there quietly, enjoying coming back down before drifting off to sleep, the rush from the coke worn off, mind obliterated by sex and booze, keeping everything else suffocated. Enjoying watching his slick stomach and chest rise and fall with deep breaths in the mirror above. After a while, still dazed, I go, “That was…new. I mean…that—the first thing. That you did.” “Yeah,” he says and strokes my stomach. “I liked it.” “Yeah, thought so, I could, like…tell. Not bad for a first try, huh?” “I’ll consider that payment for the game today.” “Mmhmm,” he answers and nuzzles against me more. Amused, he asks, “You still all fucked up?” “Yeah, I think so. Pretty much.” “Lush.” “I bet that card reader doesn’t get it this good tonight. I bet those assholes don’t get sex this good ever.” “Yo, fuck them bitches,” he says and rolls over onto his back. I slide myself next to him and lay my head on his shoulder. “I didn’t

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24/7 mean it like that, I meant it nice.” “I stole that coke from them, you know that, right?” “Oh, I know.” I giggle. He laughs a little, too exhausted to full-out crack up. I keep giggling against him so he lifts his hand and places it over my eyes. “You are all fucked up, baby, go to sleep,” he says. I start to quiet against him and then relax into his body. “Marina,” he says quietly, “I really do love you.” I don’t move my body, but I smile against his shoulder. Tight-throated, a ghostly throb whispers deep inside my brain. “I know that, too.” Closing my eyes, drifting down in the dark quiet, I do know it. I feel it. I trust it.

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[ 26 ]

I

WAKE TWO HOURS LATER WITH A FREIGHT TRAIN RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD, pounding and pummeling my brain, making my limbs jittery and weak. Forcing my eyes open, I run a clammy palm across my forehead, smoothing away a thick layer of sweat. I’m drenched, hair damp, muscles acid-sore, sheets tangled around my legs, cotton-mouthed and with burning throat, my eyes sandpaper-raw. And my head. Every pulse sends another dull ache to my temples. Glancing over at Miguel, I see him sprawled out and sound asleep. I reach out a hand and feel his back—his skin’s warm but dry, obviously not sweating like I am. Slowly rising, I feel like I’ve been gutted, slit from navel to mouth as an acrid sear races up through my guts. On weak knees, I stagger to the bathroom and start to retch in the dark. Every involuntary heave threatens to rip my fragile skull apart as the liquor burns twice as hard in reverse. Slowing, head still throbbing, I spit and fill the sink with cold water. Dunking my head in deep as I can I flip a few handfuls across the back of my neck, sending instant chills up my spine. The hair on my arms stands up as my sweat dries and cools, chilling me more. I flick on the lights and stare at my reflection under the harsh light. Sallow skin and red-rimmed eyes; a nasty bruise taunts me. Legs rubbery, chilled all over, head still throbbing, I just want to sit. I go back to the bedroom and grab a couple blankets from the foot of the bed. I struggle to rip them from the tightly tucked corners. I wrap one around me and throw another one over Miguel, still asleep, dead calm. Settling on the couch, soft blanket pulled tight around my shoulders, I stare at the TV. Already on. I zone out as a camera pans around, showing glittery scenes from the strip. I follow it around the carpets, ceilings and craps tables I recognize as being just downstairs as my pulse thuds sickeningly. Vegas TV. I light a smoke and hit it a few times, grateful as my pulse seems to slow

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24/7 and my mind gets wrapped in a cotton fuzz of protection. I lean forward and stare at the TV with squinted eyes. People winning…no, it’s not. It’s showing the machines winning. They’re whirring around and popping up Megabucks signs, three in a row, but there’s no one standing there. Dice fall as a combined seven, but no one rolled them. Can’t win here. Queasiness subsided, my brain reverbs in my ears again. Can’t fucking win, man. It’s just too hard. All of it. Just. Too. Hard. Not just the gambling, but this thing with Miguel. It’s just too hard. I can’t win. I already want to go over and snuggle up next to him again. Before him, I always wanted up and away as soon as I was done with sex. And then, a few years ago, I realized I wasn’t even enjoying the sex all that much, so I stopped with that. It just wasn’t worth the trouble, because it never was all that good. All I really wanted was less. Less stress. Less sadness. We all do. And the way to have that is to cut ourselves off. But it devours us. Just like everything else in this city, just as methodically, just as coldly, isolation devours us. We feel less, we search for less. But somewhere deep inside, we still want more. We crave. Now I have it and I don’t know what to do with it. Worse, I get scared of having it ripped away. I wanted less, I had less. And then when I got more, I greedily sucked it up and now I’m so scared of having it taken away that I wish I never had it. Poof! He says he wants more. More fucking, more booze, more gambling, more fun, more everything. But all he really wants is me—and I don’t know what that is. Who that is. I don’t know what he’s seeing and how to keep giving it to him. What he likes is what I was, and what I was, was independent. And alone. I just want to go over and hug him some more. But I don’t. Because I guess that’d be weak of me, because it’s exactly what I crave. I always thought I was happy. Until suddenly I was happy. Then I realized I had been really sad. And now I’m sad because I am happy. Because I know that happiness is going to fade, and I’ll be sad again. And I’ll have to go back to fake being happy. And the saddest part is that maybe I’ll forget how it felt to be really happy. I just hope he’s happy. That’d be more than enough. I rub my eyes and reach for another cigarette. I light it and take a drag, acrid smoke leaking from my lungs right to my guts. My stomach rebels against it so I exhale and snuff it out. Swallowing thickly, I stare at the TV.

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I guess I fall asleep again because I wake up to him padding around the room. I feel better, and all the clouds and confusion dissipate as I watch him. He’s quiet. Reticent. I guess I just had a wicked case of the coke blues or something. He’s gathering clothes off the floor, picking up the wet towels. He sees me awake and gives a half grin, waves to me. I wave back, wrap the blanket around me tighter. He comes over and nestles himself behind me. “You left me last night.” I cough, tell him, “I was really sick.” He tucks my hair behind my ear, leans over and kisses me softly on the cheek. “How’s this feel today?” “Okay, I guess. I hurt everywhere. I mean, I really hurt.” “Still sick?” “I don’t know. How are you?” “I hurt everywhere,” he says. Pause. “I think we’re killing each other.” I nod. “Is that a bad thing?” “I don’t know. I can’t tell.” “Should we stop?” “No,” he says as he spoons up tight. “What do you want to do today?” “Wanna go to your place? Will those guys come over, the fuckheads from yesterday?” “I won’t open the door if they do.” “So you knew he’d have blow on him.” I say it as chum, hoping he’ll bite and I’ll get more information. He bites. “Yeah, I knew. I used to deal with him. Both of ’em.” “Blow. Drugs. Not dice, right?” “Yeah,” he says, rubbing his chin against my shoulder, squeezing my waist. “That’s what started the trouble?” I prod. “Yeah. I wanted out. They didn’t want me out. Don’t work that way, you know?” I just nod, giving him silence in the hopes he’ll fill it. “See, me and Brent—he’s the bald one—we was tight. Real tight. Yo, we moved out here together from New York, man. We been pals since we was kids.” I want to ask him if Brent really is as stupid as he seems, but I don’t want to derail him, and I’ve noticed that if I interrupt when he talks he’ll get sidetracked and clam up. “An’, like, he ain’t a total fuckwad, you know? Not like the other one.”

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24/7 “The tongue-wagger,” I say. “Yeah. Castillo. He’s a fuck. We was never tight.” I want to ask him if Castillo’s the one who fucked Mindy, but I wait for it. “When me an’ Brent moved here we brought some shit out with us, started movin’ it right away an’ it was easy as shit. All these tourists— everybody wants somethin’, man. Everybody. And lots of ’em want some blow or some reefer or whatever. But once we sold our shit, we had to look for a new supply. “That’s how we hooked up with Ramon—Ramon Castillo, the tongue guy. So we started workin’ with him, an’ for his boss, Blue Lou. It’s good to be hooked up with a crew like that, gives you more protection an’ all. Shit was cool, we did good, you know. Like, we moved a lotta shit, and I didn’t have to do nothin’ else. I got that car, I got my place. All I had to do was go out and party and move shit around and then I’d half fuck around with boxin’. “Then I started fuckin’ up a little. Fuckin’ up a lot. I was partyin’ too much an’ shit, started fuckin’ up my boxin’ gig, fucked up with chicks. Things got bad, really pretty bad. An’ I knew I had to get out. I guess part of me still cared or something. I knew my moms would shit if she knew the shit I was pullin’. She’d be real disappointed in me. It’d break her heart. I mean, she didn’t raise me like that. I told you ’bout that, how hard it was for her when my pops left…” His voice trails off. He’s told me a little about his dad and how he left them when Miguel was only seven. I can tell it bothers him to talk about it even now, even though he says it doesn’t. “Anyhow, I just wanted away from all that shit, that’s when I went to dealer school, for the dice. An’ fucked up as I was, I was, like, pretty good at it. I don’t know how, but I just seemed to pick up dealin’ the dice really easy. Some guys’d have trouble with the math and shit, memorizin’ it all, but it just clicked for me. I thought I was gettin’ my shit together, gonna be able to dig myself out. School sucked, an’ workin’ at the Cortez sucked, but still. I knew dealers could end up makin’ mad cash. Plus, I was getting all this pussy…” He halts and tenses right after he says it. “Uh-huh,” I say calmly to let him know it’s okay. He knows he could have crossed a serious line with me there, but I don’t want to throw him offcourse. Stumbling to recover: “Sorry, just…you know, I mean, all the cocktail waitresses and showgirls were ’round and shit. And they like the nose

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candy, which I still always had, an’ they all hook up with dealers, just ’cause they’re around all the time.” “Rodriguez, it’s cool. It’s fine. I understand. You were having fun.” “Then there was this one chick who I banged a couple times, wasn’t nothin’ too serious, but I took her out one night, an’ she ended up with Ramon. Pissed me off. Seriously pissed me off, and he really rode my shit ’bout it, too. Then I hooked up with Mindy, and she…I don’t know…” He shrugs. “You really liked her,” I say. “Nah, it ain’t that, man. I wanted to. I just was feelin’ like it was time to cool the shit so I tried for a while, but then I started fuckin’ around again, an’ I knew she was fuckin’ around. And it just went back and forth all the time. She knew ’bout Ramon, and when she was good an’ pissed at me she went an’ fucked him. I guess it was to spite me, I don’t know. “Shit,” is all he says for awhile. Then: “When I found out, I sorta flipped. An’ for what? Why? She ain’t worth it. I guess it’s good, though. I mean, things got bad. Really bad. But that’s how I ended up getting out, so I guess it’s sorta good, you know?” “So you don’t deal anymore? Not at all?” “No. That’s sorta why things are tense with those guys.” “But you’re out of it. You promise?” “Rina, I swear. I ain’t into that shit no more.” “Okay.” I wiggle in his arms, flipping around to face him. “I’m serious. I got…I nearly got sucked down ’cause o’ all that. My life was shit. Just shit. I wouldn’t go back to that.” “I believe you. It’s just…I can’t…I don’t want to be part of something like that.” “You wouldn’t be.” He stares me dead in the eye. “I mean it—things are still sorta fucked, but it’s gettin’ better. You’re making my life better, I won’t fuck up like that.” He stops offering information. I stop pressing. Does it matter anyhow? Probably not. I sigh. I feel better with him next to me. That realization sends a new bolt of fear straight through me. What am I going to do when he’s not near me? “Shit, I don’t know what to do,” I say. “I think I’m really scared, Miguel.” “Marina.” He calls me by my first name, he usually only does that during sex. “I’m sorry…” “I’m not scared of them, that’s not what I meant.”

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24/7 “Oh.” Recognition dawning. “Ohhh.” “Aren’t you scared?” “Yeah.” He sighs. “Yeah.” “You are? Really?” For whatever reason, that makes me feel better. I kiss him on the cheek. Darkness passing. “I feel so much better now.” He looks incredulous for a few seconds. Blinks. Laughs and shoves me away, pushing me to the floor. Saying, “Asshole.” Maybe he does know me.

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[ 27 ]

A

FTER WE CHECK OUT FROM THE HOTEL, WE HANG OUT AT HIS PLACE FOR THE REST

of the day and just chill. I’m out on the balcony when the phone rings. He’s in the shower, so the machine picks it up. “Hey, M to the R O, Mista Dawg,” the voice drawls. “I’m gonna kick it at the VooDoo tonight, bring your lady, the biznitch who’s the shiznit, I’ll bring mine. Well, shit, I’ll bring a few just to be sure. Peace.” Miguel finishes up, and I jump in after him and he talks to me as he shaves. Says he heard the phone. I tell him his friend called. “Marion? I think that’s his name? He said he’d be at the VooDoo tonight and wants you to come there.” “Yeah? Wanna go?” “Really? I thought you said I couldn’t meet your friends.” “Yo, he’s gonna hit on you.” “You’re kidding, right? Is he going to piss me off like that other guy did?” Miguel laughs. “Nah, don’t think so. You’ll see.” “Do you work with him?” “Nah, I know him from boxin’.” “He’s a boxer? Was he good?” “With a name like Marion, you think he had somethin’ to prove?” “He… uh, he mentioned me,” I tell him. He doesn’t bite. “That is, unless you’ve got some other girl he was talking about. The biznitch in your life.” Smirking: “I told him ’bout you. Couple days ago.” I love it that he’s all out there talking about me to his friends. But I stick it to him about it anyhow. “So you told him I’m the biznitch with the shiznit, huh? Or did he just come up with that on his own?” “His words. My general opinion, though.” So we go meet the mysterious Marion at the VooDoo Lounge. I take my time getting ready—the bruise on my cheek is hardly noticeable and I put

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24/7 on the nicest clothes I have, including a pretty cool pair of super-high platform sandals—and Miguel looks hot, too. The VooDoo, it’s a cool place, decorated to look like its name, lots of purple and dark colors, trying to evoke thoughts of the darker, sensual and mysterious side of Carnival. The Rio and VooDoo are newer than the old-school places, but they’ve already passed the glitzy, top-of-the-line, brand-new exciting feeling and hurtled straight into pure Vegas cheese. The most striking thing about the VooDoo is the view. The Rio is off the strip, situated behind Caesars, so when you’re out on the fifty-first-floor balcony you can see across not only the whole city but also the whole strip flashing below. We get drinks inside, then, me holding tight to Miguel’s arm to keep my balance in the shoes, we amble outside to check out the view. His eyes flit behind me, and he stops moving, nods and gently coaxes me to turn around and look. I know it’s Marion walking toward us, not because the guy is grinning at Miguel and nodding but because he’s exactly like Miguel made him sound, exactly like his voice on the phone sounds. He’s big, all right. He’s got to be about six-four, skin a burnished umber, shaved head, silky shirt flowing gracefully and tucked into tailored dress pants. Not only tall but big. Not fat. Big. Linebacker big. Heavyweight big. He flows as he walks, as smooth and velvety as his voice on the phone. He ignores Miguel and comes right at me instead. Shakes his head from side to side a couple times and just says, “Mmm. Mmm. Mmm. The mysterious Marina is who you would be.” Bowing slightly, he offers his hand so I give him mine, and he bends deeply to kiss the back of it. Releases it by sliding his fingers down my palm and across my fingers instead of just dropping it. I smile at him. “Hello, Marion,” I say and press back into Miguel. Not because I’m feeling threatened. Only to keep him reassured that I’m also not interested. He releases me briefly to knock knuckles with Marion but slips his arm back around my waist as Marion gives him some goodnatured heat for not being around much lately. I sip on my drink as they riff a few minutes, stay pressed against Miguel the whole time. When they hit a lull, Marion’s eyes fall back on me, and he just stares. “So you’re a boxer?” I ask him. “That’s right, pretty lady. Do you like boxers?” “I like this boxer.” I nod at Miguel. “Is that how you guys met?” “Rodriguez! You haven’t told her?”

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Miguel shakes his head and adjusts his weight, remains silent. So Marion goes, “I knew who he was from the gym, but we weren’t down, dig? No bad blood—hey, shit, no. Just indifferent to each other. Then, make a long story short here, the Puerto Rican playah done played too much on his bitch, and she found out, you see. So to school him, she done did some playin’ o’ her own, and that playin’ was done with Marion.” “And you’re friends now because…?” “Because your man here, after he done got dogged by me, he showed his colors then. I don’t know how things went down between he and the woman exactly, other than that she was out of the picture. But with me? Oh, he was, shall we say, rankled. “Now you look at your boy there, and look at me. I got a good five inches on him, in more than once place, I’ll have you note.” He winks at me as he says it. “And also at least forty pounds. But he didn’t flinch, rankled as he was, and challenged Marion. I respected that, and I apologized for my less than noble behavior. Explained to him that I’m not really the party he should be, uh, taking umbrage with.” “So you talked him down then?” “Oh, no, no. Hell, no. Hey, shit, wasn’t that easy. He climbed in the ring anyhow, wanting to get his anger worked out on old Marion. Now, like I said, I have the height, I have the weight, but this boy has the moves, has the skill. He earned my respect.” “So he beat you?” “Oh, no, no. Hell, no. Hey, shit, you ever see Cool Hand Luke?” I laugh. “Yeah, when Kennedy punches out Newman over and over, but Newman keeps getting up.” “No, darlin’, I’m talking about the eating eggs part. Sonofabitch ate fifty eggs! Don’t you see?” “Oh. Um. No, actually.” He laughs really hard. “You don’t? That’s good, I’m just fuckin’ with ya anyhow. No, eggs are not relevant to this story, but he wasn’t going down like Newman. His spic ass actually did put some hurt on this boy. I thought he had a chance to school me, so I failed his ass in the third round of this most unofficial contest. KO’ed cold, you hear. When he got up again, I don’t think he ever knew he was out. Just shook his head as he climbed to his feet and said, ‘That all you got?’” He laughs deeply again. “Then we went out for beers and to hound some fresh new pussy.” I laugh and check Miguel’s reaction. He’s nodding, but his jaw is clenched shut. His eyes lack any fierceness or animosity, though—he

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24/7 seems amused in a dogged sort of way. “Was this Mindy?” I ask. “Mindy?” Marion recoils. “Mindy? Hell, no, I never banged that bitch. Told him from the start she wasn’t worth the drama.” He softens, looks me up and down again and says, “But I can tell right off that you are worth any drama that shall ensue.” “She don’t give me no drama, bro,” Miguel says flatly. “Exactly, Ese,” he answers back. “Thank you,” I say. “Nice to meet you, too.” “Oh, nice now. Be better once you leave this boy and come play with Marion.” I laugh. “You’re funny.” “I’m not kidding.” He winks at me. I look at Miguel, and he just cocks a brow, says, “He ain’t kiddin’. Told you he was gonna make a play for you.” “Okay. That’s very flattering, thanks.” “Girl like you deserves all sorts of flattery. Any time you want, baby girl. Any time—day, night, rain, shine—you give Marion a call and I’ll flood you in flattery.” “Okay, when is he going to stop?” I ask Miguel, tightening my arm around him. “Not till you give in,” he says. “Marion, let me ask you something? Do you really want to hook up with me? Or do you just want to flirt with me to annoy Rodriguez here? Or do you just want to flirt with me to flatter me and Rodriguez?” He smiles a big toothy grin, looks back and forth between me and Miguel a few times before saying, “Hey, shit. Let me ask you something, lady. Are you really curious about motive or are you just trying to put Marion back on his heels? ’Cause Marion doesn’t sweat the motive, he’s just interested in the crime.” “Marion’s a cop, Martino,” Miguel tells me. I say, “Yeah, but, Marion, you should know then, suspects can be acquitted based on motive.” He whistles. “And the road to hell is paved with good intentions.” “Well, Marion, I like you and all, but you and me? We won’t be going to hell together no matter what the motive was.” I wink at him. He laughs. A big hearty laugh, winks at Rodriguez. Saying, “I see you finally settled on a girl’s got some blood flowing above her cleavage there, hombre. I like you, lady. Now I know you got it all going on I’m gonna have

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to really put the moves on you.” Marion hangs for a while, never really relenting on me, but I don’t mind, and Rodriguez doesn’t seem to be pissed about it, either. He’s playful about it, so I laugh him off. He tries to get me to at least dance with him, but I won’t. Miguel tries to coax me to the dance floor with him, and I turn him down, too. We just relax, soak up the night and a few drinks until Marion eventually catches the eye of a couple sweet things just like he’d predicted, so we give him space to work and take off for home. In the car, Miguel asks, “How come you wouldn’t dance with me, huh?” “I could barely stand in these shoes, how was I supposed to dance?” “Yo, you started getting your footing, that ain’t it.” We park at his building, but instead of going upstairs, he walks me around outside. I clutch my shoes as he swings my other arm around with an impish grin, saying, “Dance with me now.” “Rodriguez…” I say. Honestly. But he holds tight to my hand and whirls me around once, making me giggle. “C’mon,” he says. “We never danced together.” “There’s no music, Rodriguez.” “So fuckin’ what? I’ll sing.” He does. He starts by humming as he spins me around again. He keeps walking me until we get out by the lighted pool. Dropping his jacket on the ground, he swiftly pulls me close. “You got them shoes off now, dance.” “Miguel…” “Qué?” “I don’t know how,” I admit. “You never danced with anyone before?” he says and moves me around, humming again. He leads me, turns me around a few times. I step on his feet. Feeling foolish, I back away. “My feet hurt from these damn shoes,” I tell him as I sit down at the edge of the pool, dangling them into the water. “I want to dunk them.” “K.” He nods, pulling off his socks and shoes. Sitting behind me, he scissors his legs on each side of me, dipping his feet in, too. We kick like that a few minutes, he puts his arm around my waist, breaking the silence by asking, “So, you like Marion?” “I like him fine. Not as much as I like you.” “’Course not.” “Asshole.” “He’s a good guy, you know? He’s helped me a lot, Marina. Like,

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24/7 with…I don’t know.” He stops. It’s a heavy moment, I can tell the wheels are turning in his head, he’s trying to spit something out, but I’m not sure how to prod him. So I wait for it. Finally: “Can I tell you somethin’?” I nod. It’s not cold, but I snuggle up to him closer, leaning my head back, placing my hands on his knees. “Remember the shit I was tellin’ you? ’Bout Brent an’ Castillo an’ all that?” I just nod. “Yeah, well, like, Marion, he talked all sorts o’ sense to me, he’s the one helped convince me I could get out o’ that shit. I mean, he’s a cop an’ all, know what I’m sayin’? He knew about me, he prob’ly coulda busted me, but instead, he helped me.” “And this was after you tried to punch him out?” He laughs. “Yeah, yeah, it was. Even that, you know, he took all that shit so well. We just got to be buds after that. That’s what helped me, it really did. Like, I started trainin’ with him, got really serious, stopped partyin’ altogether. At that time, I was still dealin’, though. Marion, he ain’t no fool, he knew what I was into. He never busted me or nothin’, but he told me I had to cool it. He freaked me out, told me how I could get screwed with my car and this place and all, how dumb it was for me to have this shit with no way to prove how I paid for it. You know all that shit, right?” “Kingpin laws.” “Yeah. So that’s when I went to dealer school. Figured I’d start sortin’ things out. I knew I wanted out, just didn’t know how to do it. Ain’t like you can just walk away, you know? Don’t work like that, not when you’re in a crew. “I don’t know—I was stubborn, too. I’ll be honest. I didn’t wanna give up the cash. I figured just cause I’d stopped usin’, that was the biggest part. Even though I knew it wasn’t.” He gives me a squeeze. Sighing, “Ah, shit.” “What?” “Just…this is hard. I hate tellin’ you all this shit.” “It’s okay. I’d rather know it.” “Yeah. I know I gotta tell you, I wanna tell you, it’s just…shit. It’s not good. I don’t want you thinkin’…I don’t know…I don’t want you thinkin’ and worryin’ ’bout it.” He leans his chin on my shoulder. “I don’t want you thinkin’ all this bad stuff about me. But I know it’s bad.” “Miguel, it’s cool. Just tell me. I mean, you don’t hold my past against

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me.” A snort. “You ain’t got a past.” “You don’t get pissed that I slept with a hundred guys before you.” “Thought you said it was fifty.” “Oh. Yeah. Whatever. That didn’t freak you out, though, did it?” “I wasn’t freaked when I thought it was fifty. I don’t know ’bout this hundred shit.” “Stop!” “Hey, I’m just fuckin’ with you. I don’t care who was before me. I don’t mind not being the first. Just so long as I’m the last.” “You’re the last.” I laugh. “But you’re the first, too. You’re my first love, Miguel.” “Mmmm. Good,” is all he says. “So tell me about Marion.” “All right. So I was still dealin’. I wanted out, but, well, you know. You know how they say people gotta hit rock bottom before they really change? I guess that was it. I’d gotten low, but not low enough. Then, this one day, I made a run, picked up our shit—three kilos o’ coke. After I picked it up, I had to stop in an’ see the boss, Blue Lou. He checked it all out, gave the allgood and sent me off to finish shit up. “Then I went to Brent’s place. I dropped off his kilo. Had to go over an’ give Ramon his. So I went to his place. I go over there, guess who answers the door?” “Mindy,” I say. “Yeah. Fuckin’ Mindy. Starts mouthin’ off to me, tellin’ me what a shit I am, she’s done with me, she’s with Ramon now, on an’ on, man.” I don’t know what to say so I press back against him. I’d like to turn around and face him, kiss him, tell him he didn’t deserve that. But I don’t. I don’t know if he earned that treatment or not. I’d tell him he didn’t anyhow, but I know if I do it right now, we’ll get all into it and he’ll stop talking and it’ll be worse when I try to pry it from him later. He sighs, says, “Felt like a fuckin’ cabrón. Castillo, he was crackin’ up, bustin’ my balls, so fuckin’ high on himself. I just dropped his shit an’ left. I went out, got all fucked up, even dipped into the blow I had for sale. Picked up this chick an’ was comin’ back here, an’ she just started mouthin’ off, too. Reminded me so much of Mindy, man, so much. I’d given her all this blow and she was wired an’ worked up, started raggin’ on my drivin’, tellin’ me slow down, an’ it was pissin’ me off so I just went faster. And she’s bitchin’ more, an’ I’m thinkin’ more o’ Mindy and her fuckin’ smart-ass

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24/7 mouth and so I’m goin’ faster and she starts really freakin’ and then I start freakin’ and then there’s a fuckin’ cop behind us. I had a fuckin’ kilo o’ coke in my car, pro’bly drank nearly a bottle o’ tequila, and this crazy bitch is screamin’ an’ I did a shitload o’ the blow so I’m paranoid and now there’s a fuckin’ cop on my ass! “So next thing I know, bam!, he flicks on his lights, and I know it, I know I’m cooked if he pulls me over with this shit in the car. I’m only a couple blocks from the strip so I pretend I don’t see him, you know. Like, he don’t have his sirens on yet, so I just fuckin’ go! I get on the strip an’ he follows an’ I catch a break ’cause the next light is ready to change. He can’t follow if I turn ’cause there’s a shitload o’ traffic comin’ in the cross direction, plus I can park an’ get lost, whereas if he’s serious ’bout followin’ me an’ I go straight, he can call other cops and tell ’em I’m on the strip. “So I turn into the Mirage. He flicks his siren once as I turn but he can’t follow ’cause the other traffic’s comin’ now, right? You know, you seen it, you know how these cab drivers are—they ain’t movin’ aside for nobody, they’ll ice your ass. I mean, fuck, he’s five-0, but this is Vegas and people fuckin’ go, man. “So I pull up an’ slam it in park at the valet station. This bitch is still screamin’ but I just blow her off, reach under the seat, get my shit out an’ cut it open wide just in case. Sure ’nough, here comes the fuckin’ black-n’white, lights still goin’, comin’ up the driveway. She’s freakin’, I’m freaked, and here comes the cop.” “Jesus!” I can’t help but remark now. “What’d you do?” “Yo, man, I got out as he’s drivin’ up, all sorts o’ people crossin’ in front o’ him, so he’s goin’ slow. I grab my shit, get out, go right to the railing o’ the volcano pool.” “You did not!” “Fuck, yeah—pitched the whole rest o’ the fuckin’ kilo into it. Plop. ’Bout sixty fuckin’ grand uncut dissolved right there. But, shit, man, I wasn’t getting busted with it. Fuck that.” “What’d the cop do?” “Cop? Wasn’t no cop. It was Marion. Marion! He spotted me an’ was finishin’ his shift, was checkin’ to see if I wanted to go out for awhile. That’s all. He thought I was pullin’ over to talk to him. Knew shit was up once he saw me there and looked down, saw the plastic floatin’ an’ the brick breakin’ up.” “What’d you do?”

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“What’d I do? I was fuckin’ strung out, Marina! I’d been snortin’ the shit all day, this bitch was still screamin’, my girl was taggin’ one o’ my amigos, and I just tossed a kilo into a fountain ’cause this jack-off wanted to have a drink!” “You punched him.” “Fuck, yeah, I punched him!” “You sort of like to punch Marion, don’t you?” He shrugs behind me. “So. Did he take you in for that?” “Marion? Fuck, no. He told me straight up, though, you know, shit has to stop. Next day it sunk in. Like a light switch—you know, click. I’d thought I’d quit fuckin’ up but I hadn’t, you know? An’ I had to get the fuck out, I wasn’t goin’ out like that. My moms? My moms would kill me if she knew. She’d blame herself, and she deserves better ‘n that. I had a chance, you know, I had a job goin’ with MGM, I was rakin’ in the cash as a casino dealer now ’stead o’ drugs. So, fuck it.” “So that’s when you quit?” “Yep. If it wasn’t for Marion, I’d prob’ly be in jail right now. Or worse.” “And that’s when things turned to shit with these other two guys? The assholes from the other night?” “Yeah, well. Sorta…” Before he finishes answering, I hear his name being called loudly from nearby. We both turn that way, hearing a few squeals and peals of laughter as Marion charges toward the pool with a woman slung over his shoulders. As she laughs and screams in protest, he jumps, fully clothed, still holding her, into the water. “Did I mention Marion lives here?” Laughing: “No. But I see that now.” “Yeah, two floors below me. When the place was openin’ up I helped him snag it. Figured it was the least I could do an’ all. Watch it!” As he says that, I try to scramble and back up, but it’s too late. Marion reaches up, grabs hold of my arm and pulls me in, laughing in his deep baritone the whole time. * * * So one very thorough dunking in the pool with my best clothes still on, an extremely drippy walk upstairs, a nice long sleep in Miguel’s big comfy bed and one car ride to the airport later we’re saying bye-bye. Hell almighty, man, does it suck. He asks when I’ll be back, I say soon, don’t know exactly. He says he’ll

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24/7 call when he’s got days off again. He says he’ll call before that just because. We smooch a lot. He asks me to stay. “Just fuckin’…stay. Stay.” “I can’t,” I say. I can’t. I need to get away from him. I need to breathe and see what that’s like again. I need to get perspective and figure it all out. I do have to work. “I’ll miss you.” “You’re still scared,” he says. “Even more now,” I say. “You?” “I’m scared you ain’t comin’ back.” “I’ll be back, Rodriguez.” Now he flashes me his big puppy eyes, smiling and happy, fading off quickly, darkness filling them. A slow blink, his long lashes closing and opening gently. Heavy-lidded when they rise. Forsaken. Sad. Shit. “I’ll see you soon,” I say and stretch up to kiss him. I don’t meet his gaze when I pull back. I want the kiss as my last memory, the sweetness of that instead of the haunting of his longing eyes. His hands slip off me as I back away and pick up my suitcase. My heart clutches, and I blink back tears as I walk away. Can’t help myself from turning around for one last look. Shitty. That’s what it is. Just shitty. Shitty leaving. A shitty flight home. I’m shitty tired when I get here. I get a shitty phone call from Bruno telling me to meet her out. I have to go to a shitty bar to meet her. And it’s shitty cold out still. Here’s a thing. When I get there, Bruno’s already there, and Don’s with her; he’s in for the weekend. Picking her up to move her down with him. I think it’s pretty shitty when they both look at me and Don says, “You look like shit.” He pumps slyly. “And I hear you have a little boyfriend now.” “Whatever,” I say. I don’t want to talk a word about it. It would only be shitty. I’d sound stupid, or Miguel would sound stupid. And I don’t really want anyone’s shitty opinion about any of it. “Does he beat you?” he asks. “Oh, it’s nothing, we sort of got into a fight…” Sherri squeals, “He did do that to you?” Her eyes go wide. “No, no,” I backtrack. “We didn’t get into a fight with each other. We got into a fight with these other guys. He kicked their ass—it was really sort of funny. Listen, I’m really tired, I don’t want to talk about it now.” “Okay,” she says, knowing when to back off. Don takes it up, though. “I hear he’s not Italian. How does that work,

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exactly?” “It works pretty good, actually,” I tell him. “He doesn’t know what I’m saying when I curse him out. I can rag on him real good, and he just takes it.” “Actually,” he corrects me, “that ought to be ‘works out pretty well.’” “Right.” I say. I’d like to tell him where to shove his shitty grammar lessons, but I refrain. Instead, I hand Bruno a bag with a couple T-shirts— the ones I picked up that night I was lost in Caesars and couldn’t find my room. Don orders us another round of beers and dips into Bruno’s pile of money to pay for them. Playfully, she knocks his hand away and says, “Hey, if you’re buying, you buy with your money, not mine.” “Whooo-hoo, touchy, aren’t we?” He stares her in the eye. “What’s mine is yours and all that, remember? You keep that sort of attitude and you’ll be pretty thirsty once you move down with me, considering that you won’t have a job and I will.” I can tell Bruno’s pissed at that remark, but she just changes the subject, saying, “Tomorrow’s my birthday.” * * * I go home and flop around on my bed. Feeling guilty and shitty. Worrying about Miguel, about those two thugs. Missing Miguel. He calls. He says he misses me. His voice alone picks me up. Low and sultry. Safe and sound. I start telling him what an asshole Don is then suddenly pull back, stopping mid-sentence. “What?” he prods. “You don’t really need to listen to all this stupid shit.” “C’mon, ’s all right. What else?” “Nothing. Really. Thanks for listening to me. Hey, have those guys been around anymore?” “No.” “You sure? You’re all right?” “I’m fine, Martino. I’ll be just fine.” “Badass. Don’t you have to go to work?” “I’m goin’. Don’t you have to go to sleep?” “I’m going.” “All right. Dream about me.” And, all night long, I do.

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[ 28 ]

T

HE NEXT DAY IS SHERRI’S BIRTHDAY. I CALL HER AROUND NOON, ASK HER WHERE

she wants to go, when she wants to go. Once we have the plans settled, I screw around with my nephew during the day, playing cards and passing time. Once I drop him off at home, I come back and happen to look under my awning before going in the door. I see something there. I think it’s a leaf, but I hurry into the house and slam the door closed. I think about the bat attack of a couple weeks ago, so I go out the front door, walk around the place, climb the steps again and peer up. Sure enough, there’s a face on the leaf. A face with little bat ears sticking up. He’s all scrunched up, wings hidden, upside-down sleeping right there. So I get the hose, turn it on, let it work up to full speed. I turn the water on him too soon, from too far away, and instead of smooshing him I basically just give him a refreshing bath. He wakes up, flutters at me. I wave a three-wood around at him (I’m all prepared with backup ammunition), and I scream my fool head off as he flutters away. I barely get the horror of that incident behind me when it’s time to go out and meet Sherri. I buy her dinner and give her the necklace. She seems pleased. Don tells her, “Your present is down at the other place, we’ll celebrate when we get there.” Sherri fiddles with the necklace around her neck, saying, “This comes to the exact right spot, it’ll look really sexy when I wear one of my low-cut shirts.” Don says, “Sherri, that’s not sexy. I don’t think you have a clue what sexy is.” Later that night, Sherri and Don have a mini-blowout. I say mini because Sherri doesn’t fight back too much. Don gets pissed off at her for drinking too much. She wants to do a shot for her birthday, and he starts telling her she really shouldn’t. Tells her she’s too drunk already. She calls

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him a tight-ass. He makes her go home. Watching them leave, I think about how Miguel didn’t get pissed when I drank too much. Then I go home and spend the night flopping on my bed and missing him. I go out on Sunday night, too, because Bruno leaves on Monday. Her dad has us over for dinner, which is really nice—homemade white pizza. After, she says, “Can you believe I’m really leaving?” “For six weeks,” I say with a grin. “That’s what my money’s on.” “Oh, va fanculo, stronza, I’m going this time. This is going to work. I’ve made my bed and I’m going to lie in it.” “That’s a really positive attitude,” I tell her. Six beers, three-fourths of a pack of cigarettes and one hug goodbye later, Sherri says, “Martino, I don’t want to fucking go.” “All right, then don’t fucking go.” “I have to go. Everybody thinks I’m a screw-up, that I can’t make anything work, and I want to make this work.” “Again, Bruno, that’s a shitty reason to go. You should only go if you really want to be with Don. Do you want to be with Don?” “You know, he’s sort of an asshole,” she says. Then she’s silent. And the next day, she’s gone. I look up his number and call Miguel. “Did I wake you?” I ask when he mumbles into the phone. “Nah, huh-uh,” he says, scratchy-voiced, and I can picture him rubbing his eyes. Sleepy but safe. “Yes, I did.” “Yeah, you did. ’S all right, though.” “Out late last night?” “Nah. Had some guy give me shit at work.” “Fucker. What’d he do?” “He kept placin’ late bets, so I didn’t pay him the third time he did it.” “That’s what you’re supposed to do, right?” “Oh, fuck, yeah,” he says. “’Cept this cat was sorta a high roller, I guess. Then he started givin’ me shit for not bookin’ the bet on time an’ he called the boss over an’ started mouthin’, tellin’ him I’m slow.” “What a fucker.” “Yo, no shit, man. No shit. I was jacked. They took me off the table.” “Did you get in trouble?” “Fuck, no. I guess this flea does that shit all the time, but since he loses a ton o’ dough they put up with it. Pendejo.”

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24/7 “That’s probably why he’s so bitchy, ’cause he loses. Sorry you had a shitty night, though.” “So when you comin’ back out here, huh? Hmmm?” “I don’t know, I haven’t booked anything yet.” “Don’t you miss me?” He yawns. “I miss you. A lot.” “Yeah.” He sighs. “Te falto.” His voice gets lazier, quieter. “I got off the Monday after next for all week.” “You have to work every day till then?” “Mmhmm,” he says. “That sucks.” “Mmhmm.” He’s quiet a couple seconds, then says, “What’re you doin’?” “I’m at work right now.” “Oh, you’re at work, huh?” A heavy sigh. “Callin’ me as you take a break. Mmm, I like that. Mmmhmm,” he drawls, slowly. A pause. “You got your own office?” “Rodriguez, what are you doing?” “Mmmmm…talkin’ to you…mmmm…thinkin’ of you.” A few more heavy breaths. “Are you alone? Or is someone there with you?” “You think I’m doggin’ you? Tu eres el mio…mmmm,” he mumbles, then inhales sharply. “I wouldn’t do that. Soy el tuo, chica…Mmmm.” “Are you doing what it sounds like you’re doing?” “Mmmmm,” he says, pretty loud. “What’s it sound like?” “It sounds like you’re jerking off.” “Yeah…mmmm…then I’m doin’ what it sounds like.” “Rodriguez!” I say, astounded. Immensely turned on as I get a mental flash of it. “Mmmmm…nice to hear your voice, amor. Talk to me more.” “I don’t know what to say now.” “Mmmm…you don’t like this?” I can hear it in his voice—he’s not faking it just to fuck with me. He’s for sure laying back on his bed, one hand around the phone, the other… “C’mon, baby, it’s not like I ain’t done it before…ssssssst.” He actually hisses. “Yeah, but not with me listening. Not with me talking. Not thinking about me.” “Oh, yeah,” he purrs. “Don’t be shy. I thought about you before.

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Muchas veces.” “Huh?” Some really heavy breaths, a sigh, then, “Yeah, ’fore we even hooked up, ’fore I ever got with you. After that first day…mmmm…you played blackjack.” “You went home and stroked one off thinking about me?” “Mmhmm. An’ after you shot dice with me. Few times then, too.” “Rodriguez,” I say softly, “that’s the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.” “Say my name again,” he says. “Rodriguez.” “Mmmm.” “Miguel.” “Mmm, yeah, baby. Muy buena, Marina. You ever think about me?” I tell him the truth. “Yes.” “Uhh. While doin’ this?” “Yes.” Blushing as I say it. “Miguel…I wish I could see you right now.” “Wish you was here right now, te falto, Marina, mi amor. I done this a lot since you left, it’s better hearin’ you. Say more.” So I ooh and coo and ahh and say his name and nasty things to him, listen to him mumble and grunt in appreciation until he’s done. Once he is, I wait a little, listen to him breathing then say his name again. “Miguel.” Sighing: “My Marina.” “Sleep, baby.” “Grácias.” “Miguel?” “Mmhm?” “I’ll see you next Monday.” “Bueno.” “Hang up the phone now.” “I will. Rina?” “Yeah?” “Love you.” I smile. “Love you, too. Goodnight.” I spend the rest of the day at work crossing and uncrossing my legs. Just listening and imagining him really turned me on. I keep thinking about it all day, keep feeling the exquisitely excruciating pleading down there. By the time I get home I can’t help but rub one off immediately. It goes really fast, too—all I have to do is think about his voice, recall his mmming and uhhhing, slide my finger across my pulsing clit a few times and bam!—I’m

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24/7 done for. Good thing I gave in, too—I have dinner with Dad, and I just know if I’d have sat there all tensed up and throbbing I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate. I’d have been all short-tempered and grouchy. I tell him a little about my trip. “When are you going to grow up?” he asks me, prodding when I don’t answer. “Huh? It’s not respectable how you live. It’s disgraceful, is what it is! People think you’re a goddamn whore.” “No one thinks that, Dad. No one mistakes me for a whore. I’ve got a good job, you know.” “Good job, my ass,” he snipes. “You should have a family, is what you should have. A husband. If you’d lose some weight and calm down maybe you’d get one.” I just stay quiet and listen as he gets worked up. I learned a long time ago that it ends easier and quicker if I just listen and nod. It doesn’t hurt that we have some great prosciuto with melon and really juicy tomatoes doused in olive oil, salt, pepper and parsley. As he eats, he gets more docile. I don’t tell him about Miguel. Not a word. What would I say anyhow? Yeah, you explain it to your father. Besides, I don’t want to talk about Miguel. I don’t want to keep thinking about him. I’m going back, but that’s two weeks away. Two weeks is a long time. Two weeks is longer than it took me to get all wrapped up and into him in the first place. Much longer. Two weeks is longer than we spent together. I booked the flight and got the hotel locked down. And I’ll go. But two weeks, man… I don’t know how these things go. Lust and love. It exploded around me, drenched me entirely. But now I’m removed from it. It could burn off, fade out, fizzle down—whatever. It could happen. Poof! Shit, I’m realistic. The women he must see on a daily basis, the women who probably grin at him and lick their lips as he slides money to their husbands—any one at any time could turn his head more than I did. And me? I don’t know. Maybe I’m fickle. Maybe this was so much longer and more intense than anything else I’ve ever experienced with another person that it’s natural the heat just ultimately combusts. Or gets snuffed.

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[ 29 ]

T

HE WEEK STARTS OUT BAD ENOUGH AS I ARRIVE AT THE OFFICE, FINISH MY ORANGE

juice then check my snail-mailbox. There’s a forty-eight-page missive in it from middle manager Gary Anderton. At first I salivate, thinking that perhaps he’s finally unwound completely and this is his own personal, neatly typed manifesto containing all sorts of sick, juicy insights into his pathology neatly buried in subtext. Sort of like all the fountains and volcanoes at the Wynn properties—on the surface one thing, but when combined we can all see the phallic implications. Perhaps Anderton loosened his tie one night and just fell into a typing fury, dying for someone to be able to read his deep personal thoughts. I flip through it. No such luck. It’s not a manifesto. It’s not personal. It is, evidently, Anderton’s work for the past twenty weeks or however long he’s been hovering around here collecting a paycheck. It’s lengthy reports on variances and usages and productivity charts. I can’t comprehend that he’s actually going public with the information. Proof that this is all he does with his time—making colorful Power Point presentations of meaningless data and then compiling it all together. He’s got more balls than I thought he did, I’ll give him that. Less brains, but more balls. I’m grinning as I leaf through it, unable to find anything juicy or relevant until I stumble across a typed summary at the end. I almost can’t believe my eyes. The most crucial area for success, and improvement, lies not within the management teams, but within the average worker. We must disseminate unilateral rules and rewards governing them; also we must seek to homogenize not only the software, hardware and formats of their labors, but the laborers themselves. Oh. My. God!

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24/7 I crack up as I continue to skim over it, almost anticipating being able to catch a few minutes of free time to read the rest of it. I’m not sure if it’s the fact he used the word disseminate so freely (smirk), or that he barely pulled the reins on calling all of us in the office “drones.” But this is turning out to be almost as good as a crazed manifesto. In fact, it is his manifesto. It’s his buttoned-up, Windsor-knotted, Business Lingo 101 manifesto. I’m still laughing when Meghan, another as-of-yet unhomogenized specialist in our department, comes by. She nods at me. “Anderton’s manual?” “Yeah, I’m just looking at it.” She stirs her coffee, biting her tongue. “You know, he’s going to present it to the board meeting next week.” “Willingly?” “Oh, it’s his idea—he asked if he could.” “Jesus!” I’m scandalized. It has to be a mistake. Even Anderton couldn’t be so thick. It’s a delicious picture, him standing in front of the gray-haired millionaires and eagerly presenting this sundae of horseshit information, topped with the cherry of his neo-conformist rant. “Are you sure they aren’t finally demanding that he show them some work or something? That he’s being forced into this?” She clears her throat, shifts her eyes behind me and returns to stirring. “Good morning, Ms. Martini, I see you’ve begun perusing—” I whirl around on him. “Gary! You thick-skulled, bureaucratic, clueless twit! You can’t present this material!” “Ahem.” A fidget with his tie. “Yes, I can see your concern, that it may in the future impede, hinder or even completely change the way in which you, in particular, conduct business around here, but—” “Gary! I’m not talking about me. I’m worried about you!” “Me?” He fumbles momentarily, quickly regains his pinched composure. “I’m quite confident that the board will be most receptive to my ideas, and after them the shareholders will be—” “Shareholders?” I barely hold my voice below a screech. “Yes, I’ll be reading the summarization pages at the next shareholder’s meeting.”

“Aloud?” “Of course.” “Christ, you’ve got balls bigger than those tofu dogs you eat, don’t you?” He blushes. “Gary, I’m telling you, you can’t do this. Cancel the meeting, call in sick,

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do whatever you’d do to blow something off! I’m begging you!” His eyes narrow behind his glasses. “You’re attempting to sabotage me, Ms. Martini, and I don’t appreciate it. I have indulged your occasional playful, if thoroughly unprofessional, attitude long enough.” “Gary, stugatz, you fool! If you read this and show them these charts and graphs they’re going to fire you! And yes, you drive me crazy with your tofu dogs and listless demeanor but, Christ, Gary, if they fire you, just think of who we could end up with here! What if they hire someone competent? Then we’re all fucked in this office!” “Ms. Martino! You can consider this a verbal warning, not only for your assault upon my character but also for the use of inappropriate and offensive language within the workplace.” At least he got my name right. Nevertheless. “Gary—” “Mister Anderton.” “Ninny! You can’t present this crackpot report!” I guess that’s the proverbial straw on his hump. Maybe it was the term crackpot. Whatever it was, he comes unglued. At least, as unglued as I presume Gary Anderton can get. His eyes narrow, shoulders sink and hands ball into shaking fists at his sides as he screeches, “You can’t tell me what to do!” Perhaps horrified by his reaction, by his momentary lack of control, he turns crisply and stalks down the hall, looking as if someone just shoved one of his precious flow-charts, arrow side down, right up his tight, white, middle-manager ass. I shrug and go back to my office. The Anderton incident notwithstanding, work blows outright. I miss Bruno. I call her on Tuesday to make sure she got down there safely, and she did. She calls me the next day to report her unpacking progress. When I ask her how it’s going with Don, she chirps out, “Really good.” She sounds positive, but I know the voice. It’s the voice of someone who’s trying to convince themselves that they’re happy. I’ve used that voice an awful lot. On the weekend, my nephew comes over to play cards with me, and he gets swooped by one of my bats. I call his mother, and she agrees to allow him to sleep over so we stay up late watching Scorsese’s Casino and making fishballs for my dad. Nephew hasn’t acquired the taste for them yet—I didn’t until I was eighteen. They’re good, not too hard to make, but my place is going to stink like salt and anchovies for the next two weeks (which

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24/7 is why my mother stopped making them long ago). In the morning, just after dawn breaks, we get up and go hunting for the bats. They aren’t tucked under the awning. Instead, we find them hanging under the drain spout near my bedroom window. Nephew asking, “Why do you want to kill them?” “Because they’re bats!” “Yeah, but bats are cool.” “They could be rabid.” I sigh. “Well, I’m not going to kill them, that’s not cool.” “If you don’t help me get rid of them you can forget about going to Eminem.” I’m not proud of it, but apparently I’m not above blackmailing a teenager. He shrugs. “All right, we’ll get rid of them. But I’m not killing them.” He’s actually really brave, seemingly fearless about the bats. He climbs up on the roof and hangs his head down over the gutter. Using an empty tennis ball can, he slides it under one of them, shakes and slaps a lid on it immediately. He takes a break to poke holes in the lid so the bat won’t suffocate. Kids these days. PETA would be so impressed. He gets the second one the same way, but the third one flutters away, swoops menacingly in front of my face as he tries to can it. He climbs back down with the cans and tosses them at me, making me freak at the thought of dropping them and having the bats pop back out. “Get rid of them!” I shout. He blows me off. Gets a box from the trash, unfolds it and pokes holes in it, reinforces it with tape. Gets the bats situated in the box instead of the tennis ball cans. “You want ’em dead, you kill ’em,” he says, gives me a smarmy smirk and goes home. I fret. I consider driving over it to squish them, but I’m afraid I’ll just squish the box and they’ll fly away only to come back and haunt me again. I consider burning the box, but I’m afraid the box will burn before they do and they’ll be able to escape. So I let it sit next to my driveway until I can figure out a good solution. I take the fishballs over to my father. He looks at them and gives a “Humph” before asking how many anchovies I put in each one. “Two,” I tell him. “Merda! Two! That’s too many!” he shouts. “I’ll get the agita! You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

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“No, Dad.” I sigh. “I’m not trying to kill you. Last time you said one wasn’t enough, so I put in two.” “You used those cheap ones last time. Jesus Christ, you sure didn’t learn to cook from your mother, did you?” I reach to take the bag back from him, but he pulls it closer, booming, “Abasta! I’m keeping them, they’re better than nothing, maybe! You don’t need them, they’ll just make you fatter. You need to lose some weight! Look at that gut on you these days.” I go home. In the afternoon, the phone rings and it’s Bruno. “Don’s an asshole,” she says. Silence. “I mean it. We had a fight. He says he’s under all this pressure, and I don’t understand pressure and the kind he’s under.” “Okay. So. He begged you to come down there, and now he’s telling you that it’s putting him under pressure. He is an asshole. Just come home. Take some of the pressure off him. We’ll go to Vegas. Maybe that PR guy will take you out.” She goes, “Jarred?” “Whooo! Listen to you, remembering his name.” She waits a beat. “When are you going?” “Next Sunday I leave here.” “You’re going to see Miguel,” she says. “Yes. But I’ll have a hotel room. You can come. If you don’t mind him being around. He’ll be around a lot.” “I don’t know,” she says. “Don’s home now, I have to go.” Two hours later, she calls back. She says, “Don has off starting next Tuesday. We’re coming out to Vegas to meet you. And get married.” “Great!”

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[ 30 ]

T

HE NEXT WEEK GOES FASTER. BETTER. BECAUSE THE REWARD IS SO MUCH closer, I guess. I get more impatient. Monday morning I give an impassioned plea to some of my co-workers to help me divert the imminent disaster of the Anderton presentation, which is to occur in the afternoon. Most of them seem pretty gleeful at the idea of giving him enough rope to hang himself, until I cheerfully point out we could actually end up with a manager who knows what he’s doing. We devise a very simple plan, one filled with subterfuge, diversion and outright attack. Sun Tzu would adore me. For his part, Gary practically beams as the day progresses. Salivating like a Pavlov’s dog who just got his bell rung for an audience with the bigwigs. He honestly thinks this is his chance to break the surface and get a leg up. Clearly, he’s never dealt with our board of directors in any capacity before. We stock our ammunition during the lunch hour, and when we see Gary bounding to the elevator, demonstratively pushing the button to take him upstairs, we unleash the first wave. We send Laura, Shelbi and Brian. They are merely delivery people, but their bounty is the key. It’s the one thing that could do the trick. It’s the thing that office workers the world ’round unite over. It’s the thing that can stop a five-year-old boy and a fifty-year-old man dead in their tracks. It’s the thing that can affect women and men alike. It knows no cultural biases nor social classes. Young, old, gay, straight, black, white—it knows no boundaries. It is the universal weapon, one that can never be denied, turned away or turned down. It can even make a stuffy room full of unseemly rich, cranky old men turn their attentions away from the quarterly reports. That’s right, we’re bringing in the big guns. Krispy Kremes. Minutes before Anderton reaches the boardroom Laura, Shelbi and Brian arrive. Compliments of the entire ninth floor (no point in missing out

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on a little kiss-ass action), they drop off three dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts. The delighted festivities begin as Anderton arrives. As he tries to maintain a modicum of reserved professionalism and pass out his manual, a dozen stodgy men in suits suddenly bound to their feet, scurrying for coffee and doughnuts of their choice. Once the initial first round of enthusiasm has calmed, the men again take their seats, content to munch and slurp away on the little sugar clouds, thoroughly distracted as they leaf, sticky-fingered, through the manuals, depositing gooey trails of glaze and the occasional splash of brown liquid upon the full-color pages as they pretend to understand. Anderton clears his throat, ready to begin. I know this because I’m squished up on a ladder in the adjoining lunchroom, face at the grate of a small air duct that connects the rooms. I’m with Charles, ready to release the second wave. “Now,” I whisper. “I can’t,” Charles says. “What? Why?” “It’s…they’re…they’re freaking me out.” Below, Anderton begins. “Gentlemen, good afternoon. First, I would like to extend my most humble gratitude for this opportunity…” Gruffly: “Skip the intros and cut the ball-licking, Anderson…” “Uh, Anderton, sir.” “Whatever. Just get on with it, son. I have a two-thirty tee time. Hey, Johnson, you fatass old bastard, stop hogging the cream-filled, pass one down here.” Me again: “Charles, do it now!” “They’re asleep!” “Shit, man, hit the box, wake them up!” “What if they don’t go down there?” “Gimme the box.” I wrest it from his hands and position it over the vent. Pulling the grate away from beneath it, I tap the box once, then again, wondering if they came out. From below: “…if you’ll turn to page 38, you’ll be able to see in writing my outline for…” “Holy shit, Johnson! Duck!” “What?” Now, one word—the thing that can incite revulsion and fear in every living creature. It knows no cultural bias, it knows no social class.

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24/7 “Bats! Duck, you dumbass!” A sudden cacophony of stricken shouts and wails. “Oh, my God!” “Bats!” “Call an exterminator!” “Where did the bastards come from?” “It touched me! It touched me! Get it off me!” “Grab the doughnuts! Jesus Christ, someone grab the doughnuts, don’t let the little bastards shit on them!” I slide the grate back into position and re-attach it, getting a bird’s-eye view of the pandemonium that’s escalating below. The bats are fluttering and swooping, doing fly-bys at everyone, curiously concentrating on Mr. Johnson. The men are shouting and ducking, half of them crawling under the table, a couple of them standing and actually chasing after the flying rodents. One of them is waving Anderton’s manual around at them, vainly trying to swat them down. Anderton is going nuts over that. “What’s going on?” It’s Wayne, the maintenance man. Wayne, who was handsomely rewarded with his own box of Krispy Kremes and asked to be in the area ready to enter the board room. “Jesus! Bats! Hang on!” Wayne, who starts muttering to himself and brandishing his… Oh, merda… Welding torch. Wayne was nearby re-soldering plumbing fixtures. Charles and I crouch near the grate, pulling back sharply as he takes a swipe that’s a smidge too close for comfort. He jumps on the mahogany table, kicking more of the manuals aside, chasing after the bats, flames showering around him everywhere he waves the torch. “Be careful with that thing!” someone shouts at him. “Burn the bastards! Watch you don’t roast off Johnson’s wig if it lands on him again! We’ve got a two-thirty tee time!” “Someone close the door! Don’t let them out of here!” “You get up and close the door! They could be rabid!” “Pussies! All of you a bunch of pussies.” “It touched me! Don’t call me a pussy until it touches you!” “If you’re so brave, go close the door!” “I’ll get the door closed, dammit. Johnson, go close the door!” Wayne catches up to one of the bats that’s landed directly on a sprinkler head. He doesn’t even hesitate. He turns the torch on him full force, shouting, “Fry, fucker!” The bat flutters away, trailing a shower of sparks,

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Wayne can’t see that it’s escaped through the flame of his torch, and he holds it in place. The sprinkler explodes, sending a downpour everywhere. Charles and I nearly pee our pants, while everyone in the boardroom scampers again. Anderton takes flight, scurrying around the table to collect his manuals. “My presentation! My manuals, all that work!” “Anderson, you drip, fuck the papers, grab the doughnuts!” “They’re just doughnuts!” he hisses. “Aw, shit, the stress has made the poor boy flip out. He’s irrational. Johnson! Grab the doughnuts!” “I’ll get soaked!” “I’ll let you stop and change before tee time, dammit, I want another cream-filled!” “What happened to the bats? Where are the bats?” “What about my presentation?” “One of them touched me! I felt it! It touched me!” A ball of flame falls fluttering onto the center of the table, accompanied by Wayne shouting, “Back to hell, you furry little beasts!” Final tally: • 1 mahogany table—ruined. • 15 Corinthian leather swivel chairs—soaked. • 4 dozen Krispy Kremes—eaten or salvaged. • 1 sprinkler system—proven beyond a shadow of doubt to be in fine operating condition. • 13 verbose and colorful manuals about how to more efficiently run our department—forgotten. • 2 bats… Let’s just say that PETA would have a shitfit about them. And Anderton’s job—for the time being at least—preserved. That’s Monday. A nice little diversion to begin the workweek. But after, everything calms down and returns to normal. For everyone else. I find myself slipping back to my insecurities, not only festering about what this thing with Miguel is like now but worrying about why it’s like this. I look in the mirror too often. Still failing to see what he sees, but now seeing all the flaws again. Funny how they’d sort of receded for a little while there. Maybe obscured by the bruises. Maybe my eyes were drawn to those instead, and when they disappeared I was forced to see everything else again. And then it’s fifteen days that I haven’t seen him at all, one hundred-

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24/7 thirty-seven hours of work, seven conversations about wedding chapels with Sherri, twenty-five hundred miles and one very tiny bag of airplane pretzels later. I’ve grabbed my luggage and walked outside into the hot midafternoon air. And there he is. Leaning against the wall, one foot over the other, top one tapping away a mile a minute with anticipation as he looks over, sees me and says, “Yo!” And there’s the spark. I have no doubts. Not about me, not about him. They just…vanish. My heart’s beating harder, every nerve is wired and I’m flooded with relief to see him in one (fine, very fine) piece. He picks me up, gives me a squeeze, and when he puts me down, he gives me some kisses. When he pulls back, I look at his face and don’t see a single trace of dark or sad or bad or lonely. When I thank him for picking me up, he playfully pushes my face away and picks up my suitcase and starts walking, nods for me to follow. “I’m glad you wasn’t late,” he says. “I gotta work soon. One more shift then I got all week with you.” “I’d have known if you weren’t here,” I say. “Man, that would have sucked, though, not seeing you for another eight hours.” “Twelve,” he says. “Twelve. Pullin’ a double for the last day.” “You’re gonna be tired,” I say, but he just shakes his head, says he’ll be fine. We walk pretty fast to get to his car in the oven heat of mid-afternoon. He drives pretty fast to get to his place as the sun blazes away. He hits the elevator button repeatedly to take us up to his apartment. When he lays off, I hit it a few times more, adrenaline surging with every push. Turning the lock, opening the door, him being polite, asking, “You hungry? Thirsty? You wanna eat or somethin’ ’fore I go to work?” “Are you retarded, Rodriguez? Come here!” And then he’s all over me, mouth and hands, fumbling as we get our clothes off. All of them, every last stitch, just getting naked and rubbing all over, getting used to and reacquainted with bodies that we’d gotten to know pretty well. It’s being wound so tight, so hot, being completely overwhelmed by him. And even better, seeing that he’s the same. He’s fighting, he’s gritting his teeth and fighting it off but he’s overwhelmed with me. So we’re out of synch, I’m with him but lagging behind, and he can’t hold on and wait for me. He just ends up shaking and hissing and collapsing down onto me once he’s spent. “Shit.” He sighs. “Uhhhh. Sorry.”

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“It’s fine, don’t say that,” I answer, locking down my own itchy restlessness. Miguel snakes his hand up my leg, right to the top of my thigh, buries it in my crotch. I jolt with it, so fluid and bold a movement, still tender and revved up down there. “All right, just, relax,” I tell him, trying to will myself to keep getting up. “We, you…you have to go, you said that, you gotta go to work.” “In a minute, baby, just a few more minutes,” he soothes with his voice, coaxes with his hand. “Lemme make it up to you.” And he does. And when it’s over, he murmurs soft in my ear, cuddling me under his full weight, saying, “Te amo, Rina.” “Ti amo,” I answer in my tongue. I let him doze off for a while like that, I swim in and out myself. Then, worried he’ll be late for work and starting to suffocate under his weight, I nudge him to wake him up. “Baby, you have to go to work,” I say and try gently pushing his hips to the side as he blinks and stretches a little. He moves off me, and I have to sit up from the sudden draft of cool air on me. Miguel yawns deep, stretches more, shakes his head. Then, as if suddenly getting it, he leaps up, saying, “Shit.” He showers quickly as I just toss on a T-shirt and underwear for now. Getting dressed in his bedroom, he shouts out to me, “You gonna be all right here while I’m gone? You can have whatever you want, you know, to eat an’ shit. I got you a couple bottles o’ vodka.” “I’ll wait for you,” I say. “I’ll probably get a cab and go check in at the hotel anyhow. Maybe swim for awhile, gamble…” “Whoa,” he says and walks into the room, shirtless. Jaw clenched. “Hold up, hold up. What do you mean, check into the hotel?” “Um, you know, go get my room.” Clearly pissed. “What the fuck?” “Miguel, don’t get pissed—” “I’m pissed,” he says, eyes narrowing. “I thought you was stayin’ with me.” I swallow hard. “Aren’t you going to be late? We can talk about this after—” “Not if you’re gonna be in a hotel, we can’t talk about this when I get home from work. What the fuck, Marina?” “Well, I didn’t think you’d mind. I thought you’d sort of like it, you could come over there, it’s like you’re on vacation then, too.”

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24/7 “I do mind. I do fuckin’ mind. I don’t like it. Why? Huh? Why? What is it you hate so much about here?” “I like it here. You’ve got a phat crib,” I try to joke with him. Turning around, he stalks down the hall, comes back in a minute with his white shirt, starts buttoning it up. “Then just fuckin’ relax and stay here. All right?” “Well, I wasn’t sure if you’d want me here. For all week like that—” “You think I’m gonna kick you out, don’t you?” “No,” I say it quietly. I’m not sure anymore if that is it. All I know is that it does freak me out. But it freaks me out worse to see him so pissed about it. He stops tucking in his shirt, stares me right in the eye. “Then what, huh?” Suddenly sullen, he drops his gaze. “You ’fraid o’ those dickheads?” “No,” I say. “Not really. Not if you say it’s not a problem. I just wasn’t sure you really wanted me here, all up in your shit like that.” “Yeah, well, I do,” he says. Back to pissed as he fumbles with a cufflink, drops it on the floor. “Shit!” Staring down at it, he sighs and says, “Yo, I don’t wanna be on fuckin’ vacation.” “Huh?” “You said it was like I was on vacation, too, if we go stay at the hotel. Yeah, well, I don’t wanna be on vacation. Vacations end. That’s why I like you here. Understand? ’Cause when you’re here, it’s real. I look out at that fuckin’ view when you’re here an’ it’s why I bought this place. It’s all bright again. When you ain’t here, it’s all shit. I just want you here, and for it to be real. Part o’ my actual fuckin’ life.” I pick the cufflink up off the floor, take hold of his wrist. “Okay, I’ll stay here.” “You will?” “Well, yeah,” I say as he holds his arm out for me, watching as I attach the clasp. “You’re sure, though? You’re sure you want me here the whole time?” He drops his hand and looks right at me, surprised. Saying, “Shit. Now that you will, now that I really think about it, I’m not sure, you know. Gonna have all your stuff all over the place. Makin’ a mess. Maybe you shouldn’t stay here.” “Are you fucking with me now?” He cocks a brow and grins. “Yeah, I’m fuckin’ with you now. Don’t be an asshole, just unpack, all right?” Then he holds out his other hand, has me affix that cufflink, too.

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[ 31 ]

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NCE HE’S GONE, I PICK UP THE PHONE TO CALL CAESARS AND CANCEL MY ROOM.

Fuck my little fears. Some people, they think a happy, content person is so air-headed and simple and shallow. I don’t know—who am I to say I’m not shallow? But I don’t think so. I don’t think happy people are the ones who are the timid, weak-minded idiots. It’d be easy to get caught up in the minute problems and fritter time away worrying about shit like this. I think it’s harder to suck it up and make a decision, take a risk and go for it and then enjoy the repercussions. So that’s what I’m going to do. Just let go, ease up, hang on and slide down into it again. Get brainless again. I get my suitcase and drag it into his bedroom. Start pulling out things and considering where to put them. I leave the clothes inside. Take out my shampoo, conditioner and toothbrush and go to the bathroom with it. There’s room on the shelf in the shower for my bottles of hair stuff, but he doesn’t keep anything at all on the counter by his impeccably clean sink. And I don’t want to make a mess, have him come in here and see my shit all over. I open up the medicine cabinet and look in there for room for my toothbrush. There really isn’t any. But I do notice something else as my eyes go over his things in there. I smirk as I look at it—the big box of condoms. Unopened. I believed him when he said he wasn’t dogging me. But even more than trusting him on that, I trust that he’d protect me if he did do that. He goes out of his way and shows me enough courtesy in everything else. So even if there was a slim chance he’d fuck around on me, I’m certain he wouldn’t fuck up like that. I close the mirror and toss my toothbrush onto the countertop. I get dressed and grab the key he left me and go out for a walk. I find a grocery store close so I go in and pick a few things up. When I was bored and

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24/7 missing him at home, I researched Puerto Rican food and came up with a couple recipes. I don’t know if he’ll like them or not—I guess it could even be racist to assume he’d like it just cause he’s Puerto Rican. But fuck it, I’m Italian and I loved my mom’s Italian food. So I decide to give it a try. I go back to his place with the groceries and start preparing the meal. Figure I’ll have dinner for him when he gets home. Nearly vomit when I think about how domestic that seems. I put on some tunes then go back to the kitchen and start frying up some meat. I season it, set it aside and mash the bananas and taro together to make the breading, mix the dough and fill it, get some oil heating up to fry the things in. I hope that he likes them, that he doesn’t think I’m a screwball for thinking he’d like them. When I’m done with the food, I clean everything up and then lay down on his soft couch and nap awhile. The phone ringing wakes me up, but I don’t answer, I let the machine get it. “My man, Rodriguez. M-Rod. Check in sometime, Latin love stud. Hey, shit, you been grindin’ too hard for the man lately. Zat foxy, finger-lickin’ bitch o’ yours in town soon again or what? Bring her ’round more this time, dawg. Peace. Oh, yeah, if you’re there, hot fox o’ his, Miz Marina, dump him. C’mon out now and meet me, I’m going to The Beach. Ask for Marion at the door.” I get restless around ten p.m. so I give it up and call a cab and go gamble at the Stardust. It’s a cool place—very old, and it feels it. Very purple. It’s got a cheesy-cool lounge area done in black with glitter all over, like stepping right back into the seventies. But I don’t want to drink and be all shit-faced when Miguel’s getting out of work, that’d just be rude. Sober, I sit down and do my blackjack thing. I’d been playing with nephew while I was gone, but that’s different, and I’m rusty. I don’t sweat it, though. I just ease into it. Don’t bother trying to keep a serious count at first. Just play the hands I’m dealt, not having to think or decide about them. Going by the strict basic strategy and simply following through on the decisions that’ve been pre-ordained. The count falls in line soon after that. Everything else fades out, and I fall into the comfort of the numbers, so concrete, no room for misinterpretation. Even the shuffle seems to unfold in slow motion, easy to spot where the clumps are falling. Ironically, I do everything right but still take a pasting. Every time I theoretically should be getting the good cards, it’s just not shaking out that way. The dealer winds up with blackjack instead of me. Other players pull

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two face cards instead of me. My bankroll dwindles, and just when I think I’m catching a break and getting a spell of good luck, it snaps prematurely and I end up on a spiky spell, roller-coasting up and down. That’s when I call it quits. I know Miguel could be done soon, and there’s no point pressing a bad night. When I’m done and cashed out, I end up $800 down. Not good, that’s for sure, but it could have been worse. It’s going to happen sometimes. I accept that. So I bust it over to Bellagio’s Fontana bar to wait for my man. I’m sipping my first cosmopolitan when he ambles by, gives me a look. Not a look—The Look. I follow him out, we walk hand-in-hand to his car in the employee lot. Then we go home together. He’s tired. I warm up the food I made earlier and crack him a beer. He hears the message from Marion on the machine, but he’s tired. It’s cool. I think he’s genuinely pleased with the meal. I give him a backrub. Then we rub each other all over for a while before going to sleep as the sun comes up.

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[ 33 ]

T

WO DAYS LATER, SHERRI AND DON COME TO LAS VEGAS TO GET MARRIED.

We’re all out at dinner together at Morton’s to celebrate. Miguel had worked all day (he picked up an extra day shift in exchange for another day off later), so I met them at the airport in his Caddy (he hasn’t gotten the door fixed yet, but it’s still a really tight ride, I can’t believe he let me take it for the day), got them checked in and picked him up when he was done at eight. Don’s saying, “So then I looked at her and said, ‘Let’s just do it. We’re going to get married anyhow, let’s do it out there.’ And Sherri agreed. She doesn’t always do the smartest things, but I think this was a good decision.” Bruno flinches at his last comment but doesn’t say anything. Me and Miguel stay pretty quiet, content to just listen to them. When we order, I get the forty-eight-ounce porterhouse, and Don calls me on it. Says, “Why would you get that? You’ll never eat that with everything else—that just doesn’t make sense. It’s too much.” Miguel laughs. “I don’t think she knows the meaning o’ ‘too much.’” Don turns his attention to him. “So, what do you do, Miguel?” Rodriguez takes a swig of his beer, says, “I’m a dealer at the Bellagio.” They talk about that as Sherri tells me we have to get dresses tomorrow. Or tonight, if we’re buzzed up and it sounds like fun. Miguel’s midsentence, telling Don about his training, but Don cuts him off, puts his attention back on Bruno, saying, “You aren’t going out shopping tonight all drunk. That’s stupid. You’ll get them tomorrow.” “But it’ll be fun tonight,” she says. “We both hate shopping, especially for dresses. We’ll want to get sun at the pool tomorrow.” “I’m getting the license tomorrow, you can get dresses. You can do something for this wedding, put some effort into it. I don’t want to watch you shop tonight.” I watch Sherri slump and look dejected. “You know, Don,” I start, “I’d rather do it tonight—”

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“It’s okay, Martino,” she cuts me off. “Tomorrow is fine.” Miguel just slugs his beer and rubs my knee under the table. Don says, “These dago girls, you know? You’re not Italian, are you, Miguel?” “Nope.” “He’s got the same bad Latin blood, though.” I wink at him. Don asks, “So how did you guys meet?” “She was playin’ blackjack at my table.” “When did you notice her?” “’Fore I even got up to the table. I seen her sittin’ there when I was tapped off another one, then I had to go on break. When I came back I got to go work her table.” “I didn’t know that,” I say. “That’s so sweet, you noticed me right away.” “Yeah.” He swigs his beer, starts fucking with me. “You didn’t notice me till I started kickin’ your ass. Didn’t even see me come on.” Don prods more. “So what did you notice first about her? You said you noticed her, what was it about her?” Miguel smirks. “Her tits.” I slap him hard across the arm as he ducks and laughs. “Pig!” I say. “You said it was my smile.” “Huh-uh, no, I didn’t.” He laughs. “I told you I liked your smile, kept tryin’ to get you to smile. But you weren’t smiling’ when I first saw you. It was your tits I noticed first.” “I do have nice tits,” I say. “Humph. You’ll never flash them when it’s necessary,” Sherri chides. “The first thing I noticed about Sherri was her smile. First thing,” Don emphasizes. Then, “So, Miguel, did you grow up around a lot of Italians?” “Jesus, Don,” I interrupt him before Miguel can answer. “It really doesn’t matter that he’s not Italian.” “I’m just trying to see if he’s used to all this. Miguel, was it mostly Mexicans in your neighborhood?” I clear my throat then say, “He’s Puerto Rican, Don.” Don just nods, oblivious. Asks, “Where’d you grow up?” “Bronx,” Miguel says, and I can tell he’s getting annoyed because his leg starts jittering next to mine. “Oh. What’d your dad do?” “I don’t know,” he answers as we get our salads. “What do you mean you don’t know?” Don presses. I know what he means, because Miguel’s told me about this. Same as

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24/7 he’s listened to me tell him about my dad’s yelling disapproval that I won’t admit to anyone else, he’s told me about his scars. So I try to end it again. “Don,” I say, “stop prying and eat your salad.” “I’m not prying, I just wonder what he means. How could you not know what your father did for a living?” Miguel looks him dead in the eye, “’Cause my pops left us when I was seven and my moms didn’t like talkin’ ’bout him. So I don’t know what he did and I don’t fuckin’ care, neither. My mother was a teller in a bank when I was growin’ up and now she manages the branch there.” “Oh,” is all Don says as he sticks a fork in his salad. “So, um, how did you and Martino here get together?” “I sorta asked her out the next time I saw her,” Miguel says. “An’ me and her been together since then.” “She and I,” Don says. I take the napkin off my knees and toss it on the table. Miguel just says, “Huh?” “You said ‘me and her’ but it should be ‘she and I’—that’s proper grammar.” “Oh. Whatever, man,” Miguel says. But Don digs in. “No, no,” he goes. “It’s not whatever. It’s important. Language is a method of communicating. And when you speak, it’s important you do it well, because you’re communicating things about yourself. And if you speak poorly or improperly, you’re conveying that to other people. So it’s important—” “Communicate this, Don,” I interrupt. “Fuck you, okay?” He blinks at me. I don’t even let him get in a word. “You’re right,” I say. “Language is to communicate. And Miguel here communicated something to you. Now either you’re too stupid to understand what he was saying or you’re too uptight to bother listening. You’re just so wrapped up in lording your superiority over people that you don’t listen to what they’re saying. You just look for flaws so you can correct them. That communicates a hell of a lot more than ‘she and I’ or ‘me and her’ does any day. So don’t you ever communicate to him by condescending to him. I tolerate your shit to keep the peace, and Sherri takes it for whatever reason. But he…” I wag my fork in Miguel’s direction. “…doesn’t ever have to take it.” Under the table, Miguel squeezes my knee and I know he’s fighting really hard to not bust out laughing. Sherri looks stunned, but it seems like she’s fighting off a smirk, too.

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For his part, Don takes it amazingly well. He blinks a few times, probably deciding which way to roll with it. Maybe he can tell that no one’s on his side. Or maybe he knows he was being an asshole and is willing to admit he got called out on it. He simply dives his fork into his salad. After dinner we go for drinks at the bar in the Polo Towers. It has an absolutely stunning view of the Bellagio, New York New York, Alladin and MGM. But Sherri’s beat by eleven, so we drive them to their hotel. They’re staying at Treasure Island. We all watch the pirate show—Miguel definitely notices when I shiver against him during the particularly swashbuckling parts. Me and Miguel (not Miguel and I) gamble there awhile. We play blackjack, me counting, him playing. He must see the dealer look over her shoulder just as I do because he whispers in my ear, “Heat’s on us.” We leave a couple hands after that. End a few hundred up when all’s done. By the time we get back to his place, there’s a message on his machine from Sherri. Her voice is tight. She says she’ll see me tomorrow at the pool, she’ll call to wake me up. I wonder when we’re going to get the dresses. There’s also a message from Miguel’s mom. She’s asking if that girl he told her about was in town again yet. Whoa-ho. I smirk at that. He blushes. I dig into it. “Mr. Rodriguez,” I say, “who’s that girl she’s talking about?” Cracking a beer, he just looks at me with shy, upraised eyes, smiling. I push him down into a chair and start massaging his neck and shoulders. “Is it me?” I ask. “Don’t be fuckin’ stupid, Marina.” Giddiness trills through me. “You told your mom about me?” “Yeah. You know. Some.” “I hope not all,” I say and lean down to bite his ear. He laughs. “I just, you know, I figured I’d tell her somethin’. So that if she’d call here and you answered she wouldn’t think you was a whore.” I laugh. “That’s not why,” I taunt him. “What’d you tell her?” “I don’t know,” he says. “Rodriguez, come on, what’d you tell her? Did you tell her you love me?” I say it mockingly, certain he wouldn’t have said that. “Yeah,” he says. “What?” I stop rubbing his shoulders. “I told her you’re the sweetest person I ever met. And that she’d like you. And that you’re smart. And sometimes you’re funny. Then she asked me if you was pretty.”

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24/7 “Oh, Jesus,” I say. “So I told her you’re gorgeous. And that I’ve already fallen in love with you.” He grabs my arm and pulls me around and down into his lap. “It’s cool,” he says. My heart’s beating out of control. “Miguel,” is all I say. “She worries about me. It made her happy, you know. It’s cool. I told her you love me, too. So she likes you.” “I do love you,” I say. “I know. I wouldn’t have told her if you didn’t.” “Why did you tell her?” “I don’t know. I was missin’ you, you know. I was all fucked up in the head an’ missin’ you. You know what it’s like.” “Yeah, well, I wish you hadn’t told your mom I’m gorgeous.” “But you are.” “But you’re trippin’. What if someday she meets me? I can be nice, I can fake smart. I can’t pull off gorgeous.” “Get up,” he says, pulling me into the bedroom with him. Flicks on the lights and drags me over to the mirror. “I’m sick o’ this shit,” he says. He holds his arms around me tight so I can’t escape. Saying, “Look at us.” I gaze into the mirror, focus on his reflection and smile at him. “What do you see?” “We go together,” I say. “Uh-huh.” He nods. “Now stop lookin’ at me. Look at you.” My eyes flicker on myself for a few seconds, then I let them fall to the floor. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t say anything else. Instead he pulls my shirt off over my head. Quickly undoes my bra and slips it down off my shoulders, tosses that aside, too. “Look,” he says. “I know I’ve got nice tits,” I say. “No, you’ve got great tits,” he corrects. “Okay, I know.” “Then look at ’em.” I look at them as he does, too, sliding a hand across them. I try to turn back into him, but he won’t let me. He reaches down and undoes my jeans, pushes them down over my hips, bends and kisses the small of my back as he gets them down, gets me to step out of them. Hooking his thumbs under my panties, he slides those down next, dropping kisses along the way. I shiver and fold my arms in front of myself. I make a move toward the bed, but he catches my hand and won’t let me go.

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“Please,” I ask him. “Can we get in bed?” “No,” he says and gets up off his knees, pulling off his shirt, quickly stripping off his pants. Standing in front of me, he holds his hands out at his sides, inviting me to see everything. “You like what you see?” he asks. “I love what I see,” I tell him. Standing full frontal to the mirror, he checks himself out. “This isn’t difficult,” he says. “Why’s this so hard for you?” I get behind him and press into his back. Reaching around, I rub across his torso with both hands. Noticing he’s half-erect already, I reach one hand down and stroke him, we both watch as he grows and gets harder. “You are gorgeous,” I whisper to him. “You think so? You think so, huh? I let you look at me.” He pulls away and gets behind me again, I squirm and try to turn into him, but he’s having none of it. He gets me just as he wants me—back to him, facing myself. “Now you look. Amo mirarte. You see what I see. What I love to see.” I whine, but he holds me tight. I use his first name, trying to pull sympathy and softness from him. “Mi-guellll,” I plead. But I can’t escape his hold. “We’ve already done the mirror thing. I know you liked it, but can’t we—” “You liked it, too. You liked watchin’ me like that.” “Yeah, I did,” I admit. “But we’re sort of like the Johnny Knoxville of sex—something weird and different, you know, not the same stuff.” He grins at that, says, “I wouldn’t mind doin’ the elevator thing again.” Kisses my neck. “This is different, though. You watched me. Now you’re gonna watch you. I’m gonna watch you.” “Miguel,” I whine. “Look, just look.” I stare down at the floor, at my own feet. My feet are cute, I do know that. “K,” he says finally, and I think he’s ready to give in. Instead, he gets on his knees behind me, leans down and strokes both hands across my foot. I watch him do that. As he moves up to my ankle, I watch him do it in the mirror, his hands gliding up and down my calf, over my knee, back down to my ankle. Up and down, feeling silky smooth as he grazes over every inch of my skin, slowly working his way up higher, then back down again. Up over my thigh, across my hips, all the way back down to my foot again. Watching his hands move across my skin, lighter colored than my darkly tanned legs. Up higher, over my stomach, where his hands are darker than the untanned skin there. He stands up to rub across my boobs, stroke my arm with both

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24/7 hands. Goes back to my stomach, along my hips. He’s literally covering every inch of my skin with his touches, the whole time I’m following his movements along in the mirror, exactly as he intended, I’m sure. He works up to my neck, tangles his hands in my hair. Then he starts pulling at it gently, mumbling in my ear in Spanish. I’m not sure what he’s saying exactly, but I get some of the words, enough of it. Endearments. “Te quiero,” as he always says. “Te amo,” as he’s started saying. Calling me pretty, calling me his. Using his fingers to comb through my mane, starting right at my scalp, dragging them all the way through to the ends. Miguel gets on his knees as he winds his way back down, concentrating on the other side of my body, my left leg this time. Once back to the foot, he urges me down by tugging on my wrists, gets me to kneel in front of him, still with my back to him as his hands slip all across my torso again, through my hair. He snakes a hand across my belly, lower, down between my legs, getting me to arch back against him. He massages there then takes it away, reaches behind me and strokes himself with that wetness as lubrication, pushes on my shoulder to lean me forward, closer toward the mirror. I do it for him, get down on hands and knees in front of him, feeling him working from behind, lining himself up as he strokes. He stops working on himself and strokes me that way, flatpalmed from underneath and behind. I arch and lift into it like a cat in heat, nearly nose-to-nose with myself in the mirror. Appalled with myself, but then catching his expression as he licks his lips, seemingly wrapped in bliss. He stops rubbing me and goes back to himself, lines up and eases in. Goes really slow, making me bite my lip with it. Once in, he positions his hands on my hips. I watch him in the mirror behind me as he takes his first stroke, pulling almost all the way out and easing back in impossibly slow. His chest shudders, mouth drops from a smile to an enraptured circle as he says, “Ooooh-ooh.” He goes easy a couple times, picks up rapidly, and I have to dig into the carpet to hang on. As he thrusts harder, he does push me up right into the mirror, so I lean my forehead on it for support and close my eyes as he goes for it. He’s hitting me inside at almost the exact right angle, just barely grazing it, just off enough to be getting me itchy but not quite satisfied. Good as it seems for him, he gets out of his trance, and I know he catches me not watching, because he eases up. Releasing my hips, he wraps his arms around the front of my body and pulls me up against his chest. I

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stay arched, careful to keep him inside as he leans into me. I have to brace my hands in front of me on the glass, and as he thrusts in again, he hits the spot for me now. He hangs onto me like that as I keep us upright, his one arm clinging around my waist, the other slung over my shoulder, reaching across me in front. He must be watching because he starts talking now, but instead of curses or endearments between grunts he’s saying, “Look. Open your eyes. Look.” I do, and it’s hot. It’s hot to see his arms around me like that. Hot to see him watching, seeing him turned up even higher as he looks at my hardnippled breasts swaying as he thrusts. “Not me,” he says. “Look at you, watch yourself.” He moves, doesn’t break his pumping into me but eases up enough to get his arm off my shoulder, removing some weight so I can lift up higher. Hands starting to slip, I readjust them and watch as he humps into me from behind, rocking my body forward with his thrusts, still hitting the exact right spot. His hands wander again, making me break out in a sweat as inside he keeps gliding up and into exactly where I want him, precisely where it’s insanely good. Him watching, too, checking me to make sure I’m seeing it all. Finally settling, leaning on me completely, one hand cupped firmly over my breast, the other resting at the base of my stomach, stroking there a minute then diving down between my legs. Reached around me, strong forearm muscles rolling as he does me right. Matching his strokes there with his pumps inside. Outside gliding directly onto that nub, inside sliding up into that area. And it’s too good. Shit, I can see it, actually see my stomach straining under his arm as it starts to build inside me. Beads of sweat drip from my neck down my chest, one landing on his thumb, the other trickling all the way down to my stomach. The one exposed nipple fully hard and distended, deep and dark against the shine now covering the rest of me. And… Oh, God, as I say it—“Oh, God”—I see it on my face. Wide-eyed, mouth open, almost surprised looking, overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with pleasure. Pleasure he’s giving me. Outside and inside. Up and into that spot, sweet pressure and friction. Against and onto that other spot. Overwhelmed by him. Again. Him watching it all. Getting off on it all. Again. His hand going at me furiously now, two fingers pressed and rubbing up

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24/7 and down on my engorged clit. And Miguel’s not even propped on me anymore, he’s hanging on to my tit in front and between my legs where he keeps rubbing away, but he’s leaned back against that, getting more leverage to grind harder and faster, up and into that spot. Into that spot, outside on that spot. I’m powerless against it, and I look it, struggling with every line on my face to stop looking like I’m struggling. Into and onto and “Oh, God!” I get the sizzling pleasure and I see the shakes in the reflection. He keeps working me as I come and I see the writhing. I cry out and see myself do that, too. I get hot and see the blush on my skin. But best, I see him watching it all being too much for him. He’s getting overwhelmed, it’s ready to rip through him, too, but I can’t take it anymore, he’s going to have to polish himself off. I tell him to stop but he doesn’t, not even with his hand. He keeps demandingly stroking up and into there, rubbing against and onto there, pistoning into me, making me shake harder, feeling like I’m sitting on a volcano. I claw at the silvery glass—even that’s hot and fogged near me now. Mind hazed, watching the utterly feral look on his face as he keeps making me quiver and pop everywhere, God help me, I can’t get away to get it stopped, just even a second of relief. Thunder just keeps rolling through and gripping me everywhere, coming, coming, still coming uncontrollably as he keeps going even harder. Going so hard he pushes me forward with each thrust. My hands still trying to dig into the slick mirror, he shoves and shoves, jolting me more, my face presses up into the glass. Just let it stop, I plead silently. Stop coming. I don’t, I shudder more, overload of sensation searing me where he’s touching, whole body jerking in response, contorting in protest. I turn my head sideways to make more room, and my chest shoves against the mirror. Heaving for breath, thrashing, trying to pull my hips free, but I can’t. Please, end. His hand dug into my crotch keeping me from escape, and the whole time he keeps pawing on that spot, beyond pleasure now. Raw, I need it to end. It has to end. Heaving, every muscle contracted and locked, I can’t even throw him off me. He’s got me shaking so hard, so violently, spasms wracking through me, heart ready to explode from the delicious agony of it all. I can’t stop coming, every movement I see reflected is totally wild and involuntary. And still no escape, he keeps riding me and masturbating me and I think I’m going to stroke out, break down or possibly both. It’s like a seizure. “Stop!” I try to gather my breath to scream, but it comes out a weak, ragged, jittery little whimper: “s-s-st-o-o-o-p.”

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And I can’t stop, and he won’t stop. “M-m-m,” I try, then halt to pant to gather my breath and try again, exploding pleasure rapidly hurtling to searing pain as he keeps on hitting those spots, into it, onto it. Each contact bucking me, weakening me, jolting me with exquisite but unbearable fury. “M-m-m-e…Mee…Mig…el!” He comes. Sweet God, finally it takes him and he hangs on tight. He jolts inside me again, but his hand outside finally, mercifully stops. He just clutches hard, squeezing my breast, squeezing between my legs—that pressure reeling me but also a relief from the grinding against it. My spasms subside to deep twitches with his last couple of strokes. He relaxes quickly, flops against my back as he slips out of me and lets go. I slide off the mirror and fall back to all fours, arms shaking too hard and too weak to stay like that, I sink down into the carpet as he climbs off of me. I think I sob. It’s not a teary thing, no sorrow behind it—I just don’t know any other word for it. It’s just one last full body exhalation, the last of my depleted strength whooshing out of me with one final weak little exclamation. Blurred, I lay there and wait to come back to myself. Miguel reaches over to rub my back. From some last hidden reserve, I muster the strength to knock his hand away, croak out, “Don’t touch me.” “Rina,” he says softly, reaching over again. “Don’t touch me,” I repeat. He pulls his hand away. He looks as shocked and hurt as if I’d just shot him, brows worrying together, eyes taking on their puppy look. Worried, too. Madone, I gotta deal with that now, too. I take a few breaths. “I just can’t handle one more touch, not this second,” I say. “Marina?” he says. “Rina, what…?” His voice trails off. He doesn’t know. Crikey, he was so entranced he can’t even tell he nearly killed me. That he pushed me so high and so hard that I have to fall back down now. That any single touch or stimulation could shatter me. How could he not tell? The way I was bucking and freaking out. Did he think I liked that? Did I like that? Well, yeah, but also, no. Apparently, there is such a thing as too much. And that was it. Right? I meet his gaze, try to soften my eyes. Because it’s not his fault. He was trying to be nice, do something nice for me. He was being nice. Shit, killing me with that sort of kindness. I really did think there was a chance he could kill me.

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24/7 “Holy shit, I thought you was gonna kill me for a minute there. I really did. Holy shit.” A-ha. He knows exactly what this is like. Sort of. His was a holding-on thing. This was more of a…a fucking me like a ragdoll kind of thing. Nevertheless. Taking another deep breath, I reach over and wipe some sweat off his forehead with a single finger. How, exactly, is it that nearly a hundred other guys got inside me and couldn’t make me come, but with this one guy I can’t stop coming? “Baby, you all right?” he asks, but doesn’t reach out again. I nod. “Did I hurt you?” I gulp and swallow hard. “No,” I say. “You watched. You see how beautiful you are?” “Miguel, I see how beautiful you think I am. I saw that. That’s all that matters.” “No, it ain’t. I hurt you somehow.” He reaches his hand over then withdraws it. “Miguel…” I start then stop myself. “You can touch me now if you want,” I say instead. Tentatively, he reaches over. Very lightly strokes my back. I nearly purr with it. He’d never hurt me. He’d never hurt me. “You didn’t hurt me,” I tell him and force a weak smile. “It was just too intense, that’s all. Too long. I couldn’t stop coming and you wouldn’t stop…I mean, it just got intense there. I’m fine.” He still looks confused, so I twine my hands in his hair. It’s all wet and warm. I pet him there, reassure him. “Ti amo, baby,” I tell him and inch closer. I kiss his eyes closed so I don’t have to look at the sadness there. I’m supposed to take that away not put it there. “So you ain’t mad? You ain’t hurt?” “I’m fine, all right? I told you, it was just too much. If you’d have touched me right then I’d have probably started coming again.” “And that’d be a bad thing?” he asks. Working it already. Whoa, cowboy. I tell him straight up. “Rodriguez, I don’t wanna fuck you anymore tonight.” “You sure?” “Miguel,” I warn him. “I’m just sayin’. Give it some time, you know? Might change your mind.”

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I shiver as he strokes me. “Miguel, if we keep this up, someday we really are going to hurt each other.” His expression darkening again. “I know.” “Is this how it’s supposed to be?” I ask him. “I don’t know.” “What the fuck, Miguel. I count on you to know this shit. You’ve been through this stuff, I haven’t.” “I’ve never been through this,” he says. “Never anything like this.” “I have rugburn on my knees,” I say. “That’s starting to hurt.” “Me, too.” “I don’t want to hurt you.” “Me neither.” I warn him, “I don’t want to get hurt, either.” “Me neither.” I sigh. “I still don’t know if I want to fuck you anymore.” “Mmmhmmm. We’ll play nice for a few days, K?” “Promise?” “Unless we see an irresistible elevator,” he says. “We’ve already done that,” I say, laughing. “You pick,” he says. “Where you wanna do it?” “I don’t know,” I say coyly, but he knows I’m hiding it, so he starts to poke and tickle me. Too strung out to laugh much, I give in quickly. “All right!” I call him off. “All right. Your balcony.” “Where else?” “Um, your pool.” He smiles big. “Where else?” “Let’s get those two knocked out first, then we’ll see.” He starts poking me again and I yelp for him to stop. “Elevator!” I shout. “Another elevator.” “I fuckin’ knew it,” he says, finally satisfied.

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[ 33 ]

W

E LAY THERE, PROBABLY MAKING A MESS OF HIS CARPET WITH ALL OUR DRIPPING.

After a while, he gets up and grabs a smoke. I still don’t move. He asks again if I’m all right, I just nod, say I’m tired. He comes over, scoops me up and takes me to bed. He makes it seem easy. We lay in bed, not sleeping, just soaking up the warm air of the night as it blows in through the window. Finally, he says, “I’m hungry. Got any more spaghetti left?” I made him my homemade sauce, he seemed to love it. “Yeah, there’s my steak from earlier, too.” He just lays there, so I get up. Pull on my underwear and his T-shirt and go to the kitchen. Don’t even feel exhausted or strung out anymore as I pull out a pan and flick on the heat on the stove. I slice up the steak and arrange it in the pan with melted butter, fry it with lots of salt and pepper, then toss in the spaghetti and dump some extra sauce on it, let that heat quickly, too, making sure to not dry it up. When I’m done, I put it all on a plate, then shout to see if he wants it in the bedroom or out here. He comes out to the kitchen to eat. Sits down at the counter with a fork and a beer that I hand him, digs right in. He nods as he chews, saying, “Fuckin’ good.” So I turn around and clean up the pan and cutting board. Not because I wouldn’t leave dirty dishes till morning, but because I know he wouldn’t. I crack a beer and sit across from him. Him asking, “Don’t you want none? You can have some o’ this.” “Not hungry.” “Then how come you made all this?” “I’m Italian, we show affection by feeding people.” He grins and goes back to eating as I try not to stare at him. It seems to be satisfying him, and it satisfies me. I shouldn’t be happy to cook for a man. But I am. Cooking this for Miguel—I don’t know, it just made me feel like I was taking care of him. In a really small way, yeah, but isn’t it really the details that matter the most in life? The small things can make the difference when

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it comes to the big things. When he’s done, I clean up his plate and crack him another beer. Then we go back to bed and watch SportsCenter together. The next day, Miguel lets me have his car for the day again, so I drop him off at work then buzz over and pick up Bruno at Treasure Island. I gas up his car and get a twelve-pack of beer for her. We’re supposed to be looking at dresses. We hide from Don and lay out at Miguel’s pool instead. She’s set up the wedding for late at night. Booked the pirate ship at Treasure Island. Costs a nice penny more than just getting hitched in a chapel, but she figured it’d be fun. More memorable. I paid for the ceremony as her wedding present. So we have time in the early evening to go shopping. Don’s off doing his own stuff for the day—Bruno convinced him they should be traditional and not see each other until the wedding. So we set up at the pool to waste the afternoon. She says, “I can’t get married tonight.” “Okay,” I say, “then don’t.” “You have to help me,” she says. “I can’t just blow off the wedding— Don would kill me. I don’t want him pissed at me. You have to do something to delay it.” “How the hell am I going to do that?” “When they say, ‘Does anyone here have any objections?’, you object.” “Are you insane? Don will kill me.” “He won’t kill you. He’ll be pissed off.” “Really pissed off.” “So what if he’s pissed off? You have to help me. If you don’t want to do that you could flash your tits.” I sigh and say, “Look, Sherri, you don’t want to get married? Then don’t. But don’t make me do it. This is your thing.” As she sighs, a large figure cuts in front of us, stands looming over me and blocking my sun. Flipping up my shades to get a clear view, I catch his toothy grin. “Hi, Marion,” I say. He shakes his head and whistles. “How long you been out here, darlin’? And why haven’t you called me yet?” “Marion, this is my friend Sherri.” He whistles and nods approvingly at Bruno. Kisses the back of her hand same as he did with me. “Where are you from, foxy doll?” Sherri smiles back. “Jersey.” “Oh, Joisey, huh? Hey, shit, I never been there, but lookin’ at you two

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24/7 makes me want to go. If you’re any indication, they sure do grow ’em lovely on the East Coast. You two ladies watch yourself here, though—you stay in this sun much longer you’ll end up dark as me.” Back on me now, he goes, “So why haven’t you called me yet?” I laugh. “Marion. Please.” I mean. “Oh, hey, shit, come on now. You get that Ricky Ricardo man of yours in gear, we gots to all get together, that’s what I’m talking about. Bring this sweet, charming girl along.” He gives Sherri another wink. “Maybe later tonight?” “I can’t,” Bruno answers him. “I’m getting married tonight.” “Married?” Marion recoils. “Oh, my God, darlin’, why?” Sherri looks as though she’s ready to cry, and Marion stumbles to backpedal. “Oh, my bad, my bad, there, Sherri. No offense, darlin’. None at all. I was just overcome with a feeling of deep personal loss, a gorgeous honey like you being taken off the market. It’ll be great, though, great.” “But I don’t want to get married!” Sherri nearly yells. Marion kneels down next to her, nodding in understanding. “Mm-hm. What’s going on? Pregnant? Are you pregnant? Is that what we’re talking about here?” “No!” “Oh. Is he rich? Is that it? You’re marrying for money?” “No!” “Oh. Well, hey, shit, then. You don’t want to do it, don’t do it. That’s all Marion can tell you.” He rises up to his full height again. “Listen, I’ve got to get in to work, but you, Marina, either you or your man give me a call, he knows my digits, we gots to get together. And you, Miss Sherri Bruno, good luck tonight. Hey, shit, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He winks and walks away. Sherri says, “Let’s go shopping now. We have to get something to wear.” So we go to the mall to shop for dresses. She finds hers quickly, saying, “I’m not actually getting married in this anyhow. Fuck it. It’s good enough. Don’t you think it’s good enough?” “It’s not white,” I say. It’s not. It’s a grey color. “You should at least fake it. Get something white.” “All right!” She bitches and searches around, tries on another one. Comes out looking stunning in it. She’s got dark hair and green eyes and a nice dark tan, so the white looks great on her. “You look pretty,” I tell her. It’s not a traditional wedding dress. It’s

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white with some sparkly beads along it, but it’s a cocktail dress. Short, showing off her legs, skin tight, very low-cut, no back. Extremely slinky. “You can’t let this happen,” she says. “I don’t want to marry him.” “Bruno, you have to tell him that then. Save everyone the trouble of this whole thing. Just tell him, he’ll understand.” “No, he won’t.” She searches in her purse, brings out a smoke, goes to light it up. “Okay, Lucky Strike.” I take it from her. “You can’t smoke in a clothing store.” “This is Vegas,” she says. “Nevertheless.” Huffing off, she goes and picks out a dress for me. It looks great on the hanger, shitty on me. From inside the dressing room, I tell her, “This sucks. It makes my boobs look bad.” “Impossible,” she says. “No, really. It squishes them down.” I step out and show her. “Take that off,” she says. “It’s not good. And it won’t work if you need to flash your tits.” We find one for me finally—it’s the black one that matches hers. We buy them and go to the shoe section. As we’re looking, she pleads again, “Please. I’ll owe you one. You have to do something.” I sigh as I look at a really cool pair of Manolo Blahnik silver mules. “I really like these shoes,” I tell her. “If I buy you those shoes will you promise to wreck my wedding?” “They’re nine hundred dollars,” I tell her. “How about if I buy you a few shots instead?” I ask, “Do you think so many women have a shoe hang-up because of Cinderella?” “Since when do you have a shoe hang-up?” “I don’t think I do. But I like these. I’ve never had a really nice pair of sexy shoes. These are like Cinderella shoes—check it out, these are actual silver, dude! See that, on the heel? It’s not silver-colored, it’s silver. I like silver.” “Martino, forget the shoes for a minute. We have to figure this out. How am I going to get out of this wedding?” “Manolo Blahnik is what those Sex and the City chicks wear. I always wanted a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes, though. It’s fun to say isn’t it? Jimmy Choo shoes. Jimmy Choo shoes. Jimmy Choo shoes.” “Will you please pay attention to me?”

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24/7 “Come on, say it once, Jimmy Choo shoes.” “Jimmy Choo shoes,” she says, exasperated. “There you go. Now use that as your mantra. Concentrate on that, keep saying ‘Jimmy Choo shoes’ and the answer will come to you.” “Are you going to help me or not? Are you really going to let this happen when you know it’s a mistake?” “I don’t know how to walk in heels, but I think I could manage it for a little while. I don’t know, though. It’s a lot of money. Doesn’t it seem sort of, I don’t know, frivolous? Grossly selfish even? To spend that kind of money on a pair of shoes just for me?” A deep sigh. She goes, “If I encourage you to buy the shoes, will you help me get out of this wedding?” “Am I ever going to wear them again? I mean, here’s the thing. If I buy these shoes for your wedding, and then I help you to not get married, weren’t the shoes really not only frivolous but also futile?” “Life is futile and frivolous, Martino. I think you’re allowed to buy yourself a pair of expensive shoes if you want them.” I bend down and set the left shoe next to my foot, lining up to see if it looks like it’ll fit properly. “I don’t know,” I say. “What do you think?” She sighs. I slip it on, saying, “They aren’t Jimmy Choo. It’s not as fun to say Manolo Blahnik shoes. Manolo Blahnik mules have a nice sound. Still…that’s so much money. Manolo mules. Manolo mules.” “Martino. That shoe looks stunning on you. You have to get it. I insist on it. “ “I don’t know. I’m a little short on cash, you know? After spending all that money on a wedding present for you guys. For a wedding you don’t want to have now.” “I’ll buy one of them.” “I mean, geez, this’ll be the what? Fifth wedding present I’ve gotten you now. And the fifth wedding you aren’t having. That’s a lot of presents, isn’t it?” “Martino, piacere,” she begs me. “Autarmi.” I know it’s really serious with Sherri when she starts pleading in Italian. She thinks it emphasizes the bond between us. I think it’s manipulative. “You never returned any of those presents, Bruno. Oh, yeah, and I gave you the cash for renting the boat tonight. You think you’ll be getting that money back? If I had that money back I could afford these shoes. Oh yeah, that’s right—if you would get the money back now I wouldn’t need shoes,

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now, would I?” Quietly, she reaches in her purse and digs out a credit card, passes it over to me. “I’ll buy you the shoes. Are you happy now? I just quit my job and moved away from home and I can’t afford them either, but if it’s the only way you’ll help me, I’ll do it.” I kick it off, pick it up and head to the register to get its mate. “So, do you want to go get dressed in your room for this wedding that I’m going to wreck? Or do you want to come to Miguel’s house with me?” She sighs with relief. I knew all day that I’d help her—I don’t care if Don’s pissed at me or not. I just wanted her to sweat it out and at least consider fixing her own mess. She starts babbling again. “Okay, um, I’ll go to my room, everything is there. But we have to talk about this. You should come with me. What are you going to do, exactly?” “Bruno, relax,” I say. “And put your plastic away. I’ll buy my own shoes. I was just fucking with you.” “No, really,” she says, tucking her card back in her purse and pulling out a cigarette. “We have to figure out how this will go so there’s no mistakes. What if he blows you off? Or what if I panic? What are you going to do as a backup plan?” “Don’t you fucking push me right now, Bruno. You will buy these things if you piss me off.” She runs outside to grab a smoke as I try on and pay for the Cinderella slippers. She tries to get me to come up to her room to stay with her as we get dressed, but I blow her off, tell her all my stuff is at Miguel’s. She tries to get me to come in for drink, but I blow that off, too, explaining, “No, I don’t want to drink when I’m driving his car, that wouldn’t be cool.” “I still don’t know what you’re going to do to stop the wedding,” she says. “Sentami! Just relax, okay? I’m telling you, I’ll take care of it and you will not be married tomorrow. Isn’t that enough?” She nods and goes inside, so I pull out and pick up Miguel from work.

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[ 34 ]

T

HE WEDDING IS SET FOR MIDNIGHT, A LITTLE LESS THAN FOUR HOURS AWAY, BUT

we’re supposed to be there early to go over details or whatever. Even earlier to have drinks. It shouldn’t be too confusing—she got the scaledback package without pirates flying all over and explosions going off. Just her, Don, me, Miguel (Don doesn’t have any other friend to be the best man—shocking, isn’t it?) and the official. “She doesn’t want to get married,” I tell Miguel as he slides in the car on the passenger side. “Cool,” he says, pulling off his shirt. I’ve got the AC jacked all the way up, but it was a sweltering day, still pretty warm even in the dark. “We can just meet there then go somewhere like 54 or somethin’.” “No, she’s going to the ceremony. She refuses to tell Don she doesn’t want to get married. She wants me to do it.” “Yo, more high maintenance bullshit again,” he says. “I don’t know what to do, how to handle this,” I say. “Want me do it? I’ll tell him.” I laugh. “You’d sort of enjoy it, wouldn’t you?” Grinning: “A little.” “You have any assholes at work today?” “Siempre, señorita.” Reaching over, I stroke his hair. “You’re tired, aren’t you?” “Why you askin’ that?” “’Cause you speak more Spanish when you’re tired. When you’re sleepy you mumble it a lot. “ “When else do I speak it more, huh?” “When you’re horny.” “Yeah, well, I ain’t tired, chica. Mi muchacha bonita.” We get frisky for a while before getting ready, but I ask him to take it easy on me, and he does. He jacks the AC up, opens the balcony door and makes love to me on his big soft leather couch. It’s a funny thing, the two

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different languages. I pretty much know what he’s saying when he starts talking to me in Spanish now. And I’m pretty sure he knows exactly what I’m saying in Italian. They’re both Romance languages, based on Latin spoken during the Roman Empire, that is. Not as in romantic, lovey-dovey. Nevertheless. He talks a lot. So I talk for him. We beg each other please—“por favor” and “per favore.” And we tell each other we love the other—“te amo” and “ti amo.” Because, we’re close enough that we always use the familiar tu conjugation of you in our languages. I sometimes wonder if strangers are fucking if they use “usted” and “lei.” Anyhow, we understand each other—English, Spanish, Italian, whatever. Most interesting, I’ve recently noted even the grunts and pants are a little different. He really rolls my name off his tongue when he’s into it. “Mah-rrrreenah.” I like it when he says my name. No one ever calls me by my first name. And the really dirty stuff sounds better in other languages. Feels just as good in any of them. Mostly, it’s just nice to be understood. Once we get that out of the way, we get ready for the night. He nearly knocks me out when I see him all spiffed and shined up. He’s in black, as he almost always is. I’ve seen him in his nice work uniform all the time, and he wears that well. But this is just something else. I tell him how hot he looks, then, still in a towel, I show him my new shoes as I take my first few hesitant steps in them. I’m wobbly. Really wobbly. I get the dress pulled on and take over his bathroom for a few minutes as I put on makeup and pull up my hair. It’s the first I’ve used makeup since my last trip out here, and as I dig through the small leather case my fingers stumble over a few chips thrown in haphazardly with the seldom-used mascara and eyeliner and lipstick. I pick one up—it’s from the Hard Rock, a thousand bucks. I’d nearly forgotten about them, from two trips ago, the extra chips I didn’t want to cash in. It heartens me. Like found money. This non-wedding for Sherri tonight is costing me a pretty penny, and this more than makes up for it. I flip one through my fingers then put it back away, assuming we won’t be going there tonight. It covers the wedding and the shoes, though. If I get my ass in gear and play a little serious blackjack I’ll be able to afford coming back out here again without any problem. He just whistles and stares at me when I come back to the bedroom. I

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24/7 falter as I look up. My heel slides sideways and I stumble. I have a sudden flashback to childhood Dr. Scholl’s—my mom bought me and my sister some to wear one summer. My sister would flip around nonchalantly in hers, but mine were always sliding forward so that I’d catch that hard wood edge of the heel right in my soft instep. Standing back up and adjusting the shoe, I realize that now for some inexplicable reason I’ve just spent nine hundred bucks on a similar, higher, pointy-heeled version of designer hell. “Holy shit, baby,” Miguel says. “I know, I’m a dumbass. I don’t know if I can wear these now and I don’t have anything else.” “Not that, chica. Yo, that ain’t what I mean.” “Huh?” I start grabbing all my stuff—smokes, lighter, ID, money, lip stuff. Shoving it into a little sparkly purse I have. Falter again as I step to the doorway. “Bonita Marina,” he says. “Huh? Miguel, we don’t have time for that again,” I say. “No, not that. It’s just…damn. You look good.” “Yeah? Grazie, baby. So do you.” “No, I mean, really. You look different like that.” “These shoes are making me taller.” I stand next to him. “At least a few inches.” He kisses my forehead and offers me his arm. And as I hang on to him, it really does steady me and make it easier. We meet Bruno at Treasure Island’s Gold bar, mainly because I refused to go back to Swashbuckler’s again. She looks stunning all done up in her dress, and I tell her so. It makes her tan look really dark, her eyes sparkle brightly. But her face is contorted with anxiety. “You need to chill out,” I tell her. “I can’t. I can’t stand this.” “Well, how about this? Once Don gets down here, I’ll just talk to him and tell him it’s not going to happen tonight.” “No! No, you can’t. He’ll kill me! He’ll kill me, Martino. I told you, you have to do something. Flash your tits if you have to.” “All right,” I sigh. “When they ask for objections I’ll throw a hissy fit.” “Over what? What are you going to say?” “I’ll just say that you shouldn’t be getting married without your dad around. And then if Don gets pissed at me I’ll go off on him. It’ll make a big scene and you won’t have any choice but to call it off.” “Are you sure you can handle that?”

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“Not a problem,” I say and wave to the bartender. “I just need a few toddies before I do this.” “Yo,” Miguel butts in. “What if they don’t have that part, asking for objections?” “They have to, they always do.” “Nah, huh-uh, I don’t think so. Specially in these shorter ones.” “Miguel, you’re trippin’. It’s standard. They’ll ask that.” “I’m just sayin’ maybe, you know, you should think of somethin’ else, just in case.” I glance over at Sherri, who’s watching this exchange and getting noticeably more jittery as it goes on. “Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “They’ll ask for objections.” Approximately nine tequila shots and ninety minutes later, Don meets us outside the door to board the boat. He marvels over Sherri for a couple minutes, and I don’t blame him one bit. For his part, he looks crisp and clean, very neatly pressed and dapper in a light-grey suit with monochrome tie. He goes “How often does someone get married? I wanted to look my best.” Well, I don’t know how often some people get married, but I know that Sherri Bruno does not get married pretty often. And as I look at Don and how he’s beaming at her, I can’t help but feel sorry for the guy. Yes, he’s annoying, and I don’t think he treats Sherri very well, but I still don’t like seeing anyone get their heart broken. As we make our way out onto the permanently docked boat where pirates dive off amid explosions, I stumble up the stairs leading onto the deck. Miguel catches me and keeps me from reeling and knocking into Don. It’s a stunning night, still warm, just the slightest breeze blowing. I’m pried away from Miguel and arranged next to Sherri as he stands next to Don on the other side. As the guy comes out to recite the words and take the vows and make this all official, the boat rolls beneath my feet—I catch my footing and get a feel for the slight rock of it on the water as I focus my eyes on Sherri. She’s looking terrified, her thousand-watt fake smile plastered across her face. She had a small bouquet shoved in her hands as we wound our way outside, and her diamond glistens on her finger as she grips the flowers and her back is rigid as she cunningly avoids eye contact with Don. I take a step back and quickly adjust my footing again so I can glance past Don and check out Miguel standing next to him. I get lost. I let the

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24/7 minister’s words drown in the thick air, just feeling my brain buzz as the tequila pumps through me. Just watching Miguel in his dark suit, his dark hair, those liquid, opaque dark eyes blinking slowly and looking back at me. I keep only the smallest part attentive to the proceedings at hand, ears searching for my cue. I never hear them. Instead, within a couple minutes, I hear the man’s voice asking, “Sherri, do you take Don to be your lawfully wedded…” Miguel coughs, not so slyly working my name into the hoarse rasp. “UhMartino-huh.” Panicked, I look at Sherri, whose face is still a mask of petrified phony happiness. Her eyes flit in my direction, but she doesn’t turn her head as the minister finishes his question, “…until death do you part?” Ohdiomioshitwhatdoidonow? Am I seriously going to have flash my tits?? I take a quick step forward to get by her side, neurons firing to search for something to say, lurching with the rock of the boat as I step, one heel sliding sideways and reeling me, struggling for balance, recklessly lunging into her as I topple. She steadies me, drops her flowers in the process. Glancing over at the men, I see that Don looks mortified, makes a move to pick up her flowers while Miguel stands by biting his cheek with one raised brow. Handing Sherri’s bouquet back to her, Don shoots me a look, says, “Get ahold of yourself,” and shakes my shoulder as he gives me a nudge back to my spot. Taking a brief glance behind me, I see my opening and go for it. I purposefully stumble back again, reaching and pulling on his necktie for support. As I fake the stagger, the boat rocks again, my left tiny pointy heel slips from beneath me and I lurch for real, completely lose balance and lurch back, hanging on Don for support. Getting none. Instead of steadying me, he stumbles forward into me. I fall back, he falls forward. Flying back. Not hitting the deck. Falling… Falling over… Me shouting, “Shiiiit!” Him shouting, “Shiiiiiiiiii…”

Splash! Off the boat, into the drink, both of us all the way down into the pirate waters, him landing on me, water breaking the fall so I don’t get crushed. Struggling up, him still above me, I push him aside and kick for the surface. Gulp for air, see him do the same. Hear him shouting, “Goddamnit!” And all I can think is, My shoes! I feel one on my foot, reach down and pull it off as he keeps cursing

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and flapping in the water. I toss it up onto the deck above, see the minister, Miguel and Sherri all looking down at us splashing around. The minister looks concerned, Miguel’s cracking up and Sherri’s beaming a real smile, saying, “Martino, you’re an asshole!” “My shoe!” I shout up to her. “My Manolo mule!” I dive back under but can’t see a thing; the water’s warm but unlit. Feeling my way down—it must go at least ten feet deep so I can’t cruise along the bottom too long. I search with my hands but don’t come across anything so I shoot back up to the surface to catch my breath. Don’s no longer flapping around; he’s trying to climb back onto the boat, but the only access he finds is a thick rope net and when he attempts the climb he falls back down, swearing again. “Did you find it?” Bruno shouts to me. “No! Is it up there?” “I got the one you threw up here, I don’t see another.” In the water again, Don screams, “Fuck your shoe!” “I don’t think that’s proper grammar, Don.” “You wrecked my wedding!” “You pushed me!” I shout back. For perhaps the first time, he’s nonplussed. He just shouts and splashes me. From above, Miguel’s voice: “Hey! Don’t you fuckin’ splash her!” Then Sherri: “Yeah, Don, don’t be an asshole, you threw her in the water!” Don screams and kicks toward the boardwalk, finds the pirates’ exit and crawls out. There’s already two hotel guys waiting there for him. The one comes down the ramp toward the water, shouting to me, “Come on, this way, get out of there.” “My shoe! It’s a Manolo mule!” I shout, as if that explains it all. “You can’t be in there,” he shouts back. From above, Miguel again: “Martino, forget the shoe, just get outta there.” “Rodriguez! It’s silver,” I say and dive under again, searching the bottom frantically. I come up empty. “Dammit!” “C’mon, baby, get outta there, you’re gonna get in trouble soon. It’s just a shoe.” I blow him off and dive under the water, holding my breath as long as I can before surfacing empty-handed. Hear him shout my name again. “Martino!”

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24/7 “What?” “Forget the shoe!” he yells. “Rodriguez!” “What?” “That shoe cost nine hundred dollars!” I yell up to him. “Martino!” “What?” “Find that fuckin’ shoe!” So I dive under again—nothing. Pant to catch my breath, go again. Nothing. I hear him shout my name, look up to see him with his jacket and shoes off, standing on the ledge of the boat. There’s other hotel people up there now, ordering him to get down. Sherri takes his tie from him and waves down at me, mouths, “Thank you.” “Rodriguez, what are you doing?” I shout to him. “I’m gonna rescue your shoe,” he yells, and steps onto the railing, looking ready to dive in as the hotel guys start going bananas and shouting at him. “Rodriguez, wait! Don’t!” I shout and see him hesitate. “Don’t jump in here.” “Is it cold?” “No, it’s nice. I mean, don’t just jump in here. Use that rope,” I point to it tied up next to his head. “Swing into the water.” And, well, he does. More than anything it cracks me up. He doesn’t do a one-handed glide as he confidently winks at the crowd as he swings in. He more or less just grabs on, shoves off then lets go with an unceremonious plunk down into the water. That really brings the house down up on deck—they’re gonzo, yelling at us to get out. “That shoe costs nine hundred dollars!” I scream up to them, and they back off with that. I can already tell this will be the story of how I got kicked out of Treasure Island, but I can also tell that none of them want to be responsible or liable for paying for my shoe, and since they don’t actually know at this point what happened to get me in the water, they aren’t going to fuck with me too much. Me and Miguel take turns diving under the water to search. While he’s underwater one time, I can hear Bruno on the deck talking to a guy in a suit. “I was getting married and my fiancé and the minister accidentally pushed her in the water and she lost her shoe. It cost nine hundred dollars,

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and if she doesn’t find it she’s going to make me pay for it. I know she will.” “Well, miss, I’m sorry about your wedding…” “Oh, that’s okay. Noooo problem.” “Can we reschedule it for you?” “No, not right now. Thank you.” “What sort of shoe costs nine hundred dollars?” I shout up to him, “It’s a Manolo Blahnik!” “Oh, well, then,” he says. “Have you retrieved it yet?” “No.” “Shall I send in some divers?”

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O, IT’S: TWENTY-FOUR EXHAUSTING DIVES UNDER (MIGUEL FINALLY COMES UP WITH

the shoe), two very drippy walks up the plank to get out of the water, one very stern lecture from a man in a suit, two apologies from other guys in suits, two big hugs from Sherri (one for me and one for Miguel), countless promises of drinks forever on her and several very soggy blocks in a taxi later. I kick off my shoes and can tell Miguel’s in a pretty merry mood as he slings his arm around my shoulders and taps his fingers in time to the music against my arm. In Spanish: “You were so pretty tonight, chica,” he tells me, nodding appreciatively. I admit it, I like hearing it. Back at his place, he takes care of the cab fare, but instead of going upstairs he takes my hand and starts leading me around outside. I clutch my shoes as he swings my other arm as I let him lead us out by the pool. “Your feet hurt from them shoes? Wanna dunk ’em?” I nod, gazing at his face in the moonlight, cheer seemingly drained from it. He squints at me. Finally: “Baby, can I tell you something’? Like, really talk to you?” Oh. I see. I nod again and keep quiet. He pulls me close, gives me a warm hug. Suddenly, he stiffens. I wonder what I did wrong. Then I glance at his face as his arm falls off me. I follow his gaze behind me and see them coming toward us. “Shit,” I say. Two pretty big guys, one bald and the other one who licked my face. Miguel lets go of me, says, “Rina, get outta here. Go ’round back, get upstairs, lock the door.” “Fuck that,” I say. It’d be a bad idea—they’re almost on us and they’d probably catch me if they wanted to. But I’m not leaving him alone with them anyhow. They saunter once they’re close to us. Miguel grips me tight as he

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crackles inside. It’s different from the sexual tension I usually detect from him but just as powerful and palpable. I stand pressed close against him, rigid and waiting, my fingers clutching his shirt and squeezing tight around my shoes in the other hand. The tongue-wagger speaks first. Eyefucks Miguel and flatly says his name. “Rodriguez.” “Castillo.” Tongue’s eyes flit to me, and he steps closer. Reaches up and holds my chin between two fingers. “Crica,” he says. “Asshole,” I say and knock his hand down. He laughs sardonically. “What’s this, Rodriguez? It’s called manners. Teach your bitch about them.” “Yeah, manners.” The bald one nods but looks placid. “I told you never to touch her,” Miguel growls. “Yeah? And I’m telling you that you owe, Rodriguez.” “You owe, Rodriguez,” Baldy repeats. “You’re late, and I’m collecting now. Plus enough to cover that blow you ripped from me, ese.” “Yeah? Why don’t you slither on back an’ check this out—I took care o’ shit with Blue Lou.” “You took care of shit between you and him. For then. Now you’re due again. Plus you owe me. Unless you wanna make a swap, that is. I’ll call you even up if you give me her for the rest of the night.” “Sfacime,” I hiss at him as my skin crawls with the thought. “The fuck she say to me?” He looks at Miguel, who just shrugs. Looking back at me, saying, “I do like you, sweetheart.” He reaches for me again, barely gets his hand on my shoulder before Miguel knocks it down. “Easy brother,” Castilo warns him with a glare then turns his eyes back to me again. “I think she likes me, Rodriguez.” He looks to his pal for support. He nods once. “She likes you.” “Wouldn’t be the first time a bitch of yours turned that way. And I do like her.” “Stronzo di merda,” I spit. “She just call me a shit?” he asks the bald one then looks at Miguel. “I think she called you a shit,” the bald one says. “I don’t understand her half the time,” Miguel says. “Yeah? Maybe that’s the problem, eh? You don’t understand what they want. What this one wants is my cock in her mouth, isn’t it, crica?” “Pendejo,” I say. I’ve picked up more than just sex talk from Miguel.

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24/7 “Now that I understood,” he says. “That I understood,” Tongue says. “Even better, Rodriguez. I like a little rough stuff. Make you a bet. You let me take her tonight and I won’t hurt her too much. I’ll let her come back to you in the morning…if she wants.” Miguel’s more blunt than I am, simply saying, “Fuck you.” “All right then.” The guy shrugs. “Enough screwing around. Time to pay up, Rodriguez.” As he says that, the bald one pulls out a blade. It glints as he points it in Miguel’s direction. He moves quickly and sets the point at the base of Miguel’s neck. “All right, just chill there, Brent,” Miguel says, rolling his eyes, seeming more tired than concerned. He reaches for his wallet, opens it, fingers through and passes a handful of bills over to Castillo as Brent holds the blade steady. Castillo rifles through the bills. Saying, “They’re wet.” “They’ll dry,” Miguel says. “Why the fuck is your money all wet, goddamnit?” “Either take it or don’t, that’s what I got,” Miguel says as Brent relaxes his arm. “Why the fuck are you all wet?” “Just take the money and get the fuck outtta here,” Miguel says, exasperated. “More,” Castillo says as he counts it. “Qué?” “More,” he repeats. “You fucking owe more. For that blow. Pay it.” Miguel pulls out another bill, hands it to him. Then another, saying, “Here, asshole, I’ll even pay for the cab ride you prob’ly had to catch.” Castillo punches him in the face—hard. Miguel reels, falls back into me but straightens up quickly. “I owed you that,” Castillo says. “Fine, now get the fuck outta here,” Miguel says. “Oh, I think we owe you some more,” he says, looking over at Brent. He clocks Miguel in the stomach and pounces on him as he’s doubled over, pushing him back. Brent moves on me, grabs my arm and points the knife in my face. He gets behind me, holding me captive around the waist and setting the blade across my throat. Glancing over, I see Miguel taking another knock from Castillo as he shouts, “It’s called payback, Rodriguez. This is yours.” I lurch, but Brent holds tight from behind—doesn’t press the knife into

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me any harder, though. He speaks in my ear. “Don’t move. Just don’t move, and I won’t cut you. You shouldn’t have bit me, though.” “Miguel!” I yell. Brent shakes me. “He’ll be fine. Well, sort of fine. He’ll live. You’ll be fine, just be quiet. I don’t want to hurt you.” I watch Miguel start to overpower the other guy. He gets in a couple hard shots, Castillo drops to one knee. “You do realize,” I say, “that Miguel’s going to kick your ass if you hurt me, right? He’ll throttle you bad.” I look down and see his fingers fidget around the blade. “I’m not going to hurt you unless you make me,” he says as his hand twitches. “Yeah, well, Miguel even sees you like this and he’s going to be jacked,” I say, just as Miguel gets Castillo rolled to the ground and gets on top of him. “Brent!” Castillo shouts, and Miguel glances over to check on me. “Now you’re gonna be in trouble,” I say. “Brent!” Castillo shouts again. “Better help him,” I say as Miguel punches him in the jaw. Brent releases me, and I scream Miguel’s name as he rushes over to him with blade in hand. Miguel sees him, blocks his wrist in mid-air with one hand and cracks his fist into his stomach. The knife clanks to the ground as they tussle and roll over. I make a dive for it. Castillo wiggles himself free of the other two and lunges at it, too. On all fours, I scramble to reach for the weapon. Too late. Castillo snatches it before I can. A thin line of blood seeps from his nose as he laughs and claws at me. Slaps his hand on the top of my skull and knots his fingers in my hair, grabs a fistful and yanks me toward him. He staggers to his feet and drags me to my knees as he curses. I can’t see Miguel and Brent, can’t turn my head to look around. I do see the knife wave in front of my face, and then he jerks my head way back so that I’m looking up at him, nearly choking me, making me gurgle for breath. Frantically, I reach for the ground, hands roving along the pavement, feeling blindly as he forces me to look up. He’s really fuming, and as non-threatened as I felt with Brent holding me, I feel the opposite now. Not only do I get the distinct impression that this guy would hurt me, but that he’d take satisfaction in doing it. Almost to

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24/7 prove my thoughts right, he places the knife between his teeth, reaches back and slaps me hard across the face with the back of his hand. Hot stinging pressure cracks across my cheek, and I can barely recoil as his other fist digs into my hair to keep me still. Heart leaping to my throat, I reach to the ground again as I gurgle for air, the warm coppery-iron taste of blood seeping across my tongue. Panicked, my heart beats wildly as I struggle to breathe, thinking only one thing: Miguel. I can’t see him, I can’t hear him, I don’t know what’s happening to him. As Castillo takes the knife from his mouth a visual of Miguel’s pink scar stretched across his ribcage flickers in my mind. Castillo yanks again and gives my head another jerk. As he pulls me along my knees scrape on the blacktop, one of them clunking against something else. He’s still holding my head back so I can’t see anything but him, can barely suck in tiny breaths. Blindly, I fumble desperately as he sticks his face only inches from mine, I pass a hand over one of his shoes, keep searching. Above me, he drawls, “Call me an asshole, huh? I like you, crica, but you deserve this shit.” Finally, my left hand bangs against another object as my head clouds. He passes the knife in front of my eyes, slides the flat metallic side down my nose. I get a hold on what I want as he goes lower with the blade. He points the tip into my lower lip and presses until it pinches into my skin. Hands jittery, I lose my grip, start grasping frantically again as my vision gets fuzzy. “Rodriguez!” He shouts as I tighten my fist around the middle arch of the shoe. He slides the knife down in front of my throat and I don’t dare move. Miguel’s okay, I know now. At least for the moment, he’s fine because this fucking stugatz is calling out to him. Mercifully, he loosens his grip and pulls my head forward. I suck in a lungful of air and blink to focus. “Rodriguez!” Castillo shouts again and digs the knife into my neck. Blinking water from my eyes, I focus and see Miguel standing. He’s stonestill, halted, Brent is on his knees just behind him, staring at me, too. Castillo slides and presses the knife only an inch and the sharp edge of the blade pierces my skin with a hot shallow slice. Then he stops. Miguel screaming, “No!” Behind him, Brent shouting, “Castillo! No!” Castillo laughing; I paw at his leg with my free hand. He relaxes his hand and the knife moves off my skin. Inhaling a deep breath, I squeeze the shoe tightly. Feel at his upper thigh with my free hand, making sure I’m

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targeted right. I strike. Hard as I can, I drive the shoe into his crotch. Pointy heel up, it’s a direct hit. Time seems to freeze for a few long moments. Then, Castillo falls like a bag of wet shit. The knife clanks to the ground. He doubles over, makes no sound and hits the pavement in front of me. Eyes bugged out, both hands go to his balls. He’s not breathing, so I wait. His mouth works, trying to get his lungs to inhale. Finally, he pulls it together and wheezes in a breath, curls up tighter. I presume the breath only made the pain more intense. He gasps, face getting red as he clutches and rolls onto his back like an upended turtle. I lean close to his face. “It’s called a Manolo mule, stugatz!” I struggle to my feet, stand over him and wave the shoe. Start shouting down at him. “Manolo Blahnik, moron! Manolo mule. How you like me now? Huh?” Looking down at him, a bolt of fury hits me. I wedge the shoe under my armpit in case it’s needed for a second shot and grab hold of his ankles to start dragging him, but he’s heavy as a sack of wet shit would be. I struggle a few steps with him in tow. “Rodriguez!” I shout. “Come here, help me.” “Martino.” Miguel says my name as he gets to my side. “Help me,” I say again. “Help you what?” “Help me get him to the pool,” I say. “What?” I puff and keep pulling by myself. “To the pool.” “Why?” “I’m gonna drown the sonofabitch.” I tell him calmly. Look down at Castillo to see if there’s any sign of fight left in him. “Martino!” Miguel says gruffly. I keep dragging Castillo, his eyes fixed on mine. “You hear me? I’m gonna plunk and dunk you till you’re fucking dead.” “Martino! You can’t!” I answer but keep my eyes locked on the tongue-wagger, momentarily incapacitated and under my control. “Oh, yes, I can. How you like that? You like that, crica? Come on, Miguel, gimme a hand here, just get him close, I’ll roll him in and do the dunking. If he starts fighting I’ll just give him another whack with this. Manolo mule, fucker, Manolo mule. I’ll brain him with it if I have to. Won’t

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24/7 matter, the blood’ll all be in the water.” “Marina!” “What?” Looking up, I see another brand new look on Miguel’s face. Fear. I halt and drop Castillo’s legs. I step out of his reach and look over at Miguel, who comes to my side, picks the knife up off the ground and holds my elbow. “You can’t drown him,” he says quietly, searches my eyes. I soften them and blink at him. “I was just fuckin’ with him.” We both look over to Brent, who’s still on his knees, but his hands are up in the air. I don’t know how Miguel looks at him, but I wag the shoe at him once and his hands go up higher. “Don’t you fuck with me anymore!” I shout. “Manolo mule!” he answers and flinches, raises his hands even higher. I stagger and pick up my other shoe, search around for Miguel’s jacket and wallet. He starts talking in a controlled tone. Quiet, but pissed. Threatening. “Listen to me, Brent,” he says. “I’m keepin’ this. It’s got his fingerprints and her blood all over it, you understand what I’m sayin’ here? I’m tellin’ you, I’m fuckin’ tellin’ you, I talked to Blue Lou and this shit ain’t s’posed to be goin’ down. You know that. You fuckin’ know it.” I find his wallet and pick it up, glance up to see how Brent’s reacting. He’s still on his knees just listening and nodding. Miguel waves the knife over Castillo, who’s still red-faced, curled up and clutching himself. “Yo, he’s fuckin’ whacked out these days, fuckin’ loco. You was there the first night, you saw what he did. I’m paid now. I don’t wanna see your fuckin’ face till I’m due again, you listenin’ to me? There’s no revenge for this shit—he started this. You know it. I know it. Now get the fuck up. Get up!” I grab Miguel’s jacket and wait behind him. Brent rises off his knees, looking disheveled but overall mostly unscathed, saying quietly, “I didn’t hurt her.” “Yeah? You didn’t fuckin’ help her, neither. You didn’t fuckin’ help us at all. You get over here and pick him up, get him the fuck outta here. Then you keep him away.” “How—” he starts. “I don’t fuckin’ care how!” Miguel shouts. “Yeah!” I shout at him and wave the shoe again. “I told you Miguel was gonna be jacked!”

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“Will you guys help me drag him to the car?” Brent asks. Miguel cuts his eyes at him, asking, “You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” “It’s a long way, it’s on the other side of the building.” “Brent, please stop bein’ a moron, all right?” Miguel sounds more exasperated than pissed. “It’s a long way,” he protests again. “Drive the car over here,” Miguel says. Brent nods once—I can see it registering on his face—and he snaps his fingers and scampers away. Gets about twenty feet then jogs back, leans over his friend and reaches in his jacket pocket for the keys. Castillo’s still laying there panting, tears glistening and falling from the corners of his eyes, streaming down over his ears. Brent gets the keys and jogs off again. “Rodriguez,” I say when he’s a ways off. “Yeah?” “You sure he’s not retarded or something?”

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[ 36 ]

S

MIGUEL AND BRENT GET THE DUMB FUCKER LOADED INTO HIS CAR, MIGUEL telling Brent to take him to the hospital immediately, and it seems like Brent understands as he nods and pulls away. On the way upstairs, Miguel holds on to my elbow as I clutch his jacket and my shoes. He’s quiet, but his tension is still tangible. Once inside, I drop the things onto the sofa and go directly to the bar. Pour myself a large vodka straight up and light a cigarette, ask him what he wants after I take a few large gulps and hits. “Nothin’,” he says, and I notice how intently he’s watching me. “You sure?” “Yeah, I’m good. Um…” “Whatever. Suit yourself,” I say as I pour more into my glass and drink it all down, barely even wincing with it. “M’rina, stop suckin’ that shit down. You’re gonna get sick.” “Whatever” is all I say as I pour another one. “You sure you don’t want one?” “Yeah.” “Yeah you want one or yeah you don’t want one?” “Yeah, I want one,” he says and steps over as I pour it out for him. Him asking, “Are…are you okay?” “Drink that,” I tell him as I slide the glass into his hand. “It’ll calm you down.” “I’m calm already. Are you all right?” I drain my glass and pour another one for myself, but he takes it from my hand before I can drink it. I glare at him. Curtly: “What?” “You’re gonna get sick you keep that up.” “Uh-huh.” I nod. I stand and wait, taking a few heavy drags off my cigarette and trying to feel the heat and numbing of the vodka go to work. It’s not happening yet. I can feel Miguel looking at me, and I’m thinking his nervousness is contagious and it’s what’s keeping me so jittery. He sips O

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lightly at his drink, and he’s not shaking or bouncing or shifting his weight, but I can just feel his anxiety. I inhale the final hit from my cigarette and hold it in as I crush out the butt. Still no soothing from the alcohol, so I reach across in front of him, picking up the glass he took away from me. He places his hand on my wrist, gently urging me not to do it. I drink it down anyhow, finally feeling the sear as it travels to my stomach. I glance up and check his reaction. His brows furrow slightly, he takes a half-step back from me and drops his eyes, shifts his weight. Fear. I’m scaring him. He wasn’t afraid of them, but he seems pretty damn nervous now. Not quite as intense as the look I saw on him when I was dragging old Silver Balls toward the pool but in the same genre. Jesus. Just…just fucking marvelous. I’m supposed to calm him down now? Is that what this is? My stomach starts churning and the back of my neck prickles. Reedy-voiced, him asking me again, “You okay?” Belly sick, throat thick, I struggle to find an answer to that. I feel faint. I think I could pass out, throw up or just cave in. He steps closer as a wave of dizziness washes over me. I blink heavily and swallow. I have to pull it together and tell him I’m all right. I can do this. I am fine, after all. I know I’m fine. He’s going to get really freaked out soon if I don’t tell him I’m fine. “Marina?” He reaches up and touches my neck. I flinch, and his eyes get dark and he pulls his hand back. “You all right?” My stomach tightens and my hands are clammy. “Uh…” Miguel reaches out for me again, but it hits really hard and I have to shove him away as my stomach lurches. “I’m gonna be sick,” I say, rushing to the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet. All the alcohol comes stampeding back up, burning hard as I gag on it. I sputter a couple times, take a drink of water and wait for that to come back up. Miguel stands in the doorway the whole time. When I finish spitting I glance over and hiss at him. “Don’t you fuckin’ say it,” I warn. “What?” “Not a single fuckin’ word of I-told-you-so,” I say as I grab my toothbrush and start scrubbing. I gargle and spit, look up in the mirror. I start to shake when I see the dark smudge of blood already drying. I touch it, but it’s still too fresh, not crusted over enough yet, and more of the viscous liquid seeps out, a thin trail of red leaking out of my neck. The cut stings. Another wave of dizziness

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24/7 hits as I inspect it. I can see the actual slice now that it’s re-opened. Only a few inches long, but a little flap of skin on top wiggles, almost like a miniature gill, only instead of sucking in water it’s oozing blood. My blood. Oooh, Madoo… Next thing I know I’m sitting on the toilet and Miguel’s crouched down in front of me, hands on my sides. “What?” I ask him. “You got woozy,” he says. “I passed out?” “Nah, I don’t think so. You just got woozy so I grabbed you and sat you down, it was only a few seconds. Tops.” “I shouldn’t‘ve chugged all that vodka,” I admit. “Just sit here a minute. You still feel dizzy?” “I could use another drink, actually.” “Marina.” “Miguel.” A sigh. “You promise not to chug it?” I nod, so he gets up, tells me not to move and comes back with the tumbler half filled. I take a sip and it burns instantly. I pass it back to him, feeling suddenly foolish. He kneels down in front of me, puts his hands on my knees, really worried now. I blink and fight back the pressure in my eyes, willing the tears not to fall. That’d only freak him out even more, and I don’t even know why the fuck all of a sudden I’m on the verge of crying. “Jesus,” I say. “Why am I such a fucking baby? I’m sorry, I’m fine.” “You ain’t fine.” “I’m fine. I’m just hyper or something. I’m fine,” I repeat and rub my nose, successful at keeping the tears at bay. “I’m an asshole. I’m such a baby. But I’m fine. I’m sorry.” Looking down, I twist my ring around a couple times. He hands me the glass of vodka, and I sip at it as he gets up and leaves the room. I try follow him, but when I stand I get weak and my knees quake so I sit down on the floor. Miguel comes back and squats in front of me, holding out his hand. In his palm there’s a neatly rolled joint. “It’ll calm you down,” he says. “Where’d you get this?” I ask as I pick it up. Handing me a lighter, saying, “I had it.” I spark it and take a long drag. Hold it in. It’s pretty mellow, heavier

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than cigarette smoke but nothing pungent like skunkweed or anything. Exhaling, I offer it to him, but he shakes his head so I hit it again. Hold it in until a wracking cough overtakes me and it billows out. “Cough to get off,” he says. I smile—he’s right, it worked. My head’s humming peacefully as everything gets thick and hazy. I take another hit, and before I exhale he places his mouth over mine, gently pulls my lips apart with his tongue and waits. So I breathe out into his mouth, letting him suck up the smoke. I giggle as he takes the spliff from me and hits it once himself. His little bathroom is all cloudy. Cloudy and checkered. Cloudy and checkered and cool. Shit, I feel better. My stomach’s calmed, my veins aren’t itchy anymore. I’m pretty high. I wait for him to inhale again and I say, “I can’t believe you were holding out on me.” He chokes and sputters, raising a brow as he keeps one eye on me and puffs out a big plume. He holds it out for me but I shake him off. Him saying, “I’m pretty buzzed, don’t want no more.” “Snuff it,” I say. “Put it back in your secret reserve that you hoard from me.” With a coy grin he butts it out, doesn’t answer the playful accusation, instead asking, “Feelin’ better?” Cotton mouth creeping in, I search for the glass of vodka. It’s right next to me, but it takes me a while to find it. The glass is heavy and wants to slip out of my fingers as I lift it up. Still tastes like vodka, but it’s muted now, doesn’t burn on the way down. “Easy,” he warns and takes it away from me before I can drain the glass. “I’m fine,” I repeat. Miguel keeps grinning at me, heavy-lidded. “You’re high,” he says. I grin. “I was just thinking that about you.” Tilting his head: “So how you doin’?” “Are you flirting with me? Are or, orare…” My tongue starts tripping on itself so I go slow, start over. “Or are you serious?” “Little o’ both.” I blink slowly. “I’m good, Rodriguez. I was just being an asshole. I’m sorry I got sick like that.” He grins up at me. “Yo, you know, you nearly got skinned ’cause o’ me and you’re apologizin’ for feelin’ woozy? You are an asshole.” “Stop.”

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24/7 “You want another sip?” “No. Yeah.” He hands me the glass, and I take another drink, bigger than a sip. “Don’t call me an asshole.” “K,” he says and takes the glass from me. “I mean it.” “K. Sorry.” He smirks. “You…you have to be nice to me right now. Okay?” Cocky: “Want me to hold you?” “Oh, you’re such an asshole.” I laugh and shove his face away. “What? I was bein’ nice.” Mock innocent, still smirking. He tilts his head, working the puppy look. Even going so far as to exaggeratedly sweep his lashes up and down with a coy blink. “You tell me be nice, I’m gonna be nice. Don’t wanna end up with a shoe buried in my balls.” I snort and rub my nose. “I wouldn’t do that to you.” “No?” “I like your balls just as they are.” “Yeah, well, me, too. I ain’t so much worried ’bout them, though. I mean, shit, I’m just fuckin’ appalled for that poor shoe.” I smile at that, and it encourages him. “Really now. Fuckin’ nine hundred dollars an’ us spendin’ half the night divin’ after it an’ the shoe ends up in his crotch like that? Shit, ain’t right, man. Shoe deserved better.” “See, aren’t you glad we found it?” “Yeah, man, came in useful, huh?” I watch him. I get overwhelmed as I look at his face, the way he’s pulled it together to calm me down. I know he’s freaked out—he wouldn’t be hovering like this if he wasn’t. I run a hand through his hair as he stares at me. Everything else seems faded and receded except for him. The spikey strands of hair tickle my fingers as they slide through it. I don’t understand what just happened. Outside. I don’t understand completely why I sit here when there’s the potential it could happen again. Smile fading, Miguel gazes at me, no cockiness in his tone when he speaks. “Want me hold you now?” Sheepish: “Yeah.” He wraps around me tightly. Really strong, really warm. Squeezing me. Making me feel safe. Hugging his neck and shoulders, I tremble with it, suddenly letting all the lingering tension and fear and adrenaline rush out of my body. The weed masked it, but this is expelling it. Knowing, trusting, absolutely feeling that as long as he’s this close to me, as long as I can feel

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his reassuring presence this close and this strong, everything will be okay. I get calmed to the point of realizing how uncomfortable he must be, kneeling on the floor like this. So I break away, feeling a little silly. We get undressed, get ready for bed. He cleans up my neck, saying it has to be done. I hiss with the sting of peroxide falling on it but hold still. As I watch him do it, I notice his one eye is swelling up, probably going to be bruised by tomorrow. I also notice that he’s working really hard at keeping it together for me. I catch flashes of anger, plenty of guilt as he inspects my little nicks, but he works at keeping those locked down, instead staying calm, staying strong. For me. I consider asking him if we can stay somewhere else in case they come back, but I figure they’ll be tied up at the hospital for a long time. And I’m too exhausted and too high to seriously consider leaving here. I think things just got out of hand anyhow. I didn’t help matters with my goading. Miguel was trying to be calm, seemed to know the drill, but I really irritated Silver Balls, that’s why things went as far as they did. He probably won’t be back. And even if he does come back, fuck him. I just want to collapse in Miguel’s bed. When I get crawled in there I pull the blankets and comforter way up and snuggle in, feeling small and vulnerable. Right away he nuzzles up and spoons me tight, putting a protective arm around my waist, warm, comforting and secure. I have questions, but they’ll wait. I was scared, but it’s fading. I’m exhausted, and this is rest. I listen to Miguel’s breathing fall into the deep metronome of sleep before I allow it to claim me, too. For the first time since we’ve been spending the nights together, we don’t have sex before going to sleep.

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[ 37 ]

M

ARINA. MAH-REE-NAAH.” I wake up with Miguel still pressed close against me, groggily open my eyes, but the room’s dark so I close them and drift back off, thinking it was part of a dream. Then I feel him nudge behind me, into me, quietly call my name again. His breath whispers near my ear. I lay there, unsure if it’s a dream or real, everything blurred. Hazed and dazed, serene now. “You awake?” So quiet, a barely audible murmur. He tightens his arm around me so I stroke his forearm. A little louder, raspy: “Baby, you awake?” “Mm.” I sigh. “Think so.” “I wake you up?” “Maybe. Weird dreams.” “Me, too.” He grips even harder, so I keep stroking his arm. Placing my hand on top of his, I twine my fingers through his. Asking, “You okay?” He grunts. I can’t feel his erection poking me, and he’s wrapped so close around me that I assume I would. In fact, I can feel his penis against my upper thigh and it’s not hard. Nevertheless. Sometimes he gets the notion before he gets ready. “You ready for some love?” I ask him. “Always.” I knew it. I shrug and press back into him, wiggle my shoulders against his chest. He doesn’t respond much so I struggle to flip around in his firm grasp and face him. I kiss his throat, lower, down along his chest. Reach down and take hold of him, follow that path with kisses. Going under the covers, I kiss along his hipbone, get ready to take him in my mouth to get him started. “Mm, hold up. Hold up,” he says, reaching down for me. Gently pulls me back up to face him. “I wanna…that’s not why I woke you up. Can I tell you somethin’?”

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Oh. I see. “Sure,” I say. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry, you know. Like, about tonight, earlier. I’m really sorry.” “I know you are. It’s okay. Not your fault.” “Yeah, it is.” He kisses me softly, dips lower, kisses my jaw as he presses me onto my back. Kisses my neck, lingering there. Dropping soft kisses on the area—tender, light touches. It takes me a few seconds to realize what he’s doing, where exactly he’s kissing. The pain stopped. His lips on it don’t sting or anything. It’s really hardly more than a scratch. As he works his way back up to my mouth, he climbs on top of me, then over me. On the other side of me, he scootches behind me, so I turn onto my side for him so that he’s spooning me again. He brushes the hair off my face, smoothes it down then wraps around me again. He really wants to talk. It’s his standard MO. Other than tonight, we don’t spoon much as we sleep, but in between sex he likes to curl against me like this if he has anything to say. He does it a lot. I never knew a guy who liked to talk like he does. I guess he does it mostly to stay awake so we can fuck again. I assume it’s easier for him to talk like this if he’s got something to say that upsets him, or that he thinks will upset me. When he’s joking around he’ll look me in the face. When he told me his dad left him when he was a little kid he was behind me. I let him snuggle in and get comfortable. Then I make a conscious effort to just shut up and listen. “Sorry,” he says again. “It’s all right,” I reassure him. “Nah, it’s fucked up, man. But I’ll handle it, you know? I’ll handle it.” “Okay.” “Well, I guess, like, I shoulda…I mean, I know I shoulda told you all this before. I tried, I just couldn’t. Couldn’t bring myself to do it. But now I gotta tell you.” He squeezes me strongly, sighing again. “This is my fault, Marina. Don’t tell me it’s not, and don’t tell me it’s okay. Just listen, all right? “You remember I told you all that stuff before? About Brent an’ Castillo, how I used to deal with ’em. I told you what happened with Marion that day, after I found Mindy at Castillo’s place, how I freaked out and dumped all that blow?” “I remember.” “Yeah, well, I told you that’s the day I quit dealin’, the day I got out.

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24/7 That’s true, that’s how it played. It’s just not the whole story. See, I dumped that blow, and I knew I wanted out then, but it wasn’t that simple.” “Because you had to pay for that kilo of coke.” “Yeah,” he says and gets quiet again. Lets me rub his arm a minute. Clears his throat and says. “I owed a kilo o’ coke. And we’re not talkin’ what I paid for it, huh-uh. Not to Blue Lou. In his eyes, I owed street value, you know? What he’d o’ made from the rest o’ that brick. After my cut, that woulda been, like, sixty grand. Understand? Sixty grand. Woulda been all right, though. “See, like, I went right to Blue Lou and told him straight up what happened. It’d take everything I had and then some—we’re talking’ sixty fuckin’ grand here, Marina. But I told him I’d pay him off somehow. Just gimme time to get my shit together, he’d have his money. “But instead, he told me how I’d pay him back. I had a fight comin’ up in a couple months, WBC an’ everything. All I had to do was stay clean, keep trainin’. Right here in Vegas, it was. Not championship or nothin’, you know, but still. It was big. Big for me.” “He wanted you to throw it,” I say, understanding. “Yep.” “And you didn’t,” I say, understanding Miguel. “Nope.” “Jesus Christ.” “Nah, Alex Chianetti. Tough dago from Brooklyn. Knocked him out in the third.” “I think it’s cool you won that fight, Miguel. Good for you.” “Yeah, well, ain’t so cool how it turned out. I fucked up, again. Just, like, if I coulda pulled my shit together and just done it, you know? Wasn’t so hard. What’s so fuckin’ hard ’bout it? Suck it up and tank. But I just couldn’t do it. I’m such a fuckin’ loser I couldn’t even force myself to lose.” “You’re not a loser, Rodriguez. I don’t blame you for not throwing it.” “Yeah… well. I planned to do it, to throw the fight. I really did. Then fuckin’ Ramon, he started mouthin’ off. Sayin’ all this shit—how I was slidin’ lucky on this, woulda gotten my ass kicked anyhow.” “He’s such a moron. I’m fucking glad you won that fight and I’m fucking glad I bashed his testicles.” Miguel laughs at that. “Me, too. Me, too, chica bonita.” He squeezes me and nuzzles his chin against my shoulder, then kisses it. Uh-oh. Gotta get him back on track. “But so now you owed all that money.”

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“Yeah.” He’s quiet again a minute. “I paid for it that night. Like, he sent in Ramon and Brent, I thought they was gonna kill me. Brent felt bad. He didn’t do much. But Ramon fucked me up a little. I took it, I deserved that shit. Earned it, like you’d say. Bein’ so stubborn, lettin’ my pride get in the way o’ just doin’ somethin’ so simple. “I thought I had it covered, though. I really did. I had a little cash—not enough to cover the kilo, but about half. So I took it all and had Brent place the bet. Bet on me. See? So even though Blue Lou didn’t make the dough on his bet, I figured that’d cover most o’ it. Soon as I got outta the hospital, I took that ticket, cashed it in, took that cash to Blue Lou. I figured it’d square us, ’cause now I had sixty grand to give him.” He laughs bitterly. “After I hand him the cash, he’s still cold. Cold as shit to me. I look around, there’s Ramon, not darin’ to laugh in front of him, but I can tell he’s ready to piss his pants. And Brent was there, an’ he’s just stone-faced. I don’t think he knew till just before I got there, else he’d a warned me. “Blue Lou, he gets up, he hands me the ticket—his losing ticket for the match. Somethin’ I hadn’t thought of, you know, he had to put up money to win that sixty. An’ that kid was favored, I wasn’t. He had to put up seventy grand to win sixty. See what I’m sayin? He shows me the ticket, seventy grand, woulda paid off fifty-nine. “So he takes my cash, the sixty grand, that covers the kilo. But now, now I owe him seventy that he just lost on me.” “Shit,” I say. “Yeah. Shit. Gets worse. He pulls out another ticket. He’d dropped another fifty grand on that kid.” “Oh, my God,” I gasp as my stomach turns. “He told me to throw that fight. An’ I didn’t. So now, that other fifty? It’s all on me. All my debt, baby. All this shit. All this shit. Thought I was bein’ so fuckin’ slick, you know? All I owed was sixty, and I coulda paid that off, but I tried to be so fuckin’ smartass, such a smartass bitch, and I just ended up buryin’ myself twice as deep. One hundred-twenty thousand dollars. That’s what I’m into him for. “So that’s why I pay now. I ain’t dealin’ no more. He don’t even want me around. An’ he don’t kill me ’cause he knows what I make at my job, he knows I can pay. So he just bleeds me out. Bleeds me out long and slow. I can’t never get ahead on payin’, can’t get it to end. ’Cause o’ greed. If I’d o’ just gotten out before. If I’d o’ just dumped that fight. Or if I hadn’t gotten all whacked out that day, freaked out and dumped that kilo for no reason,

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24/7 I’d o’ been fine. It was like quicksand, you know? Quicksand.” “Miguel, I’m…I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to say…” “No, shut up, huh-uh. That’s not why I told you. I don’t want you feelin’ sorry for me. I did this, Marina. I did this. An’ it’s okay. I pay what they say and it’s fine, most o’ the time. I told you ’cause I owed it to you. ’Cause you got caught in this shit, an’ I owe you at least an explanation.” “Miguel, don’t.” I turn to face him and he lets me. “I’m okay.” “It’s just, you know, I don’t know now. I mean, I knew why Castillo was fuckin’ with you before—to fuck with me. But I thought he knew better. I went an’ seen Blue Lou after last time, got it cleared away. He wouldn’t say so, but I think his fuse is short with Ramon. He always was an asshole, but I didn’t think he’d ever seriously hurt you. You ain’t involved, you know. But, they know I won’t go to the cops ’bout nothin’. You understand that, right? That I can’t? No matter what happens?” “I know. I understand. I think I tend to provoke him, that’s all.” “And that’s why I gotta watch shit around Marion. He’s my bud, and he’s helped me out before, never busted me. But that’s why I gotta keep him out o’ this.” “I understand.” “It’s still loco, though, the way Ramon’s actin’. I could see if I wasn’t payin’, but I am. I swear I am. There’s no need for this shit. He’s doin’ it on his own, not on orders.” “I know. It’s okay. I’ll just stop swearing at him.” “I don’t want you near him ever again. If he’s ever around again, I want you promise me you’ll just…run away, okay?” “Okay.” “I don’t know what I’d do if somethin’ happened to you.” “Rodriguez?” “Hmm?” “Want me to hold you?” “Bitch.” He laughs and pushes my face away, rolls onto his back. “I have some questions.” “All right.” He sighs. “Can I ask you somethin’ first?” “Sure.” “You gonna leave me now?” “Rodriguez, are you serious?” “Yeah. I won’t blame you, you know.” “Why do you think I’d leave you?” “’Cause this sucks. ’Cause my life is all fucked up. I fucked it up. An’ I

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remember that night when you was tellin’ me ’bout Bruno’s man, how it’s fucked up that he’s in debt, like you couldn’t stand that. An’ this is worse, much worse.” I crack up. “Rodriguez, you are so weird!” I keep laughing. “You think I don’t like Don because he’s in debt? I don’t like him because he’s an asshole! That’s just one more thing to make fun of him for.” Miguel nods, smiling. “He is sorta an asshole. So what’d you wanna ask me?” “It’s about your fight. It was an undercard, right? Was it on pay-perview?” “Yeah.” “Did you tape it?” Grinning: “Yeah.” “You’re going to let me watch it?” “If you want.” “Oh, I want.” I kiss him deeply. “That it?” “Huh-uh. One more, okay?” I kiss him again, twining my arms around his neck. “Now are you ready for some loving?” Smiling, pushing me down and climbing on top of me: “Abso-fuckinlutely.”

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[ 38 ]

W

E GET WOKEN UP THE NEXT MORNING BY A HARSH RAPPING ON HIS FRONT door. I

go to the bathroom as Miguel stumbles into a pair of boxers and answers it. I can hear him from the bathroom. Him loud, annoyed: “What?” I hear mumbling voices then Miguel saying, “Don’t you fuckin’ come in here.” More mumbling. Now, “Fuck that. No. Huh-uh.” The other voice now, louder, clear: “He says so. Else he’ll be back.” “Well, I ain’t got shit. Can’t cover it.” “Blue Lou says you should.” “Shit!” I throw on a T-shirt, peek my head out to the living room. Brent’s at the door, looking pretty gruff. He catches sight of me and halfheartedly waves. It’s weird, but I nod at him with a half-smile. Miguel turns, sees me, steps directly in front of Brent. Crossing his arms, he says, “I ain’t got it.” Brent rubs his forehead, speaks low, I only catch a couple words. “…gotta…she did…or else…” He nods in my direction, and Miguel grabs him by the throat, jacks him up against the doorframe. Growling, “Don’t you even think about it.” Brent, hands in the air: “I don’t want to, but…” “All right, enough,” I say. “What?” Miguel turns, saying, “Martino, go back to sleep.” Brent peers around him, says, “He’s gotta pay Ramon’s hospital bill or else I’m supposed to kick your ass. I’ll have to.” I laugh. “First off, you think you can really get around him to get to me?” Brent looks at Miguel, who still has him by the collar, then around at me. “Uh. Um, not right now. But probably sometime. Maybe, with help.” “Oh,” is all I say for a second. “How come Miguel has to pay for it?” “’Cause you did it to him. He’s hurt pretty bad. He’s still in the hospital.” Miguel now, letting go of Brent with a shove: “He had a knife to her

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throat.” Brent shrugs. “He did have a knife to my throat. He cut me,” I say and point to my neck. Brent shrugs again. “Blue Lou says you pay.” “Aww, bullshit!” Miguel shouts. “Fine, fuck it, I’ll pay it,” I say. “Martino!” “Rodriguez. I did it, I don’t want to cause trouble, I’ll pay it.” “Martino. He ain’t gonna fuckin’ touch you, are you, Brent?” “Don’t want to…” “Awww, bullshit! This is bullshit, Brent. Shit!” He paces around in a circle. Cuts his eyes at Brent. “You actually tell Blue Lou how things went down? Huh? Did you? Or you pussy out and let Ramon tell him some bullshit?” “I told him!” Me cutting in: “You tell him he had a knife to my throat?” Exasperated: “I told him, you guys.” “You tell him that Miguel had already paid? And he was still being a fucker?” “I told him.” “Shit,” Miguel hisses. “Then tell him you fucked us up. That’s right, haul your ass back there an’ tell him you did it.” Brent holds out his hands. “You know he’ll want proof.” “Blue Lou wasn’t pissed at Ramon?” Brent nods. “He was pissed at him, yeah. You didn’t hear that from me, though.” Pointing at me: “He thinks it was too severe. He’s sort of fucked up. He’s in traction.” I laugh. Miguel laughs. As Brent breaks a grin, Miguel stops and scratches his thumb across his forehead. I go back in the bathroom and dig through my make-up case. Palming the chips, I go back out to the living room and ask, “How much?” “Huh?” “How much? How much is this bill gonna be?” Brent shrugs. “I don’t know. Couple grand, I guess.” “Is that it then? You’re not going to come back tomorrow and tell me he had to have his nuts amputated and that’s going to cost more?” “If he had to get his nuts cut off you’d be paying for more than his doctor’s bills.”

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24/7 “Then here,” I say and throw a couple of the chips at him. They fall to the floor, and he bends to pick them up. “Martino! The fuck you doin’?” “I’m paying it. Fuck it. It was worth it to see him like that. In fact, here,” I say, tossing a third chip his way. “Take that one, too. Tell him it’s for the next time in case I feel frisky. I’ll pay up front, start a tab going after that.” Brent smirks as he tucks the chips in his pocket. Miguel slaps his hand, sending a chip flying. “Don’t you fuckin’ take that.” He picks it up, looks at it. “WhatthefuckMartino? This’s a thousand bucks!” “Yeah, I know, I’m paying. He said he wanted a couple thousand so there he goes. It’s all I got.” “This is all the money you have?” “Yes.” “Then don’t fuckin’ give it to him.” “Rodriguez. It’s fine. Brent doesn’t want to have to hurt me, right, Brent?” “I don’t want to have to hurt you.” “So there, see? I don’t want to get hurt. You don’t want me to get hurt, do you?” He just gives me a sullen glare. “I’ll assume you don’t.” Addressing Brent now, I tell him, “If that fucker comes near me again, I don’t give a shit if I end up skinning him alive, I’m not paying for any more damages. I want him to stay away from me.” “Okay,” Brent says. “And I don’t want him fucking with Miguel either. If he lays a single finger on him I’ll fuck him up, and no one’s going to pay for it. “ “Okay.” “I mean it. I still have those shoes. I have other pairs of shoes.” “Okay, I’ll tell them.” “And the same goes for you.” “Hey! I don’t want to hurt either of you!” “I know you don’t, Brent. But I’m warning you, if you do, we will amputate your balls.” Miguel pushes him out the door, saying, “Get the fuck outta here. Take your money and go, man.” Brent waves on his way out. Silent, Miguel closes the door behind him, walks past me to the bathroom. When he comes back, I’m in the kitchen cracking some eggs for breakfast. He leans against the counter for a minute, watching me. Then he starts in.

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“The fuck you do that for?” “Because.” “Because? Oh. Because. Be-fuckin’-cause. Nice. That’s really fuckin’ nice, Marina.” Getting louder. “I fuckin’ told you I’d handle shit. I’d o’ handled it. Fuck!” I glance over at him as I flick on the front burner. His eyes glint harshly. His jaw is clenched. Trying to appease him, I use my sweetest voice. “I just thought—” “Yo, you don’t fuckin’ think!” he shouts. “This ain’t your business to be thinkin’ ’bout. Obviously, you don’t fuckin’ think, almost handin’ him an extra grand for nothin’. How you know I didn’t even have that money? Huh? Huh?” “Then how come you weren’t handing it over?” “’Cause maybe I had other plans!” I bite down really hard to keep from saying something about how his plans got him here in the first place. He’s just pissed and frustrated right now, and I know it’s not even me he’s really pissed at. He’s just going off because I’m the only one here. So I check myself before I say something dumb. Decide to let him vent as long as he doesn’t go too far. “I was just trying to help,” I say. “Help? Help! Like you fuckin’ helped last night?” “Hey! I know that was my fault, that’s why I cleaned it up today.” “All you did was get yourself dug in deeper just now, Marina. What the fuck you think they’re gonna think now that you just tossed over two grand with no problem, huh? It was fuckin’ stupid!” He slams the counter for emphasis, yelling again. “How fuckin’ dumb are you?” And that was too far. I slam the fry pan down, pin him in a glare. “Miguel!” “What?” “Remember when you told me how you can be a real prick sometimes? Well, you’re being one now.” He grabs my wrist, a little too hard. “The fuck you just say to me?” Shouting: “I said you’re being a real prick right now!” I tear my arm free. He steps back, turns around, rubs his face with both hands. I fold my arms in front of me, bracing for the worst. Quietly, I tell him, “You said you hate being yelled at. Your dad always yelled at you. Well, my dad yells a lot, too. And I hate it.” Silence. Finally, very quietly: “Sorry.”

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24/7 I exhale slowly. “Okay. Me, too. Now, how do you want your eggs?” Still snotty: “Scrambled.” “Fine.” I work a few minutes in silence, concentrating on the eggs and butter and toast instead of what to do next about him. Finally, just telling the truth. With my back turned to him, I let it all rush out at once. “You tell me not to worry, not to be scared. And I trust you, Miguel. I do. I believe you. And I know you’ll take care of me. And protect me. But you can’t do everything. And I am scared. Okay? There’s the thing—I’m scared. I’m sorry that I am and I don’t want you to know that I am, but I am. “I’m not going to leave you, and I’m not mad at you, and I don’t blame you. And I’m sorry if I fucked things up even more just now, but I didn’t know what else to do. I can’t just sit back and be quiet if you’re in danger and I can’t just sit here and get threatened and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, I didn’t even know what was going on until you told me last night, and this is all new, okay? This is all new, and I still don’t even know what I’m doing with you. You scare me, this whole thing between you and me scares me, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or what you want me to do sometimes and I’m scared of fucking us up, and I’m scared of what happens if I don’t fuck us up, and just when I start to feel somewhat normal with just you then they show up and there’s knives and I know I make jokes but I’m fucking scared. I’m not stupid, I’m scared. I’m not stupid, I just don’t know what to do…” “Shhh,” he says and holds me tight. “I just…I didn’t know, and…” “Shh. ’S all right. I shouldn’t o’ yelled.” “No, you shouldn’t.” “I wasn’t mad at you. I’m just pissed. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong.” “Okay.” “K,” he says, looking over my shoulder. “You’re gonna burn them eggs.” “Shit!” I get the food finished and hand him a plate, fix one for myself while holding my tongue. I don’t want to start the fight again, but I can’t just let this go on his word anymore, either. It has affected me, it’s hurting him, and I can’t stumble around in the dark and let it keep hurting us. But I move with caution. Speaking softly. “You said I could ask you some questions today. Can I ask them now?” His jaw clenches, but he nods.

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“So tell me now. Did I really fuck up?” “Martino…” “Just tell me, Rodriguez. Don’t yell, just tell me if I fucked up. Explain it to me.” He sighs. “You didn’t fuck up. I was just shocked. Like, that you had all that. And I was pissed ’cause it’s bullshit. And I’ll pay you back…” “You don’t have to pay me back. I just wanted to know if I did fuck up.” “You didn’t. It’s cool.” “All right. Honestly, though, Brent doesn’t scare me too much.” “I think he likes you a little.” He smiles at me. “I think he still likes you, Rodriguez.” “Yeah,” he says and nods. Shoves in a forkful of eggs. “We was tight, you know. None o’ this is his fault, I know he feels bad, but there’s nothin’ he could do.” “So, um, overall, you owe this guy a buck-twenty? Is that right?” “Sorta,” he says and chews. “Little less now.” “How come?” A sigh, a heavy swallow. He goes, “I ain’t proud o’ this. But, like, remember that night we played blackjack together, won all that cash? You wouldn’t take none. Then we got in shit with Castillo, an’ I knew I had to make amends, you know. Like, I don’t give a fuck ’bout him. Fuck him. But with Blue Lou. So I went an’ saw him. Took him that extra money. There was eight grand there. So I gave him that.” “Good.” “I’ll pay you back.” “Would you shut up with the pay me back shit? Please? Mi casa, su casa, comprende?” “Capish,” he says with a grin. “Close enough. That was your money, I’m glad you did that. So it’s, what? a hundred-twelve you owe now?” Nodding: “Yeah.” “Lemme ask you something. Did you take him cash?” “I just told you—” “No, did you take him paper money, or just take him the chips?” “Oh. Yeah. Chips, I took the chips.” “And he didn’t squawk about it at all?” “Huh-uh. We’d take chips all the time.” “Easier to clean, huh?” “Guess so.” He gives me another strange look.

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24/7 “So now, though, you have to pay, what, every week? And nothing goes to what you owe, it’s all vigorish, right?” “Exactly.” “So the only way to pay it down is to make extra payments.” “Uh-huh. But I can’t. I pay all I can. I mean, I got a little cash, I know I flashed some around when we first met, but not really, you know. I only had a little, an’ then we just started winnin’ together so it got to be more.” “Okay. What about your car? What about this place? You say you own this place.” “Yeah, I thought o’ that,” he says, a little testy. “Don’t get mad, okay? I’m just asking. Maybe we can figure something out.” “Martino, I’m the fuckin’ king of tryin’ to work a deal, all right?” His temple throbs, jaw gets tight. “I already been through all that shit. Most I can get for that car is ten grand. Then I just gotta get somethin’ else anyhow to get back an’ forth to work. Most I can get for this place is ’bout sixty grand, so that don’t do it, neither. All right?” “I know it’s not all of it, but it’s sixty grand. That’d get it paid down a little, at least.” “Goddamnit!” “Hey!” I shout back. “Listen to me, Martino, you fuckin’ listen.” He actually points at me as talks. “I’m fuckin’ telling’ you, I thought o’ this shit. You’re smart, but you don’t know everything. It won’t fuckin’ work, so lay off.” “Hey! You’ve had time to think of this shit and I haven’t. I had a knife to my throat, Rodriguez! I watched and you could have been killed. So fuck you, no, I won’t just lay off. Don’t get pissed at me just for asking. Don’t treat me like an asshole. Just fucking explain to me why it won’t work.” Standing, he whips his fork over my head to the sink with a loud clash. I flinch but hang in there, glaring back, staying seated. If he thinks intimidation like that’ll work on me, he’s dead wrong, because I’ve had a lifetime of battle already. Still loud, glaring at me: “It won’t fuckin’ work ’cause then I’d have nowhere to live. I’d pay about half of what I owe, then I’d still have to make payments and I couldn’t make payments if I’m payin’ rent somewhere to live. All right?” “All right! Now sit down and calm down! Thank you for explaining it to me.” Eyes soft again, shrugging his shoulders, he takes his seat. Sheepish

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now. “Welcome.” “I take it you can’t get a bank loan or anything, same problem with it, right?” He just gives me a dumb look. “Okay. So you just can’t pay this off right now.” “Or ever.” “So, well, what other options are there? What can we do?” “We ain’t gotta do nothin’. You ain’t even gotta be talkin’ ’bout this. It’s my problem, not yours.” “Okay, Miguel, clearly, you hate talking about this. But just listen to me, okay? I’m going to help you. Whether you like it or not, I am part of this now.” “No, you ain’t, this—” “Miguel.” I cut him off, reach across the table and take hold of his hand. “I love you. And yeah, I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t even know what’s going on with us. But I think you like having me around. Don’t you?” “M’rina, don’t be stupid.” “I’m serious. Please stop being cocky right now. Please stop being mad.” A sigh. He lifts my hand, kisses it. “I like havin’ you around.” “Then I’m probably going to be around even more. So I’m part of this, and instead of shutting me out, if you let me talk to you, if you let me help you, or at least let me know what’s going on, maybe I won’t be as scared, okay?” “It’s just…I didn’t tell you ’bout it, Rina. An’ I know I fucked up and got you involved, but that’s already too much. It ain’t a game, baby. I don’t want you gettin’ hurt anymore.” “I’ll be okay, Miguel. We’ll be okay.” “Yeah, but it’s not just that. I liked it, you know, when you didn’t know nothin’. It was easier, it was better. I was this cool guy to you. An’ now, I ain’t. I’m just another fuck-up. An’ the more you talk about it, the more you think about it, the more I’m gonna become that till that’s all I am. I ain’t gonna be the guy you thought I was. I ain’t gonna be me. You reminded me o’ me. Reminded me that I was more than this shit.” “Oh, my God. Miguel, now you’re being stupid.” He just hangs his head, still holding my hand. “You are you. You’re still the same guy. You’re my Miguel. This doesn’t change that. Miguel, I love it that you didn’t throw that fight. I respect that.” “You don’t think I’m a fuck-up?”

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24/7 “No. It’s only money. That’s all this is. It’s money. It doesn’t matter.” “Money means a lot, Marina. You don’t see me different now?” “Listen to me. I’m not that shallow. I don’t care about money. You should know that about me by now. I’m in love with you. You’re right, I do see you. That’s what I love. I thought you saw me. I thought you loved me.” “Rina.” He sighs and looks at me. “I do. I swear I do.” “Then you should know better. You should trust me, who I am. It’s going to scare me even more and hurt me even more if you don’t believe me.” “I do.” He nods. “I trust that. I trust you, I believe in you. I just don’t trust myself.” “But I believe in you. That’s why you have me. If you have faith in me, and I have that faith in you, then it’s not gonna change. You’re still you, the guy I fell in love with. And that’s what you do for me. I don’t see what you see in me, but I believe you that those good things are there, and then I just hope that’s good enough for you.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know, Marina. You just are good enough. I’m trying to be. I hope I can be.” He looks up at me, locks his eyes on mine. I don’t back down. I don’t flinch or look away, just thinking it really hard—I love you. “I love you, baby,” he answers me. “If you say it’s all good, that’s all I need right now. I just don’t wanna go back. I don’t wanna go back to not bein’ me. I don’t wanna turn into the fuck-up loser I thought I was ’fore we hooked up.” “You won’t, Miguel. You won’t. You can’t. Because you aren’t a fuck-up loser. That’s not who you are.” “K,” he says and nods. Finally he lightens, his face cracks into a grin. Saying, “Just ’cause you say so, huh? That how this all works?” “Yes, ’cause I say so.” “How do you know, huh? How do you know how this all works if you’ve never done it before?” “Who cares if this is how it works for everyone else or not? We’re not them. If we say it’s gonna work this way, then it’s gonna, dammit.” He just keeps looking at me, so I show him how these deals work. Saying, “Okay, I cooked, you’re cleaning up these dishes, right?” He smirks, gets up and takes my plate. “If you say so, boss.” I give him a couple minutes of quiet as he loads the dishwasher then dig in again. “So. Can we finish this discussion so we can enjoy the rest of the day?”

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“Yeah. Fine. What else?” “Well, I was just wondering what we could do. Whenever I have a problem or whatever, not that this is a problem, I’m not saying it’s a problem…” “It’s a problem, Martino. I ain’t an asshole, I know it’s a problem.” “Well, just…whatever. I just like to think it through methodically. You know, from every angle. Sometimes even write things down.” He finishes with the dishes and comes and sits across from me again, holds out his hands, says, “So. What then? What?” A little snarky edge, but not outright pissed or defensive. “I know you’ve thought it all out. I’m just catching up, so just give me a couple minutes, that’s all. Okay?” “I don’t see the point in writin’ it all out. I owe a buck-twenty.” “Twelve,” I correct. “Yeah, twelve. So I owe it. An’ I can’t pay it off. You agree with that? Or you want me hock my CDs or somethin’ next.” I laugh. “Well…” “Aw, come on!” “I’m fucking with you, Rodriguez. I’m just fucking with you. Well, maybe those Creed ones can go.” Laughing: “Yeah, those should go, huh?” “Anyhow,” I say, getting back on track, “yes, I agree, you can’t pay it off.” “So there ain’t no other options, man. I gotta just keep payin’.” “Well, there is one other thing we could do,” I say. “What’s that?” “Remove the debtee.” “Come again?” he asks. “Ventilate the fuckers.” “’Scuse me?” “You know. Airhole ’em.” He gives me the dumb-fucker look, so I go on. “Whack ’em.” He still gives me the dead-eye look, so I try another one. “Terminate with extreme prejudice? Pop a cap in their ass? There’s a lotta holes out there in that desert?” “What?” “If you remove the source, you remove the problem,” I tell him. “The fuck? What’re you talkin’ ’bout?” “Oh, come on, Rodriguez! Morte—huh? Comprende? And probably Castillo with him. I think we could let Brent live, though.”

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24/7 “Martino.” “Hmmm?” “Just how fuckin’ Italian are you?” He’s scared again. I can see it, plain as day. Same weird look he had when I was dragging Silver Balls to the pool. I start cracking up, laughing even louder and harder as he looks more appalled. Finally, he speaks again. “I thought you was trippin’ out last night. When you was gonna drown him. You…you were…” “I was fucking with him, Rodriguez. And now I’m fucking with you.” “You’re fuckin’ with me?” I laugh again. “Oh, you’re so easy. I’m just saying that there might be other options you haven’t thought of.” “Martino, murder is not an option.” “I know. Jesus, I know. Relax, bello ragazzo, relax. You know what I’m saying. Think about it at a weird time later today. I promise, it’ll make you laugh when you’re done being freaked out about me.” He stares at me, and it’s really starting to crack me up again, so finally I push his face away. Saying, “All right, I think we’ve talked this through enough for now. I’m ready for a swim. What do you want to do?” “I don’t wanna kill anyone, I know that.” “All right. Stop.” “Would you care if I went an’ worked out at the gym awhile?” “Not at all.” “Serious? You don’t mind bein’ alone here?” “I’m fine. It’ll be good for you.” “Yeah, I’m ready for that.” “Okay. Let’s do it. One thing, though—ready to fuck me first?” “I’m always ready for that.”

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[ 39 ]

S

O NOW IT’S TEN HOURS, A TWO-HOUR DINNER AT EMERIL’S WITH AN UNWED DON

and Sherri (which included not only two orders of fabulous lobster dip but also fourteen insults from Don directed at me) and one brief conversation on the plausibility of Miguel simply leaving Las Vegas to escape his debt (he outright rejected the idea on several grounds) later. Don and Sherri decide to call it a night and go their own way since they have to get up early for their flight tomorrow morning. Miguel’s glad to ditch them, and frankly, so am I. I took Don’s sniping because it’s understandable, but he prodded Sherri a couple of times during dinner to go and get married tonight. Watching her evade that was unpalatable, and the thought of having to bust up a second wedding is downright distasteful. I’m in the mood for some blackjacking to stay sharp. I still have a couple grand in those Hard Rock chips that I didn’t toss to Brent, but other than that, my bankroll isn’t much on the plus side right now, and suddenly, I find that a wee bit distressing. Miguel doesn’t want to play at the MGM, since Bellagio is a sister company. “Don’t want to end up as the first dealer in The Book, huh?” I ask him with a grin as we weave through the gigantic casino. The Book is a Who’s Who of casino undesirables. There are hardcore criminals who are explicitly banned from entering any casino. You know—old mob bosses, money launderers, those sorts of guys. There’s also a nice listing of casino cheats. All the entries have photos and aliases, full descriptions and explanations. Also contained in The Book are notorious card counters. I’m sure Ken Uston is logged in there, along with most of his team, and the infamous MIT blackjack team. And since Miguel is planning on playing with me tonight, it’ll probably make us more obvious—it only underscores what we’re doing, having two people there instead of just one. If Miguel got caught counting he’d be blackballed from dealing. So for him to stay away from the MGM is just good sense.

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24/7 For his part, he just grins. “I’m pretty certain there’s other dealers in that book. But no, I don’t wanna join ’em.” “You know, we don’t have to play. I don’t have to play, it’s not a problem.” “Martino, I wanna play.” I know what he’s thinking. Hell, I’m thinking it, too. Maybe we can make a few bucks. Maybe he can chip a little more into that debt he owes if we do. We can’t go to the Mirage, because that’s one of the MGM hotels, too. Mirage, Treasure Island, Bellagio, MGM, New York New York—they’re all part of the same conglomerate. I’m not too hip on playing at Caesars. I’m not staying there, but they know me there well enough that it’s just not wise. So we hit the Aladdin. It’s an old joint, in name. It was blown up and redone recently. It’s lacking the outright old-time cheese of an aged place but is not quite as voluptuous, resplendent or packed with modern cheese as most new places are. Still, it’s decent. We split up some cash and sit down at a twenty-five-buck table. Both of us are playing this time. It’s too early at night and too busy to get away with having him play and me just count and signal him—they wouldn’t allow an extra person at the table taking up space when it’s busy. He’s going to have to watch my bets and increase or decrease his the same way. It’s the Rain Man method, one for bad, two for good. It’ll be nearly as obvious as having me count and signal, but that’s how blackjack teams work. And we’re now a team. We cash in for $500 each. I don’t get much out of the count for awhile. In fact, I wish I could drop my bets down, because it slides into the negative. He hangs in, though, goes up and down but is generally holding steady. Meanwhile, I’m taking a bit of a creaming. I get down to only five chips left just as a pretty good hand is dealt. I lose the hand, but there was an abundance of low cards so I know the pretty tens are coming soon. With only four chips, I double my bet, and he follows my lead. He gets painted with a blackjack and I pull a hard eighteen. The dealer gets a seventeen and we both win. I keep hanging on, slowly building my stack back up, increasing and decreasing appropriately but too busy with playing my cards, keeping the count, a side count of aces and one eye on the discard pile so I can track the shuffle for the next deal to even think about looking over at him anymore. We go through seven shoes like that until it finally falls apart on me. I simply can’t concentrate anymore. I’ve got my stack nearly tripled

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from what I started with, but for the past ten hands I was having trouble with the count, sometimes falling dangerously behind. So I blow off watching the discard pile, forget about tracking the shuffle, knowing that this is my last deal. I play out the shoe, then with a headache starting to creep in behind my eyes, I pick up my winnings and go over to the bar. Miguel joins me before long, greets me with a kiss on the temple. I flip my cigarette through my fingers, sipping vodka as he nods with a smile to confirm we did well. We cash out and take the paper money with us over to the Paris. “I’m getting a little tired,” I warn him. “I got faith in you,” he answers. “Just a couple shoes over here, give it a shot?” So I agree. I ditch the vodka and get some water, we cash in for two grand each at a hundred-dollar table. I go through one shoe with relative ease, watch intently as the dealer reshuffles the cards, keeping careful note of where bunches of faces land. Then I sit up, dig in and watch close as the new one unfolds. Playing my hands, keeping the count, sidetracking aces, watching the discard pile. Increasing and decreasing appropriately. On the third shoe, the pain starts behind my eyes again, headache creeping back in. I’m too busy watching and playing to bother smoking, that’s probably what’s causing it. Glancing over at Miguel, tongue set on the corner of his mouth as he taps his cards for a hit, the pain seems to dim. I play, picking up two blackjacks in a row. When I blink to try and clear my eyes to soothe the dull throb, I miss the hand that the guy to my left plays— the dealer scoops it too quickly for me to see it, screwing up my count. So I quit. Miguel plays it cool, doesn’t panic when he sees me leave. He plays out a few more hands before getting up and finding me on the cobblestone hallway smoking. “I’m a little over even,” I tell him. “How’d you do?” “Did good, chica. Really good. Let’s hit Bally’s. We can start higher than a hundred per hand.” “Miguel, I don’t know…” “What? Still early. Vince is just comin’ on shift at Caesars. We’ll go over there right after.” “I just…I’ve got a little headache.” “Want some aspirin? I’ll get some.” He saunters away, hand held against his stomach as he struts over to the sundry shop. When he comes back, I pop the pills and take a seat, waiting for him as he cashes out again, then

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24/7 we go over to Bally’s. The aspirin kicks in before we even take seats over there, and I smoke another cigarette before cashing in. He cashes for five grand, me for two again. We get a great count in the middle of the second shoe, and I have the area logged as holding a wad of faces. I shove a grand to the betting area, not daring to look over and see what Miguel’s going to do—I have to watch the hands unfold to keep the count. He pulls two queens. I get a nineteen. The guy to my left has a seventeen facing a dealer six, and I have to choke back a profanity when he hits his hand and draws a ten that I know would have busted the dealer. Sure enough, the dealer flips his hole card to show a ten, and next to me Miguel does let a derisive snort escape. When the dealer takes his hit and draws a king I forgive the guy next to me. We play through that shoe, get one-third through the next when I realize my stack is higher. The count is high, but my concentration is flagging. I’m tempted to shove it all out in the bet circle but I lose my nerve. Instead I just play a couple hundred. I bust on the hand, shove my seat back and get up. Miguel seems pleased when he meets me. I’ve already cashed my chips in and I’ve got $4,300. So I know that even if something happened and he went completely bust we’re still up, way up. Up over three thousand dollars. And that’s at the very least. But he looks content, beaming even. I order a beer for him, a drink for myself. He slugs back half his beer in one pull, kisses my cheek, so I know he’s doing just fine. He pets my hair a few times, still silent. Finishes his beer, orders another. “How’s your headache?” “Gone now. Sort of tired, though. Lost concentration. What time is it?” Checking his watch: “Little after two.” “We’ve been playing six hours? Holy shit. No wonder.” “Wears you out, huh?” Reaching under my hair, he massages my neck. “You wanna quit for the night.” More of a statement than a question. I can’t tell if he’s disappointed or not. I nod once, he agrees, pulls me up and starts walking. Says, “Let’s go see Vince.” “Thanks.” “You know,” he says, swinging my hand back and forth, “he wants to fuck you.” I laugh. “Yo, I’m fuckin’ serious, Martino.” “Then you’re also deranged.” “Nah. I ain’t. He wants to fuck you real bad. Why you think he’s always slidin’ you free drinks?”

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“Uh, ’cause he’s my friend?” A derisive snort. “Shit.” “Rodriguez, you think everyone wants to fuck me just because you like doing it.” “I hung out with him a couple times when you was gone, did you know that?” “No. What’d you do, go to strip clubs?” “Yeah.” “You’re serious?” “Fuck, yeah.” “What the fuck? Did you get lap dances?” A guilty grin. “A couple.” “You’re a fucker.” “Ah, shit. Don’t get all pissed, I was thinkin’ ’bout you the whole time.” “Liar. You were thinking of Jennifer Lopez.” I know he has a thing for her. “Anyhow, Vince, he’s a dog.” He tries to flip the script back to his agenda. “You’re just now telling me you were out getting lap dances while I wasn’t around and you’re calling him a dog?” “C’mon, don’t get pissed, we’re talkin’ ’bout how he wants to fuck you, not about me.” “Yeah, apparently you don’t want to fuck me, you just want to get lap dances.” “Stop.” “Then you stop. If you hung out with Vince, then he’s your bud, too. He wouldn’t screw you by screwing me.” He laughs. “Don’t be a dumbass.” “He’s never made a move on me, Miguel. Never.” “Yeah, he’s just layin’ low. Waitin’.” “Well, fuck it,” I say. “In the meantime, we’re gonna get some free drinks from him.” “You’re so naïve, Martino. So naïve.” “You’re so jaded, Rodriguez. So jaded. Not everyone has ulterior motives.”

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[ 40 ]

T

HE NEXT FEW DAYS BECOME A VERITABLE ORGY OF SEX AND GAMBLING.

A LITTLE booze thrown in at the tail end of the evenings to wind me down. He gets me high a couple times when I get headaches from counting too long. We get up in the morning after too little sleep, have sex then go out in the heat to strange casinos and play blackjack for hours in the carefully adjusted climate. Then we eat—or not—then back out in the scorching sun, climb in the heated black Caddy and take a car ride to more blackjack in different casinos. Casinos downtown, casinos on the strip, casinos off the strip. Binion’s, Circus Circus, Boulder Station, the Cortez. Never staying long. A few shoes each place, getting up and leaving before there’s any serious scrutiny. At least I guess that’s the idea. I’m just here to play my hand, watch the count, sidetrack the aces and scan the discards. He handles everything else. He watches the money, he decides how everything else should operate. He mumbles as he aims the car down the hot highway, taking us away from my beloved sin city to safer places farther from his job. To the south— Henderson, Sunset Station. Then back in the car and farther south in the blistering heat, on to Laughlin. Harrah’s, Flamingo. We sleep in that town— I think the hotel is called the Edgewater, but I’m not sure. They bleed together. It has a casino in it. It’s hot, then cool. Fresh air then fake fresh air. Cigar smoke, a heavy breeze. Another casino. Then it’s more sex, a little sleep then it’s time to play blackjack again. We play, we leave that town. Back to Las Vegas. Blackjack, sex, booze. Gamble, Miguel, sleep. Play my hand, watch the count, track the aces, scan the discard. Increase and decrease appropriately. Break a sweat outside walking around, get cooled down inside then break a sweat in the air conditioning as I watch the cards go bad. Sometimes we go up, sometimes down. I stop keeping track of where we are. He just hands me money and we sit down. Sometimes he keeps all

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the money, and I just sit with him and make a move to let him know. Sometimes he goes off to another table and I play alone. Then the chips just get handed back and the mad rush starts all over again as we dash off to another casino, maybe fuck for a while. Blackjack, sex, booze. Play my hand, watch the count, suck his dick, have a vodka then play my hand again. I thought I’d seen Vegas before, but I hadn’t. Now I see Vegas. I see all of Vegas. Not just the bright lights and big places with thick carpet, but also the local joints with wooden floors. The Old West kind of saloons. The places next to strip bars. I gamble for five hours at the Riviera, we lose about eight thousand dollars. I don’t know if he understands that I’m not fucking up, that I’m keeping the count and raising the stakes exactly the way I should. The cards just don’t fall the way we hope. I don’t know if he knows that’s how it goes, that this is a winning proposition—in the long run. That the bankroll can fluctuate, that even when I do everything the way I should I can still get beaten. I don’t know if he understands, he doesn’t say. He just takes my hand, leads me out, I squint in the hot, bright sun without my shades then he leads me back in next door at the Sahara. I play my hands, keep the count, track the aces and watch the discard for… I don’t have any idea how long. I get a throbbing headache and lose concentration, stand up and leave the table. He gives me some aspirin, buys me some food then leads me down the street to the Stratosphere. I want a drink, but I don’t dare—my eyes are getting blurry even without it. My mind doesn’t wander because it has nowhere to wander to. I don’t know anything except what’s right on the table in front of me: plus five, plus six, plus three, plus five, plus three, plus four. Increasing the bets. Then a turn for the bad, a storm to weather: minus three, minus seven, minus five, minus eight, minus nine, minus seven, minus ten. Decreasing the bets. All the faces bleed together—queens, jacks, kings. No difference between them, all just minus one. Red and black fades out, suits don’t matter. Just play my hand, keep the count. Blackjack, gamble. Cards getting too blurry to read at the other end of the table, and I lose my way. Getting up and walking it off, him telling me how good I’m doing. Patting my head, finally giving me a drink as a reward. Sometimes we go up, sometimes we go down, I guess this time we went up. Must have gone well up—he cajoles a little, so I sit back down. Now I

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24/7 know we’re going up, way up, because we get kicked out. It’s never happened to me before; I don’t realize what’s happening at first. It’s very civil—no physical contact, nothing like having a knife against your throat. Just the pit boss telling us it’s time to leave. Confused, knowing I’m in trouble, I sit there dumbly as Miguel rises, his jaw throbbing. Skittish-kitten nervous, I twitch when the boss speaks at me. “Your action isn’t welcome here, miss. Please don’t return,” is all he says as my heart patters away. A few more drinks later, no more blackjack for now. Miguel’s not mad. We were made, asked to leave, he says it’s not a big deal, we’ll stay off the strip. I’m tired anyhow. It’s late—very late at night, even the weekend crowd thinned out. The highest structure west of the Mississippi, the Stratosphere is. I remember being out on the street, hearing the screams of the people on the ride at the very top float down like feathers around the pedestrians. Crazy adrenaline yelps, the canned fear-scream as your heart drops as you shoot out the top and freefall high above the world. A building that tall’s got one hell of an elevator. We played the blackjack, we’ve drunk the booze, time to have some sex. We’re all alone as the car lurches up, Miguel paid the elevator attendant to leave. Kissing, sucking, rubbing, it all blurs together, no thought at all. No hand to play, no count to keep, no discard to watch or aces to track. Just him to kiss, skin to be touched, a tongue to be tasted and expressions to be watched. It’s not as quick as the first time at Caesars. We get all the way up to the top, he finally gets inside me. He strokes as we hurtle back down, I clench a fist as we go to the bottom. People see us as the doors clang open, I don’t care, I don’t think he notices. I don’t even bother to try and scamper away or cover up—once they caught a single fleeting glimpse it was too late to bother trying to pull off any façade of class, decorum or modesty. Sex is one thing, but a full-on view of us with our pants around our ankles as my boyfriend goes at a me like a jackrabbit from behind while I bend over for him and reach between my own legs to polish off the front just cannot be passed off in any sort of risqué yet still gloriously glamorous, high society, rollicking, canoodling fashion. Better to just let it pass with a blush of shame as they stare gapemouthed and the doors push closed and keep right on fucking as we climb back up, getting higher in the sky and higher on each other. They’re just spectators on the periphery, and they don’t matter anyhow. It’s just each other—kissing, sucking, rubbing, thrusting. Grunting and grinding. Exhausted, weakened, boneless and frenetic. A tongue to suck,

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skin to caress, everything for the senses. Mindless. Coming when we’re halfway back up. Tucking in, zipping up. Can you believe it, the same people waiting when we get off back downstairs again, my knees shaking as he leads me out of the place. F. Scott and Zelda we aren’t. Shit, it’s over. Apparently, that means it’s time for more blackjack. Maybe some sleep first? Nope. He’s awake. We’re in his car, driving. He’s driving; I lean my forehead against the air-conditioned cool of the window and watch the scenery zoom past. Going out of town. On the highway. Maybe Henderson again? It’s finally warmed up, really warmed up out here. The days are blistering, the cold nights from April are gone, it’s staying thick and warm. Dry heat, they call it. Just means you sweat less. You don’t get to baste in your own juices. It’s a more direct, arid frying that takes place. But it’s nighttime now—desert stars and dusky sand surrounding the white-lined blacktop that shoots us to another casino. Primm, Nevada. He’s gotta be fuckin’ kidding me. Looks like an amusement park here. He says it’s on the California border. Okay. Seems more like the border of purgatory, some surreal, fantasyland version of gambler’s limbo, the outermost section of hell. But—whatever. He pats me, says I’m doing so fuckin’ good. “That bad streak at the Riv,” I say as I roll down the window and get a good whiff of fresh air before we pull into the town’s limits. “It wasn’t my fault.” “I know.” “You do? You know that, for sure?” “Martino, I know. I know how it works. Just like you say, ain’t like Rain Man, no guarantees.” “You should keep some of the bankroll set aside,” I warn him. “In case that happens, so we don’t burn through it all in a bad streak.” “We can stay here tonight. Play some, get some rest. Go back tomorrow.” “I’d like to swim tomorrow,” I tell him. “It’s really hot out.” “Martino, you’re tan enough. It’s good for you, be outta the sun a couple days.” I know what’s going on. He’s obsessed. Bingeing. Like a junkie, except he’s not gorging on booze or drugs. He’s gorging on hope. Getting more

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24/7 excited and desperate at the same time. I’m gorging on him. Trying to soothe and placate him, give him hope, dig him out, getting him more revved and burying him deeper at the same time. Whatever. We pull in, self-park, I stop in the ladies room as he checks us in. We’re at Wild Bill’s. Or Buffalo Bill’s. Something like that. It’s huge, I know that. It’s not Las Vegas, I know that. Certain things happen in Las Vegas that make it abundantly clear to you the precise moment you leave. In Vegas, everything is done for you. Every little thing. You don’t have anything to worry about other than where to spend your money. They call you cabs, they clean your room, they open doors, they bring you food. They park your cars, carry your bags, do your laundry. The walkways move, the dealers wink. The toilets flush automatically, and the faucets come on for you. In the ladies room here, I’m almost out of the stall before I realize I don’t hear the flushing sound and remember to do it myself. At the sink, I stand there an inordinately long time before realizing I have to turn the knob. Back in the lobby, Miguel says we can go up, go to sleep. He’s tired. “I’ll play,” I say. “You wanna play more?” “Yeah, I’ll play.” I’m being agreeable. I’m trying to get this over with. I see his eyes light up when I tell him I’ll play more. “You get some sleep. I’ll be up soon. I wanna get the feel of this place. I’m in good shape.” He hands me a room key. He hands me a huge stack of money. Madone. I mean—huge. Saying, “Do whatever you can. Whatever you want. Quit when you’re tired.” “Sure.” He hesitates. Bleary-eyed, he squints at me. “You sure? Maybe you oughta come up, you gotta be tired, you had some drinks already.” “I’m fine.” My most chipper voice. The most chipper voice I can muster at five a.m. in Primm, Nevada, at Buffalo Bob’s after nearly sixty hours of gambling and counting and drinking and fucking. “Seriously.” He smiles, eyes red, clearly too tired and lacking judgment about my condition. I want to get him off the hook, and I’m not quite sure he’s really going to rest until this is all played out. I want to get me off the hook. It’s crazy. It’s insane to think I can amass that much cash by blackjacking, but I’m going to try.

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I smooch him sweetly, still a little fucked up by the giant wad of cash in my hand. I’ve never held that much money at once. I think it’s hundreddollar bills, and the stack barely fits in my fist. I go back into the ladies’ room and into a stall to sort through the cash. It is for sure all hundreds. And it is for sure over nine grand. I stuff a few thousand into my pocket then tuck the rest into the new purse that Miguel bought yesterday—or a couple days ago—for me to slide chips into. I splash some cold water on my eyes after turning on the faucet by myself, stroll out into the tamed casino, find a seat and start to play. It goes very bad. It shouldn’t, but it does. I get the count in my favor with plus five and double my bet, watch as the dealer takes a blackjack. I should have bought insurance, but I didn’t. Then the count drops off, so I decrease my bets. Now it hits the negative—minus two—so I lower my betting even more. It spirals lower: minus two, minus four. I keep on playing, intent on riding out this shoe and hitting the next one up big. Minus six, minus three—still low bets, but I take a hammering, had started playing $200 hands, now I’m down to $50. Minus three, minus six, minus two… …zero, minus two, plus one—it starts creeping up, so do I. Plus two, plus four. I jump back up, confident the tide is turning and my wave is coming in. Just like the Riviera, I take a creaming anyhow. I scratch my eyes, feeling a headache trying to seep in. One drink won’t hurt. One drink and one cigarette as he reshuffles the shoe—I hadn’t watched the discard pile closely enough anyhow. There’s no cocktail waitress, so I get my own at the closest bar then hunker back down to play, determined to win back what I just lost. I pull out more Franklins, watch as they get dropped on the felt, shoved down with the silver pick. Get my chips, finish my drink, get set and go. I play my hands, watch the count, keep a sidetrack of aces and eye the discard pile. Seesaw up and down, finally down, so I pull out more green and place it on the felt, getting another drink, making it a double. Smoking a cigarette and watching the shuffle. Engrossed, dull throb setting in, but refusing to walk away because I know—I know—the tide will turn. Pulling out more green, ordering another drink. It occurring to me, am I fucking up the counts? But… Nah. It’s a streak, a bad streak. I’m losing these battles, but this is a war of attrition. In the long run, I’ll come out on top. I just have to hang tough, dig in and work through this. Another shuffle, another drink, another fistful of

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24/7 cash. Because I’ll be fucking damned if Wild Bill’s in Primm, Nevada, gets the best of me. Me. Over the past couple days I owned Las Vegas. Las fucking Vegas, you understand? I get another drink, get my attitude in line—I can ride out the streaks in Las Vegas and end up on top, so Primm, Nevada, is child’s play. I’m playing and counting, and things are getting a little more blurry, but there’s no throbbing behind my eyes. It’s plus three, and I know I’m on the verge of a big breakthrough here. Another guy joins the table, says I look like I know what I’m doing, would I give him some pointers. Curtly, I say, “No.” But my cards are scooped before I could do the math on them. I pick up at plus three, think I had an even hand and drew a ten so I put it at plus two, watch his play, but he speaks as he takes his hit and I miss adding in his hand. I get back on track, double my bet the next hand, pull a blackjack, and he’s congratulating me, taps me on the shoulder. I look over at him—he’s wearing a Stetson and a crooked smile, snakeskin boots. By the time I’ve looked back at the table I’ve missed his and the dealer’s hand. Shit. I buckle down. Ignore him completely. Play a couple hands, watch the discards, tally up the aces at seven shown. Play three more hands, and as it’s time to ante I’ve forgotten the count. My head’s buzzing, but I know—I know—I can fight through it, so I get another drink, take my time with it to clear my head and concentrate. I smoke languidly, let the alcohol relax me. Let it drown out the stress and wandering thoughts of Miguel and Castillo and elevators. I get up and strut back over to the table. This is war. Sitting down next to the wannabe cowboy, letting the hands unfold, struggling to remember the count. I start repeating it to myself in my head before each deal, blowing off the discard pile. Count plus three, aces two. I triple my bet and pull an eighteen, watch as the guy next to me hits goddamn twelve facing a four. He draws a jack, which would have busted the dealer. “Fuckin stugatz,” I hiss. “’Scuse me, little lady?” “I said dumb-ass motherfucker! Why, why did you hit that fucking twelve?” “Geez,” he drawls, “I reckon, miss, you done got the disposition of a

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rattlesnake.” I can’t stand it. I get up, taking my piddly pile with me to another table. I toss it down, back it up with some more green from my purse. I’m watching and playing and counting, but it all muddles together. The numbers jumble. I’ve got a minus-two count so I hit my fourteen facing seven, see an ace come up, making it the first one—one ace. I draw a ten and bust so that lowers the count to minus three, but shit—did I add my four and two fives to the count, because that would put the count at zero…yes, the count is now zero. I draw two faces—minus two—the dealer is showing a five so that makes it minus one; he flips and has a six so that makes it zero and draws an ace, that would be the second—two aces—draws another six, so he pays me off and it’s time to start again when I realize I didn’t even finish counting his hand. I know I’m drunk now. Not drunk—no, not exactly drunk—but I can’t keep the count. It’s too much. Sun Tzu would be disgusted with me. I let myself play with emotion instead of smarts. I was outmatched—those drinks, being tired, it was stupid. The stack is a little smaller again, and I can’t, I just cannot go back upstairs and wake up next to Miguel and see his face crestfallen when I tell him I didn’t do him any good, instead I ran the total right back down. He’s going to say I was too tired and should’ve listened and maybe he’ll get the tight-jaws and even if he doesn’t time is still running out. This is Saturday—hell, now this is Sunday—and soon I have to go. It’s getting to be crucial, it’s getting to be do-or-die, and I am not going to die. This debt will be lowered, this debt will be fucking cleared, and then I’m going to do nothing but lay back and rest easy and not worry anymore. I go to the ladies room and stuff some more cash in my pocket, promising myself only to use that. The rest will stay tucked neatly in my new purse that Miguel bought me to shove chips into. Because that’s what I’ll be doing, shoving chips into it instead of pulling money out of it. I got fucked on this goddamn blackjack, out here in Primm, of all places, but I’m not a dumb-ass, I’m not out of control, I know how to gamble, Goddammit, I know how to gamble, I know all the numbers and all the odds and I know how the games work and I’m coherent enough right now to understand that I’m not doing anyone any fucking good at blackjack but that’s not the end of it. Not the end of it. Because this is bullshit is what it is. This city wasn’t built on winners, it was built on the backs of losers, but shit, this city isn’t Las Vegas, that’s not where I am. This is just Primm, Nevada, some final outpost of gambling

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24/7 decadence, a last-stop shopping mart of vice before crossing the border back into the land of no smoking, no gambling, no over-the-top neon glitz—refined, confined, earthquake-stricken, movie star-driven, West Coast, whacked-out California. So here in Primm the rules aren’t exactly the same, even if the games are, even if the numbers are, because gambling isn’t a sucking vortex of loss after loss after loss where I gamble away my man’s safety and peace of mind. It’s an elevator ride, a roller coaster with ups and downs, ups and downs, and I like elevator rides, I get off on elevator rides, because those bottomed-out lows are just a contrast to make the highs even more exciting. And right now, I’m fucking due for a high. I fucking deserve it. Tromping into the baccarat pit, staggering, I drop some chips on the floor. Struggle to pick them up, have to crawl on hands and knees, finally get back up on my feet with them all gathered. The dealers stand there watching, so I play it cool. “I wanna play some James fuckin’ Bond baccarat!” “Oh, Jesus,” the main dealer sighs. That’s right. Screw that warlike game of blackjack. This isn’t like Sun Tzu and that cunning game, this is an eastern game of Tao and balance. All I have to do is find the patterns and sink into them. Just relax and let it flow. Sitting my ass down, that’s right, I’ve worked hard, and I’ve been good and if there really is any sort of fate that rules us all, the chi has to be about ready to explode and shower me with abundant riches because I deserve this. Live my whole fucking life alone, no one caring, and now I finally find someone who I not only really, really love but who seems to really, really love me and now people are going to fuck with him and make us get hurt? Oh, I don’t think so. So, fucking yin-yang this—I feel it all. So I shove some chips onto player, sit back, sip on another drink, smoke a cigarette and watch as the dealers smoosh the cards all together. Not the neat, controlled deal of blackjack; instead, setting all the decks down and spreading them out, rubbing them all over each other, mixing them up randomly, using the whole table. They straighten them out, place them in the shoe and there it all is. Just like that. Destined. The blackjack deck is all stacked up and laid out, but it’s not predestined who’ll win each hand. There’s variables involved. It depends on how other players play their hands, what I choose to do with mine. One card taken or not taken will mix up and change the way the whole rest of the deck unfolds. Nothing is fated.

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But all of this is. There can’t be any changes in baccarat. What’s already lined up in that deck is destined to fall out a particular way, and not a single thing I do or don’t do can change it. It’s all inevitable. Ordained. It’s fate, not free will. I take a deep breath to focus. The only thing I have to do is guess how it’s supposed to play out and bet that way. Just feel the game. Immerse myself in the Chi and choose yin or yang. Dragon breath. Just like how tarot card readers peer in front of them and tell you what’s already in your future. It’s in your cards, it’s right there for them to see. They just need to interpret it correctly. Because it’s all fated. I stick with my player choice. The first hand plays out a tie. If I’d have guessed correctly, that would have paid eight to one. But I didn’t. I increase the bet on player, the hand unfolds and the banker wins. I go player again. And again. And again. Banker keeps hitting. Quite an awfully aggressive table so far. It has to balance out soon. Has to. I bet player. Banker hits. I increase my bet on player. No, banker. Sorry. One of the dealers says, “You know, you don’t have to bet player, you can bet on banker.” “Oh, shit,” is all I can answer. “Really. You can still flip the cards and everything.” “I don’ wanna pay that shitty five-percent commission.” “So you’d rather give us all the money?” I slam a couple chips down. “Player.” They deal. He hides a smirk as he uncovers a six and a three for the banker. A natural to win. I order another drink, slow the pace of the game and think about this. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. I’m trying to force it. I’m not feeling it. Of course it’s aggressive—it’s an aggressive night. Banker feels right. But there’s been so many bankers in a row, I swear, player is due to hit. It’s due. But that’s a fallacy, I cut off that line of thought. It’s the oldest one—The Gambler’s Fallacy. Never get trapped in it. Just because something rolls one way for so long, it doesn’t mean it can’t continue, or that it will continue. Every roll is independent in true statistics. It’s the gambler’s fallacy to base

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24/7 your assumption of future events on the past ones. Ahem. Unlike my life. Unlike the fact that I was due for Miguel and that I’m due to win. Fuck ’em—I bet banker. Player hits. Son of a bitch! You know, this would be really funny if I wasn’t really trying here. More money comes out of my pocket. I shove a few grand in chips into the tie area. Leaning back, I twist my ring around as they pass out the hands. I take a deep drag off my cigarette as they flip the cards. A ten and an eight in one hand for the banker. I hold my breath at they flip the next two cards. Five. And three. Tie. The hand unfolds as a tie. A tie. Pays 8 to 1. It’s not so much a rush as a relief. I exhale, and continue to play.

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[ 41 ]

I

FISH IN MY POCKET AND DON’T FIND ANYTHING. I OPEN THE LITTLE PURSE SLUNG around my neck. Nothing. Not a single thing. Well, that’s not true, there’s things. I dump them out on the bar—a credit card, my lip stuff and ID. A pack of cigarettes with only two left in it. Miguel’s cell phone and the key to his place. A lighter. A room key and a piece of paper with the number scrawled on it in Miguel’s writing. Unbelieving, I sift through the contents again. Standing up, I go through my pockets again. There has to be something left. Something. I specifically tucked money away, saying I wouldn’t use it, and now I can’t find it. I couldn’t have used it. I’m smashed, and I just can’t find the fucking money. It finally hits. Cotton mouthed, stomach sick, mind hazed and weary, it hits me really hard. I lost it all. I fumble with the lighter as I blink back tears, there’s no way I can cry right now. I did this. I did this. No one else to blame, there’s no way I can sit here and cry like an injured party over this. With trembling hands I get the penultimate cigarette lit, take a deep hit and lean back as the room lurches and spins around me. I thought I’d hit the nadir at the blackjack tables when it was spiraling down uncontrollably, but, oh, no. Apparently, that was merely the warm-up session. Because now there’s no hope, not a single sliver of possibility of getting away with this. I’m fucked up and fucked over. The wannabe cowboy sits down next to me, offers to buy me a drink. I sniffle and smile at him. “Sorry I called you a dumb-ass,” I say. “You called me a motherfucker, too, you know. I reckon you could make it up to me, have a drink with me.” He places his hand on my knee. “Thanks, no. My boyfriend, he’s upstairs, I have to get up there.” “Ahh, come on now, lady. He wouldn’t be up there and leaving you

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24/7 down here all alone if he was all that smart, would he?” He moves his hand up my thigh. Dumb-ass, Wrangler-wearing, good ole boy, stugatz motherfucker. I knock his hand away, get up and go upstairs. In the room, I open the door quietly as I can, hold it as it closes so it doesn’t bang. I stand still in the dark, letting my eyes adjust instead of turning on a light. Tiptoe a few feet, slide into the bathroom, gently push that door closed to strip off my clothes and get ready for sleep. Hoping, praying he won’t wake up. There’s no toothbrush, no toothpaste, I’m living like a fugitive. I splash cold water on my face, every nerve pricked with dread, sickening hangover already coming on.

Please don’t let me vomit, he’ll hear it, he’ll wake up. It’ll start a headache throbbing, he’ll yell. I’ll cry. Merda, the drama, I won’t be able to handle it. I tiptoe back into the other room. He’s passed out. On his back, middle of the bed, covers only pulled up to his midriff. Looking so sweet, so undeserving of the shit I’m going to put him through when I tell him that once again, against all odds, the money he needs just isn’t there. Because of me. I slip onto a corner of the bed, careful not to touch him, wiggle my legs under the covers. As I get them pulled up around my shoulders, I let out a sigh of relief as I glance at the clock—7:43 a.m. Can that really be right? Can I have seriously lost—how much was it? Over nine thousand dollars in only three and a half hours? Sick, I close my scratchy eyes. And… “How’d you do?” Miguel asks. I lay there, trying to determine if I’ve already passed out and I’m dreaming this nightmare. Maybe it’s all a nightmare. This whole city, the whole bizarre casino, the downward plummet and all my stupidity involved—maybe it was just a nightmare. And this is part of it. If I can shake myself awake, I’ll be in his bed and we’ll still have the cash. We’ll have toothpaste and SportsCenter and he’ll still love me and this day will just be starting. His hand strokes lazily across my back. Down my spine. I snap my eyes open. He asks again. This isn’t happening. It’s unreal, like a bad acid flashback. All I have to do is confront the unreal reality to make it contort and bend back to reality. So… “Are you really awake?” I ask.

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He laughs. “Yeah, I’m awake. Heard you come in.” “So then I’m awake,” I say. “Martino, what? What’d you do? Go get all fucked up at the bar?” “No,” I say, but my voice cracks. “What? Baby, what?” “I…Miguel…I…” “What? What’s wrong? You okay? You sick?” “No. I didn’t do really good, Miguel.” He laughs. “’S all right. So you lost a little. So what. You think I don’t get that. I get it. It’s cool. How much?” “Rodriguez…” I can’t get the words out. I know I have to. I have to. If I lie now, it’ll make it that much worse later. He hugs around me, making me feel even shittier. I spit it out. “I lost it all.” No reaction. He doesn’t move a muscle, he doesn’t say a word. Nothing. “You hear me?” I ask him. “Couldn’t have heard you right.” A pale whisper: “You heard me right.” He sits up. “You lost it. You lost it all?” “Yes.” “How? Huh? How the fuck you lose it all? You’re joking. You don’t mean all—all of it. You mean what you started with.” “No, I mean all of it.” “Everything I handed you?” I curl up smaller, bring my knees to my chest as the bile rises in the back of my throat. “I’m not saying it again.” “You have no money on you? I handed you all that cash and you lost it all?” Silence. Him prodding: “You know how much was there? Huh?” “Not exactly.” “Not exactly? Not exactly? You never even counted it, divided it up?” Silence. “Nine thousand, three hundred dollars, Marina. Not nine hundred— nine thousand dollars. What the fuck? How’d you do that?” “I…I don’t know.” “Oh. You don’t know.” “It…it was like at the Riv. Nothing worked. It should’ve worked but it didn’t.”

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24/7 “You sure about that? You sure you weren’t fuckin’ things up, countin’ wrong?” “After awhile I was, then I stopped.” “If you stopped, how the fuck it all disappear? This sucks, Marina. Sucks. I trusted you with that shit. I thought you fuckin’ knew better.” Tears start rolling out of my eyes. Ashamed of them, I try to keep it silent as possible, just letting the tears fall and my nose run, pulling the covers up over my face. It sickens me more, makes my stomach flip and throat get heavier. He unleashes a string of Spanish profanities, gets up and paces around. Picks up the lamp and smashes it on the other wall. Wiping my nose, I sit up to take the damage myself before we rack up a hotel bill to put us further in the hole. “I’m a fucking moron, I know it! Don’t take it out on the furniture!” He swears in Spanish, so I curse in Italian, pick up the clock and hurl it over his head, crying harder as he ducks. It dents the wall and I curl back up under the covers. I always had a pretty good arm. “Fuckin’ loco?” “Fucking asshole!” I yell. “You fuckin’ got drunk an’ lost it, didn’t you?” “Yes.” I admit it. “You’re a lush, you know that, Marina? A Goddamn drunk.” “Well, you’re the idiot who gave a drunk nine thousand dollars to gamble with!” “So it’s my fault? Huh?” I get utterly disgusted with myself and take a few deep breaths to pull it together, wiping my face. “No. It’s mine. It’s my fault. I lost it. I’ll get it back. I just need to sleep, then I’ll get it back. I fucked up.” He stands frozen for nearly a full minute. Finally, he crawls back on the bed, calmed. “Mierda,” he says. “Oh shit.” He reaches over, pulls me to his shoulder, starts stroking my hair. “I’ll get the money back,” I say, calming internally. Softly: “Yo, I still got some cash. Didn’t give you everything, chica. We got six thou still. Know what that is? That’s five thousand bucks in less than three days.” “Yeah, it’s still nine thousand bucks less than it would have been.” “Know what? Fuck it. You ain’t gotta get nothin’ back. I pushed you, baby. I pushed you hard. I knew you was tired. This is my fault, but know what? It’s nothin’. It don’t matter.”

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“It does matter. That was so much money, and now it’s gone.” “Ain’t gone, Marina. Didn’t just disappear.” He laughs. “We know where it is, it just ain’t ours no more. Fuck it, wasn’t ours to start with. I mean, sucks a little this place got it. Fuckers don’t even have free shampoo in the bathroom.” “They don’t have toothpaste or a toothbrush.” My head feels all right now, my stomach has stopped churning. My teeth still feel gritty and disgusting. Laughing again: “Always with the toothpaste shit. I’ll buy you some, all right?” “I’ll win that money back. I swear I will.” “I don’t care. Don’t matter. I told you, I told you, this ain’t your problem. You dug me out five grand already. You know how much that is?” “But I lost it. You don’t know what that’s like. I had all that and I just fucked it all up, lost it.” “I don’t know what that’s like? Think about that a second. Yeah, I know exactly what it feels like.” “I feel sick about it. It’s making me sick.” “Then stop. C’mere, pretty girl, c’mere.” He pulls me up higher, maneuvers me onto his lap. Kisses my eyelashes, then the scratch on my neck. “It’s only money. Remember that. It don’t mean nothin’. Now you startin’ to see? Huh? This is why I didn’t want you pulled in this. This ain’t on you, none o’ it.” “I just…I wanted to help you.” “You do help me. You help me. That’s all I want. You.” He tucks my hair behind my ear. “You’re really drunk right now, huh?” “Huh?” “Yeah, you are. That was a buzzkill, huh? You ready for sleep?” I just stare at him. “Mmm. Muy dulce. Muy, muy dulce. Haceme el amor, ready for that?” I understood very sweet, and something about love—I’ve got it pretty well figured out. At this point, whatever he wants is fine. “Just don’t kiss me, my teeth are gross.” He kisses me anyhow. * * * I wake up and blink a few times, then close my eyes again to see if I detect the hangover lingering anywhere, knowing immediately where I am and what’s going on. Thinking I’m okay, I sit up and check the clock—2:37 p.m. Charming.

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24/7 There’s something strange. I get up and go the bathroom, come back out, open the drapes and start poking around for a cigarette. I get one lit and cough then drag on it again, sitting back down on the bed. The empty bed. I was just there, but I check the bathroom like an idiot. Nothing. Pull open the closet door. There’s no luggage, no clothes strewn around except for mine. I check the nightstand. No keys. No wallet. No note. No Marlboros. I’m alone. There’s no sound except my own breathing. I flip on the TV and turn to the Weather Channel. Look around again. There’s no money. Okay. So. It’s past noon, and the front desk hasn’t called to kick me out. Wrapping a towel around myself, I check the front of the door. Yes, there’s a Do Not Disturb sign on it. He must have paid for two nights. So we’re staying here again tonight. Great! The car keys aren’t around. Right. I go in the bathroom, unwrap a bar of soap. I flip on the shower, let it run a minute to get good and warm. Climbing in, I realize it. We’re staying here again because he wants to gamble more. Of course. He says he doesn’t care, but that’s just words. He cares. He knows this is his shot. That’s why he came tearing out here last night— more casinos, more blackjack, more money. That’s why he didn’t stop me from gambling last night. Because it’s been a manic spree and he says he doesn’t care, but I saw it last night, this morning. I saw how pissed he was. Devastated. He pulled it together, told me it was okay, it wasn’t my fault. Sweetened up and softened it for me. But I know. I know he’s not dumb. He thinks that I think he’s not all that sharp, but he is. He knows by now exactly how to handle me. How to work me. How to manipulate me. Because that is what he’s doing. He’s manipulating me. He hasn’t had years to learn, but he’s had plenty of experience in settling me down, easing me back and bringing me up in the short time we’ve been together. He’s smooth with me. And the past few days, he’s played me like a fiddle. He kept me tethered close, fully sated and moved so quick I didn’t see it coming. He pranced around, popped me with pills when I had a headache, stuffed me with a

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burger if I was hungry, poured a few shots down my throat when I was spent, gave me a few puffs to keep me mellow when I was strung, and mostly, the biggest ingredient, he plied me with sex and affection to keep me loose and humming along. He knew how to keep me completely brainless and sharp at the same time. He took care of everything, made every decision, never let me lose focus. The only times my mind was clicking was while I was gambling. What an incredibly stupid, fatal fuck-up he made by simply leaving me alone last night. What an incredibly stupid, fatal fuck-up he’s making right now by leaving me alone to think about all this. Of course, manipulating or not, I don’t blame him. I want to do this anyhow. It’s a little sucky that he refuses to admit that he wants me to do it, but maybe that’s the thing. Maybe he just got caught up. He didn’t plan all this out ahead of time—he just got a notion and started rolling and kept rolling and instinctively knew how to keep it rolling with me. That’s much more likely. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to say it out loud because he’s worried it’ll put more pressure on me. I’d be doing it for him anyhow. I owe him. I turn under the sprays, close my eyes under the harsh shower of water as I re-suds with the bar of soap, trying to wash off the past couple days of sweat. He makes me feel alive. He makes life more fun. I owe him for not shutting down or shutting me out. I owe him for his patience and persistence. I owe him for giving up, giving in and giving it all away to me. I owe him for keeping me calm and keeping my fucked, brainless head on straight. For him being able to keep his fucked, brainless head on straight. That’s a lot of debt. And debt equals pressure. He knows that. He knows all about that. And I’m learning. Turning under the sprays again I swipe a hand across my face then brace my hands against the tile walls, sagging and relaxing as the shower heads pound away at me. Looking down I see the water stream between my legs, washing away the last remnants of him. He’s counting on me. He hasn’t said it, but that’s the truth. I felt it before any of this money shit came up. He wasn’t just affectionate. Sometimes he was clingy. Anyone else—Madone, it would have driven me mad and far away a long time ago. It was like he needed me, like he needed to keep me close. Like he was depending on me to help keep him happy.

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24/7 I know that’s true now. Everyone else left him—his father, other girlfriends, his best friend. He’s counting on me to stick with him. To prove to him that he’s worth it. Just like he’s proving to me that I’m worth it. And now he’s counting on me for the money, too. I just wish he had the balls to admit it and ask me for help. But…where the fuck is he, anyhow? From the other room, a click, then the blunted snap of the door closing. There he is. I shut off the faucets, wrap a towel around me then hover there a minute before going out. He forgave me last night for losing all the cash, but today’s fresh. He’s been alone and had time to think about it, maybe he’s going to ream me for it now. “Baby, don’t dry off,” he calls out. “I got your stuff, shampoo an’ all that shit.” Oooh-kay. Guess he’s not pissed. He goes, “Toothbrush, too.” Oooh-kay. Still dripping, I pause to plaster on a smile and then go out to greet him. “Missed you,” I say, still smiling. “Didn’t wanna wake you up. Just went to get this stuff.” I check out the bed where he’s sitting with the bag next to it, pulling out my personal sundry items. He’s fresh-looking, wearing clean clothes. “Where’d you go? You went all the way back to your place?” He looks at me weird. “Nah, was in the car, just didn’t bring it in last night. Remember?” “Umm…” Squinting at me: “Packed it a couple days ago, before hittin’ Laughlin. We went home, grabbed some sleep, threw this stuff together before takin’ off. Remember we had it there?” “Oh, yeah,” I say, vague snapshots of memories sliding together. I smile and kneel in front of him. Chipper voice now, “Love you.” He’s still squinting at me. Hesitant. Then: “Te amo. So, uh, what…you’re almost done showering?” “Yeah. Thanks for bringing this stuff up. So I guess you’re not mad at me then?” “Ain’t mad.” He’s testing. Hesitating. He can tell something’s different. He can tell I’m back to coherence. I slept long enough. I’ve had time to think. I wonder if he knows what did it. If he knows his leaving me alone for just that long is

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what derailed my mindless complicity. Or if he’s not putting that all together yet, he’s just playing by ear and has realized the change in key. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I’m not mad. But I am going to have some fun and stick the screws to him a little. “So,” I say. “It’s late and we’re not kicked out. You paid for tonight, too?” “Oh, uh, yeah. Didn’t wanna wake you so I went an’ did that. It’s only twenty bucks a night here, you know, no big deal.” “So, you planned on staying here again tonight?” “Uh, don’t know, really.” “So you don’t care? What we do?” “Uhm. No.” “Well. Then. They’ve got a pool here. I’d sort of like to swim awhile. Then we could go home, I guess. I like your bed a lot more than this one here.” “Uh-huh. Oh. Uh, we didn’t pack swimsuits.” “Oh. Well. I guess we could just go back to your place—I can swim there, right? I’d sort of like to do that. Maybe catch some baseball. Stay in for the night.” “Uh-huh.” He nods. Defeated. He gives in. “K.” “Miguel? Don’t you want to gamble today?” “You mean, like… what? Nah, it’s all right.” “Oh. Okay then. I’ll get dressed.” I climb up off my knees, stand above him and wait a beat, expecting him to come out with it. He doesn’t. “Oh, come on, Rodriguez. You’re giving up, just like that?” “What do you mean?” “You know what I mean. You’re dying to play more blackjack. You don’t want to go home and stay there and not gamble. You want to win back that money I lost.” “You ain’t gotta do nothin’. Told you, this—” “Yes, I know. This ain’t on me. Would you just say it, please?” “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ’bout.” I laugh right at him. “You are dying to have me help you win this money. I know it. You know it. You’re trying to keep it all low-key and on the down-low so I won’t feel pressured. I’d feel less pressure if you’d admit that you want my help. And I’ll happily, happily do it.” “You don’t gotta—” “Yes, I know I don’t have to. I want to, okay? I want to. But I also want you to admit that you want me to.”

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24/7 Silence. “You owe me this,” I tell him. “I owe you that?” “Yes. I admitted that I loved you first. The least you could give me is this one.” He smirks. “You did give up that first I love you. That’s sorta funny.” “Oh, shit. I was fucked senseless, what the hell else was I supposed to say? You’ll always have that to lord over me.” “K. Well, I love you back.” “That’s what you say.” “K. So you wanna, then? You wanna help me?” “Help you what?” A sigh. “I wanna see if we can win some money at blackjack. I need your help.” “Rodriguez, thank you.” “So you will, then?” “I will. I want to. Okay? I want to do this. Know what else? We’re going to do this. And this is how.” I sit down next to him, and we iron out the plan for playing—how to bet, how much, when to leave. It’s almost the same as before, but now it’s spoken out loud, and we’re perfectly clear. This time we’re not fucking around. Aggressive. I’ll count. He’ll bet. We’re a team. When we get it all straight, I get up to finish in the shower and brush my teeth. As I’m going into the bathroom, he calls out to me. “Hey, señorita. You know, just ’cause you said it first, that don’t mean I wasn’t feelin’ it first.”

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[ 42 ]

W

E FOREGO BUFFALO BILL’S CASINO FOR THE TIME BEING, BASED SOLELY ON MY ILL

feelings from last night. Instead, we cross the street and play at Whiskey Pete’s. Buffalo Bill’s, Whiskey Pete’s—apparently everywhere in Primm is named after cowboys. I sit back and let it roll. I’m showered and my teeth are brushed. I’ve got on clean clothes and a clear head. Miguel’s sitting next to me, just like we agreed. I start with $200, he starts with $2,000. That’s how this will work, because, clearly, I don’t handle money very well. All I have to do is play my hand, watch the count, sidetrack the aces and keep an eye on the discard. Increase and decrease my bets accordingly. Very small amounts—I won’t really be winning or losing anything. That’s all in his hands. It’s his job to watch my bets, play his hands and wager appropriately. I’m too busy with the logistics. The logistics are the key. The detail makes or breaks us. But it’s not everything. There are tides, and he’s in charge of the ebb and flow. He has to watch and be aware and attuned and pick up the streaks because as much as logic and numbers are the key, as much as luck isn’t supposed to factor into it, it nevertheless does. There are hot hands and cold hands, and he has to be able to judge when he’s got a winning streak in progress and be able to incorporate that into the count and capitalize on it. Because numbers are numbers and cards are cards, but hot is hot, and all that is what equals winning. We catch the tail end of a shoe, and I start my count after the re-shuffle. It’s a six-decker, $5 minimum, $5,000 maximum table. It’s a latesurrender, double-after-splitting, dealer-stands-on-soft-seventeen table that carries a house edge of point three-six percent. And as the dealer slides the cards across the felt, I think about that house edge, crack my neck and think, Oh, yeah? Watch this. Count: zero. Miguel: king, queen. Me: six, five. Dealer: three. Count: plus one. Miguel stands. I double down: queen. Count: zero. Dealer flips

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24/7 hole card: two. Dealer hits: six. Dealer hits: seven. Count: plus two—we both win. Count: plus two, no aces shown. Start another hand. It happens on the third shoe. I hadn’t noticed anyone hovering. Suddenly the dealer picks up a hand, and abruptly a gruff male voice speaks. “I think it’s about time you left, sweetheart.” It takes me longer than a couple seconds for it to register, I’m intent on waiting for another hand to appear. When it doesn’t show up, I look up at the dealer and that’s when I realize the words were directed at me. I see the owner of the voice, a suited man, probably about fifty years old, glasses, somewhat portly. “Go on,” he prods. “Time for you to leave this table here.” “Is it closing?” “No. I don’t want you playing here anymore. Leave. Immediately.” “I…I…” But Miguel grabs my arm, and before I can think of anything else to say, we’re on our way out. He tells me to keep going as he takes my chips and goes to the casino cage. Out in the daylight, he says to me, “Once they want us gone, that’s it. Better to leave ’fore they call anywhere else. I can’t risk that shit.” “Miguel, I know. I’m sorry, I just didn’t realize what was going on.” “That’s two now. Same as Stratosphere. Shit.” “I assume we did okay? They wouldn’t ask us to leave if we were losing, right?” Grinning: “Cashed out eighty-five hundred.” “Fuck! You’re kidding me.” “Nope.” “Wait, and you just cashed that all? Did they ask for ID?” “Nope.” “Oh, stop!” “Nope. Thought they would, you know. Almost didn’t take it all. Figured that pit boss was gonna bust balls on that, too.” “So you didn’t get CTR’d on it?” “Martino, no.” “’Cause you know if they ask for ID you’re gonna have to pay taxes on that money later. You know that, right?” “I know!” He laughs. “Guess they just wanted us gone, figured we’d be Vegas’s problem soon enough. I was worried, you know, ’cause o’ my job an’ shit. Didn’t want ’em askin’ for ID cause o’ that.”

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“Rodriguez, from now on, maybe I should cash the chips out. Because of that.” “Shit, you get so engrossed you don’t even realize they’re kickin’ us out.” “Oh, shit. Once I’m snapped out of it I’m fine. I should do that part of it.” “Yeah, well, we gotta find someplace for you to do that part of it.” “Buffalo Bill’s sucks. I’m not gambling in there.” “C’mon, can’t be that bad. You was tired, drunk.” “Rodriguez, I’m telling you, that place has bad mojo for me.” “Well, I don’t wanna go back to the strip, man.” “I understand. Laughlin?” “Guess so. Unless…” * * * So, 507 miles, 7 hours and 13 minutes later, we pull in to Caesars Tahoe. We’d gone and checked out of Buffalo Bill’s, and he persuaded me to sit down and give it one last shot there, so I humored him. We sat down at a table, played maybe a half-hour before he pulled me up and out of there, hurrying me to the car. That half-hour cost us thirty-six hundred bucks. He mumbled about it, shook his head, and I just couldn’t resist smirking and saying, “I told you so.” Then he clicked the ignition, put it in gear, hit the gas, we hit the highway and drove all the way to Lake Tahoe. Here’s the deal. I’d never been here—Tahoe. And Reno is only a stone’s throw away from here. It’s off the strip, so even if we get hassled there’s less likelihood of it making any waves for him at work. There’s not as many casinos as in Vegas but more than in Laughlin, many more than the three in Primm, one of which already made us. Tahoe sounded nice, moving north, getting out of the burning heat. We’d be losing playing time, but it was a better option than going back to the strip and nervously fluttering from one casino to the next, playing minimally so as not to draw attention. This way, we can really sink into a game and bet larger. We might get pulled off just like at the Stratosphere and Whiskey Pete’s, but he’s willing to at least play to that point instead of anxiously dashing before they suspect anything, before we make any real money. He’s done hunting the small game now, he wants the big scores. And I knew there was a Caesars here. I’m quite loyal. And it’s quite breathtaking.

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24/7 Much fewer lights. The water of the lake sparkles around the palaces and resorts here. The mountains are a snow-capped relief from the seemingly endless desert. It’s not like being lost in an uninhabited natural forest, but it’s not like the artificially glowing streets of Vegas, either. Less manic. More balanced. Like nature and commerce have reached an amicable détente here. I’m not sure if it’s quite as honest as Vegas is, though. Or maybe it’s because the gambling here isn’t the main focus, maybe it isn’t as corrupt as Vegas. Nah. They’re just subtler with the illusions out here. It’s not all about gambling here, but it’s all about money. Out here they just use the soft sell, careful not to destroy that ambience of nature, make it seem like the money is just a passing distraction. It doesn’t entertain with bright lights and big booms to get you to empty your pockets out with hollers and yelps. It sort of lulls you in peacefulness so the money can just float out of your wallet with an easy sigh and gentle wink. At Caesars, we go to our room to drop off our luggage. Miguel checks me out before proceeding, but he says he’s in good shape to go, and I remind him that he’ll be holding the main funds once again. We slept half the day. Sure, it was a long ride, but that was a nice break from the counting routine. I think it refreshed me. It clearly didn’t harm me, because as soon as we sit down, I fall into the groove and don’t have any trouble with the count or the cards. And just as before, just as I like it, the rest is up to him. Something strange happens in the middle of the third shoe. I’m rolling just fine, but Miguel gets up and leaves the table. I play the shoe out, watch the shuffle and wait to see if he’ll come back. Ten hands into the next shoe, when the count goes pretty bad and he hasn’t come back, I get up and leave. Find him at a nearby bar. “You left me,” I say, sliding up next to him. “Yeah, figured I’d leave ’stead o’ gettin’ kicked out for a change.” “You did that good?” “You did that good,” he says, tossing me several chips. “Wanna cash them in?” They’re thousand-dollar chips, eight of them. “You got all these?” I ask. “Huh-uh. That’s only half.” “Stop!” “Shhhh.” He laughs. “People’re playin’ big money all around so they don’t stop us at a couple grand.”

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“Let’s go somewhere else and try more!” He’s got a better idea, thinks it’s pretty late, admits he’s tired. So we go back to our room to get some rest. It’s comforting to be there. It’s not the same as the Caesars in Vegas, but there’s a familiarity to it. It’s a good night. I can tell he’s sleepy because he’s gentle and slow with me, really romantic, just like the surroundings. Nothing forced, nothing rushed, humming as he kisses me, muffled sighs and hushed tones. Warm breath, soft skin and deep sleep afterward. It’s a good day. He doesn’t rush us to the casinos. Instead, he goes to the gym, joins me for a swim afterward. It’s an indoor pool but a really nice one, all decked out with waterfalls and lagoons. And with it being such a gorgeous day outside and in the middle of a resort area, we have it all to ourselves. I know I’m going to tune up and pour it on really soon, but that’s not a problem either. Because I can do it. I know exactly how to do it. All I have to do is let myself do it. And then I know that he’ll pull me along and fuck me until that’s all melted away and I’ll be oblivious and brainless all over again. We go upstairs and order room service as we get showered and dressed and the day slips into evening. Now it’s time to gamble. It’s a good evening. Everything clicks. We hit a couple rough spots— I’m not watching the money, but I know it by the cards that are dealt. We’re at Harvey’s, we just passed a rough spot—bad count, bad cards, bad luck, losing hands—but a new shoe is being shuffled and I’ve got them tracked. I know two spots where there’s a nice big lump of faces to be played. And my mind is humming along perfectly. I’m just gobbling up the cards and notching the numbers higher or lower without any effort, just like it’s second nature. Almost like the constant numbers popping in my head are a mantra, a meditative chant that’s keeping me out of the moment and delving me deeper into it at the same time. Making me part of it. True count plus three; the deck is due to bleed out face cards and a couple aces according to where I marked them in the shuffle. I play two hands with doubled bets. As the dealer starts sliding out the hands I see Rodriguez hog the action, too—he’s got three hands spread before him. He gets dealt double aces and splits them, blackjacks one. I blackjack one of my hands. He also pulls a nine on top of his other ace, has a pair of faces and a junk hand totaling fourteen. He hits his fourteen, gets a four and stands pat. My other hand is twelve facing the dealer eight, so I hit it. I draw

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24/7 a queen and bust that one, but the dealer flips her hole card to show a seven and takes her hit, gets a ten. Five out of six hands of ours win, including a bona fide 3:2-paying blackjack for me. The thrill and excitement bubbles to my head, a pure rush of winning adrenaline unleashed as the tension faded. Ken Uston, Sun Tzu and Dustin Hoffman—you magnificent bastards. Thank you. And eat your hearts out. I hadn’t looked at Miguel’s bets—that could only cause trouble. But now I do see him slide the dealer a nice fat tip, and as I follow suit, the pit boss comes over to watch us play. My heart flutters under his intense scrutiny, but I keep the count going anyhow. I don’t watch Rodriguez’s bets. We’d agreed beforehand that if heat showed up, he wasn’t going to follow my signals anymore. I trust he’ll follow that plan, and I make some deliberately bad increases, senseless drop-offs—I’ve got the smaller money anyhow. Instead of betting the way the count says I should, I bet according to wins. Since I’d won, I increase my bet even though a wad of faces just splashed in front of me. I win the hand anyhow, even more faces splashing across the table in the right places. I should drop back, but I don’t. I add even more to my ante and catch the pit boss’s eyes flicker on me and I know, I just suddenly know what he’s thinking with that dubious glance— lucky dumb bitch. Because I know what he knows. He knows how to play, and he knows how to count. Even if he can’t keep up a count as well as I can, he knows that after that many faces any real player would drop off. But I increased my bet anyhow because I’m high and winning. He thinks that’s all I’m seeing. He thinks that I think I know a little about the game, and I’m riding a lucky wave. But then he goes back to hawkeyeing Miguel. Because he has the big money, and he just made the big score. I know the guy’s, right now, trying to determine what the fuck is going on. Were we really that lucky? Because I know something else he knows— that maybe his instinct is to underestimate me, but that he also knows better. This is his job. So even though that instinctual thought of “lucky dumb bitch” flitted through his head, it was immediately followed up by a more learned and reasoned response to re-evaluate the situation. Right now, maybe he’s thinking that Miguel’s the counter because of how he backed off. Or maybe it is me, and we’re screwing off intentionally to avoid his wrath. Or maybe we are just a couple of lucky dumb fucks who stumbled on

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his table tonight. That’s why he’s got to stay cool and be diplomatic. He can’t just spark up, mouth off, let loose and hustle us out of there quite yet, because other appearances might be deceiving. You can almost always tell when someone has money to spare, but it’s that “almost” that hooks them here. The mere fact that we are here means they have to consider our wallets very seriously. And you just never quite know when some rich folks might be slumming. Whatever. The point is, this guy, the pit boss, he won’t just toss us or hassle us while there’s the possibility we’re dumbfucks with fat wallets the casino can claw into. And he won’t take the chance that we’re not dumbfucks, that we do know what we’re doing and what we’re doing is systematically lowering the profit margin of this casino. So he’ll do the only thing he can do right now. Watch. And we’ll do the only reasonable things we can do. Cut the shit. I increase my bet even when I shouldn’t then play out the hand and pull out a win based on sheer luck alone. It amuses me and I can’t conceal a grin. Because that’s how it goes sometimes. It’s in the cards, all in the cards. Even though I read them and it should all be going wrong, things just clicked and out they came to make me a winner. The pit boss never does say anything. No other floor personnel come hover around us, either, so I guess we do fool them. Or probably we don’t, but we stop and leave before they ask us to. We cash out six grand each and we don’t get carded doing it. Best, we have more chips we don’t cash. Lots of them. He’d bet heavy on those three hands. Lost a little back. But we’re up. We’re way up. We go to Harrah’s to try our luck there. I play my hands, watch the count, sidetrack the aces and keep an eye on the discard pile. Fall right into the rhythm of the game over there, too—deep in concentration, lucid of my surroundings, relaxed and comfortable. I don’t have a headache, and I’m not even tired when Miguel pushes back his chair and leaves. I can tell by his saunter that we’re done for the night. There’s nothing more to think about for a while again. We’ll just hang out, he’ll update me and then maybe we’ll have some drinks and then he’ll fuck my brains out again. And maybe if we fall into a pretty good groove I’ll be able to fuck him semi-conscious and oblivious, too. We can get lost in

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[ 43 [

I

WAS RIGHT. HE TAKES US BACK TO CAESARS AND BUYS US A COUPLE DRINKS. TELLS me where we stand. Leaning conspiratorially close: “I got over twelve grand in cash on me.” I nod. Light a cigarette and start flipping it around my fingers as I sip at my drink. “Rina, we got lots o’ chips. Figure I’ll leave ’em that way ’stead o’ sweatin’ out the tax man.” “Will that work?” “Shit, yeah. Just told you, got twelve large cash. That’ll pay our room here, be our bankroll. The rest can stay in plastic, won’t have to worry ’bout losin’ it in a bad streak then.” “Yeah, but I know you said they’ll take chips, but that’s Vegas ones. We’re a long ways from Vegas. Won’t they be pissed about coming all the way out here?” “Listen to me. I got a lotta chips. They won’t think twice about driving out here to cash in on forty-two thousand dollars.” I choke, and my cigarette burns my ring finger as I hit a dead stop. I drop it and shake my hand, still coughing up my vodka. I retrieve the smoke and crush it out. Pull an ice cube from the drink and soothe it across the tiny burn on my finger. I take another drink and ask the question. “You want to repeat that to me?” “You heard me.” He just grins. “I couldn’t have heard you right.” “You did. Why you think that boss came an’ eyefucked us so hard? Then we added s’more over at Harrah’s, too.” “Holy shit. Miguel, I…I don’t know what to say.” He leans back in his chair, squints at me. “Yeah? I do. Thank you, that’s what I gotta say.” “My pleasure. Wasn’t just me, though.”

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24/7 “Yeah, was mostly you. You know, we do make a good team.” “Yes, we really do. Apparently. We’re like Cruise and Hoffman, man.” “Baby,” he says and lights a smoke, “you’re fuckin’ obsessed with that flick.” “We are, though,” I insist. “We’re like Cruise and Hoffman. Only with tattoos.” Him, grinning: “And sex.” “And without the cool room at Caesars.” “And them seizures.” “They weren’t seizures,” I correct. “They were fits.” “Whatever,” he says with a laugh. “’Course, you do sorta have your own kinda freak-outs.” “Oh, fuck off, Rodriguez.” “I mean it. I mean about us. We’re a good couple, you know? We’re cool together, don’t you think?” I nod. Now: “Marina, can I ask you somethin’?” Aww, shit. That’s just never any fucking good. I nod gamely, take a big gulp from my drink. He squints at me again. “You catchin’ a buzz?” I chew an ice cube. “No, this is my first drink. Could use another if we’re done for the night, though.” I know that’s not the actual question, he’s got something else he’s working up to. I glance around, avoiding his eyes, momentarily delaying the imminent query. Then I soften and meet his gaze, giving him the opening. That’s when it comes. I was expecting something to come out of left field, something somewhat odd or unexpected lobbed in my general vicinity. Instead it’s a 98-mph fastball straight from the pitcher’s mound and it beans me right in the melon before I even have a chance to flinch, let alone duck. He goes, “Ready to marry me?” I spit ice chips everywhere and knock over my glass. Leap to my feet to avoid the cubes and the remaining liquid that’s pouring all over the small table between us. Heart pounding, I’m stuttering as I pick them up. Miguel helps me scoop them back into the glass then gets up, goes to the bar and gets a towel to mop up. “Sorry,” I say as I smooth my hair back and take a seat again. He’s grinning as he takes his seat, says, “Shocked you, huh?” “Yeah.” I laugh, calming down. The surprising jolt wearing off, realizing

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the danger’s over. He’s making some sort of weird joke is all this is. He rests his arms on the table, leans forward and nervously licks his lips. “I, uh, I wasn’t kidding.” Or maybe the danger isn’t over. His eyebrows raise, his eyes are wide—it’s his innocent, earnest look. “I’m in love with you, Marina. I never thought I’d be like this. An’ it ain’t gonna change…” I gulp and twist my ring around on my finger under the table. As he keeps talking, my skin flushes as my head hums. I could laugh right now. I could cry. I don’t know what the fuck to do. I stare at him as he talks. Thinking: Oh, Jesus. I’ve done it now. He’s calm and cool, professing his undying love for me. And he’s oblivious, he’s not even getting it that I’m squirming over here. I’ve really gone and done it. He’s lost his mind and it’s my fault. My fault. I’ve gone and fucked his brains out. I wanted to do it. I said I wanted to do it, and now I have. In one short week, I’ve gone and fucked him senseless. It was supposed to be me. Who the fuck is this sitting in front of me? Where is Rodriguez? I can’t possibly be stuck here in Tahoe with some half-wit, brainless dude who’s got control of the car keys. Will he even be able to drive? Or is he so obliterated and mentally demolished that he’ll have lost that capacity, too? And he’s still talking. “…want everyone to know. I know it’s soon, it’s really quick, but I’m sure o’ this, baby…” My hands are clamped together under the table, shaking. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to look at him, but I’m going to stop listening now. I have to stop listening or else my head is going to explode. He’s still talking, telling me how he needs me, his brains obviously fucked right out of his skull. That’s why I can’t let it happen—my head exploding, that is. Because if my head explodes we’ll both be brainless, and I’m not sure we’ll ever make it back to Vegas, let alone avoiding a wedding chapel, and if we’re both brainless for the duration of the trip we’ll be forced to rely on nothing but our sex drives—which, I’m fairly certain, will remain intact even if our brains are bled out because I’m looking at him and I can tell by the wicked spark in his eye that even though he’s lost his mind, he’s already eyeing me up and I can tell he wants to finish this speech, see me nod and then fuck me before anything else. Worse, as I’m looking at him, brainless or not, as appalling and scary as this is right now, I really could climb all over him and give it a winning try to fuck him back to his senses and reality. And, oh, Jesus, if we go and fuck after all this, he’s going to think I mean to be saying yes and then we’ll never get back to Vegas without hitting

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24/7 a wedding chapel and sending this sublime, surreal adventure into a completely different orbit. Oh, my God! He’s getting off his chair but he’s not getting up. He’s getting down— holy shit!—he’s down on one knee and he’s taking my hand. Oh. Oh. Gah. I can’t look away. Riveted. As though watching a crash in slow motion. I should stop him, I need to say something. Why can’t I think of something to say? It’s…it’s too late, he’s talking, he’s going to say it. He’s… “Marina, please? Will you marry me?” Frozen. Deer in the headlights, knife to my throat, unwanted marriage proposal frozen. He’s watching me. Expectantly. Hopefully. Wide-eyed, kid on Christmas morning, down on one knee proposing hopeful. I…I can’t hurt him. I cannot hurt him. I can’t say no. Look at him. I am looking at him. I can’t hurt him and tell him no. But… I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. Marriage? The idea of it sticks like overcooked linguine. Minivans and picket fences and watering the lawn and domestic squabbles and, if we’re lucky, a romantic “movie night” once a month and being tethered and chained and sucked into a routine and vortex of commitment. Why? Why is this happening? Why is he doing this? I thought he knew me. He did know me, until he lost the last vestiges of his fucked-senseless mind. He’s so sweet and he’s so handsome and he’s so smart and he’s so strong and mostly he’s just so good. And I can’t do this, I can’t hurt him, I can’t make him feel foolish, I can’t let him down. “I love you, Miguel. I love you so much.” He keeps looking up at me, but now I can see it, his eyes waver, they’re losing their surety. “Please, I love you, get up, though, get up, not like that, not like this.” “I…I…” he stutters a couple times as I gently plead and nudge him up, back into his chair. He knows, he knows now, he knows already, and it’s making me nauseous. Him babbling, “I didn’t know, you know, about a ring, ’cause o’ how you said you don’t wear jewelry. I’ll get one, though, anything you want…” “Miguel, I love you, not a diamond.” Hopeful again: “So. So then, you…you will?”

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I can only think of one thing to say. And as I sit here looking at him I know it’s not the right thing. But I also know what the wrong thing would be. I can’t just reject him outright. And I can’t say yes. How can it happen like this? One minute cruising along, and the next spinning out of control? And I know it, I know before I say it, even though it’s the only thing I can think of to say—“Yes” being a noose of an option from which I’ll hang myself if I say it, “No” being a razor that will cut him too deeply. There’s only one option, so I utter it. “I have to go to the bathroom.” Before I even start to stand up, I know it, I know what’s happened to us. Miguel and Marina. We just jumped the shark. I stagger awkwardly to the closest public bathroom, clutching my (his) purse, feeling as lightheaded as if I’d just downed a pint of vodka. As unsteady as if I was still wearing those megabuck Manolo Blahniks. Heavyhearted as if I’d just run over a puppy on the highway. How did this happen? Things were humming and running along fine, and now, suddenly, bam! Like a C-4-rigged piñata exploding worm-infested candy. I don’t know what to blame here—the pacific setting, the winning roll tonight. It was all just so freaking perfect. That’s how we got in this mess. And now the dilemma of how to clean up. Shit. Holy Shit. Merda. Mierda. This isn’t even supposed to happen. “I don’t see any loves.” That’s what I was told. Just a stupid, senseless prognostication based on pieces of laminated paper that I pulled out of a deck. How could that have changed so quickly to a lifetime commitment? And how come it just doesn’t feel right? Under the sallow lights I stare grimly at my reflection and fight off the hyperventilation that threatens to overtake me. I don’t know what to do. Walking out of the bathroom, I see him from afar. Sitting there waiting for me. He’s fidgeting, one leg bouncing up and down, slumped down in his chair, his fist against his temple, supporting his heavy head. Completely incongruous that the man is all bunched up over me. Even from this distance I can see him swallow, his eyebrows wrinkled together with downcast eyes. I know how his eyes are going to look when I go back over there. They’ll be dark and opaque, possibly picking up some reflections from the lights above. Certainly reflecting the disappointment and pain. I can’t see that. I can’t do this.

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[ 44 ]

T

HAT’S RIGHT. I keep right on moving. I don’t go past where he’s sitting, I turn crisply and stride the other way, hitting a full-speed run before I get to the lobby. I rationalize. I know that’s what I’m doing as I do it, excusing my cowardly behavior. But that’s the way the survival instinct kicks in. Fight or flight, baby. He’s just high-strung and wired up right now. He’ll be okay and back down as soon as he has a chance to think about this. Then he’ll realize this mistake and be simply relieved that I didn’t pounce and keep him cornered into this. He doesn’t need me rejecting him. He just needs to think. I just need to think. I push through the gilded glass doors, rushing out into the misty night, never once breaking stride. I run down the long walkway that leads to the street, never looking back over my shoulder. Once on the highway, I slow my pace and turn around to face the oncoming traffic, still moving. Unblinking, unthinking, as the first set of headlights grows more intense I keep strutting backward. My thumb flies out, slicing through the dark, motioning and requesting at the same time. I’m no Sissy Hankshaw, that’s for sure. The car buzzes by, and I turn around after it passes, walking briskly until the next one passes. Up ahead, its taillights suddenly brighten as it pulls to the side of the road. I run after it and climb inside, asking the driver to get it in gear before my right foot is even off the ground and the door is closed. Reminding myself, as we pull away, don’t look back, don’t freak out and whatever else, just please don’t stop. * * *

My eyes pop open, pupils rapidly dilating to find some logic. Gasping for air, my body bolts and stiffens, heart pumps so hard it nearly explodes. Shuddering, I swipe a clammy palm across my face and collect my breath.

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24/7 “You all right, ma’am?” I nod and adjust my sunglasses. “Just dozed off, got startled,” I answer. It’s been fifteen hours and forty-two minutes since I ran out the door of the hotel in Tahoe and left Miguel sitting there unaware. I’ve been in six different cars with a total of ten other people. I’ve heard two pretty good jokes and eight different radio stations. I slept about six hours—it’s now nearly seven p.m. Tuesday. I have one plane ticket to leave Las Vegas on Wednesday afternoon at two-fifteen. Miguel has to be at work on Wednesday at eight. I have only three cigarettes left. And I have zero money. I know this for certain, because I’ve gone through the little purse he bought me exactly eight times, each time hoping my bleary vision would clear and I’d find something that I’d passed over before. But, no. I have my ID, lip stuff, one credit card, a key to his place, three cigarettes and a cell phone—Miguel’s. I stopped at an ATM machine and got a fifty-dollar withdraw against my card to give some gas money to the drivers who’ve been pulling the dead weight of my treacherous ass along these four hundred-eighty or so miles. According to my math, based on what Miguel told me before spilling his guts and setting me off on this wearisome journey, we fell pretty short of sweeping his debt off the books. About seventy grand short. I have just awoken from one grueling nightmare and reached an unexpected epiphany. I have fucked up. Very badly. Very, very badly. I get sick thinking about what I’ve done so I try to stop, but I can’t stop because I deserve to be sick. I deserve something, that’s for sure. I left Miguel. For the first few hours in that first car, it all made sense. Not exactly sense, but I was rationalizing it. Then it slowly sank in. Just how disgusting I am. Just how thoughtless, nasty, petty and cruel it was to leave him. Him, of all people. And now I really, really don’t know what to do. I thought I was fucked before—isn’t that fucking funny? I thought I was fucked when the man of my dreams, the man who turns me inside out, the man I love asked me to marry him. And now that I’ve run, I know I’m really screwed. I should go crawling back to him, but he’s going to be hurt. And then he’s going to be pissed. And this time it won’t be over money or another person or a thing. This time, it’s going to be directed at me. I wonder how long he sat there, waiting for me to come back. And what

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he did after that. I consider going to his place, assuming he’ll already be there. I should—all my stuff is there, all my things, all my money. But I can’t. I can’t get in if he’s not there. Oh. Yes, I can. I have his key. I have his key because he trusts me. But, worse, if he is there, I’d have to face him. I can’t do that. I thought I couldn’t handle the situation before I did the five hundredmile hop, skip and jump. Now I know I can’t handle the situation. Reluctantly, I pull his cell phone out of the purse he bought me and dial 1-800-Caesars, have them connect me to the Tahoe property. I ask for his room, and they tell me he’s checked out. He could be back at home already. He can drive this route fast. Even if he waited for me a long time he could have already beaten me back. And then he’d be sitting there at his place, waiting for me to arrive. Waiting to pounce on me and give me every bit of his wrath, which I deserve. Or worse, what if instead of ripping into me he begs again? I try to call his place, but I stare dumbly at the phone. I know that I know his number. I’ve called it before. I look at the keypad and try to mentally remember the order I dialed them in. I hit a few numbers then give up. I start clicking and punching other numbers, trying to see if he has his own home number logged. He could have it punched in here so he can call and check his messages while he’s out. People do that on cell phones, right? I don’t know how to work it, though. It beeps at me a few times, then I see a light flashing. I must mutter audibly because, next to me, the generous driver asks if I need help. I’ve told her a brief version of my situation. She didn’t judge too harshly, but she wasn’t there to witness the travesty. She didn’t see Miguel’s sparking eyes. “I don’t know how to use this,” I tell her. “It’s flashing something. I’m trying to see if there’s a phone number logged in here.” “Lemme see it,” she says. Still aiming the car, she punches a few things, saying, “You have messages. Here,” as she hands the phone back to me. “Uh, no,” I protest, thinking I shouldn’t be listening to his personal things, but then realizing he knows I have the phone, maybe he tried to contact me. There’s a mechanical voice, time stamping the message as being from 3:28 a.m. It’s Miguel’s voice. Simple, sweet. “Rina, where are you? Please come back.” The mechanical voice tells me what to do to hear the next one then announces the time again: 5:07 a.m. Miguel’s voice. Raspy, tired. But stronger. “Marina. What the fuck,

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24/7 man? Come on, you all right? Just answer at least.” Mechanical voice: 8:49 a.m. “Yo, Martino. The fuck’s goin’ on? Answer the fuckin’ phone.” Mechanical voice: 12:49 p.m. “Yeah. Fuck it, you know, I fuckin’ left, Marina.” They were all from different numbers, probably pay phones he stopped at along the way. I stare at the buttons on the keypad, unsuccessful in remembering his digits. Finally soliciting help, handing it back over to the driver, telling her what I want. “Sure,” she chirps. “Lots of people program their home numbers to dial them easily. Lemme see what we get.” She hits some buttons, shows me what to do, then passes it back to me. I hit the first one, and a number flashes up. It’s not his, I know that, but it’s a Vegas number, so I let it ring. After a few trills, a rich voice answers, but it’s canned, simply saying, “Talk at me. Peace.” Marion. I hang up, try the second one. An entire area code flashes up before the number, and before I have the sense to hang up a female voice answers, “Hola, niñito.” Now I hang up. Shit. Shit shit. It’s his mom. I could have asked either her or Marion for his number, but it felt like too unpleasant of a task to explain why I needed it. And she knew it was him calling—caller ID. She’ll probably call back. I hurriedly punch the third button, don’t recognize the number but let it ring. When a guy answers mumbling something and finishing with “…Bellagio,” I realize it’s his work number so I ditch again. Press another button, get another ring. Another male voice. Deep, groggy, growly. “Hey, hermano, que pasa?” It…it sounds familiar, but…it couldn’t be. I freeze. It’s not. Tentative, I speak. “I’m trying to reach Miguel Rodriguez?” “It’s called a fuckin’ phone book.” Holy shit. It is. Astounded: “Silver Balls?” Silence. Now, confused: “Crica?” I stammer a couple times. “You…what? What’s…” I hear him suck in a breath. Horrified, I hang up. My brain kicks into fifth gear. Rambling, rumbling, tumbling, jumbling. Not so much the phone number being there. Not so much that he answered, but the way he answered: “Hey, brother, what’s up?” Hey, brother, what’s up?

Zeeep! It rings in my hand. Startled, I drop it to the floorboards.

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Zeeep! From down at my feet, it intrepidly bleats out to me. Holy shit. What if it’s Miguel? What if it’s Silver Balls calling back? He could have star-sixty-nined me. It bleats loudly again, persistent. Demanding. I snatch it from the floor, holding it, not clicking it open. “Aren’t you going to answer that?” the driver asks me. “Hell, no,” I answer. “I don’t know who’s calling.” “It’ll show the number on the face, right there.” She points to the display and, sure enough, as it resolutely zeeps, in black numerals set against a sickly green phosphorescent background the caller is identified. It’s the New York area code. Shit. His mom. It finally relents, and once I’m certain the line is clear I flip it open and turn it off. She was probably calling to see why he hung up on her. She’ll call his place if she’s really worried and he can explain it to her any way he wants—I’m not stepping into that hornet’s nest. Bad enough I already spoke to that stugatz Castillo. Him and his hey, brother greeting. What was all that about? Pretty fucking informal and breezy greeting for someone whose teeth you just tried to knock out a couple days ago. He was expecting someone else to call at that time? Or he had caller ID and knew it was Miguel from the number that flashed on his phone? Then why would he answer like that? Why? Because he’s a fucking moron and he’s on painkillers right now, that’s why. An intrusion: “So, where should I drop you off?” Reeling, I say the only thing that seems reasonable. Feasible. And so the sixth driver since this whole ordeal began generously drops me off at the front doors of Caesars Palace. Feeling gamy and grungy, exhausted and whipped, I push through the heavy glass doors and let the familiar smell fill my nose, the recognizable sights wrapping around me in a comforting 360degree panorama of relative normalcy. Once again, I’m home. Once again, I’m alone.

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[ 45 ]

I

HAVE A CREDIT CARD AND ID, AND IT’S A DAMN GOOD THING, BECAUSE THEY actually charge me for my room. One more rung lower—I’m not special or particularly wooable to even them anymore. I stop at the bar, too early for Vince to be on, and suck down a couple of vodkas that I charge to my room as I smoke the last of my cigarettes. Then I weave through the hallways, buy more smokes with my credit card and a new swimsuit, underwear and a T-shirt. Upstairs, I have nothing to unpack so I strip off the dirty clothes, toss them in a pile, pull on the swimsuit, grab my smokes and go for an evening swim. Just to clear my head. As I kick and splash through the water, all I want to do is escape my confusion. Escape myself. But I can’t. I’m confused about everything. Jangled, tangled, twisted and contorted thoughts. I’m not sure why I ran, exactly. I’m still perplexed about how a guy like Miguel could fall so hard for me. As I’m skimming through the water, one thing shines as clearly as the setting sun. A thought, a knowledge of inescapable truth. I’m a bitch. And I was wrong. I hate what I’ve done. I hate myself. I kick harder, cutting the water harshly with my arms. Nothing makes sense, nothing clicks except that one basic fact—I’m insipid. It’s to be expected. I could have seen this coming. Miguel, he’s a dumbfuck, he should have seen this coming. I told him how I’ve lived, he knows how insecure I am. He’s so fucking simple he thinks by making me look in a mirror I’ll suddenly see a beautiful creature staring back at me just because he says it’s so. He really thought he could undo thirty years’worth of mirrors with one? I’m supposed to trust two weeks of cooing and cuddling over innumerable dismissals and knockdowns? Infuriated, I thrash through the water. Why shouldn’t I have believed him? I’m revolting. Blaming him now? That’s how sick I am? Of course I trusted him. I wanted to. He’s not to blame. Just like he’s not to blame for laying it all out and offering to make me happy. I want to be happy. I wanted

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to believe him. No, Miguel’s not to blame. My fucking inescapable self-doubt is to blame. Panting, I pull myself out of the water, loathing myself for what I’ve done, for succumbing to fear and letting that hurt him. And then it suddenly crystallizes. I only have these insecurities and fears because other people put them there. It’s incomprehensible to blame Miguel for treating me right just because other people treated me shitty. Fuck them. They’re to blame for this. I’m to blame, I did this. But I had a shitload of help over the years. Goddamn right. I’m going to Jerry Springer this bullshit and turn it externally. I’m the guilty party, but fuck it, this is the twenty-first century now, and we all know that every convict is also a victim. Fuckin’-A right I’m a victim here. I’m not taking this rap alone. I huff out of the pool, not even bothering to dry off, setting my sights, knowing exactly whom I need to confront. As I storm across the pavement, I pass a man and he grabs my arm. “What?” I whirl on him and snap. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, I just wanted to say hello.” It’s Jarred, the PR director. “Oh. Hello.” We exchange pleasantries as he glances around the area, finally asking, “Your friend Sherri. Is she here with you?” Oh, the poor bastard. “Sorry, no.” “Will you tell her I asked about her? She’s quite saucy, isn’t she?” “Listen, Jarred. Do you like women who drink constantly?” Him, shrugging: “I’m Irish, so…” “I’ll tell her you said hello.” I get dried off, cleaned up and tucked back into clothes but don’t cool off in the least before attempting to sweet talk my way in. No dice, I have to pay, so I pop for it, hell-bent on having my say here. As they’re running my card to print up my ticket, I drag on a cig and the smoke must carry some miniscule amount of rationality with it because another wave of clarity hits as I stop and think for the first time about what I’m doing. And this is clearly not the most judicious thing I could do. It probably doesn’t come close to the sordid cowardice of running from Tahoe, but I know it’s wrong. The girl behind the cage passes my plastic back to me along with a ticket as I snuff my butt. Telling myself to keep calm, keep this grasp on reality. The ticket’s already paid for, so I might as well go in, just for

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24/7 entertainment. I won’t even bother going over to her, I’ll just go down there and have a few drinks in the dark by the fire pit. Because I’m sane, and I’m logical and I’m mature. I know I alone held the shovel that dug this hole. I’m responsible for my actions, and I’m the one who was wrong. I’m not a victim here, I’m the offender. Miguel is the victim. I did this to him, and I’ve got to find a way to atone. I consider ditching out and going to find him. Calling him, going to his place, anything. But I still don’t know what to say. Worse, I don’t know if I can handle it. Not only am I a bitch, I’m a craven, spineless bitch. I let the guilt wash over me as I push my way past the wizard at the door to go drown the waves of self-contempt in vodka. But then I come out of the darkened hallway and into the rotunda, and I see her leaning against the bar, talking to another couple. A hot flash of anger bolts through my guts, wondering what she’s saying to them. Probably wishing them a happy life—no, promising them a happy life together. After all, it’s in the cards. Her in those blue beads and that slutty, gauzy outfit. Sabina. I play it cool, sauntering up to the bar behind her and ordering a drink, eavesdropping on her. Her nectared voice dolling out goodwill: “…extreme prosperity in the near future.” Rationality flies out the proverbial window as I hear that. “You Goddamn tarty, smarmy, bead-wearing, dream-crushing, heartless, insufferable, snotty, saccharine bitch!” I knock her deck of cards off the bar, sending them fluttering to the floor. So much for being nice. She stares at me, glittered lashes seemingly glued open in shock. The other couple backs away slowly, as if any sudden movement on their part could draw my attention to them. Too late. I focus on them like a laser. “What’d she say to you? Huh? What’d she say? She tell you that you’ll be happy? ’Cause she didn’t tell me that!” The man backs away in horror, leaving his woman to reach out for him and find nothing but thin air before she stumbles back away, too. Rodriguez would have never done that. He’d have pulled me close or pushed me behind him. He’d have protected me. I shout after them, “Oh, go ahead, run away, everybody runs away.” Screw them anyhow. They don’t matter. I turn back to her, pick a remaining card off the bar and throw it in her face as someone grabs my arm, starts asking me to calm down. She stutters, “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

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“You don’t remember me? You don’t remember what you told me? Liar.” Contrite, sweetly: “I don’t! I’m sorry if I gave you bad news, I didn’t mean anything, I was just…I don’t remember, I see a lot of people in here.” The intruder tries to defuse the situation, asking me to be calm, to lower my voice. Asking if he can help me. I blow him off, already blazing at full throttle. “You,” I hiss. “You told me I’d be alone, I’d never have love. Fuck you!” There’s a tug on my arm, a voice speaking to me, calling me ma’am. Ignoring it, I stick my finger in her face. “I had a man. I had the perfect man, and I left him. I left him because of you. Because you told me it wouldn’t be real. You’re nothing…you’re nothing but a sham, and you had to say something that vicious to me? Why? Why?” Incensed, I rip my arm free from the person holding it, shouting louder as suddenly more bodies appear to restrain me. A fake wizard puts his body between us, but I struggle to get around him, to get free of the holds. Screaming now: “I should sue your ass, I should kick your ass. I want an answer, dammit! Why?” She stares dumbly. Not the dumb-fucker look exactly. More the terrified, shocked dumb-fucker look as the arms around me start dragging me from her. “Is it entertaining for you? Is that it? You made it a self-fulfilling prophecy for me, you bitch! Do you hear me? I left him because of that doubt, and he was perfect!” I shout at her. “You’re a phony, and I know it.” Her mouth curves with a sadistic, smug grin as she stares back at me. “Then why’d you listen to me if I’m a phony?” I lunge, actually break most of the holds on me and make a dash. Only get two steps before they have me again, but it’s far enough to make her cringe and retreat a few steps. Once I’m back in their grip, being hustled out, she gets bold. There’s two guys on me, one holding each arm, pulling me away. She bats her sparkling lashes and tosses her veil over one shoulder, walking, still out of my reach. Saying simply, “Check yourself. Then come back and see me, I’ll read you for free a third time.” “I knew you remembered me!” Giggling: “Send your boyfriend back, too. He was cute—I’d do more than read his cards.” “Slut!” And then I’m hustled out as a guy in a suit tries to placate me—$78.60-

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24/7 worth of anger hurled within what was probably less than four minutes. The suit ends up giving me a voucher for a free buffet after I tell him what that suave, charlatan bitch said to me. And, well, thus ends that ugly little episode. It wasn’t exactly fun, and I certainly wouldn’t log it as one of my more impressive moments, but, hey. The next obvious stop on the agenda is to somehow keep this momentum of avoidance in motion. This being Vegas, that really shouldn’t be difficult, so I hit the ATM again, drawing a couple hundred bucks from my credit card. I have to pay a vigorish right up front for the draw, and the fees and interest will be outrageous if I don’t pay it off immediately, but the only other option would be to go back to Rodriguez’s place and, well—no. Just…no. I’m not certain I can plaster a smile on my face yet, so instead of hitting a table of any kind I go play slots. Any sort of distraction to keep my mind off where it wants to be, to stifle the whispering throb running through my brain, humming and thudding to remind me of what a loser bitch I am. I can watch the wheels on the slots, concentrate on those and make a concentrated effort to remember to forget. I pick a Blazing 7’s machine, nice and red and fiery. Standing there, sliding a bill into the machine, so familiar, such a vacuous task compared to the battle of blackjack. Realizing this is how I started out gambling. And here I am again, almost exactly the same as I was back then, nearly nine years ago. Nothing gained, nothing lost. Except… My heart thuds hard with the thought. Eighteen days. Eighteen days unlike any others in my life, slices of mortal magic. No, don’t think about it, stop it. I watch the credits beep up. Not feeling particularly enthralled with it. Not the sort of thrill, the feeling of being shocked and jolted fully and completely alive the way I had felt even if I was just sitting around doing nothing with… I press the button, watch the wheels spin around then one-by-one land and click into place, not a winner. Not feeling particularly dejected by that—I know better than to expect that here. Just vacant and hollow. Comforted by the familiar surroundings, though, beeping and blipping and clicking and clanking all over in the slot area. Thick, plush black-and-goldpatterned carpet under my feet, air light and breezy, never chilly, carrying the hint of stale cigar and faded legends and lore everywhere it goes. I press the little lighted cash-out button and let the silvery coins clink into the tray below, making more sound, making me reach down and scoop

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them up. Not really caring if I win or lose—there is nothing left to lose, and this place doesn’t offer anything I really want to win. So I drop a coin then press a button, watching the reels spin again. An older woman stops to correct me. “Honey, you’ll never win that way—playing only one coin. If you hit you won’t win the jackpot. You have to bet it all to win big.” Then she shuffles away with her husband, clucking her tongue as they glance back at me. It makes me feel waifish, lonesome for Miguel. It used to happen all the time, looks from people like that. I knew they were thinking I was out of place or in over my head. But since I’ve had him by my side no one’s given me that look. I drop a coin, press a button and watch the machine reels spin and turn my head to mention that odd new discovery to him. But he’s not here, that’s why I got the look. I knew he wasn’t here, but it was habit. Taken for granted. Just like the automatic faucets out here. I’ve grown so accustomed to being able to lean over and say something to him. Slipped into an easy routine of glancing at him, not even worrying about censoring myself for fear of saying something stupid or trite or annoying. But now I find only a cool draft next to me where he should be standing, stopping short of letting words roll off my tongue because he’s not here to listen, to accept what I say. I pick another coin out of the tray, drop it, press and watch the ensuing spin. Click, click, click—tumblers fall into place, showing me nothing. I order a drink from a passing waitress and light a smoke. Pull up a chair and fish another token out of the tray. Drop it in, press the button, watch it spin. Nothing. Drop, press, spin. Just that easy, watching as dollar after dollar slips away, not really caring, just transfixed by the routine of it. And suddenly… Cha-chink. 7, Blazing 7, Wild. The machine blurps and blips, and I’m fifty credits richer. I play on those until the drink girl returns and it gets frustrating. Drop, press, spin, then just sit back and watch the wheels roll. There’s nothing I can do to help it along, nothing but fate and what the machine had predestined. I’m just an instrument, standing here and pushing it through its algorithms, a passive onlooker watching it all, no matter what the results will be, a jackpot or a total loss. And as I drop, press and spin, I guess that’s for the best. At least I won’t be to blame if it all goes haywire and spins out of control. I already threw back one jackpot. Who needs another one?

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24/7 And just as I think that, the tumblers click, and the third Blazing 7 pops up to complete the perfect row. A bell goes off, a red light flashes and my eyes follow the chart upward to see what I’ve won. Fifty thousand dollars. Holy shit. Fifty thousand dollars. Almost enough to pay off the rest of Miguel’s debt to Blue Lou. If…Oh, my God. If I take him this money, maybe he’ll be so happy he’ll forgive me. Fifty grand… If. Oh. My. God. Fifty grand—if I had played all three coins. If I had done as I know I should and played things right, I’d be holding fifty thousand dollars. But I didn’t. I didn’t dropdropdrop, press, spin. I only dropped, pressed and spun. So I don’t get $50,000. I get $1500. Overhead, Frank Sinatra croons about witchcraft. The odds were against me, and when I got my chance, I blew it. Pissed it away. * * * I lose all the $1500 ($1080 after taxes) at a craps table with Edward. But I smile and act casual, nonchalant and happy, and I bravely remember to forget until he asks me where Miguel is. Twice as miserable as when I went to the table, I retreat to the front. Go to Vince’s bar, charge myself a double vodka because I’m out of cash again and he’s not on shift yet. Try to force myself to feel normal. When Vince comes on, he refills my drink, asks about Miguel. I change the subject. “How’s your girlfriend doing?” I ask him. He shrugs. “Pissed at me. Broke up with me.” “How come?” “Caught me cheating on her.” I wince. “Shit. Sorry.” “Ah, it’s all right. It was with my wife, so…” He winks. “Where’s Miguel?” “Not here,” I say. Persistent: “Yeah? How come?” I shrug. “Oh. That can’t be good. C’mon, now, talk to me, sweetheart.” So I tell him. “Last night, he asked me to marry him so I ditched him— in Tahoe.”

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“Ouch.” “Yeah. Go ahead, I know I’m rotten, you can tell me so.” “Yeah, well…I am shocked.” “Yeah, but don’t you think that was quick for him to ask?” He just shrugs. “What?” He leans in, rests his elbows on the bar. “Honestly? I thought he was your match. But, hey, what do I know? I’m just a bartender.” He stands up straight, shrugs again. He goes, “You should go tell him you’re sorry.” “Vince, I left him in Tahoe. I don’t think ‘I’m sorry’ will cover it.” “Gonna have to do something.” “I will. I just can’t face him yet. I can’t handle it yet.” “Well, you better get ready to. I doubt he’ll take this lying down. He’ll probably be here soon.” “What?” “If you don’t go to him, he’ll come looking for you, and he won’t wait long.” He chuckles, saying, “Oh, shit, he’s gonna be pissed.” “Why would he come here? I was staying with him, he won’t know where to find me.” He gives me the dumb-fucker look. “You’re serious? Anyone who’s ever met you would know where to look for you.” He’s right. He’s completely right. I hadn’t even thought about it. If Miguel wants to find me, he’ll find me here. I grab my pack of smokes and stand up. “I have to sign my tab, get out of here.” “They made you pay for drinks here?” He laughs. “Vince. Please, my tab. Hurry.” “What? You don’t want to see him?” “He’ll…I’ll…not yet I don’t. I don’t know what to say!” “Try this one, practice these words and just say them at appropriate times—‘I’m sorry.’ Go on, say it.” “I’m sorry,” I say, motioning for him to get the bill so I can sign out. “I’ll say I’m sorry.” He holds it up but away from me, waving it around. “Now try this one: Yes. Next time he asks you that question, just say ‘Yes.’” Exasperated: “Vince…” “Say it.” Panicked: “Yes. I’ll say yes.” “Promise?”

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24/7 “If you don’t give me that bill I’ll leave and stiff you.” He drops the slip of paper on the bar, I hurriedly scrawl my name across it and shove it back to him, saying, “You didn’t see me here.” He nods. I turn and dash away. Back in the room, the message light on my machine is blinking. I hesitate then go over and listen to it. It’s a hang-up—dead air, no one identified. Could it have been Miguel? If he called here looking for me, they’d patch him through to my room. But they wouldn’t give out my room number to him. So he might know I’m here now. The time on the hang-up call was 11:17 p.m. Right now it’s only 11:59. If that was Miguel, he could be on his way over here right now. Shit. It’ll probably be worse if he tracks me down. If I go to him, I’ll be able to more reasonably pull off the penitent routine, coming on my own volition. Whereas if he finds me, it’s like I finally got caught and cornered. I stare over at the cell phone on the dresser. I bet there’s messages on it. Maybe I could get a clue as to his mood from them. I shake as I pick it up, too freaked out at the thought of it ringing in my hand again to turn it on. I need to calm down and chill out. I call room service and order a bottle of vodka. They say they’re running late, it’ll probably be a half an hour. I stand at the window overlooking the Bellagio fountains. I consider calling the airline to change my noon flight tomorrow, mulling my options but not getting anywhere, too lost in the same repeating, confused thoughts. A knock startles me, and I assume it’s my room service order, so I turn from the view to head to the door, checking the clock: 12:17. It’s only been fourteen minutes since I called. They said it would take over half an hour. I freeze. Stop dead in my tracks as another series of knocks rattles the door. They’re loud. Really loud. It’s early—way too early for it to be room service. But it couldn’t be Miguel. They wouldn’t even give me my room number that time when I got confused. I had a key card and everything. There’s no way they’d give out my room number like that. Whoever’s out there fiddles with the doorknob, turning it, trying it. I have it double-bolted, and they can’t get in. They pound again. When the knocking ceases, I climb onto the bed, out of line of sight of the peephole, just in case. Vince. If Miguel comes looking for me, Vince has my room number on the receipt I signed. But he wouldn’t have given it to him. He just wouldn’t. It could have been housekeeping doing a room check. Of course that’s what

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it was, that’s why they tried the door. It was just turn-down service, that’s all. I’m a paranoid idiot. I pick up the phone and pull it next to me on the bed, thinking of adding some food to my order. Decide against it—that’ll only take longer for it to get to me. Instead, still unnerved, I get Miguel’s cell phone from the dresser. I work up the courage to check for messages and flip it open. Just as I do…

Brrringg! The phone in my room rings. I drop the cell phone, leap back and gape at the other one. I step gingerly, the shrill ring cutting the air as I get closer. It rings again as I stand over it, terrified to pick it up. The thought hits me, it’s a fucking phone ringing, don’t stand there like a moron, just answer the damn thing. But who would be calling me? Rather, who else, other than Miguel, would be calling me? It rings again, almost insistently, taunting me. I know it’s wrong, it’s illogical, but I can’t help it. I’m freaked the fuck out by it. It rings again. Swiftly, unable to stand there listening to it anymore, I snatch it up and just listen. No greeting, nothing. From the other line, a breath. Now: “Ms. Martino?” A female voice. I breathe again. “Ms. Martino, are you there?” “Yes. Sorry, I was…yes. I’m here.” “This is room service calling. You placed an order? We just tried to deliver it and you didn’t answer your door.” “I’m so sorry, I was in the bathroom. I missed it.” “We’ll bring it right back up, ma’am.” I thank her, hang up the phone and laugh at myself. That’s who was at the door. I’m sitting here afraid to answer doors and phones, I was so freaked out I just sent alcohol away. Fully relieved, I turn the volume up on the TV, pick up the cell phone and tuck it back in the purse and sit down to wait again. I see the recap of the Braves losing to the Giants. They got shut out. Then a knock at the door. Vodka’s here. I get up, unlatch the security bolt and open the door. Leaning on the doorframe, arms folded, dark eyes searing into me. “Yo, you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?”

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[ 46 ]

F

UCKING VINCE. SOLD ME UP THE RIVER. MY HEART DROPS TO MY FEET AS I STAND

there numbly. Dumbly. “Well?” Miguel straightens up, cocks a brow expectantly. Antagonistically: “Huh? Cat got your tongue? Zat why you left, ran out o’ shit to say? That it?” Shallow breath and sweating palms, I have no choice but to step aside as he moves past me, stalking into the room. “Uh…” I fumble. “Uh? Uh? That’s all you got to say to me?” “I really love you. I’m really sorry.” “Shut the fuck up!” “Right.” I nod and turn away, start closing the door when the room service waiter appears, so I step back again and let him through as Miguel starts pacing the room. He stops to look at the cart and snorts derisively. Points at the bottle of vodka. “Nice. Really fuckin’ nice, Martino. Glad you’re havin’ fun.” I purse my lips and nod at the waiter as he hands me the bill. “Everything look all right, Ms. Martino?” “Yes, fine, thank you.” I sign on his tip and pass the pen and paper back to him. He hovers momentarily. “Can I get you anything else then?” “No. No, thanks.” “Well…have a good evening.” “Thank you.” I show him to the door, nodding again, giving him a wink to let him know he doesn’t have to worry. I hope. Hovering by the cart, unable to look at Miguel, I ask, “Do you want a drink?” “Fuck you.” “Right.” I nod again and with a shaking hand pick up a glass, start

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filling it with ice. “What the fuck you doin’?” “I’m fixing a drink. You sure you don’t want one? Got plenty.” “Put. The glass. Down. Now.” I obey. He comes over, lifts my chin, searches my eyes. “You drunk already?” “No.” He turns away. Hands up in the air. One word. “Why?” Silence. “Why?” Spinning around, he pins me in his glare. Cat-quick, he throws my glass of ice against the wall over my head, yelling as it shatters, “Why, Goddamnit?” Mouselike, barely a whisper: “I don’t know.” “You don’t know?” “Scared. I was scared.” “So you fuckin’ leave? You leave me in Tahoe?” “You had the car…” I say then stop myself. He gets in my face, and I drop my eyes. “I had the car? You bein’ funny now? Is that a joke? Or you just tellin’ me it ain’t that bad?” “No, I’m not being funny, and, no, I’m not saying it’s not that bad.” I squirm, and he grabs hold of my arms, shakes me once. “It was horrible. I’m rotten. I know I’m rotten and I was wrong and you can hate me all you want.” Shaking me again. “I should fuckin’ hate you. You left me. You know how long I sat there waitin’? Huh? Do you?” “No.” “A long fuckin’ time, Marina! ’Cause I didn’t believe it. I wouldn’t fuckin’ believe it. You made an asshole outta me.” “You’re not an asshole, Miguel.” “Well, you must think I’m somethin’ to leave like that. The fuck you do? Go hitch a ride? Call a taxi? Give blowjobs to truckers to get back here?” He shoves me away. I wince. “No. I…I just hitched. I wouldn’t do that to you.” “Oh, you wouldn’t? I never thought you’d ditch me like that, neither.” “I’m sorry.” “Better be fuckin’ sorry.” “I am. I just didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to hurt you, I just…” “You didn’t wanna hurt me? So you left me? That makes sense? What

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24/7 sorta fuckin’ asshole are you?” It feels like the room’s moving under my feet. Like it’s expanding and contracting around me with his breathing. Quietly: “I couldn’t say no to you.” “Then you shoulda just said yes!” I’m aware of the crocodile tears leaking out my eyes. Unfortunately, so is he. “Oh, fuckin’ cry, Martino. Ain’t gonna work this time.” He hardens more, lunges at me, grabbing me and shoving me back until I crack into the wall. Shouting, “I wanna know why!” “Stop pushing me!” I scream, finally looking him in the face. He doesn’t back off or release me. Instead, he grips tighter, and I catch a surreal look on him. Feral. Aimed at me. It’s nearly unfathomable, bending my brain as the room spins around me. Like he’s not Miguel anymore, he’s morphed into some alien clone and all the contemptible jealousy and shadowy violence is bubbling to the surface. Threatening, a dangerous specter of something I knew and loved. And then, poof!, it’s gone, and he’s Miguel. Enraged, but Miguel. In my face, demanding an answer. Shaking me. “Goddamnit, why?” “Because I can’t. I can’t say yes!” I struggle, but it’s futile, and that jacks me higher. “You never fucking stop with me! You always push me, you’re always pushing me and I give in, but that was too much. I couldn’t say no because I don’t want to hurt you but I can’t say yes.” “Why? Why can’t you say yes?” “Because that’s not what I want!” His grip slackens and he backs off, angrily shoving the room service cart out of his way as he paces around. “You don’t know what the fuck you want, Martino.” “And you’ll never tell me what you really want,” I say, wiping the tears from my eyes. “You just keep pushing me and by the time I figure it out you’ve got your way.” “Bullshit.” “Bullshit? You do it all the time. You do it when you fuck me, the places you fuck me, the way you fuck me. You did it with getting me to gamble for you. You just push all the buttons to get me to do what you want, and then when I snap out of the Stepford status you panic and do something else to keep me off-balance.” “That’s what you fuckin’ think? That’s bullshit, and you fuckin’ know it!”

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“I don’t know what to believe! I told you, I keep telling you, I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m going to fuck up sometimes. And you just keep pushing. All I want is to keep you happy, you ungrateful fuck.” “So you keep me happy by runnin’ away when I ask you to spend the rest of your life with me?” “You asked me to marry you, Miguel. I can’t do that. I can’t.” “Why not?” “I don’t know! I don’t trust it sometimes. I don’t trust myself— sometimes I don’t even believe that you’re with me, let alone trust that you’re going to want to be with me next week. And then you just keep pushing, and it freaks me out. I got scared so I ran.” “Yeah, you get scared. I push you? I push you. Know why I push you? I push ’cause I gotta! ’Cause you want me to. You just never know it till it fuckin’ happens. You said you didn’t wanna fall for me an’ it freaked you out when you did, an’ I had to push you just to stay with me. But it ain’t me pushin’, it’s you. You just fuckin’ blame me for what you really want.” “That’s…that’s not right,” I stutter. “That’s not true.” “Oh, it ain’t? You know why you’re so fuckin’ scared? ’Cause you wanna marry me.” He points at me, moves back in, sticks his finger in my chest, then up to my chin, forcing me to look up at him again. “You fuckin’ know if you don’t jump on this you’ll never fuckin’ have anything like it again. And you’re so scared o’ losin’ it that you’re willin’ to throw it away. And you’ll try an’ get it back and you never fuckin’ will, not with anyone else, Marina. Only me.” I slap his hand away and take a step back. Infuriated. “Is that some sort of threat? No one else could ever love me? I’m so lucky to have you because no one else ever could? If I’m that unworthy then why the fuck do you want me?” He shakes his head. “Dumb-fuck. That ain’t what I’m sayin’. You could walk outta here right now, get a hundred guys to fall in love with you by morning. But it won’t matter, ’cause I’m the only guy you love. I’m the only guy you ever loved.” The sting of tears threatens behind my eyes again as the whole room lurches. I hold my head in my hands to get it all to stop, too much confusion, too much conflict. Miguel takes hold of my shoulders, gently this time. I search his face and all I know for certain is that part of what he said is true. “I do love you, Miguel.” “Then you will?”

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24/7 I reel, my knees get weak. “Will what?” “Marry me.” “Miguel…” My stomach turns. “I can’t.” “Fuck!” He shoves me away. “Why not?” “I don’t know! Because I have a life. I have a job and I have a family and I have to go back there—they need me.” “They don’t fuckin’ need you. They don’t want you. They want you and need you to do stuff for them. I just want you, don’t you fuckin’ get that?” “You’re…you’re pushing me again!” He spins and paces, looks out the window as I catch my breath. Horrified—this isn’t helping, it’s only getting worse. He sighs. “It’s about the money, ain’t it? Admit it.” “It’s not. That’s nothing!” I insist. “So it’s just me, then, that it? You just don’t really wanna be with me.” “Jesus, you fucking idiot, no. That’s not it. I love you.” “Then why the fuck did you leave me?” Exasperated: “Probably so I wouldn’t have to go through this! Why do you care? Why’d you ask, anyhow?” He stops his pacing and stands in front of me. A low growl: “Because you’re mine. I thought I was yours. What sorta whore just wants to fuck all the time?” My face burns with the sting of that. I act on impulse, slap him across the face. “Fuck you,” I snarl as I shake, watching him recoil, seeing the red mark across his face. And then I go too far. The thought comes out of nowhere, and I blurt it out. “Is this about the money, Miguel? You tell me. Is it?” “The fuck you talkin’ about?” “You’re panicking. You’re freaking out because I have to leave tomorrow.” “’Cause I want you to stay.” “Yeah, but why? Is it so you can keep me close to get this money for you?” Squinting: “You fuckin’ serious? That’s what you think?” “I don’t know. You wouldn’t tell me about it.” “I didn’t tell you ’cause I was worried how you’d fuckin’ react!” “Mm-hmm. Or maybe you waited till you were sure you had me and I’d do it for you. You didn’t want me running off before I’d get it. Now you want to lock me in.” “You’re fuckin’ crazy.”

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“Am I? You wouldn’t even admit that you were getting me to play for you. It took me four days to drag that admission out of you. You just kept dragging me along and pushing me to do it, the whole time acting like you didn’t care.” “That ain’t why I want you, that’s not it. You know that’s not it.” He shakes his head, but he’s suddenly calmed. I have him off-balance, back on his heels. Another thing slides into place and I go for it. “I talked to your friend today.” He doesn’t answer. I go farther. “Castillo? Yeah, I talked to him.” He’s silent for a moment. “He saw you? You all right?” “It was on the phone. I called him.” I’m playing with fire here, and I know it. I expect a jealous rage to break out, for him to go wild with anger. He’s quiet, though. Finally: “How…? Why…?” “Your cell phone. I was looking for your number so I could call you. You left me messages on it. Thought maybe you’d have your home phone on it. But I got to him first. Number four on the speed dial.” Eyes narrowing: “What’d he say?” I cock a brow. “It was interesting.” “You gonna fuckin’ believe him? I told you the shit that went down between us, and he gives you some bullshit and you’re gonna believe it? That’s what this is?” “No. I just thought it was interesting, that’s all. Interesting that he’s even on your speed dial.” “Yeah, he’s there. I talked to him all the time. I still gotta deal with him sometimes, so fuckin’ what?” Defensive now, accusing, getting revved up, pacing again. “You. After the shit you saw, what he did to you, and you’d fuckin’ talk to him?” “I hung up. Relax.” “Oh. Relax. Relax. Uh-huh.” I ask, “When did you make me as a card counter?” “Huh?” “When? Was it that first day? You just didn’t say anything? Is this about the money, Miguel? Is that why you came after me so hard?” “You want the fuckin’ truth? Do you?” “Yeah! I want the truth!” He comes in close, his breath creeping across my face. “I came after you ’cause I wanted to fuck you. That’s all. That’s all I fuckin’ wanted—a

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24/7 cheap fuck. I knew just by lookin’ at you it’d be easy. Turns out that’s all I got, too.” I slap him again. Hard. But he barely recoils, so I hiss at him, “Fuck you.” “Yeah, get pissed,” he taunts. “Least I moved past that. I wanna be with you. But you just wanna keep getting fucked.” I reach to slap him again but he catches my wrist mid-air before it connects. “That’s it, huh?” he asks, his eyes glinting darkly. “That’s all you want, me to fuck you? That’s all I am, that’s why you won’t stay with me? You wanna be fucked?” And now he’s got hold of me. Reflex-fast, squeezing my arms, shoving me back as I struggle. He throws me on the floor, knocking the wind out of me. Flattened, stunned, chest constricting as I try to drag in a breath. Before I recover, he’s on top of me. Getting a short gasp of air, I stutter breathe and my panic escalates, wildly kicking my feet, clawing my fingers in the carpet to pull myself out from under him just to get a breath, but he’s too much. Him muttering, “Fuck me? Fuck me. Fuck you!” Him trying to pin my arms down. I flail, pulling at his shirt, pushing him away. “Get off!” I pant. Squirming and turning under him, face down crawling, struggling and kicking, somehow pulling away, but before I can get up he’s right back on me, gets me around the waist, dragging me back, scraping at my arms. “Miguel!” I shout. Blood thundering through my brain, my body jittery. “No! Get off me!” He gets me under him again, rolls me over, crushes down on top of me, grabbing at my flailing arms. “Mine.” He’s panting as he gets them pinned above my head. “Fuckin’ leave me…you’re mine!” I heave, trying to rip free, but it’s useless, I yank with my torso but there’s hardly any reaction from him. Trapped. Whimpering, “Miguel…” He’s got my wrists clamped down tight with one hand, he reaches between us and I give one last futile kick with my legs. He’s unbuckling his belt. Feebly, shallow breaths, begging, “Not like this…please.” He gets his zipper down, starts in on mine as I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my head. I yank my arms, twist and kick—nothing. He’s too

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strong to escape. The fear subsides to stoic resignation and my head spins as he pushes down my shorts. He can’t undo this once it’s done, I think. I’ll hate him, but he’ll hate himself if he does this. I struggle blindly, unable to watch and get a visual of what he looks like right now, flopping like a fish under him, wild gyrations quelled by his weight and pressure. “Don’t do this,” I plead. Still flailing, trying to break free more for him than for myself. I get one arm wrested out of his control and paw at him, shove at his neck and kick fiercely, hitting only air. It only takes him seconds to get my arm pinned again, and I know there’s no way to derail him by force. I exhale slowly and go limp. I open my eyes to center myself, seeing only his forearm. The underside of it, paler skin revealing the straining corded muscles, the thudding green of his protruding veins. The smell of his sweat and breath filling the immediate air. I look up to his face. His smell, the feel of his body against mine, that forearm, it’s so familiar, but this—this… This can’t be him, this can’t be happening. Not like this. “Please,” I whisper. The vein across his forehead is bulging out, there’s fresh scratch marks on his neck. He’s got his penis in his hand, grunting and working his hips to spread my legs. Now he catches my eye. He stops moving, hovering there. I whisper it. “I love you.” It tames him. His eyes flicker with doubt. Stone-still except for his chest expanding with his exaggerated breathing. He blinks. He hangs his head, collapses down into me, releasing himself, hand still over my wrists but the force drained out of him. He buries his face in my neck. Relieved, I’m still under him as he pulls it together. I think he might be crying. His face tucked so closely into me, warm, but wetness there, too. He’s still panting, suddenly speaking. Remorsefully. “Oh, God, what’m I doin’? What’ve you done to me, Marina? This…this wasn’t s’posed to happen…” What have I done to him? I get incensed. It jolts through me harder than the fear did a couple minutes ago. I struggle to push him off, unleash a gurgled scream, my arms flailing for freedom again. He grabs for me, not violently this time, just to restrain me, bring me down. I freak even more, get wild as I attack him and push him off. “Rape me?” I shout as I successfully land a slap.

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24/7 He grabs my wrist before I can strike again, trying to shush and control me. Livid, I curse and wrestle. I know he’s trying to take as much as possible without letting himself get too damaged. That pisses me off even more, that he can keep me down without using full strength. Furious, I buck and finally topple him, scrambling to my feet. I unleash on him, swinging, kicking, shouting. Accusing: “Rape me? Why? Motherfucker!” He curls against me, taking the blows. He dares to grab and stop my hand, rise against me. Flushed with anger, I barely hear him pleading, “Stop it, Marina! Stop!” Fuck him. He didn’t stop. Not right away at least. I swing at him, a closed fist punch, but he deflects it easily, slams me into the wall, presses against me hard. In Spanish now, speaking and telling me to calm down, that he loves me, that he’s sorry. I’m fevered against him, hot and breathless, I refuse to quit struggling. I push him away, try for another swing at his head. He stops it, throws me on the bed, climbs on top of me. Heart pounding, adrenaline racing full throttle, it circles back, struggling against him again, straining, muscles burning, screaming at him, “Get off me!” “Calm down!” “Why?” I shout out as he squashes me down again. In one word, he answers me. “Mine!” His teeth clank against mine as he pushes his mouth against me, hot breaths and a slippery tongue, raspy, unshaved skin scraping me. God help me, I respond. Pissed at him, pissed at myself, but I kiss him back before I catch myself. And then I smack him again, thrashing around. I claw, I kick, he yanks, he scratches. And we kiss. He bruises my mouth with the intensity and force of it, I pull back and bite at his shoulder, kicking more. Not a suck, not a nip, I bite until I draw blood and he grabs my hair and pulls me off. Sickened by my own desire as it twists in my guts. I push against him, shove him away, but he merely fumbles and comes back, squashing me down harder. He’s damp and hot, sweating against me, still fighting to keep me down. I grab the thin material of his shirt, stretching it, scratching at his moist skin. He yelps, pulls it over his head, razes his nails across my stomach as he carelessly shoves my shirt up then paws at my bra, reaching inside, squeezing my breast until I cry out, clawing at his arm. I still can’t decide if I want to fight him or fuck him, and the two clash into this violent crescendo of twisted craving. The more I struggle the sharper the throbs become, the anger sending the lust coursing through my

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veins. Utterly frustrated that I can’t escape his hold, the frustration feeding the frenzy, the frenzy making me more pissed because he knows it now, he knows I want him. He’s ready to take me, I’m dying for it, denying it, trying to squelch the whore inside that he’s accusing me of being. And he’s smug with it, letting me struggle but not hurt him. His erection digs into my inner thigh as he forces my hands down, his full weight pressed onto me, his chest sliding against mine. “You want it? Say it. Fuckin’ say it,” he demands. “No.” “Say it!” “I don’t!” He releases one hand. I try vainly to shove him away, lash out again. He reaches between us, feels between my legs. My body betrays me, he slides with the slickness dripping there. Warns again: “Say it. I fuckin’ know it, you say it.” I huff in silence until he gives a squeeze, making me shudder against his hand, my whole body bucking and jerking in reaction. Burning for him, dying to have him inside. I reach for him and try forcing him in. He shivers with the touch, groans out loud but wrenches away. “Say it. You say you want me.” Shamed and disgusted with myself, the searing pulsing agony eclipses that and I rut against his hand, but he takes that away. I cave. “Do it,” I beg him. “Do it now.” “You want me,” he says, aligning his hips. “I want you.” I give in all the way. “Mmm…Mmmm,” he grunts, still holding back, positioned right there, teasing, tempting and threatening to enter but refusing to do it. “You want me, Miguel.” I press against him. “You want me, too.” He crushes my mouth again, kissing deep. Mumbling it. “You love me…” “I love you, fuck me… I lluh-uh—” He plunges inside. Deep and hard, filling me to the hilt, jolting me and forcing out a grunt. “Uh--ove you.” His is louder, it tears through my ear as he tears into me. Raw, animalistic, he fucks it all out of himself and into me. All his pain, frustration, fear—all of it rushing out of him as he buries it in me, punishing me for doing it to him, rewarding me for it. I’m doing the same

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24/7 thing until I don’t know if it’s the physical or emotional build-up, but I start coming, so hard, so fast, from deep within. It’s a teeth-gritting, spinetingling, cunt-exploding fireworks of a cataclysmic orgasm. Shaking and clawing at him, terrified and pissed that he did this to me, did it this way. Him holding on as he shakes and grunts and comes with it. I’m drained. He’s drained. He rolls off me onto his back, we both lay there, taciturn and static. Time is relative, and in the frantic thrashing and lashing, with things moving so quickly and hurtling out of control is when it should have stretched out, elongated and twisted into a seemingly infinite black highway. Now, motionless, with no direction, purpose or energy, things should unwind hastily, roaring and ripping away, fueling and fizzling up our most precious commodity—the one that can’t ever be traded, bought or sold—time. Instead, it drips along. Not the honeyed drip of afternoon baseball games or the silvery drips of late-evening music. Not the mucousy drip of the three a.m. mid-February miserable cold- and flu-infested sleep. It’s not the bloody, chilling drip of senseless murder or the freezing, sleety drip of an impending ice storm. It’s not the testosterone drip of boxers circling in the ring, it’s not the estrogen drip of childbirth. It is not the sultry drip of a rivulet of Miguel’s sweat as he leans over me. It is not the de-fanged drip of decaffeinated coffee. It is not the fresh green seafoam drip of an overdue summer rain, nor the maggoty drip of decaying flesh in a casket six feet underground. It is not the annoying rusty drip of a leaky faucet, nor the molasses drip of a Carolina sunset. It is not the futile, mournful mascara drip of a tear being shed. It is not the alluring, seductive drip of perfume, one last drop at the tip of an atomizer. It is not the aspirin drip of cocaine leaking down sinuses as the brain blinks awake. It is not the toothy, menacing drip of a rabid junkyard dog’s saliva bark. It is not the swank diamond drip of jewelry upon a pristine neck, wrist or finger. It is not the stinky, stale desperate drip of a junky’s last fix spilled upon the floor. It is not the impotent, slimy drip of ironic disappointment of a premature ejaculation. It is not the morphine drip of consolation. It is just a drip. Maybe it’s a burned-off, flamed-out, fizzled-down and smoked-away drip. A silent, shattered, tattered and irreparably (and previously inconceivable) vaporous little drip that comes in the place of a distracting

poof! Or maybe the poof is just too tired, confused, disgusted and dazed to make an appearance. Perhaps the poof is dark on Wednesdays.

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Finally, I speak: “I’m leaving tomorrow. I have to.” Frosty silence. A demonstrative drip. A movement, the bed jostles. Then a click, a spark, a flame. A deep breath in. A resigned sigh out, coming with it a billowy cloud of smoke. Then his hand, passing the smoldering stick over to me. A deep breath in, a hopeful breath out, coming along with the smoke one last attempt. “I’ll be back.” “Sure.” He doesn’t nod. “As soon as I can. As soon as you want me…” Voice trailing off. “If you want…” “I want. But you won’t.” We share the smoke, him asking if he can stay the night here. Me saying yes. We share a shower, then we share the bed. Me sliding up behind him and spooning against him all night long. The yawning drip of sleep, coating our eyes, clouding our heads, pulling us down along with it into the quagmire pool of the subconscious.

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[ 47 ]

M

E WAKING, SWIMMING UP FROM THE POOL, STILL BLEARY-EYED AND FUZZYheaded, checking to see how much time dripped away. Him still curled up, holding my hand against his chest, breathing deep. Me pulling away, him stirring until I tuck him in with a pillow to his back, snuggling the covers up around him. Me in the bathroom, unable to brush my teeth, just gargling and spitting in the ensuing rush of time. While we slept, time stopped dripping and it’s now flowing again, moving as we’ve become accustomed, forcing us to move along and keep up. Pulling on the leftover clothes, smoky and stretched, wrinkled and worn. Concentrating on the task at hand. Meanwhile, snapshots and jigsawed pieces of the past few days bump around in my head. Maybe it’s smoke and mirrors, put there simply to ease my conscience about what I’m doing. Nothing but a cheap parlor trick of the brain, working and wiggling in to cause the necessary doubt. Or perhaps even sheer, simple, garden-variety lunacy and paranoia. Nevertheless. I’m doing what I’m good at. What I’m conditioned to do. Sliding back in bed behind Miguel, wrapping around him one more time. Feeling his heat, the ridges, curves and angles of his body. Wanting to give him some last comfort and reassurance but not daring to wake him and be forced to look into forlorn eyes as I leave. Not wanting him to wake and look as though he’s already over it and doesn’t care. Brushing my hand over his chest, stomach. His morning stiff penis. His breath doesn’t hitch or change as I start to stroke it, trying to give him some last measure of pleasure from me. I consider slipping down under the sheets, taking him in my mouth and sucking him off softly. One last taste of him. But I don’t have it in me. I’m just not sure anymore. Bruised, confused and utterly and completely un-amused. Worn-out, beat down and used up. This is complete insanity. How did Miguel get me to

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fall so hard for him? Especially since I was so patently immune to those charms from other men. But Miguel—it’s like he has the personality of a con man. Con man. Con man isn’t the actual term, it’s just an abbreviation. The proper term is confidence man. Because the way a con man works is to deceive by getting his mark to believe utterly in him, by gaining their confidence. By making the mark feel confident in themselves, secure in their own abilities to reason. Meanwhile, the con man is actually filling their head with smoke and mirrors, reflecting back everything they want to see. Then when they have the trust, the mark is plucked. The illusion is shattered. Just like a tete-a-tete version of Las Vegas. Vegas pumps you up, showers you in lights and dreams and luxury and makes you think you have a chance. Lets you fall into all the psychological traps to deceive yourself, believe in yourself and trust the city to the point of thinking you can be a winner. It feeds illusions. People walk around with the delusion they’ll end up ahead because they deserve it. Or they use half-wit logic and think they’re outsmarting the place to cash in. They’ll watch things a while and decide they know the rhythms. Like in baccarat. It’s already predestined, but they just have to believe they can predict the fate of the cards that are lined up. They’ll watch roulette wheels and see black pop up ten times in a row and then bet on red because they know it’s due. That’s wrong. They think that way because they’re rationalizing, not because they really and truly understand odds and logic. It’s The Gambler’s Fallacy. Because, see, every spin is independent. Every single spin has as much chance of landing on black as it does on red, regardless of what happened before that. A long string of black could conceivably continue on forever. Sort of like how my luck ran with men before Miguel. Every guy before came up a loser, but I was due, Goddamnit. So I doubled my hope, doubled my efforts, doubled my emotions on him because I was due. Because it’s not like I was fated otherwise. Not like my life is set up like the baccarat deck, all the cards lined up with every hand and outcome already destined to happen. Or like a tarot deck. I didn’t trust fate. I trusted Miguel. Because I wanted to. Because he was so confident and sure, and he made me believe in him, in myself. It didn’t seem like a cheap trick or sleight-of-hand, it seemed like magic. I hoped it was real.

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24/7 But what was it, really? An inundation of my senses. Instead of bright lights and booze and glitz and glamour it was dim lights and booze and lust and love. No, that’s not right. It can’t be right. It has to be real. Not because I’m due. Not because I’m lost in a delusion. It has to be real because I trust him. And I have no reason not to. What would he want from me? Why would he play me? What would the purpose be? I mean, as a dealer, there’s reason. They play and work the people to get them to come back and keep the tokens and tips coming. Keep their jobs safe—customer relations and all. That’s all about the dollar. Same as everything is out here in Vegas. But he chased me outside of the casino. It’s not about money. It’s not like he spotted me as a potential source of green. I mean, some chick, all by herself, playing semi-high dollar blackjack at the Bellagio hotel. That doesn’t scream money to burn. Shit. Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t make me as a card counter that second time I played against him. Maybe he made me the first time. But still. He said he noticed my tits. He said he thought I was hot. He liked my smile. Just because no one else ever noticed my smile doesn’t mean he wouldn’t. It’s not all about money. All this time I thought he was interested in me for my body, but maybe he was just interested in my brain. The lousy bastard. Madone. I know what this is. This is me freaking out. This is me generalizing, over-analyzing. This is all my stupid insecurities raging to the surface because I’m freaking out and looking for something to be wrong now. This is just me destroying something that’s perfectly fine because I’m scared. Because I’m an asshole. People who gamble based on faith and trust lose their asses, because they rationalize because they want to believe it. The only people who win at gambling are those who can analyze it all and break it down and find the weaknesses to exploit. Con men exploit weaknesses. Women are easy targets. Unmarried, lonely women. They butter them up and then rip them off. No. This can’t really be. He hasn’t asked me to help him pay off that debt he owes. I just got so scared that I’d have been willing to do it if I had the money on me. But he couldn’t just be using me for the money like that, could he?

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It couldn’t be an even bigger scam. It couldn’t be a full-on scam that they actually run in conjunction with each other. Miguel’s a good boxer, that’s why he was able to take on both of those guys and still get us out of the messes relatively unscathed. Because they may be assholes, but they aren’t the smartest assholes. Because they didn’t have guns or anything. It wasn’t, like, a set-up to purposefully scare me. That’d be ridiculous. It’s not like they’re playing good cop, bad cop with me. Guys who run long cons for big money move on. They don’t stay in one place. They have to move and find new marks. No one would go through all that training and become a dice dealer at Bellagio just to run a scam and then move on. They need fresh meat. Like the way they’d be able to find fresh marks on a daily basis in a city that’s built almost entirely on tourism—people come in then move on. People come here not only to vacation but expecting to get fleeced and allow it to happen. They call it the city of entertainment. They should call it the city of illusion. This has certainly been entertaining. It’s unfathomable that it’s been an illusion. A lie. I’m insane. That’s what’s going on here. I’m insane to doubt this. To doubt him. It’s been nothing but my senses leading me down this road. His smell and his body. How gorgeous he looks, how heavenly he feels. The things he does to me, to make me feel. The way he leveled me in that elevator and overwhelmed me. Did I really fall in love with him because he made me come? Could he have really deceived me like that? By manipulating my senses and feeding my ego? Deception is the cornerstone of the Art of War. And in Sun Tzu’s philosophy, the true Art of War is not to destroy your opponent. That would be a foolish waste. Instead, the ultimate victory is to harness his strength and use it for your own purposes. I have nothing to trust but myself, and the only information I have to go on is images and memories. And none of those are objective. They’re all slanted with my perspective. I could have seen things as I wanted to see them. What if this is all a lie? What if I’m so patently insane that I’m creating these doubts because I want to sabotage myself? To sabotage my own happiness. No. I like being happy. I fight for it. I work at it. I earn it. I’m greedy for

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24/7 it. Shit. Shit shit shitshitshit. Merda. Mierda. Those two languages, so deceptively similar yet ultimately separate. I keep stroking away on Miguel, quick wrist and gentle touch, and he doesn’t wake up. His breath gets shallow and quick, but I know he’s dozed off by how quick he goes. He’s not holding up or holding back. No ego, no pride. No shame. Unguarded. Heating quickly, sighing softly, getting to the edge so easily. No jerks or groans, no halts or spurts. Perhaps he’s floating on the surface of sleep now, swaying on the gentle waves of that twilight neverland. He gives me just a soft moan, and then I feel his pacific release, spilling suddenly, coming smooth and easy. No guilt. No emotion. Just a pure physical reaction, one of pleasure. If coming woke him, he drifts back off and drips back down immediately, probably too confused to even realize what happened, too pleasured to bother worrying about it. I hold him as he softens, keeping him warm, keeping off the chill until I’m certain he’s asleep again, swimming deep under the currents. I guess that’s a parting gift. His most intimate, distilled scent leaks into the air, heavy and warm. I get up and wash my hands, the last evidence of him clinging briefly then being rinsed away. I grab the little purse he bought for me, cigarettes and lighter. Like any true whore, I stop and rifle through his pants until I get my hands on a twenty-dollar bill. Cab fare to get me home. He can consider it a consolation prize. I hook the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob and ease the door shut. My legs carry me down the long carpeted hallway and my finger pushes the button (only once) at the elevator bay. I wind through the marble halls, golden lights and stale cigar smoke, past machines clinking, water in fountains tinkling and neon lights winking. I feel like a fool for not having a dollar to tip the guy who hails my cab. On the drive to the airport, I hope Miguel’s swift enough once he wakes up to at least take that bottle of vodka with him—it cost eighty bucks from room service. But… He doesn’t drink vodka. So he probably won’t take it. Unless some part of him hopes and believes I’ll come back. Reaching in the purse to produce my ID at check-in, I discover his cell

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phone. I forgot to leave it back there for him. Once I’ve got my boarding pass in hand I dig in there deeper. The key to his place. I could leave here, go to his place while he’s sleeping, drop off his phone and grab all my things I left there. That’s when I realize it. There’s nothing I want more than to do that. Except that I don’t want to drop off his things and retrieve mine in a neat, bloodless exchange of property. What I’d really like, what I desperately want, is to leave this airport, go back to his place and stay there. Wait for him to come back home and then beg his forgiveness. Plead and somehow find a way to coax things into being the way they were less than thirty-six hours ago. But I don’t do that. Instead of me climbing into a cab and racing back to fix things, it’s me weaving through security and then waiting to board. Me getting on the plane. Me sitting down, buckling in, shutting up and preparing to take off. Once the doors are sealed and it starts to taxi, the guy next to me looks over and asks, “Did you win?” “I don’t think so,” I say. It’s at that exact moment that I look out the window, see the looming hotels slowly recede into the background and realize what a fucking asshole I am. So I fly home. When the plane finally lands and I get off, no one’s waiting to pick me up, so I hail a taxi to drive me home. He has to wait in my driveway as I go inside and get some money for him. I don’t sleep well that night—Miguel doesn’t call. I get up the next morning and go to work, just as I’m expected to do. It starts off blandly enough. It’s still too shitty cold out to take the top off my Jeep and at least get some simple pleasure out of the drive to work. The day proceeds in a similar fashion. People ask me how my vacation was and if I won any money. Then they update me on their situations while I pretend to listen, care, and nod agreeably. I complete my tasks deftly and punctually. And then I go home. Alone.

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[ 48 ]

I

TAKE THE NEPHEW TO SEE EMINEM, AND HE HAS A PRETTY GOOD TIME. HE’D HAVE had a better time if he wasn’t saddled with his thirty-year-old single aunt. I’d have had a better time if I hadn’t spent the whole show the same way I’m spending every waking hour and every fitful sleeping hour—festering and fretting over Miguel and trying to figure the situation out. I get home from the show and decide to resolve my dilemma and reach a conclusion. I can’t live in flux like this. One small problem. I can’t figure this out. The more I think, the more confused I get. And the more confused I get, the more I want to give up and crawl back to Miguel and curl up in his arms and rest. And the more I think about doing that, the more I start wondering if it would feel as good, if it would feel good at all, if I don’t trust him completely. And the more I wonder about trusting him completely, the more confused I get. And then I don’t care again, and I just want to be with him. I guess I’m hooked on him. Is that love? Addicted to him and pre-ordained—tarot reader predicted it wouldn’t really be love. But what if I’m throwing away something so utterly close to perfection? I can’t live with that what-if. But I can’t live in danger. And if it’s not real danger, I’m going to be swindled. And if I don’t give in to being swindled, then he’s going to leave me. But now I have to know. I have to know. So here’s the thing. I lay it all out on paper, listing my options and all the possible outcomes. Just to see it in black-and-white, crunch the numbers to figure out how to maximize my happiness and minimize my pain. Option number 1: I can stay here and never go back. If I do that, I’ll never see him again. If it’s real, I’ll have thrown away the most magical thing humans can have. If it wasn’t real, I’ll never know that for sure and I probably won’t ever move on completely.

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So staying here is not an option. That’s zero for happiness and plus three for misery. Option number 2: go back and not give up any money. This could have a couple possible effects. If the debt is real, he could get seriously hurt at some point. Not to mention the damage that could be done to my body by its being in the same general vicinity. If the debt isn’t real and this is a con job, he’ll leave me when he’s finally convinced I’ll be of no use to him. However, I presume he wouldn’t be dumb enough to say, “Look, bitch, I was just tryin’ for your cash and you’re not givin’ it up, so bye.” Instead, he’d come up with some other thing that could make me feel worse, and I’d never really know for sure if he broke up with me because it was a con or because he just fell out of love with me. Either way, that’s a bad option because it’s zero for happiness and plus two for misery. Option number 3: go back and pay off the debt. If the debt is real and it gets paid off, he’s out of danger, as am I. If the debt is real and it gets paid off, he’ll stay with me because he loves me. I’ll know for sure that it wasn’t a con simply by the fact that he’s with me. If the debt is fake, he won’t stay with me. They’ll gather the money and before long he’ll dump me for one reason or another. He won’t tell me or admit what really went on, but I’ll know the truth. Here’s a really interesting possibility. If the debt is fake and I pay it, there’s still the possibility that he’ll stay with me. Because, as I say about Vince, just because I know he’s working me for a tip doesn’t necessarily negate the fact that he genuinely likes me. It’s possible that Miguel marked me and ran a con, but that he really did fall in love with me. So there it is. There’s plus three for happiness and only plus one for misery. It’s no contest what plan of action I should take—the numbers dictate it. I want to clear my head, be safe, be with him and know it’s real. It’ll suck if he leaves me. It’ll break my heart and tear me up. But I’ll survive it. And it’s a much better alternative than me sitting here and destroying things on my own. At least this way I won’t have to worry that I’ve hurt him. At least this way I’ll know I did everything in my power to create my own happiness instead of run away from it. At some point, I have to stand up and be responsible for my own happiness. I can’t get dragged along and let it happen and slide on luck of the draw. I have to make a choice, and work at it.

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24/7 So this is my plan of attack. I’ve done exactly as Sun Tzu would have advised. I’ve investigated the probabilities and figured my odds. I’ve come up with a plan of attack that maximizes my chance for success. Now all I have to do is follow through. Now all I have to do is come up with the money. It was one hundredtwenty thousand, minus the eight from the first trip, hopefully minus about forty from our winning trip to Tahoe. So that’d make it stand now at seventy-two thousand dollars. I go to work the next day and perform my tasks in a perfunctory fashion, nodding at the people who stop by to share slices of their lives with me. At eleven-forty-five, just before lunch break, I hand in my request for time off for next week. At 1:07 p.m., just after lunch, Anderton comes to see me. Clearing his throat, saying, “Um, Ms. Marino…” “Martino,” I correct him. “Ms. Martina—” “Martino,” I repeat. “My name, Gary, is Marina Martino.” “Oh, yes. Got quite a nice ring to it, eh?” “Mom and Dad thought so.” “Oh. Ha.” An indulgent smile. “I’ve received your request for time off. I’m afraid, Ms. Martino, that it will be impossible to indulge this request.” “Oh?” “I’ve checked the files and you’ve taken quite a lot of time off recently—” “Yes. It’s unpaid time off. I know it’s a lot, but that was part of my agreement when I came to work here.” “Yes, I recall you had a special arrangement with the previous manager. But I’m just not comfortable with that arrangement and will be unable to indulge it.” “Okay,” I say. “So you understand then? We’re clear on this matter?” “Well, I won’t be here next week, Gary. As long as we’re clear on that.” I stand up, moving my keyboard into place on its holder, straightening the pens and papers I have strewn about. Flustered, fiddling with his tie: “Uh, but I just informed you that—” “I’ll be leaving.” “Ms. Martino, if you don’t report to work next week, I’m afraid the repercussions will be most severe.” “How can I suffer severe repercussions if I’m not here?” “I mean in the future.”

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“Oh. Well, I won’t have a future here. I’m going, so I expect you’ll either have to fire me or I’ll have to resign.” He burbles, “Well, uh, no, wait, um, I didn’t mean…” “Yes, you did mean that. You meant it as a threat. You shouldn’t make threats if you’re not willing to follow through. Anyway, I’m going. If you want me to come back and train someone to take my place after that, I’ll do it. Better yet, you’re the manager. You should be capable of training someone.” More burbling and stuttering. Finally, “I, um, I’m not certain…that is…how long it would take for me to familiarize myself with that material. Perhaps we can work out something in a financial arena. Instead of the time off you’re requesting we could encourage you to stay here if you were more, ah, shall we say, generously compensated?” “Thanks anyways, Mr. Anderson…” “Anderton,” he corrects and straightens his tie. I knew that. “Mr. Anderton, you don’t have enough money to pay me for wasted time. And as much as I’ve enjoyed our verbal jousting and playfully acrimonious rapport, I have other more productive and meaningful ways to spend my days. So. You want me to come back and train someone?” “I…well, I don’t…this is a most unusual situation. I’m not sure about…that is to say, I’m quite flummoxed as to how to answer that question at this time. I suppose I’ll have to check and then get back to you.” “Okay. Well, just so you know, when you check, they’re going to tell you to throw money at me until I agree to stay. I’m leaving now, though. Find out if you want someone else trained.” I shut down my PC, pick up my keys and close the door behind me as I leave, Anderton watching me the whole time. I turn and wink at him as I walk down the hall. “Don’t let this place drive you batty, Anderton.” He squints; it takes only a second for it to click. Quick synapses for a middle manager. “You! That was you!” I just keep walking. Once I’m at my place, I haphazardly throw clothing into duffel bags and fill another one with CDs. I turn off all the lights and appliances then go outside. It’s still unseasonably cool out, my Jeep is still buttoned tight. It’s a decision that has to be made now. Once on the road, I can’t strip off the top because there’s nowhere to put the doors. It’s a bright, sunny day, it was plenty warm in Vegas and it can’t be all that long before it gets to warming things up here. Doesn’t matter much anyhow, I won’t be here.

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24/7 I toss the bags inside, then take the extra twenty-three minutes to peel back the canvas, unbuttoning and unzipping, folding back and snapping down, pulling out the windows, going back inside to drop them off and tie back my hair. Finished, I climb behind the wheel and stare at the pavement in front of me. I slide the keys into the ignition and turn it over, a powerful purr. I pop a Chili Peppers CD into the deck. With champagne blood and roller coaster stomach, I throw the car in drive. Fingers curling around the wheel, I hesitate for only a second. Then Flea plings a high note, I hit the gas, turn the wheel and pull out. Not driving away. Driving toward. My choice, my decision, aiming for it and chasing after it exactly the way it should be done. Exactly the way I like. Exactly three blocks and one cigarette later, I hit the brakes, flip the turn signal, make a U-turn and go home. Freedom may reign on the open road, but it’s cold as a witch’s tit with all this freaking wind blowing. I’m all about the Jeep, but I’m not about pneumonia. I’m just going to have to button it back up and suffer the boisterous flapping for the ride. The phone’s ringing as I get inside to grab my windows, and I almost blow off answering it. Figuring I’ll be gone long enough, I decide to take the call just in case it turns out to be something relevant. “Martino.” Sherri Bruno’s wavery voice greets my hello. Probably not relevant, just time-consuming. “Sherri, what’s up?” “You weren’t at the office. I called the office and you weren’t there, what’s going on?” She sounds like she’s only a couple of clicks below freaking out. “I’m at home, I left early. What’s going on?” “You have to come and get me. Right now.” “Oh, it’s been six weeks already? I hadn’t realized.” “Shhh!” “Why are you shushing me?” “Because I don’t want him to hear us.” “Dumbass, I’m on the phone, he can’t hear me. You have to be quiet.” “You have to come get me. He’s not here right now, I have to get out of here!” “So then get in your car and drive away! Pack some clothes first.” “No! Shhhh. You don’t understand, I…I can’t.”

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“Listen, Bruno, I’m fully aware that you’re too drunk to drive right now, but you can do it tomorrow.” “No, shhhh. I’m not drunk. I just have to go, you have to come help me.” “Have another beer, Bruno. That’ll help you.” The sniffles start, and I know she’s crying now. “I’m afraid.” “Sherri. You did this. You moved there. If you want to leave, you can leave. I’m not coming to get you. You’re thirty years old, you can drive home.” “Marina!” It’s nearly a wail. “I’m afraid of him! He’s going to kill me if I leave!” “Oh, stop being so dramatic, he’s not going to touch you.” “He will! He will. He’ll track me down and kill me. If he sees me packing I’m afraid of what he’ll do to me.” “You can’t be serious.” “He’s dangerous, Marina!” “Don?” “Yes!” Hushed: “He hit me.” “He hit you?” Silence. “Did you hit him first?” A long silence, then: “Please! You have to come get me!” “What about your dad? Your brother?” “No. They’ll be pissed enough that I’m leaving. You have to come get me tomorrow. He’ll be at work, I can leave when he’s not here.” “He’s not there now! Why are you whispering?” “Shhh! Because. Martino, please, I need you.” Accusing: “What else have you got to do, anyhow? I know it’s a mess I made. But now I need help and that’s what friends do. You have to help me with this.” So I get the directions and I get the plan, and then I get the Jeep zipped, snapped and closed back up, which takes considerably longer than ripping it apart. And then, take two, I head out on the road. I drive straight through, stopping only for gas and pee calls. It takes me eleven hours, so I get into her town at three-thirty a.m. I’m not allowed to go to her house until Don’s gone for work in the morning, after seventhirty. I’m tired. I could use some sleep—good comfortable sleep in a bed, at least a couple hours. I could get a hotel room. But I don’t. I don’t get a hotel room for the same reason that I’m driving out to

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24/7 Vegas instead of flying—because for the first time in over eight years I can’t really afford it. I have some money, a little money. I’ve got three thousand, four hundred and fifty-six dollars on me right now. $3,456. And that’s all I have to my name. I’m going to need that change for gas and motels on the way out to Vegas. Anything left over, I need for gambling. It’s all I’ve got as my starting bankroll. I can’t fathom how I’ll possibly be able to turn that into the $72K that I need, but that’s why it’s so important that I don’t piss any of it away. I’ve got exactly one more paycheck coming, from this past couple of days that I worked, but that won’t be that much. Worse, I’ve got bills incoming. I charged $900-worth of shoes, some odd clothing, cigarettes, room service and my hotel bill that last night at Caesars, effectively maxing out my credit capacity. I know I should have more money at my disposal. Larger credit lines. But I never wanted to get cards because the outlandish interest they charge is just as bad as a neighborhood loan shark—it’s a waste. So I made it a habit to rarely charge anything, just pay cash. I never even took out a loan for my Jeep—I just saved until I had enough and then bought it. I should have more of a savings account, but I took an awful lot less money for my job so I’d be able to screw around and have fun. I just kept a small nest egg for emergencies. I figured someday I’d settle down and really stash some dough if I felt the need. I have my Vegas bankroll, but that’s back in Vegas with Miguel. I left a couple grand in those Hard Rock chips at his place, the ones I didn’t throw away to Brent to cover my unfortunate ball perforation of Castillo. So that’s it. It’s all I have. Three thousand, four hundred-fifty-six dollars. I’m not particularly uptight about it right now, though I really don’t know how I’m going to be able to pull off parlaying three grand into seventy-two. What if I hit a bad stretch right at the outset? What if I hit a bad stretch in the middle when I’m betting high? And even if everything goes right, that sort of increase is pretty much ludicrous. Nearly impossible. Ken Uston’s biggest take was forty-seven thousand in forty-five minutes, but come on—he was Ken Uston. Even the mythical Rain Man didn’t pull off much more than that, and he was gifted. And he had Tom Cruise working with him. And a script. And a director who could yell cut, and reshoot when the cards didn’t fall properly. I’m not set that I have to get it all in one shot, but I have to get it quick. I

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have to do this for Miguel. For both of us. I think about him as I slump behind the wheel, pull a sweatshirt around me to keep warm. I think about what I’ve done to him. It sort of pinged me when Sherri said that Don hit her. I’m not convinced she’s being truthful about that, but I wonder what she’d think about the brutal undercard fight me and Miguel had just a couple days ago. I was scared. I was really scared, and I realized for the first time that not only does he have the capabilities to hurt me, it is a very real possibility that he might. That alone ought to make me run. Run far, run hard and never look back. But here’s the thing: he didn’t hurt me. He knocked me down and struggled and he came close to hurting me, but he didn’t. I think he wanted to, but something held him back. And it’s not like it was unprovoked. I clocked him good a few times before he sprang back. Not to mention the devastating blow of how I left him in Tahoe. After that stunt, I pretty much earned whatever he wanted to dole out. It was lousy of me. And instead of bowing my head and saying I was sorry and making it up to him I got all shitty and started a fight over it. And let’s not forget the grand coup de gras. I got up and left him again. I can’t just crawl back and pay lip service and tell him I’m sorry and that I love him. This time I have to show him. This is how to do it. I doze off in the hushed quiet of the early morning until it’s time to go get Sherri. I follow the directions, and get to her place a little late—it’s already quarter after eight. It’s a nice house they picked out, but as I turn the corner from the side and approach the front, I see something that absolutely infuriates me. In the driveway, there’s three cars. Don’s isn’t there—he’s at work. Sherri’s is—in fact, there she is, she’s walking out to it with an armful of clothing. I know the two others by sight—her brother and her father. What a manipulative, self-centered bitch. Miguel was right—ultimate high maintenance. I pull in, hop out and slam my door closed. She comes over to hug me, but I push her away, demanding, “What’s going on?” “Oh, I called them to help. You were right, it’s a good idea to have them around—” “Then what the fuck did you need me for?” “Marina!” “I could kill you right now, you realize that? You dragged me down here all ‘Oh, you gotta come rescue me, I’m in danger.’ But you have them here

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24/7 to help you! You don’t need me. Yo, you just want me runnin’ around after you!” She bursts into tears. “This is so hard as it is, stop yelling at me.” “I’m leaving, Sherri. Enjoy the move.” “Martino! Wait! You’re here, please, help us out. He’ll be home soon!” I start muttering about her being a fucking bitch, but I go in and make a couple of trips anyhow. When we’re about finished, all three cars loaded up, she locks the house behind her and her father and brother pull out. I wouldn’t let her put anything in my Jeep, telling her I’m not going back home right away and it would just get stolen. She strolls down the driveway, peers inside my car. “You’re all packed up.” “Mostly just clothes.” “You’re going to Vegas?” I nod. “I don’t have anything to do—” “You can’t come.” “That’s not very nice.” She gives her unhappy face. “Listen. I have to pay for my room this time. Do you want to pay for half the hotel bill?” “I can’t, I don’t have a job right now.” Now asking, “Why aren’t you staying with Miguel?” “Isn’t Don due home soon?” “Yeah, well, you know. Hey, you want to stop somewhere and get some lunch together?” she asks. I am hungry. “Sure.” “Okay, you pick somewhere,” she says. “Uh, I saw a Denny’s a few blocks down, let’s go there.” “Mmm, no, not there…” “Okay, fuck you,” I hiss. “I’ve had it, eat by yourself, I have to go.” “Hey!” “Hey yourself, dammit, I’m leaving now.” “Martino?” “Yeah?” I figure she’s going to get all sappy and thank me and apologize for being an asshole now. “Since you’re going to be gone anyhow, can I stay at your place?”

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[ 49 ]

I

KEEP STOPPING FOR GAS, CHANGING CDS, SMOKING MY HEAD OFF, AND BARRELING down the highway. Barely even noticing the scenery changing, barely even enjoying the sights. I’ve always lived by the notion that getting there is half the fun, but right now, I just want to be there. I can feel it simmering all through me. Anticipation. Nervous, anxious anticipation. As the mile markers whiz by, I keep building and running the plan over and over. Seems like every mile is clicking the anticipation up higher as it itches through me. Not so much because I’m scared, I don’t think, but because I just want to do it, already. I don’t want to stop, I don’t want to rest, I don’t want to play, I don’t want to sleep or eat or daydream or even really be driving right now. I just want to be there. But my body gives out. My eyes get rough and dry, blurring along the constant broken line of the highway. My back is sore, my ass asleep. Exhausted, I give it up just past Nashville that day. I find a little Motel 6 outside the city, pay cash and flop down for the night pretty early. Really early—I only got about five hundred miles closer today. I take a shower and flip open a map, trying to figure out how much time the unnecessary side trip to meet Sherri cost me. Before I figure it out, I stop looking at it. I don’t have time for that, to fester about the wrongs. Instead, I turn my attention to the west and plot my course for the next day. The next day goes better. I get possessed. I stop for gas two times and smoke thirty-two cigarettes by noon. My brain is whirling nonstop, still unsure and unable to decipher how much of Miguel is real and how much was an illusion. Recent memories flash around. I dissect and reinterpret conversations, moments, looks and touches. I try to inspect everything objectively—to remove my biases to determine if it was all real. It’s almost impossible. I stop around three p.m. outside Oklahoma City after going for six hundred-ninety-seven miles and nine and a half hours. Frustrated, feeling

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24/7 like I’m getting nowhere, barely even enjoying the ride, unable to finalize my game plans or even come to any solid conclusions about Miguel. So I decide to unzip, unbutton, lighten up and change my perspective. The day is warm and sunny-bright, the barrage of flapping has gotten wearisome. I’m feeling cooped up so I fold back the top and try vainly to stuff my doors between my bags, finally giving up and just ditching them at the gas station. I tie back my hair, turn up the stereo and spark a spliff—the last one from my stash. I love the Jeep. I love the wind whipping against me and I love the sun beating down on me. I love that I’m outside and really seeing and smelling and getting an unfettered view of all the surroundings. And I really love driving it high. It gets me another eight hours and nearly five hundred-sixty miles; I stop just on the far side of Santa Fe. Cowboy country. It’s a clear, warm, starry night, incredible driving in the open dustiness of the Jeep. Plenty of land still yawns between me and the final point, but I call it quits. My eyes are getting blurry, my lips chapped from the wind and my ass is sore from sitting. One more Motel 6, a few more hours of sleep until I’m home. I set out as the sun is still rising behind me, zooming through the sandy flatlands of the desert, allowing the zephyr wind and scorching sun to batter the last of my hesitancy away. After six hundred-eighteen more miles, at precisely 6:27 p.m. (by my Jeep clock, so that makes it only 3:27 here), I hit the borders of Las Vegas, Nevada. What I should do now is think of the cheapest place to stay on the strip, check in and rest up. That’s what I should do. But, Madone. I’ve just traveled 2,992 miles in seventy-one hours in an all-terrain, open-air vehicle. I drive to Caesars Palace, pull out my already hyper-extended credit card and add a little more damage to the grand total of debt. Walking up to my room, I pass a familiar face along the marble halls. He smiles and stops to talk. After exchanging pleasantries, Jarred asks about Sherri. “She’s doing well,” I tell him. “She’s not here, though.” He looks crestfallen. I reach in my backpack and pull out a pen and paper, scribble my phone number on it, since I know that’s where she’ll be. I pass it over to him, and he gazes at it with a grin. “Call her if you’d like,” I tell him. “Thanks. It’s silly, I know it is, but I think about her quite often. She’s really something, isn’t she?” He looks hopeful. “Yeah, she’s…something.” I swim luxuriously, then I order room service, watch SportsCenter and

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take a nap. When I get up, I take a bath and fight off the urge to call Miguel. I packed up his number—took the time to look it up and tape it to the back of his cell phone that I’ve kept tucked safely away with his key in the little purse he gave me, inside my backpack. It’d be dumb to call, especially with him not there—I’m sure he’s at work. Besides, I haven’t actually got the money yet. That’s key. It’s the grand gesture of apology and atonement. If all goes well, it won’t be long before I see him. So this is what it all comes to. All the simmering and steaming has been ratcheted up by the Mojave sun so that it’s reached this full-pitch fever boil. No more anticipation, no more planning, no more telling myself how this will all work and fall into place. I leave the room at exactly 10:48 p.m. I leave exactly $124 stashed in the Gideon Bible upstairs. My plan is to sit down right here at Caesars and warm up then move on to another casino. I haven’t even looked at cards in eight days. I need to settle in and get used to the flow again before I start big-money hunting. Itchy ambition and straightforward motives—I pick my seat, pull out my cash and start looking at my cards. I play small to start and keep the count. I adjust appropriately and when my pile of chips grows, I wager bigger. I fight off the urges to fidget and fumble around, but as I increase my bets, my breath hitches with every card I draw. I have the true count at plus four and know faces are lurking right there, ready to pop up and wave hello. Aces are due, too. They’re both ready to slide on out of that cream-colored shoe and land in front of me. Maybe even wink as co-conspirators. They’re ready. They’re going to flip over and bring me closer to the end. Bring me closer to Miguel. I’ve slowly worked my pile up, exactly the way I always do it. But I can’t do it this way. I have to take a page from Miguel. I have to be aggressive. It’s the only way I can make the leaps I need to make. So I bet half the money in front of me on this upcoming hand. I give in to myself, chewing on my bottom lip as I slide the chips into the circle, twisting my ring around my finger as I wait for the cards to be dealt. I draw two aces and have no choice but to split. I have to use the other half of the chips. I have to. I can’t sit here on a twelve when I know those faces are coming. Always split aces. Always. I have to do it. So I do it. My stomach churns as I slide the other half of my chips forward, matching what I already had in place. I feel faint, but take a few deep breaths. This is how the game is played. This is how the game is won.

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24/7 I forget the math, don’t bother adding or subtracting the faces and lows anymore. This will be my last play here. I’ll take my chips, get up and move on. Play somewhere else. Make the right moves at another hotel, each flip of the cards being a step closer to Miguel. So I watch down the table, check to see how the cards unfold for the players in position before me. The guy before me draws and hits his sixteen, collecting a queen that breaks him. The guy next to him draws and pulls a jack, which gives him a total of nineteen. I have to sit here, motionless. All choice removed. All the plays have been played. It’s all been set in motion, and I made my bid. Now these cards will reveal whether or not I made the right decisions. I’m either paralyzed with dread or invigorated with joy as I watch my cards come sliding across the felt. One of those is definitely what I’m feeling—dread or joy. I’m just not sure which one. Yet. I have to blink to believe my eyes when I draw a three. I recheck the dealer’s upcard, verifying that it is, indeed, an eight. I tap again and pull a nine, which forces me to draw again. And then I tap my finger and take the hit, watch in horror as another queen falls out, two cards too late. That hand over, a bust loser. The next hand starts, I get a paltry four. I sit there staring at the card. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This isn’t supposed to be happening. “Ma’am?” The dealer prods me. She wants to know if I’m hitting or standing. I hesitate, knowing what I’m supposed to do, reaching my finger out and pulling it back again. Waiting won’t change a thing, though. So I tap my finger decisively, realizing what that lurking feeling was. It wasn’t joy. It was dread. I pull a ten, but that’s not enough. Fifteen doesn’t get the job done. So I tap again and take the hit. The queen of spades lands as my fourth card. The queen of spades. The Bitch. And just like that, I am broke. Dazed, I get up from the table. I stop a gentleman and ask him what time it is, and he checks his watch and replies that it’s 11:23. I have already lost every last dollar I brought downstairs with me. It’s 11:23 p.m., I’ve come nearly three thousand miles and wasted three thousand dollars. I’ve lost my money, I’ve lost Miguel and right now I might be losing my mind. No. No. Not like this. Heart beating wildly, desperate, I know what I have to do. I rush

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upstairs and grab the other $124. I cash in one hundred-twenty of it and sit back down. I find a table and take my seat, veins itching, mind whirling frenetically. The cards start coming out, everything rushing and moving so fast, impossibly tense. Nails on a chalkboard, clock ticking down, walking on a high-wire tension. Tension that collapses down onto itself as I play the last chip and watch it get scooped away as the dealer beats me with a twenty. Tension that bleeds into resigned despair, frosted with the bitter thought: these palaces aren’t here because people win. I’m queasy. Jittery. I’ve lost it all. Haven’t gained a thing. Except perhaps the insight that I’m not the hotshot I was hoping to be. That for just once I needed to be. So. This is it. That last few drops, that hundred-twenty disappearing—it wasn’t nearly as shocking or painful as the first three thousand. Strangely, I don’t feel panicked. I don’t know what I feel, I only know I’ve failed. That once again, best intentions in mind, I fucked up really bad. I don’t know what else to do, so I do what I do. I give up and go to the bar. I don’t even bother trying to front. I just sit down and blandly order a drink that I’m going to have to charge to the room and be unable to pay for later. My condition is apparent to Vince. He backs away from me almost immediately after setting me up. Comes back and refills as soon as I drain the glass in one pull. “Wanna talk about it?” he offers as he drops a fresh lime in my glass and pushes it in front of me. “I don’t know what to say,” I say. “You talk.” “I got nothing. What’s up? Miguel?” I choke back the tears as I finally say it out loud. “I think I’ve lost him. I just lost everything.” “Lost him? Dumbass, you left him. Twice!” I nod. “So. He told you.” He shrugs. Leans against bar with a wry grin. “I fucked up,” I say. “Yeah. You did.” My feet are numb as I sit there gulping down vodka. SportsCenter flickers on the screens in the dull light of the black sunken bar. The carpet under my feet is worn a bit thin, fraying where it meets the bar. Now, a familiar voice as a figure takes a seat next to me. Crowding me,

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24/7 smelling sickly sweet. “Hey, girl, how you doing? Buy me a drink to keep you company awhile?” I tell her, “I’m broke, Diamond.” “Ahh, come on, now, don’t do me like that. I see you’ve got a full glass.” “Fine. Vince, get her one, will you?” I ask him. Turning back to her: “But you don’t have to keep me company.” Offended: “You don’t like my company, that it?” “No, that’s not it. I don’t like my own company right now. I really am broke, Diamond, I just lost all my money.” “Girl, that happens to everyone out here from time to time. You just haul yourself over to an ATM or cash a check and get back on that horse. That bitter feeling won’t ever go away until you end up on the up side again.” “I can’t do that. You aren’t listening to me. I lost all my money. I don’t have any in my bank account. I lost everything.” Her glittered lashes sweep apart more widely than usual for a second but quickly go back to normal. “I’ve heard it before, sugar, it happens out here, that’s all I can tell you. It’s happened to me once or twice. Same thing.” “It’s not the same thing,” I snap. “Ooooh.” She grins. “Ain’t hit you all the way yet. Aren’t ready to accept it, I guess. ’Cause it sure is the same thing. We’re the same, honey, you just don’t wanna admit it to yourself yet. You don’t want to admit you don’t like losing. But you’ll see it. Vegas takes, but Vegas can give. You’ll get some money back. You’ll survive.” “It’s not about the money, Diamond,” I tell her. “No, it never is, now, is it? It’s about losing, that’s what we tell ourselves.” “It’s not about money and it’s not about losing, it’s about a man. My man. I lost him, and now without money I’ll never get him back. I lost him.” She cracks up. Full-out, head back cackling. “Girl, you’ve got it all backward. You ain’t supposed to be waving the cash to get a man, he should be waving it at you.” “It’s not like that. I fucked up and I’m trying to make it up to him, that’s all.” Vince finishes filling a waitress order and ambles back over to us, ears pricked. Diamond sloshes her drink around, picks out an ice cube and cracks it in her jaw, roughly chews it up. Simply saying: “You want him back, go get him back. Take what you want. Lion heart—you have to fight

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and claw for it, girl.” “I’m trying. I’m trying to. I just…I don’t know what else to do. I had it all figured out, but I lost everything now. I could fight and I could win, I just don’t have any ammunition right now, understand?” Vince, looking compassionate: “You’re broke?” I gulp and blink, drop my eyes as I nod. “How much you need?” “What?” “How much you need?” “I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter because I don’t have anything.” He nods, flips the bar towel over his shoulder, places his foot on the cooler and leans one hand on the bar. “What do you need? I’ll give you the money.” Speechless. “Really,” he says. “Five hundred? A grand?” “Vince, I…I don’t know what to say.” He shrugs. “How much you want?” “Vince, I’ll pay you back. I’ll pay you back double. Seriously.” “You don’t have to pay me back. You can earn it.” “What? How?” “Tell you what.” He leans closer, checks over his shoulder, lowers his voice. “Two grand to fuck you, any way I want. I’ll even wear a condom.” I laugh. He doesn’t. I go, “You’re kidding, right?” “Nope. That’s the deal.” He looks around again, takes out his wallet. Rifles through it and promptly throws a neat stack of crisp Franklins on the bar in front of me.

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[ 50 ]

M

Y HEAD BUBBLES AND WHIRS AS I STARE AT THE MONEY. UNBELIEVING. “Vince, I’d…I’d pay you back…” Sternly: “No.” I stare at the stack of bills. Thinking about what they signify, what they could be used for. What he’s using them for. My hand itchy to pick them up. I can do this. I know I can win that money for Miguel—I just got derailed, and this money could… Diamond speaks up. “Honey, I’ll do you for that stack right there. Where you want it, huh?” “Not you,” he answers her. “Her.” I swallow thickly. “I don’t know what to say.” “Shit,” Diamond says. “Don’t say anything, girl. Just pick up that money and give the boy what he wants.” “I…I don’t know if I can do that.” Vince leaves to fill another waitress order. I keep staring at the money, like I’m expecting it to get up and walk away on its own. Or jump up and give me a sign. Do a trick or something. No, I’m the one who’s expected to do a trick for the money. Not real magic, just a trick. “What the hell you mean you can’t do that?” Diamond asks. “You said you needed the money, you’re broke. Well, there’s money.” “But I…I never did anything, I don’t…” “Oh. Shit,” she says, annoyed now. “I do it all the time! It’s nothing. Lion heart, baby! Lion heart. You need something, here’s your chance. You take that chance.” “But I’m not like you, I’m…” Her eyes narrow. “You’re what?” she hisses. “You’re better than that?” Meekly: “No.” “You think you’re better than me, sweetheart?” “No, I don’t. I don’t think I’m better. I don’t. I just think I’m different,

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that’s all.” “Different? Different? Shit. We ain’t different. Look at you. Look at me. We’re the same, girl. We are the same. He just showed you that. We’re all the same to them. And deep down, it’s true anyhow. I’m just at the point of admitting it. They want something, they want it bad enough, they’ll pay. You think just ’cause some bitches get paid with wedding rings and penthouses on Park Avenue they’re any different? Hell, no. It’s all the same.” I stare down at that money, sitting on the bar. It’s nothing. It’s nothing but printed paper, it’s not really worth anything. All it is, is a uniform bartering tool. A tool used to obtain what we want. The money, in itself, is useless. Only the things that it potentially represents have value. What is the value of that money? Right now, for Vince, it’s worth him sticking his dick inside me. Quite a compliment, that. But what good does the money do me? It’s another chance. I reach out and touch it. It’s the possibility to make Miguel happy. That’s what this is about. That’s all it matters to me. This is a chance to erase those fuck-ups. I was wrong to leave him, I was wrong to leave him the second time. I don’t know what happened out on the floor there just now, but I know this: I know I’m not meant to let this slip away. This is the chance. This is the opportunity to turn it around. And it’s a chance I don’t have without this money. It’s the last chance. I sit here like a third-rate, bargain-basement Demi Moore, contemplating the money and shaking with what it can do for me. Instead of houses and cars and a life of ease, all I see is Miguel. And that’s worth so much more. That’s worth more than anything I could give up to get him back. Vince finishes up that order and comes back over, leaning against the bar, watching me. Daring to throw this little nugget out there, taunting me with it: “You always said you wanted this. Here’s your chance. Go ahead, do it.” It’s an argument on a slope as slippery as minnows glazed with Vaseline. It’s as peanut butter dense as Dostoevsky prose. It’s as clear and thin as Evian in crystal. It’s prickly as a cactus and smooth as a baby’s bottom. It’s as crooked as an Englishman’s teeth and straight as Henry Rollins. Because it’s all in the perception. That’s all that matters, right? I think of the silicone Barbies in the strip clubs and the girls like Diamond here in the bars, vacant eyes and vapid minds, all of it stifled by chemical alteration. Selling what they have over and over, their bodies being

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24/7 the thing that people pay for. Just their bodies. It’s just a body, it’s just flesh, and if someone wants to pay to look at it or feel it or slip inside it, isn’t that the ultimate triumph? It’s topping from the bottom. With that realization, that it’s only a body, a mass of cells and blood and mostly all water—what does it matter? Madone, maybe they’re just depressed because it’s the only thing about them that people are willing to pay for. It’s the grandest compliment, isn’t it? Someone is willing to pay money to have sex with someone else. Who’s being exploited by that? No one. Not a soul. As long as the soul doesn’t enter into it. As long as it is just the body. Just the body. Not the soul. Vince cocks a brow and leers at me. I look back down at the pile. Is that all he wants, to fuck my body? Or is there something more? Another layer, maybe one even more important in this whole transaction. Not just the sex but the actual control. Him believing that when I pick up that cash he’s won something, taken something from me. And even if I don’t see it that way, if he does then what’s the truth? Miguel would hate this. This is supposed to be all about making him happy, but he would hate this. But Miguel would never even have to know. Bottom line, it’s not about if Miguel would hate this, if it would cement his fear of me being a whore. What would matter the most is if I finally believed I was the whore he’s accused me of being. What matters is what I feel. This isn’t two weeks ago, when the thought of being with another man seemed incomprehensible and grotesque. This isn’t two months ago, when the thought of being with only one man seemed impossible, a chore. This isn’t two years from now, when maybe being with a man who’s willing to pay will be a mainline ego shot in the arm I need and crave. This isn’t the past or the future. This is the present. The Right Now. I can taste it, I can utterly taste it, taste the bitterness of how wrong it was that I got so efficiently flattened before. I can taste the sweetness yet to come. The undeniable, juicy, syrupy, unadulterated sweetness when all of this turns the corner and my plans have come to fruition. No more hoping and craving and wishing it all to be better. No more wishing I can erase what I’ve already done wrong. Get rid of the regret. And I know I can do it. It’s within my reach, staring at me. I gaze up at Vince, asking, “I, uh, you sure I can’t just pay you back, Vince?” He shakes his head slowly. “Bitch!” Diamond prods me. “You need the money, pick it up! That’s

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what I’d do, you know it, get what I deserve.” I place my hand on the money and flip through it. Casual but slow, counting it as I do. It would fix things. I know I can do this, I know I can turn this money into everything I’m supposed to. Vince licks his lips. Diamond smiles. “See that, we’re the same baby. Lion heart.” “That,” I say to her, “is precisely the difference between us, Diamond.” I take my hand away, wiping it on my napkin. “I have the heart of a woman.” So I left the bar, and I left the money on it. Because Miguel does matter. To me. No judgment. I just couldn’t do it. Not just because I didn’t think it was the best plan of attack to help Miguel by doing something that would only hurt him more but also because, simply put, I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to fuck Vince. I guess it’s some sort of side effect that goes hand-inhand with love, at least for me. Right now, Miguel is the only guy I want to have sex with. And when I realized that, I realized I haven’t lost everything, not yet. Crystal-clear, I knew what I could do. Vince, he just smirked and said, “Good girl.” He winked and said he was just testing, playing around. Maybe he was. Doesn’t matter. He offered me the money anyhow. I turned him down. I went upstairs and got some fitful sleep. I had trouble falling asleep— every time I tucked my head down into the pillow I could hear my heart beating in my ear, but I took that as a good sign. I got up early in the morning and flipped through the yellow pages, made a few phone calls until I found the right places. I got my shit together and drove there myself. The first stop was a pawnshop, where I stood and twisted the ring around on my finger. My mom’s wedding ring that I took and have worn since she died. I passed it over to the guy; he inspected it and offered me $500 for the piece of platinum. I couldn’t do it, it felt wrong, letting go of a symbol of love in exchange for money, even if it is being used to win love back. Just…no. So I drove to the second place, and I stand here now. In a used car lot, with a sticky salesman telling me how much he’ll give me for my Jeep. It was the first thing I ever saved up money for and bought. But it’s still just a car. It’s a pile of metal and plastic, screws and panels, oil and gas. “Twenty-five hundred,” he says. “What?”

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24/7 “Best I can do. Sorry.” “Oh, come on. Three grand at least. Look at it, it’s perfect!” “It has no windows,” he says. “Aw, shit, this is Vegas, who the hell needs windows?” “Twenty-five hundred.” “For twenty-five hundred, I expect you to keep this car on the lot today. I’ll come get it tomorrow. And you’ll throw in a ride back to my hotel.” “Deal,” he says as he shakes. With a wink: “But you’re going to pay.” And then he gives me a lift back to Caesars.

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[ 51 ]

O

NCE BACK AT THE HOTEL,

I MAKE IT A POINT TO FORCE MYSELF TO RELAX AND enjoy the day. I squash every impulse to call Miguel as soon as it pops into my head. Chicken. That’s what I am. I’ve got a yellow streak running up my spine the size of Las Vegas Boulevard. I just can’t imagine facing him after everything I’ve done without the ace card up my sleeve that at least I’ve also done something right. I’m antsy and hyper, too. Not scared. Last night, before going to sleep, it was a terrifying thought. But once I committed myself, it all seemed okay. And all I felt as I signed the papers and passed the keys over to the salesman was a quiet, wistful stirring. I thought I’d lost everything last night at one point, but then I took a second look and realized I still had more. I can do this. I know I can do this. I gave Las Vegas her free shot last night, gave her a chance to take me down and knock me out. But she couldn’t do it. I know she won’t do it. She can’t do it. Because she doesn’t own me. I own this. I know I can beat her. The jittery anxiety is gone, too. I was playing ahead, looking forward. That was the problem. I was blaming myself and doing this out of desperation. That’ll never win. Dostoevsky said there are two kinds of gamblers. There’s the ones there for entertainment. The ones to whom the money is only secondary. They’re there for the thrill, and win or lose, they take it in stride. That’s who I used to be. But last night I was playing and living like the other kind. Like the kind who cling to the chips for hope, losing money they can’t afford, growing more crazed with each roll, deal and shuffle. They lose their heads, lose their cool and make tragic mistakes. That’s what I did. I was in over my head. I didn’t have control of my

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24/7 bankroll, I didn’t have control of my emotions. I was looking to the future instead of concentrating on the hunt of the right now. I just wanted the game to be over so I could earn my reward. Instead, it shocked me. Then I woke up and remembered. This isn’t about punishment and reward. It’s not about the dollars. It’s about a gesture. It’s about proving that I’m true, that I’m sorry. It’s about finding out if he is, too. So I go to the pool, let the pool boy find me a nice area, and then I swim my laps, burning off the lingering anxious jitters. Then I rest back and soak up the sunshine. The day is blistering hot, Vegas in prime full-tilt baking mode. When I’ve had my fill of that, I go upstairs, flip on the TV, order a cheeseburger and watch as the Braves swallow a loss to Montreal. It’s so relaxing. And it seems so normal. All just part of a perfectly natural routine. My ritual. It gets me so centered and relaxed that by the time I’ve finished showering and getting dressed it’s second nature to do what comes next. I just grab my smokes, lighter, ID, cash and lip stuff. I tuck them into the little purse he bought me and head out the door. I push the button at the elevator bay, climb on once it arrives. It carries me down in one straight shot. I know that all up and down the strip cards are lined up. They’re arranged neatly in their shoes, waiting to be dealt. They’re waiting for someone to walk up and stake their wages upon them. They’re just plastic. They don’t know that person is hoping they’ll make them a winner. They don’t know who they’re playing for. They don’t know they’re supposed to fall in certain orders that have been mathematically calculated so the people who paid for them to be there will win more flips than they’ll lose. They’re just cards. They aren’t evil. They aren’t good. They are just objects. They don’t know if they are being counted or not. They don’t realize they’re one of the rituals out here. They don’t remember the history, don’t keep it tucked away somewhere inside the intricate patterned designs along their uniform backsides. They don’t know how it all began nor where it stands today, nor do they worry about the day they’ll be discarded, possibly repackaged and sold as a souvenir to an unsuspecting pilgrim who doesn’t realize that at one time these precise cards, seemingly innocent and unbiased, cost another gambler his kid’s college tuition. Or that, possibly, in a fit of treason or skewed and streaky deviation from the mean, they cost this very hotel a nice chunk of change. They can’t speak to tell their story. Even more notable, they have no memories to be able to remember their story, nor any emotions or rational

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or irrational thought with which to ponder their story. They have no belief structure, no psychological demands, no physical limitations (with the possible exception of the occasional bent corner). They’re just cards, man. They’re just a tool for the casino to get your money. Or vice-versa. Because that’s what this city is all about. Money. Numbers and greed. It’s often said that greed is the root of all evil. Horseshit. They’re not looking deep enough, the people who say that. Greed is the effect. It’s an effect of an underlying cause. And that cause is misguided fear. Fear makes us greedy. When we’re afraid we aren’t really good enough, we hoard and amass and crave. We think money or power or whatever else we’re greedy for will fill the gaps, that we can buy our way out of our shortcomings, even if our shortcomings are only perceived by ourselves. We don’t need to remove the greed or the craving, we need to remove the fear. And it’s the same thing Vegas is hungry for. Blinking, flashing, screaming, shouting, rushing and whirring all the time, not even trying to conceal her insecurity with smoke and mirrors or sublimation. Instead, just pouring it all out there in a wild burst of energy, demanding attention. Her vices aren’t her flaws, they’re ours. It’s what she offers us. Hookers and whores, buffets and banquets, craps and comics, magicians and marble floors, glitz and glamour, legend and lore. She’ll pour it all out, serve it all up and bow as she takes her cut. Even the money. She’s out to suck our money, but that’s only because we’re placing it in the offertory. We shell it over, get sucked into her allure and let her rob us as we rub our eyes and know she’s doing it. But that’s not her gig. That’s the gig of the corporations who currently think they’re in control of her. Deep down, that’s not what Vegas wants. She wants action. That’s what she wants. She wants attention, and she wants life poured into her nonstop. She’s stuck in the middle of this parched land, an oasis that wasn’t supposed to exist, let alone prosper. She knows she’s an aberration. But she doesn’t want it to end. She fears what waits at the end of the day—a return to dust and sand and nothing more. So she wants it while she can have it. She wants it Right Now. Throbbing, pulsing, whirling, screaming, lecherous, lascivious life. Every part of it. She wants it now, she wants it all and she wants it nonstop. The money is the magic lure she offers in return for our attention. But she’s greedy about everything. She won’t just hand it out. Instead, she has an

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24/7 ironic sense of humor, crisply dark and shaded. The money is a lure, but she reaps that, too. And she bases it all on the same thing she operates on. Greed. Greed governed by numbers. But just like the American Dream, she’s not stealing from us. Vegas isn’t taking and sucking endlessly, pulling everything she needs without giving in return. She gives us the cheap tricks. She gives us the illusions and entertainment and vices. She takes them all, mixes them together, sprinkles them with a lustrous layer of energy and serves them up. But that’s just her trick. She also gives something much less visible, much less tangible. Something so much more valuable. She gives hope. She gives it endlessly and freely. That’s her real mystique, her true appeal and allure. And it’s not a cheap trick. That’s the true magic of the city. Hope. So that’s why I stand on the plush carpeting, glancing around, watching all the action. Listening to the coins clink into metal trays, hearing the whirring of slots, Sinatra’s voice wafting through it, mixing with the barks of stickmen—so much like carnival barkers beckoning you to test the action, golden lights flickering all around and pulsing neon to complete the ambience. That’s why as I stand in all that bustling activity with only two thousand five hundred dollars to my name, no job, no man and plenty of mounting bills, I’m not the least bit scared. Because I know this city. I know what she gives out, and I know how she takes away. And I know how to earn it back. And that is exactly how I decide where my first stop of the night will be. All I have to do is trust myself. I know the odds, I know the numbers, and I know how to do this. I light a cigarette as I think about where to go. I stand at the edge of the casino here at Caesars, on the periphery of the action. Last night, I was short-circuited by tension and fear. The best way to overcome fear is to confront it. Climb right back on that horse you fell off of. The same horse. Especially if that horse made off with over three thousand dollars of your money.

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[ 52 ]

S

O, I FLIP, BACKFLIP AND TAKE ONE LAST HIT OFF THE CIGARETTE BEFORE CRUSHING

it out. I pull out my six-shooter, viewed by most in the near vicinity as plain green money, and I saddle up by taking a seat at a six-deck-shoe blackjack table with my old pal Edward the dice man dealing. And I begin the ritual by showing him a wad of cash. Edward winks at me. “You’re back again, sweetheart.” “What can I say? I missed you, Edward.” “Missed me, or missed this?” He nods down to the table as he shuffles the cards. He taps the decks, stacks them in neat piles in the shoe. He sets the stack of cards in front of me and hands me a yellow one so I can cut the deck. Then he arranges them neatly back in the shoe, one of his rituals now completed. “Both,” I answer him. Turning his attention to my money, he fans it out and quickly counts it, looks up at me once, saying under his breath, “You sure?” I nod. “Where’s your player’s card?” “I, uh, I don’t have it. Don’t sweat it.” He takes the bills, aligns them over the slot and shoves them down and away. Just like that, the money from my Jeep disappears, without even the benefit of a poof. There’s a brief, sharp twinge of hesitancy, but I strangle it right back and remind myself of this simple fact: It’s only money. He counts out chips and passes them my way, saying the obligatory, “Good luck.” It’s tradition. It’s just part of the rules. I’m alone at the table, playing him head-on. He waits. I pick up a single black chip, which represents $100. I flip it through my fingers with agile grace, ceremoniously placing it down as my opening stake. “Ready?” he asks. I pause, look him in the eye. “Absolutely.”

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24/7 He slides his fingers down the front of the shoe and moves the cards across the felt. Play my hand, keep the count, sidetrack the aces and keep an eye on the discard. Increase and decrease appropriately. Every flip of the cards sends small wafts of excitement or disappointment to my head. Sheer euphoria hits when I draw a blackjack. I don’t get any outstanding counts yet, but I’m aggressive with each small advantage. Aggressive, yet reasonable. As we hit the last deal from that first shoe, I’ve increased my pile of chips by a small margin. Edward looks at me as he slides the last cards across the table. “How long have you been playing blackjack?” he asks. “Longer than you’ve been dealing,” I answer as I stand on my hard eighteen. My winning hard eighteen. He nods and begins the shuffle. I lean back, light a cigarette as I concentrate on tracking the heavy face areas as they slide through his thumbs and fall into new arrangements. Eight hands into the new shoe, I see an opening and go for it. I hesitate briefly before staking. A siege of nerves takes hold, making my hand quiver as I mentally squash the anxiety. I place ten black chips into the betting area. Glance up briefly to see Edward’s concerned face. I look back to the table and watch the cards. I watch as the beautiful matching kings land in front of me. The nervousness bubbles to elation, I don’t even try to conceal a sigh of relief and a wide smile. “Congratulations,” Edward says with a wink. I nod and stake again. And I fall into the game. Deeply into the game. Playing my hands, keeping the count. Laser focus on the cards, not seeing any of the activity around me. There are no lights to distract, no waitresses to serve me, not another patron in the place. I only see the cards. People come and sit at the table. I’m unaware of their faces, if they’re male or female, even if they’re human. There’s no clinking of coins or whirring of machines. All auxiliary sound is drowned out, or simply slipped away. All there is, is the quiet serenity of the cards routinely falling, one after another. The only sound is the internal sound of the numbers ticking up and down in my head. My hand taps or waves off without any effort or thought behind it. My other hand places the wagers and collects the winnings without any doubt. Sometimes there are more hands of cards to count. Sometimes less.

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Sometimes the count is high, and I get champagne-fizzy blood when a winning hand unfolds. Sometimes the count is negative, and I silence the twittering, jangling nerves by acting calm. A bad streak. A very, very bad streak. Despondent thoughts break through the singularity of the count, telling me to turn and run. But instead I repeat the count, use it like a mantra, knowing and trusting that with the lower bets I’ll ride it out. An outside voice, speaking my name. I look up. Edward repeats what he said. “How much are we going for here?” I cock a brow, look around. There’s no other players right now, just him and me again, and the count is edging into a very lucrative range. I answer honestly. “Edward, I want that Rain Man Suite.” He nods and deals, we play the hand and I win. Keeping his eyes trained on me as he slides his hand down the shoe again, he says, “They’ll be watching soon.” I nod. Answering, “Let ’em watch.” I mentally repeat the count so I don’t lose track during this interruption. “I hope you do it, sweetheart. I hope you do it.” I scan his face and realize something profound. He’s sincere. He’s rooting for me. I slide him several chips as a toke. “Then please stop talking to me,” is all I say. He dummies up, nods, and deals. * * * I’m doing very well. Extremely well. I’m midway into the fourth shoe when it happens. I should have left. I should have left here long ago. I’ve been concentrating too hard, tunnel-visioned onto what I’m doing. I once heard it said that all exceptionally gifted athletes, no matter what the sport, possess one unique quality—they have the ability to slow down time. Not in a freaky way, not in the way that they also say true evil stops time. No, no. It’s not externally felt by others. It’s just the way they can at moments see things, feel them. When everyone else is in a frenzied rush, they somehow take a snapshot and can see things moving more slowly, more clearly. Focused. The ball looks fatter, or openings are more apparent. That’s how the cards unfolded for me here—no noise, no distraction, just long, luscious strokes of cards sliding from the shoe to in front of me and then back to the other side of the table in slow motion. I didn’t leave

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24/7 here because the rush of the wins, that growing pile, the mere fact of my concentration and the hypnotic, slowed flip of those cards erased any thoughts of leaving. I just never thought of it. And now. Now I won’t leave. Because now, right now, at this exact moment, it’s not just the intoxicating rush of winning that’s trilling through me and lighting me up. It’s not just the time I’ve spent and numbers I’ve kept and cards I’ve tracked. It’s not that I’m comfortable and settled in. It’s not the underlying urgency to the whole situation. It’s not the impatience to run back to Miguel. It’s not that I’ve got an extremely favorable count of plus five and that I know—I know—those aces and faces are right there lurking, waiting to spill in acquiescent ecstasy at my hands. It’s all of those things combined. It’s that all those things smush and mix together, a spiraling vortex of demand cascading over me so that I not only want it, I can feel it. I can taste it. Juicy, meaty, salivating over it. It’s right there. And so are They. I don’t know how long They’ve been watching. Edward took a break—I hadn’t noticed he was gone until I saw a female dealer’s hands. And then he came back. That’s the only activity I noticed. But I see Them now. Giving me the evil eye. The pit boss is bellied right up to the table, watching my every move. I have a pile of chips in front of me. Shit. I really look at them. I’ve never seen a pile like this before. I guess at times in Tahoe Miguel had a stack like this, but I hadn’t noticed or seen it because I was busy. I hadn’t even noticed mine here right now. I only knew that I was feeling a lot more of the wonderful rushes than the scary jitters. I knew I was stacking them up. I knew I was being aggressive and bold, not even covering my high bets or drop downs. But—merda! Holy shit! I repeat the count in my head to make sure I don’t lose it (+5), then hold up my hand as I quickly let the chips fall through my fingers stack by stack, arranging them neatly. Plus five. Looking directly at a section ripe with plenty of aces and faces. And in front of me, right now, $46,200. That’s approximate. I counted quickly and stacked them evenly. I could be off a little. But not much. Edward’s been coloring me up, so there aren’t many blacks here. Instead they’re mostly pinks. I’m well over halfway there. I could have my car back, pay off the credit

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card and, most importantly, still take a huge heap to Miguel. If I’d just stop right now. I’ve been rational and reasonable. Aggressive but properly plotted; I waged the battles precisely as The Art of War would dictate. I’d let all the noise and jumble and glitter and glory and indecision and fear of defeat wash away. And this is where it brought me. I take a deep breath. The pit boss clears his throat. This is it. I could stand up and leave, be in pretty good shape. Plus five. Aces and faces lurking. I’ve gone down the tubes before. I let it happen so quickly, just by reaching too far, too fast. I sit up straight and arch my back to stretch it, extending my arms up, trying to feel a nonexistent breeze. Trying to feel the fate. The dragon’s breath. The chi. All the cards are all lined up. They’re in there in a specific order, and nothing is going to change it. It’s already predetermined whether I win or lose. All I have to do is recognize which way it’s going to turn. It’s not up to the dealer, it’s not up to the casino, it’s not up to Fate or Destiny. It’s up to me. I run my finger down the ridges of one of the stacks, and glance up at Edward. He’s emotionless, his face blank. He watches as I caress the chips. This is so much. It could do so much good. Safety and security. I’ve gotten bucked off this wild stallion and fallen flat on my face. But it’s not what I came here to do. If you want to truly beat Vegas, you have to do it on your terms, but she’s still the one setting the rules. You have to recognize that, and you have to be as audacious and bodacious as she is. You have to distract, you have to decoy and, when you see the opening, you have to attack fearlessly. You have to want it, you have to be able to taste it and feel it down to your bones, deep in your heart. Scared money never wins. Baseball calls the move the “suicide squeeze” because with a runner at third, he’s coming home no matter what, and if the batter doesn’t succeed in getting that bunt down on the ground, the runner is a dead duck. He’s risked it all. I slide the entire stack onto the wager circle. Repeat the motion with another stack, and then another. Three stacks lined up. $45,000. Yin. Aggressive. Plus five. The corner of Edward’s mouth twitches, pulls slightly upward as he fights off an impressed grin.

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24/7 The pit boss barks. “No.” Silence. “No way, ma’am. No. You can’t do that. Check the sign.” He taps the little plate attached to the table. It reads: Blackjack. Minimum: $100 Maximum: $15,000. I hear some groans behind me. Oh, so I have an audience. Wordless, I pull back two of the piles. Locking eyes with the pit boss, I slide them farther down the table. Into two separate betting circles. Three hands. The pit boss clears his throat as Edward looks at him, questioning. Should he proceed? Reluctantly, the pit boss nods once. I’ve won that first small battle. I never wanted it all on the one hand. There’s too many aces and faces lurking, and I want to gobble up as many as possible instead of letting any dribble through to Edward’s hand. The pit boss took that bait and then relented, allowing me multiple hands as he figured it improved his odds. And now. Right now, there is nothing left to do. I’m relegated to being a spectator of my own fate. I close my eyes as the cards sweep across the table. I wait a second, remind myself this is only money. I open my eyes and focus on the first hand, quickly sweep across the other two. I know it now. I know what’s happened. The rest has to be played out, taken to ultimate completion to finish the ritual. But as I scan the cards down on the table, my breath escapes me in a heavy rush as I realize the outcome. I have just made Las Vegas my bitch. I laugh out loud. It bubbles out of me, uncontainable, undeniable. With it comes the rush, exploding in my head, tingling to all my extremities. Here’s what I see: The first hand, right in front of me, is a bona-fide, old-fashioned blackjack. Ace over jack. The second hand is a smiling benevolent queen and king. And the third hand? That’s a queen and a nine. Then I see the dealer’s up card. Ace. Ace of Diamonds. Tens were lurking. Oh, my God. The elation drains out of me, taking my heart with it. I swear I can hear it thud on the floor. I could lose two hands and only push on the blackjack. I could lose thirty thousand dollars here in one fell swoop. This isn’t good,

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this is… The pit boss straightens his tie and clears his throat. Time slows again. It’s not a drip. It’s a painful, horrifying crawl as Edward’s hand moves and flips that secret card. Slowly it turns. As slowly as baccarat players can drag it out, turning just an edge, peeking to count the spots they see. I see a glint of red, and then plenty of white. Three. Three of hearts. Dealer has fourteen. He draws his card, and with practiced care, he flips it over, lines it up. He draws a face card, a solemn king, keeping his hand at fourteen. So he reaches to the shoe and pulls one more card. He slides it and turns it over, showing me that now, finally, it’s done. There was one more face lurking, and she has just unveiled herself. The queen of diamonds has just broken the casino’s heart. This time, my ecstatic scream is unrestrained. People are patting me on the back, the whole cavernous casino fills with shouts, a chorus of congratulations and cheers. The victory rush, a geyser of emotion, filling and flooding me. In my jubilance, I jump up and turn, wanting to grab hold of Miguel and squeeze him tight. Suddenly pulled back into the moment, realizing he’s not there. But soon, now, he will be. I’m shaking as Edward shoves chips toward me, he gives me a wink. Tilts his head to the pit boss next to him (I missed his reaction, but I can guarantee he didn’t smile benevolently). The pit boss’s face is pulled into a mask of concentrated, gritted steel. Edward nods at me, flippantly saying to him, “Hey, she’s always wanted the Rain Man room. Think you can hook her up?” The pit boss’s eyes blaze on me, but I can’t even feel them. I’m just scooping up chips and tucking them into pockets and the little purse that Miguel bought me, shoving that inside my backpack. I examine an orange one—$5,000. I slide it to Edward with a quiet thank you. The pit boss speaks. “Aren’t you going to play anymore?” I just laugh, still tucking chips away as the crowd dissipates. He prods. “You don’t want to keep playing?” I finally answer him. “Yo, do I look that fuckin’ stupid to you? Anyhow, I have to climb off this horse and see about a man.” I damn near run to the closest ladies room—the excitement made me have to pee really bad. I do my business, wash my hands then go lock myself back in a stall. I pull down the little metal purse-holder arm and set

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24/7 my backpack on it, empty that out first into neat, color-coded piles. I stare at them a few seconds, giddiness pumping through me. Miguel is going to love this. He’s going to shit. I light a cigarette and count them up—$93,700. I count again, just to make sure. Ninety-three thousand, seven hundred dollars. That’s how much money those little chips represent. I nearly scream again. But I don’t. I pull myself down just far enough to complete the tasks I have to complete. I hastily do the math: 93.7 – 72 (Miguel’s debt) – 3 (my car) – 3 (my credit card bill) = 15.7. $15.7 extra. And that’s after tipping out Edward, which I now suddenly realize was gravely short for the money I won. I’ll make it up to him later. It’s not enough to cover the taxes. When I cash in $93.7K in chips, I’m going to get tagged with a CTR, and then come next April I’m going to be expected to pay tax on that money, approximately, hmmm…twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven thousand bucks. But if we give the seventy-two for the debt over in chips, I’ll only be cashing in $21.7, and that tax will only be, um…six thousand bucks or so. But it might not be smart to do that—laws against smurfing and all. I don’t know. All I know is this—I can run to Miguel and show him, and he can figure it out. That’s right, show him, not tell him, not ask him. I can show him what I’ve done, show him that I’ve done it for him. I start tucking chips back away. I shove a couple five-grand ones in my pocket along with all the hundred-dollar ones. I take one more five and toss it into the bottom of the backpack. That’s all the extra money. I take six of the thousand-dollar chips and shove those in my other pocket. That represents my expenses. I count what’s left one more time just to make sure, some portion of my brain still not really believing what’s going on here. Yep, seventy-two thousand dollars. I tuck that safely in the little purse with his key and cell phone, wrap it up tight and place that in the backpack. I zip it all up, throw back the door latch and go out. I wash my hands again, asking the female attendant if she knows what time it is. “Quarter to one,” she answers. I dry my hands, and then, stopping at the tip dish for the restroom attendant, I reach in my fun money pocket and toss a black chip into the dish. The bathrooms here are always really clean. I walk out, cruising through the halls. Miguel is still at work right now. I could go over to his place and wait for him. I could wait and call him once I know he’s done. Or I could go right on over to the Bellagio and find him

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there. That’s the quickest way to see him. He gets a break every forty-five minutes. He’ll be shocked to see me. And, man, will he be thrilled. It’s either that or wait a whole hour and a half for him. Screw that, I’m going to Bellagio. I wind my way through the casino, but as I’m passing Vince’s bar, someone hollers out to me. I hear my name repeated, plainly. Not my first name, no one calls me that. Instead, from much closer than the first shout, just over my shoulder, I hear “Ms. Martino.” I turn to look and see him waking toward me briskly. “Please come with me, Ms. Martino.”

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[ 53 ]

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ON OF A BITCH! I’m sitting in a room I never knew existed. The guy had placed his hand on my elbow and guided me back toward the center of the casino, near the cashier cages where the hosts’ offices are. Where security is located. He sat me down in a rather plain, unofficious chair. And he stands in front of me now, with two other gentlemen who haven’t bothered to tell me their names, and this is what he’s saying: “Ms. Martino. My name is Victor Lancer, and I’m an independent security consultant, contracted by Caesars Palace.” Silence. I’m trying to play it cool. I already know exactly what this is about. He explains some more. “I run a private business, and my business is to protect the casinos against fraud and cheats.” I squint my eyes. “Uh-huh.” “We’ve been watching you tonight, Ms. Martino. And although I haven’t been able to find your name or face in any of our previous databases, I can assure they will both be logged after your activities here this evening.” “Jesus, you’re making me sound as dangerous as those MIT kids!” “Ms. Martino, I don’t take cheating lightly.” “Yeah, you shouldn’t. Cheating sucks.” “Here is my suggestion to you, Ms. Martino. You return the money you, ahem, collected here this evening, and you will be released on your own recognizance. Your activities will be noted and logged, but there will be no official repercussions.” I laugh at him. “You think this is funny? This is no laughing matter, I guarantee you that. Cheating is not something that any casino in Las Vegas—” “Yeah, well, save it, Vic. I’d be worried, if I was a cheat. But I’m not, and you know that. I didn’t ‘collect’ any money here tonight, I won it.” I start to stand up, but his hand on my shoulder eases me back down.

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“Ms. Martino, I’m offering you an easy and painless solution. I urge you to reconsider. Caesars Palace will be most generous in allowing you to escape from this folly unscathed. All you have to do is return their money. What do you say?” I sit back, eyeing him up. Ignoring the other two guys in the room. I was amused at first. But now? The insinuations, the thinly veiled threats of prosecution. Three men in their suits coming down on a girl like me. What do I say? “Pendejo!” “What’d you just say to me?” “I said…that’s my fucking money and you’re not getting a dime of it, motherfucker. Sit there and intimidate me?” “Ms. Martino—” “No!” “Ms.—” “I said no!” “But—” “Huh-uh.” I shake my head. “You do realize that we have formidable resources at our disposal. If this becomes something contested and perhaps even lengthily litigated, who do you think has the capabilities to persist?” “Oh? Is that right? So you’d be willing to spend five hundred thousand dollars to prevent me from getting my one hundred thousand? That’s what you’re saying?” “We’d be willing to spend whatever amount of money it takes to discourage and prevent cheating, Ms. Martino.” “Vic. I didn’t cheat, and you fucking know it. Tell me this. Who do you think the public is going to side with when I take this story and drop it right into the lap of a Las Vegas Review-Journal reporter? Huh? Me, a young, innocent girl, all by herself, or the three goons backed by the giant evil corporation who’s trying to screw her out of her just winnings. Nobody cries for the greedy corporations screwing over the poor unsuspecting public. And especially not here in Vegas, pal. “Believe you me, asshole, I will go public, and you guys will be holding your dicks in your hands for proof. People come out here because they think that even with the odds stacked against them they have a chance of winning. You obliterate that hope by ripping me off, and you show the entire gambling public this is a place where even if you win they’ll steal it back from you. What do you say to that? Vic?”

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24/7 He blinks. He hesitates. And that’s when I know I have him. Frankly, I am a little vexed that he tried to intimidate me. Madone. At this point? Intimidate me? I mean. Honestly. He should consider himself lucky I don’t have a pair of Manolos handy. He doesn’t throw in the towel yet, though. “Ms. Martino, card counting is—” “Card counting is not illegal. And it’s not cheating. Your job was to stop me before I pulled it off, and you didn’t. And that’s presuming that’s what I did—you have to prove that, too.” “We have tapes—” “Oh, then go ahead and pull out your tapes and show them to whoever cares—the casino commission, the NGC, the LVPD, the fucking PTA. I don’t give a shit. It’s my money, I earned it and you know it. And so will everyone else.” “You’re not walking out of here with that money, Ms. Martino.” “Wanna bet me, hotshot? You can also bet your ass that no matter what you do now I’m going to the LVRJ with this story. I might get my own lawsuit going against you and your mouth-breathing buddies there for intimidation, maybe even sexual discrimination or something.” “You think this is a joke right now, but I assure you, it’s not. There’s nothing funny at all about the predicament you’re in. I propose you sit here and cool down and really think about your actions and what we’re offering here.” “You really don’t want me to have that cash, huh? What’s wrong? Kerry Packer come in here and roast your ass at roulette or something? He’s already wrecked the profit margin for the month so you’re coming down on my nickel-dime bullshit?” “We strenuously object to paying out money that we consider to have been obtained in a less than upstanding manner. Again, I propose—” “Here’s what I propose. You get off my ass and get yours in gear and get me the Rain Man Suite, Victor Lancer. Comped. Then, maybe, we’ll talk about other options.” * * * It’s been two hours and three mind-numbing conversations with men in suits. I smoked five cigarettes in that time and drank six vodka sodas. I had at least one hundred thoughts about Miguel as it was going on. I didn’t relent. I don’t have the Rain Man Suite. Honestly. Can you believe it? I can’t. I don’t know what the fuck a person has to do in this place to get in there. I don’t have the money, either. Neither do they. I didn’t have to give

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them anything, I knew that. But I gave them an option. Six men deliberated and made a total of nine phone calls to outside agencies—verifying, checking, conjunctioning. Thirteen phone calls were made internally up the ladder of this organization. They knew they had nothing. They know they still might have nothing. But for seventy-two thousand lousy dollars, they’re willing to try. And as Jarred, the PR director, informed them when they called and woke him up, public image-wise, this is their best option. I pull out the little purse and hand over the chips as I flip open the cell phone. The Art of War is based on deception and artifice, and the greatest victory is when you can remove yourself from the actual battle. Allow the enemy to defeat himself. Or use someone else to do the dirty work. Whatever. I punch number four on the speed dial. When the caustic voice answers, this is all I say: “How they hanging these days, Silver Balls?” “Is this…?” “You know who this is. Tell me, how much does he owe?” “What?” “How much?” He lingers, probably thinking. That has to be painful for him. “Sixty-six. Large.” “I have money for full payment. Bring the ticket as proof for me that it’s paid off. Meet me at the bar at Caesars Palace in half an hour. Alone. You better have a jockstrap and protective cup as your only backup, or it’s off.” “Which bar?” “Figure it out, asshole.” I hang up. Jarred nods and tells me I’m doing a good thing. He came in after they called him and was not only shocked but somewhat amused when he saw I was the catalyst behind this fiasco. Now, though, he seems concerned. I don’t want him getting nervous and making me nervous, so I change the subject to lighten the mood. “Have you called Sherri?” I ask him. Him, nodding: “I think we’re going to go out on a date. She said she’d have to talk to you then maybe come out here for a vacation. She said we could go out to dinner.” “I’m glad, Jarred. Can I just give you three bits of adivice? One, let her pick where to eat. And two, don’t expect her to eat, because she’s only going to drink.”

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24/7 Nodding again: “Got it. No problem. What’s number three?” “If you happen to get drunk with her, start feeling romantic, stay far away from Tiffany’s.” He nods as though he understands, pats me on the shoulder and gives me some space to collect myself. And now I wait. * * * He shows in exactly twenty-eight minutes. As I watch him walk with a mild limp I wonder if he dragged his ass around to the other five bars in here or if this was his first stop. I hope he checked the others first. He takes a seat next to me, greeting me cordially. “Crica.” “Where’s the receipt?” “Where’s the money?” “Was this a set-up? Was he in on it?” His eyes narrow, and I know he’s trying to decide if he should lie or not. I’ve just tipped my hand. If it was a scheme and he’s talked to Miguel, then he’ll have to decide how to play it. If it wasn’t a scheme, and he hasn’t had contact like that, now he knows I’m suspicious. And if he’s an evil bastard like I think he is, he’ll try to play on that. Slyly: “Can’t figure it out, huh?” He avoids me possibly detecting a lie by not answering. “Whatever. Here.” I set them in piles in front of him. They’re in fiveand one-thousand-dollar denominations, nothing higher. I take back one of the fivers and one of the ones. “You said sixty-six, right? There it is.” It elicits a slight huff from him. “What’s that?” he asks as he nods to my hand, the extra chips. That’s when I know for certain this will work. He’s not concentrating on the sixty-six grand in front of him. He’s already looking for more. He’s checking what else could be on the table. “I thought it was more. But it’s not. So this is mine.” He scratches his chin as he inspects the pile and counts it. Demanding, I say, “Give me the ticket. Now.” “Uh. Can’t use this.” He shakes his head. “I’ll get clipped for tax. Won’t be the full sixty-six.” “Don’t give me that shit. You know what to do. Take it in slow.” I lay the bait out plain for him, stopping just shy of giving him point-to-point executable directions on how to fuck himself over. “That’s a pain in the ass. It’ll be more for the trouble. A tax for that service.” “There would have been tax on the bet anyhow,” I say. “Works out the

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same if you pay it.” Simply: “No.” I let the chips from my hand clink onto the bar. “Fine. Take that. But in return, I don’t ever want you within a hundred feet of me again.” “Ooooh, I scare you that much, crica?” “No, you repulse me that much. Now. Give me the ticket.” He nods. Pulls it from an inner pocket of his coat. I inspect it. It looks real. It’s from the MGM, an official-looking sports ticket for a boxing match with Miguel’s name on it, but the money is bet on the other guy, Chianetti. “Call your boss. Tell him it’s done.” “I knew you’d be good for it, crica. That’s how I got the ticket.” “Make the call,” I insist. I listen as he speaks, eyeing him flatly. Once he hangs up, satisfied, I end it. “Now get out of my face. And don’t ever come near Miguel again, either.” He rises and goes. I see him limp to the cashier cage, probably cashing in the first five-thousand-dollar chip. What he doesn’t know is that they marked those chips. And that he’s under surveillance. Caesars Palace hasn’t lost a single dime until those chips are cashed in. And they won’t wait for many of them to be cashed. Smurfing, money-laundering, tax evasion, racketeering and—knowing Castillo—probably possession with the intent to sell. That’s what he’ll get busted for. Caesars will take a very minimal hit for the few chips they cash, but the publicity they’ll get for working in tandem with the IRS, FBI, NGC and LVPD (though not the local PTA) to take down a criminal such as this will be well worth it. And they’ll probably eventually re-coup that money anyhow. And Castillo? The dumbfuck won’t even realize I handed him, silver balls and all, on a silver platter to them. It’s called prison, asshole. And that’s where you’re going. I tuck the ticket into the little purse next to Miguel’s phone and his key as the blissful bubbles start fizzing through me again. It’s time. Now it’s time.

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[ 54 ]

I

T’S FOUR-THIRTY IN THE MORNING, AND

I KNOW HE’S DONE WITH WORK. I RUN outside, barely able to stay in my own skin, wishing I could fly over there. Instead, I hail a cab, give him the address and don’t even try to wipe the smile off my face as I get driven over there. I’m going to see my man. My Miguel. I cashed a couple of the hundred-dollar chips and kept the rest of the chips, unmarked, all twenty-one thousand of them, tucked in the purse. I pay the cab driver and quickly scan the parking lot. I get giddy when I see Miguel’s black Caddy parked there. I rush inside, push the elevator button at least ten times in anticipation. I’m so excited I have to pee. Not to mention all those vodkas I have in me. I cross my legs at the ankles, holding that in while containing my escalating happiness. The ticket was real, the debt was real, Miguel was real. I know it now. He wasn’t using me for money. He was real. He is real. And I can show him that I’m real. I plan it out in the elevator. I’ll knock once and spring into his arms when he answers. If he doesn’t answer, he’s asleep. So I’ll let myself in, take off my clothes and crawl into bed next to him and … Thinking about that makes the pressure on my bladder even worse so I stop before I get a full-blown visual. I leap off the elevator and knock lightly on his door. No answer. I dig for the key and pull it out, stick it in the door, turn it and let myself in, closing it quietly behind me. It’s dark, but I know my way pretty well so I pad down the hallway, ignoring his closed bedroom door and stopping in the bathroom. I flick on a light, unbutton and sit. As that tension eases out, I fill with more glowing happiness. Miguel. My Miguel. I’m here. I’m going to be with him in less than a couple minutes. I wash up, then open the cabinet and grab some mouthwash, gargle it around for a second, spit it out then put the bottle

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back, close the cupboard and check myself in the mirror. I run my fingers through my hair, check the whites of my eyes. All getting ready for Miguel. I want him so bad I swear I can hear him moan in the next room. Maybe he just did. Sighing in his sleep. I go to flick off the light, but I halt before leaving, my hand hovering on the switch. No. It wasn’t. I turn around and go back in, open up the medicine chest again to make sure. It was. It is. The big box of condoms. It’s standing upright, moved. The top is ripped off. A blush of nerves rolls through me. Noooooo. Another groan. My stomach tightens. Oh. No. No fucking way. I stand in the hall, peering at the bottom of his door. I hadn’t noticed it before—there’s a faint glow of dim light seeping out the bottom crack. Unbelieving, I step forward. Hand trembling, cold sweat, I turn the knob and push the door open. I stand like stone, gaping at what I see. I don’t scream. I don’t think I do. With one glance, I get the full, disgusting, heart-breaking picture. Miguel, completely naked, completely on top of a completely naked blonde. Thrusting. No! Maybe I do shout it because I hear him at the same time my stomach lurches all the way up to my throat. Husky-voiced, seeing me, he rasps simply, “Shit!” His body stops moving in mid-undulation on top of her, his face winces as he pulls out and scrambles off her. Sickened, I turn, stumble toward the bathroom as my rumbling stomach takes another violent, acidic flip. I get over the toilet just in time. Sweating bullets, shivering with the cold streak up my spine, I retch—full-body heave, puking up my guts, barely hearing his thudding movements and voice as thundering echoes in my ears. “Shit! Marina! Fuck!” I choke up another burning mouthful, gagging on it, plenty of bile sticking in my throat. He touches my back, and I flinch and cower from it. Coughing, I rasp out, “Get the fuck away from me. Now!”

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24/7 Yanking on the toilet paper, I wipe off my mouth as he stands by. I don’t look up at him. I see his bare feet. The smell gags me. Not the vomit. His. I can smell his sweat and spicy musk, but with a strange sweet top note to it. Perfume. Her perfume. Sickly stale-sweet perfume. Blonde perfume. I gag again, puking up the last of the liquid in my stomach, take a breath and shout at him while I’m still drooling. “You’re making me puke! Get the fuck away! I smell that bitch on you!” He finally retreats. I hear him fumbling in the bedroom, I hear him talking. “You have to…you gotta go, that’s my girlfriend in there…” Her high-pitched voice, indignant: “Your girlfriend? So fucking what, she knows now…” “I said fuckin’ leave. You gotta fuckin’ leave.” “Don’t know why I gotta leave, she busted all up in here, you said she was gone, left your sorry ass…” “Just shut your mouth and go! Now!” Her still, complaining: “…some skank comes in here, interrupts me…” “She will fuck you up if she comes in here…” “I’d like to see her try! Pushing me out—don’t you think of calling me, either, pussy-whipped, that’s what you are, she ain’t even all that pretty…” “Shut the fuck up. Get out!” “Oh, I’m going, asshole, I’m going.” A few seconds later I hear the front door slam. I kept my head tucked down so I wouldn’t have to see her walk by—I got enough of an eyeful of her to last me a lifetime already. Now Miguel’s back at the door, he has boxers on now, still no shirt. He takes a hesitant step in. I scream at him, “Get out!” He doesn’t retreat this time. “Marina, I’m…Listen, I’m so…” “I can still smell it. I smell her.” Wordless, contrite, he slides past me, stripping and getting in the shower. I hear the water pouring down as I sit there shivering, still disbelieving it. Still sick to death. A sour metallic taste cloys at the back of my throat. Why? How? How could he do this? Why? All that fighting and clawing and risking for him, all for this? “Motherfucker!” I scream at him. “It’s going to be all over the sheets, the smell of that cheap cunt! And what the fuck is that now? You’re using my

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shampoo? I can smell it, asshole! That’s mine. Don’t you fucking touch my stuff!” He’s silent. My head keeps spinning, so I press my face against the cool tiled wall, clinging to try and make the nightmarish checkers stop spinning and swimming through my vision as my head reels. Through the steam: “Marina, listen to me, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t…I fucked up, I didn’t know you were here, and…” “So you decided since I wasn’t here it was okay to stick your cock in someone else? Shut up, you fucker! Shut up!” “Marina, I’m sorry, I’m so…” I curl up, holding my knees, trying to squelch the rolling in the pit of my stomach. “You said you loved me! And you do this! Fucker!” The shower door bangs open, he throws a wet washcloth in my face, screaming at me. “You fuckin’ left me! Bitch! You. Left. Me! What? I’m s’posed to sit around waiting, hoping you’ll come back?” I cry as he drips past me. Not even a restrained, refined or dignified cry. I let myself get all worked up, sobbing, wailing, shaking, crying. Runny nose, hiccuping, pounding-skull, heart-convulsing crying. Tears of remorse, because I know he’s right. Tears of guilt, in case anything he felt was this awful. Tears of grief, because he pushed it all away and got over me so quickly. Tears of disgust, for what I saw just now. Tears of hurt, and tears of pain, all the worse because we weren’t supposed to do this to each other. We were supposed to be good to each other. We’re supposed to make the other one laugh when some other, outside fucker tries to drag us down. I get to my knees, stomach burning inside, muscles sore and exhausted outside. He comes back in as I pull myself up and start splashing cold water on my face and calming down. He’s got on clean, ratty jeans and that fucking Mets T-shirt. Softly: “I’m sorry, Rina, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t…” His voice trails off as he places his hand on my back. It’s warm and soft and comforting. I knock it away immediately. “Glad to see you were having fun,” I hiss with contempt. “I tried, you know, like, I tried callin’ you, and you wouldn’t take my calls at the office, you didn’t answer at home. I knew before you left you wasn’t comin’ back…” “I am back, I told you I was coming back.” “You wouldn’t fuckin’ talk to me! No one ever comes back to me, Marina, they all leave. They all fuckin’ leave. And you did, too.”

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24/7 Tears start streaming again. I splash more water to cover them because they’re tears for him. Shameful weeping for what I did to him. “I was coming back,” I burble into the running water. “You didn’t trust me.” “After what happened? How you left? You wouldn’t fuckin’ talk to me!” “Because I wasn’t there!” A jolt of fury sizzles through me as I get another mental flash—picturing the scene I saw in his bedroom. “You were so broken up? Here. Here, you cold-hearted bastard.” I pick up my backpack off the floor and rifle through it. Tear into the little purse inside and pull out the ticket, getting it wet as I drip on it. I try to throw it in his face but it merely flutters a few inches then cartwheels to the floor. “Pick it up!” He stares at me. “Pick it up, asshole!” He squats down, lifts it, gingerly flips it over and inspects it. Nearly instant recognition. “Oh, my God. Baby! How…?” A smile plays on his face, but it dissolves when he looks back up to my grim expression, me still wiping water and the last of the tears away from my face. “That’s what I’ve been doing, Miguel. That’s why I wasn’t answering my phone, why I wasn’t taking your calls at the office. Because I was driving my ass out here, hocking my Jeep, nearly losing every dime I had and risking everything to get you that money. To make up for what I did.” Stuttering: “I…I don’t know what to say…” “Yeah, well, I was expecting a thank-you, not to see you fucking some dollar-a-dance, silicone-boobed blond whore!” Tentative: “Uh, well, thank you.” “Shut up!” “Right.” He nods. Me demanding: “Well?” “Marina, listen to me, I’m sorry. I love you…” “Fuck you!” “Right.” He nods. “I’m out of here,” I say. “No! No! Don’t…don’t do this, just…please, wait…” “I can’t.” I can’t. The walls are crushing down on me here. It’s too insular, like I’m trapped here with him, but it seems contaminated to me now. I can still smell it. Somehow, the smell of their sex is lingering and filling the air around me, making me nauseous again. And I know if I look

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in his bedroom I’ll instantly picture them. Together. Fucking. That’s our thing, fucking. That’s our thing. Bitch.

Aaargh! I can’t. I cannot stand here. If I stand here we’ll do something else stupid, I don’t know what. Maybe we’ll fight more—I’m ready to claw his eyes out and at the same time I wouldn’t blame him for strangling me. I want to claw my eyes out—I wish I could stop the recurring, seething vision that keeps popping up in my head. And I want to press up against him, hold him and comfort him, tell him how wrong I was and how sorry I am and promise I’ll never hurt him again, let him stroke my hair and tell me the same things. And it’s just too much. It’s sickening and it’s infuriating and it’s sad and it’s warped and it’s painful and it’s right and it’s wrong and it’s just too fucking much. It’s overwhelming. I zip my backpack and sling it over my shoulder. He stands in the doorway, blocking my way. “Don’t do this,” he pleads. “I have to go. Right now.” “Marina…” “Miguel.” I plead back by finally making eye contact, silently begging him to understand. “You comin’ back?” “I’ll let you know.” He hangs his head, covers his eyes with his hand. As I’m pushing past him, he catches me with his other arm and draws me close. Not demandingly, not violent or controlling. A gentle tug. Much more desperate. He holds me around the waist, tucks me close against him, doesn’t even try to kiss me. I let myself melt into him, my whole exhausted body dripping against his. He smells like water and my shampoo. And like him—warm, musky, salt just starting to come through after the shower. It’s a perfect fit, the way my head rests on his shoulder and tucks into his neck, all my curves yielding and being braced with the strong heat of his muscles. I could stay like this forever. If it wasn’t for this cramped, suffocating, pressurized atmosphere. If it wasn’t for all the taunting guilt throbbing through my head. If it wasn’t for the sordid, skin-crawling, sickening scene I just witnessed. If my throat

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24/7 wasn’t constricted and my skin clammy, wishing half of all this away. I push him back and pry myself away, and show myself out the door. * * * I expect the tension to waft away in the warm, thin night air as I walk outside, but it doesn’t. The whispering throbs moving through my skull should relent, my pulse should slow down, but they don’t. It gets worse. Thumping brain and coursing blood, itchy skin and all that fucking pressure still looms all around me. Taunting me. I’m not in bad shape, I tell myself. Really. Honestly. I mean, bottom line. Nothing gained, nothing lost. I didn’t have him before, and I don’t have him now. But I can’t lie. Maybe I can lie about it to others but not myself. I had some good days in there. I had eighteen days in there. I had eighteen days that I had never even dreamt about before. Days that were filled with—life. I felt alive—all the way. I felt vodka-drunk, blackjack-winning, thrilling, happy alive. And I felt loved. That seemed important at the time. I can’t remember why it did now, but it seemed important. I halt my steps, suddenly frozen with fear. The fear I had about this eventually slipping away, retreating into the background as I remember to forget about all this—every numb day for the rest of my life. Madone, I don’t know what to do or where to go or how to figure all this out. I just need to get a grip and make this stop. I need to feel normal somehow. I need to shut this pounding in my head down. I keep walking. I just keep walking, counting the broken white lines along the road until I finally hail a cab. I don’t know what to tell him, where I’m supposed to go. I can’t just go flop around restlessly in my room, driving myself insane. “Downtown,” I tell him, figuring that’s as good a place as any. I’ve had it with the Strip for now. I’ve had it with Vegas. I thought I won. I thought I pulled it off, and here it is. She’s managed to unveil one last trump card and knock me down. That’s what she does. It’s the people who give her the most, who love her the most that she destroys with grandeur. Bugsy, Hughes, Wynn—they built and dreamed and adored her. And she tore them up for it. It’s the ones who treat her superficially, who use her and callously gain from her that never feel these repercussions. The ones who only see her lights and profit margins. It’s only the ones who trust in there being true magic that get burned.

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When they hang their dreams and hopes onto her gilded chandeliers, when they try to give back and dress her up and let her know how special she is—those are the ones she sinks her teeth into the deepest. It’s hard to say if Vegas actually does the destruction or if she just stands by, complicit and compassionate, surrounding them and desolately consoling them as they devastate themselves. Either way, treat her like a whore and she can never really touch you, but dress her up and treat her like a lady, sooner or later you’ll be picking up shards of your broken heart. It’s always the hope that kills you. Next thing I know I’m thrust into a blindingly bright gridwork pattern of electric cowboys, tumbling dice and twenty-five-foot-tall neon stacked women, pulsing and flashing all around me, pricking my nerves and mainlining from my retinas to my temple. I have him pull up to the first easy place, pay him off and walk briskly inside and look around. Don’t know where exactly I am, don’t recognize or notice the décor, don’t hear the change clanking in machines. I spot the bottles and cut a straight path, pull a hundred out of my pocket and ask for a double vodka, no straw, no fruit. I down it and order another, then another. That’s when I decide to let the luck decide. Should I stay here? Should I go back to Miguel? Or should I leave? Can I forgive him? Can I block out what I saw? Do I owe it to him to try? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know anything anymore. I just know I’m too tired, too exhausted, too sickened to even bother trying. I’m sick of using skill and logic. Fuck the cards. I laugh bitterly, drawing strange looks from the bartender in the nearly vacant bar. Fuck it, I don’t care. I’m done with cards. I’m tempted to sit down and give it a try, see if they’ve already got my face plastered all over some sort of fax network bulletin notification system for when they unearth a new card counter. But fuck those cards. Too goddamn slow. Too much work. Just tiny shots of adrenaline. After sucking back the third drink, I get another and notice a roulette table. Screw planning. It’s time to let luck decide. So I throw down the rest of the change from the hundred and bet black. Just like my mood. The dealer drops and spins, I inhale from my cigarette, holding the smoke in, trying to crowd everything else out, toxify the emotions knocking me around. The ball drops—thirteen black. Christ, yes. An exhilarating ripple moves up my spine, shooting the

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24/7 message deep into the primal, inner recesses of my brain—that’s what it feels like to not be a loser. Vegas can take her best shots, but I’m not going down or out. So I game this table awhile, reds and blacks, evens and odds, highs and lows and middles. Sometimes I even drop a few bucks on a particular number. I go up and down, swinging back and forth. And those ups. Ups—exhilarating, refreshing, I’m-so-lucky, I’m-so-cool wins. That’s the key. I never played this game much before, but now I’m really understanding why it got its hooks into Dostoevsky. The wins are the key. They tune me up, fill me up with that surge and push the doubts and worries away. I drop a fifty on black thirteen as an ironic lark. My eyes scan and follow the little ball as it swirls around the wheel. When it drops and falls into the little black slot affixed with the number thirteen, I turn to wink at the phantom presence of Miguel. * * * It’s three cigarettes and two drinks later, and I’ve grown weary of roulette. But I’m hungry for the taste of more winning, so I stop back at the bar for a couple more shots before scoping the line of tables again. Beat. It’s all beat and desolate here. I’m in the mood to shoot the dice. I’m downtown, and there’s the best place for shooting dice down here. So I stagger out to the street, feeling the booze all the way to my heavy feet as I squint and turn around, following the less-familiar signs of downtown toward Binion’s. I’m feeling good, feeling no pain anymore for sure. And damn, I hit a winning streak tonight. I caused a ruckus at Caesars, I got Silver Balls ready to go behind bars, there was that terribly unfortunate incident at fuckfaceMiguel’s place, but then I racked up some dough on roulette. Damn if I won’t rack up a couple more bucks here, drink my fill and put this whole lousy night behind me. It’s breaking now anyhow. The darkness is getting swallowed by dawn. The lights outside are still on, but they don’t burn with the same intensity, they’re fading out already. It’s too warm to be misty, not even a hint of chill or dew in the dry desert air. A new day. A new start. I walk into Binion’s Horseshoe and find the single live craps table, throw down a few hundred bucks and place a handful of chips on the don’tpass line, going with the dark side. Smirking as the shooter sevens out and makes me a winner, more chips sliding my way. Maybe Miguel was right. Maybe I am lucky. When we’d play and win,

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especially that first night, I thought it was his mojo bringing us up. Maybe it finally is my turn to cash in after all. Maybe I really didn’t need him. A new shooter in a white herringbone sports jacket takes hold of the dice as I drop my chips down on the don’t-pass line again. An older guy, he shoots me a swift glare before shaking them and chicken feeding them down the felt. He rolls eleven on the come-out, proceeds to smoke me by hitting three points in a row with his sevens mixed in only on come-out rolls. As my chips start to dwindle down, I consider moving on. Frustrated, I lose another roll as the shooter hits a four. I stand there and ante again, this time playing along with the roller, certain that the luck has to swing back my way as I eyefuck the dice to try and convince them of the same thing. One hour later, I look at the tiny pile of chips. I know I had my cash up there after the roulette, I had a big old stack of chips here for awhile. But now… It’s a paltry little thing. I mentally count in tens. Eighty bucks. That’s what’s there. I could pick it up, cash it in, walk away, get a cab and get some sleep. Roll after relentless roll of this shooter crushing me down— good thing this hadn’t been my plan to win Miguel his money. As I think of that, the vibes from earlier aren’t so much a memory as a feeling again. And for the first time, the thought seriously crosses my mind. It’s gotten so hard, so quickly. Just like in this game right now. Things with him just got so hard, so hard here, maybe it is time to cash my chips and call it a day. But I’m due, dammit. It’s not that hard, is it? It’s not that hard to just win a few lousy rolls of the dice. Would it be that hard to forget about what happened with him? And really—eighty bucks? What the hell is that? I had nearly a hundred thousand bucks in my hand earlier. I still have twenty grand in chips. Who’d even want eighty lousy bucks? Isn’t it worth the risk? The odds are against me. They’re against all of us. “One point four one.” I say it aloud to no one. That’s the house advantage of the bet I’m making right now—1.41. That’s not huge, but it’s an edge. What that means is that, over time, I will lose. We all will. The odds are against us all. Marriage has a fifty-percent house edge. Fifty percent. Half of all marriages end in divorce. And who’s keeping the stats on the ones that end in violence or continue in misery? How many relationships did people have that failed before they even got married? What’s the average? Six? So six relationships failed, and then half of the “permanent” ones disintegrate.

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24/7 What exactly are those odds? Go ahead, do the math if you want. But here’s the bottom line: shitty. That’s what those odds are. Twinkling lights, Bugsy’s dream, Hughes’s money, Steve Wynn’s vision and sparkling showgirls. Singers, comics, free booze, stunning atmospheres and five-dollar prime rib. It’s smoke and mirrors, that’s all it is. And everyone—everyone—knows what it’s hiding. Greed. Wine and roses, frilly white satin dresses, tuxedoes and moonlight walks. Slow dances, sweet sex, shared sunsets. Diamond rings, handholding and gentle nuzzles. We know what it’s all hiding. Fear. It’s a greedy effort to rake in affection and attention even though we know it won’t last. That’s all it is. Unless… Unless it’s one of those exceptional times when the dice fall your way to make you a winner. Unless it’s one of those exceptional times when it really is real. Real love. Because that’s what all the hope is for. * * * I’m back at Caesars Palace at the baccarat room. I’ve been here for a very long time. I wasn’t aware of how long. I don’t recall how that particular dice roll turned out, either. I just know I ping-ponged around and finally had to beg a ride back here to Caesars—I ended up giving the guy one of my thousand-dollar chips for it. Then, bewildered, lost, still fighting off the disgusting vision of Miguel with…with…her, fighting back the tears at the prospect of not being able to forgive him for it, fighting off the fear and irresolution of not knowing what the right action would be and still unwilling to be alone with all this, I plopped myself into one of these really comfy baccarat chairs. Again with the fucking cards. I actually did get the evil eyefuck for a time—yeah, like I’m gonna count in baccarat. But the dealers were gracious and cooperative as could be. If they were condescending to me, I didn’t notice. I had them color down a couple of the five-grand chips, sank back and started playing. I knew that shifts had changed, but it’s only now this original crew is back in the picture that I’m understanding what I’ve done.

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I kept getting up, going to the bathroom, getting refreshments (drinks) at the courtesy buffet. I kept clinging to the winnings, letting the wire from those sustain me through the losses. And then when the losses started piling up and getting more and more often, I got more and more desperate to feel that trill of victory, so I keep playing. And then I’d get a little jolt, and I’d want more, because that one wasn’t quite enough. So I kept playing And kept playing. And now, right now, I’m getting the picture. I’m all foggy and fucked up. I stopped trying to talk a long time ago because my tongue got too thick and I knew I was sloppy. Diamond was here for a while—I think she was trying to steal money from me. I know I told her what happened with Miguel and she was unsympathetic, told me again I’m a fool. But then the dealers made her leave. At first when I saw this crew coming back and taking over I thought they’d finished a long break. Then I asked what time it was and they told me. I thought it was evening. Eight p.m. No. It’s eight a.m. I fell into a bender. And I fell into the trap. Got sucked right down into the vortex of how this all works. I knew better, and it still got me. I think I hit the nadir when my last chip is taken away with a very final losing hand, but it’s as I stumble up to my room, passing the bright-eyed and hand-holding tourists, normal people just out here for some recreation, that I get the full bloody picture. I’m a gambler. I’m a loser. I was believing the lie. I got sucked in, trying to bring myself up with this fake fucking manufactured synthetic ego trip. And now I’ve lost, and now I realize all the other fuck-ups. That’s what I did with Miguel, too. It was an ego trip. And it was out of fear. Lack of trust. If I’d just called him and begged and explained, maybe it would have stopped him from thinking I was gone and he wouldn’t have fucked someone else. I took it on myself and wanted to play the conquering hero, not trusting that I was enough of a reward for him, fearing he’d push me away without money. And now here I am… Pfft. I pass out in my room. Alone. * * * I wake up to a thundering skull at three a.m. It all floods back—all of it— before I can even peel my eyelids open. My tongue is flannel, my muscles

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24/7 acid-burn, and there’s nothing I can do anyhow so I give up and go back to sleep. Nine a.m. this time. Can’t sleep anymore. Physical headache is gone. The rapping on the inner cortex is still there, though. It seems to dully thud away with each pulse—idiot, idiot is all it whispers. I haven’t lost everything. It’s hazy but I recall stashing some dough. One last five-grand chip. I get cleaned up, cash it and go to retrieve my car. The more I concentrate on that, the more energized I get. I focus on it as I shower and eat breakfast. Not everything is lost. My car, my beloved sturdy Jeep. It’s not built for speed, it’s not built for power, it’s built to last. Dependable. It’s never let me down. That’s the first step. Getting that back. That’s the start of rebuilding, collecting the tattered fragments and puzzling them back into a cohesive whole. Yes, getting back my Jeep will help push me back to normalcy again. The day is sunny and bright, there’s no AC in the cab and the heat’s starting to prickle. I show up, not even faking enthusiasm and a smile, the sunny disposition is real. I tell him what I want. “Don’t have it,” he says. Drop-jawed, I stammer for words. “No, no, there’s a mistake, you said…” “You said you’d come get it the next day.” “It is the next day! Stop screwing with me, I want my car!” He shakes his head, resigned, inspecting me. “You sold it to me three days ago, not yesterday. I told you I’d hold it one day. I sold it last night.” “You sold my car? You sold my car? My Jeep?” “It wasn’t your Jeep anymore. You never showed up, I had people looking at it all day—they love toys like that out here. I can show you something else. How about—” But I stop listening. I don’t want another car. A different car. I wanted back my Jeep. It was important to me, and I’ve fucked that up now, too. Spiraling right back down, idiotidiotidiot thundering through my head, nothing else left to do to re-color my indigo mood, I look around for the closest place to drown it out again and escape the searing sun. I find a seedy strip bar a few blocks away, escape the sunny heat within the oppressive dank dark of that place with a glass of vodka as my only company. When I look up because I have to pee, I see glitter-dusted blondes with fake boobs waltzing around all over the place, and I have to leave immediately. I pick up my change and head to a different place with at least more sublimated sexuality.

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I hang at a casino bar awhile. All around me, coins clink and people at dice tables whoop and yell. And Frank Sinatra won’t shut the fuck up, either. It’s blistering hot outside, I don’t feel like getting singed and exposed by going out. Seeing all the sweaty, cheery masses enjoying their vacation. But I figure it’s better than this place. As I walk along the crowded streets deep in misery, I realize something. I’ve spent my whole life like this. It was always fine. Jobs come and go, money comes and goes. That’s not what’s bothering me right now. Right now it’s all the prying eyes, people devouring me with their looks as they notice my solitude. I’d always been this way before, it was always fine. Now, suddenly, I’m not just alone. I’m lonely.

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O, NO-ONE-CARES-HOW-MANY DRINKS, INNUMERABLE DRAGS ON CIGARETTES, A

blur of casinos and bars and haughty blondes later it is… Yeah, the last winner of Megabucks cashed in for thirty-six million dollars. She gave half to her boyfriend. He left her a week after the paperwork was completed. The next week, she was driving on the highway and got in an accident. Her sister was killed, and she lost both her legs.” “That’s not true,” I interrupt to say with a slurred tongue. “Sure it is,” the guy answers. “It’s not,” I insist. “It’s not true. That’s, like, an urban myth, it never happened. People say that story out of jealousy, that’s all.” I don’t know, though. Maybe it’s true. What’s the point? You can’t win, man. That’s the point. The odds are against you. The odds are against everyone. Everyone agrees—they’d rather not have the thirty-six million. But then they walk away and stop at a Megabucks machine and drop in twenty-one dollars and spin anyhow. Why? You can’t win, and even if you do, you’re gonna be fucked. So why try? Because you have to try. It doesn’t really matter what the numbers say. It’s what you want, that’s all that matters. Because if you don’t try, you’ve given up. You don’t care. You have no hope. And there’s no way to bend the numbers to make that kind of life worth living. So I pull it together, dammit. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here, but it’s not helping. I’m wallowing, that’s all I’m doing. And it’s disgusting. Yeah, it sucks. Sucks that Miguel was banging some other bitch. Sucks that I can’t get a peek into the future to know if I’ll be able to get past it. Sucks that every time I start snapping myself out of this grotesque, desperate spiral and really consider the ramifications of our actions, I

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picture it again and that sends a very real feeling to my gut and I can’t help but have an extreme visceral reaction. Sucks that I blame him. Sucks that I blame myself. But I can’t let that suckiness suck me right down the tubes with it. Happiness is a state of mind. And sometimes it’s not easy. Sometimes I have to dip into the past for memories to sustain me. Sometimes I have to live in the moment and enjoy it all. But right now, my memories are shit and even the good ones do nothing but bring on a melodramatic, melancholy funk to wallow in. So I have to scrape myself up and look forward. That’s why I’m a gambler. And that’s why I’m going to be happy. Because happiness could come with the next roll of the dice. All I have to do is be smart enough to recognize and enjoy it when it does instead of fearing the roll after that. Be smart enough to not be greedy and piss it all away, looking for more when what I have is nearly utter perfection. That’s life, man. Now all I have to do is do that. I kept running away from Miguel, hoping that if I’d get away from him I’d get perspective, a different perspective when the one I had was just fine. And now I am away from him, and nothing’s getting better. I have his phone, I have his key and he has all my stuff. I’m about out of money here. I have enough for a plane ticket home, that’s it. I’ve pissed it all away. All of it. No car, no job and bills coming in. Maybe no one else wants or needs me, but I need myself to dig out of this. And sitting here lost in Las fucking Vegas wasted out of my mind like some fragile kewpie doll won’t do that. I’ve got to get my shit together. Vegas wants action. She knows our vices and our fears and exploits them to get us here. She offers illusions and preys on greed and the numbers assure that maybe, sometimes, you might win, but she’ll never lose. Vegas wants life. And those who believe the magic over illusion and offer her the most can get their dreams brushed away, caught up in the sandstorm of her wrath, or their hopes burned by her intense heat. But if they believe, if they really believe in the magic, they don’t stop, and they don’t fold. Because they realize that Vegas is an entity that sucks her lifeblood from all of us. That they are her life. They know that magic is more important than anything else, that fear gets compensated and masked and manifested as greed and it’s an illusion that can make life bearable. But real magic—hope—is there, buried

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24/7 somewhere between the buffets and slots, free to anyone willing to take the risks. And that real magic, that hope for it and the efforts expended to achieve it, is hard-earned. But that’s what makes life, right now, beautiful. And if you’re ready for it, it’s worth the risk. Always. Absolutely. * * * It’s the closest it ever gets to quiet in this town, that short period when most of the all-night drunks are finally passing out and the early morning risers are just rubbing the sleep away. Lights go down as light comes up, and there’s only a select few still roaming through the giant halls. The machines don’t clink as much, the buzz calms and Frank sounds melancholy. There’s still activity. There’s always activity—it never stops. Nothing every stops; round and round it goes, twenty-four/seven—drinks and lights, wins and losses. Ghosts and phantoms. Pleasure and pain. Despair and hope. But in that small window of time, as the day devours the night, it’s hushed. The city yawns. With a shaking hand, I press the button for the elevator to take me up to Miguel’s place. Thinking: have no money, have no job, have no car. With him, I now have a bitter past, a washed-out today and a clueless future. It could be a really tough fight. We’ll have to work and maybe fight every day to cling and claw for every scrap of happiness. If he still wants me back. If I look at him and realize that I can go back to seeing just him. It’s scary. I don’t have a roadmap or a game plan or detailed analysis of how to up the odds to succeed. But… As I watch the lighted numbers above the doors tick down as the elevator draws closer, I realize this. Maybe, just maybe, that’s what makes it all the more worthwhile. Because it’s not a cheap trick or something that goes poof and vaporizes at the slightest conflict. It’s real. And that sort of magic, just like energy, can’t ever be created or destroyed. It’s what we hope for and long for and work for and try to earn our whole lives. Happiness. The elevator dings. The doors slide open.

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[ 56 ]

I

GUESS WE SEE EACH OTHER AT THE SAME TIME, BUT THERE’S A SECOND OF stupidity between us. Then I’m sure my eyes go wide with surprise, and his do, too. They nearly bug out of his skull when he sees me. And I know that look isn’t an empty one, just shock. And I know that my horrified reaction gave me away and confirmed what he knew. I fluster a second, the fatal error of thought instead of action, that fragmented confusion—What’s he doing here?—that ate up the precious time and blocked the impulses and reflexes that kicked in right on its heels—Run! Too late. Thought instead of action—he didn’t have that problem. As I’m jerking to turn, his arm lashes out and he grabs hold of me by the throat. “Castillo,” I croak as he drags me into the elevator, crushing my neck with his viselike grip. “Fuckin’ crica. I know what you done, bitch, I know it was you.” I can’t deny it, I can’t run, I’m close to passing out already—fear, lack of oxygen, brain swimming. He pushes me back, slams me against the doors as he punches the button for Miguel’s floor, and we start going up. His hand eases, and I struggle for a breath. “Thought I wouldn’t figure it out, huh? They took me in that night. That night, you fucking cunt. Think you’re slick, huh? Don’t know who you’re fucking with.” As he growls on at me, I’m taking in his words but fumbling for what I need. I’ve already got it in my hand—Miguel’s cell phone. I try shutting him out so I can concentrate and remember the number. Miguel’s number. At least get his phone ringing, try to warn him. I’ve got it flipped open in my palm, ready to dial when his words break through my concentration. “Think I’m stupid?” He hits the stop button, and the elevator jerks to a halt mid-floor and he spits in my face. If I could think of Miguel’s number, I know I’d have time now, but I

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24/7 give it up, feel with my fingers and give a silent prayer I’m hitting the right button. “Think you’re so smart, don’t you? Poor little rich girl!” “Fuck you,” I hiss, and take the hit as he slams my head into the wall, praying there’s been a pick-up on the other end. “I have to pay, he’s gonna pay. You’re gonna pay! You think you’ll walk for fucking me like this? I’ve owed you since that night with the shoe, bitch.” “How? How are you here?” I gasp. “It’s called bail, bitch! Look into it!” “Where’re you taking me?” He releases the stop button, and the elevator begins rising again. “Where? We’re going to see your boyfriend.” “We’re going up to Miguel’s place?” “Right now. Let him handle it this time. You went too far now, he can do the clean-up.” “He won’t. He won’t hurt me.” “Fucking see about that. If he doesn’t do his job I’ll kill you both myself.” He drags me out of the doors before they even finish opening, shoves me ahead of him down the hall. I stumble, and out of his reach, I consider making a dash for it. That’s when I hear the metallic click and stop in my tracks. The cold muzzle presses against my temple as he prods me toward the door. Whispering as he stands off to the side, “Knock. Don’t make any fucked-up moves or your brains will greet him in the face.” I obey, wait silently as I hear Miguel inside, tripping the latch to let me in. He doesn’t even have the safety chain on. He’s hesitant, a peculiar look plays in his eyes. Maybe he’s just mirroring back my strained expression. Or maybe he’s waiting to see if I’m going to kiss him or kick him, considering the recent volatility. Or maybe he’s freaked out because Castillo just left here, he’s wondering if we crossed paths. Him asking, “Are…you okay?” “Miguel…” Castillo steps back behind me, gives me a strong push, sending me to the floor as I clutch the phone he still hasn’t noticed. He’s laughing, saying, “She’s fucking fine, Ese. For now.” Miguel doesn’t even flinch to help me up, nor does he move on Castillo. Finally, flatly: “Marina, you okay?”

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I nod and start picking myself up while he turns back to Castillo. Loose, laid-back even. “C’mon, man, what’re you doin’ now? You got your cash—” “I didn’t get shit, that was Blue Lou’s money. All I got was fucked, Rodriguez. And it’s ’cause of this little cunt.” “Hey! Watch your fuckin’ mouth!” “Watch my mouth? What, you really do have a thing for her? Or don’t you realize the game’s over, hermano?” “Game?” I stand back, trying to watch every exchange, every nuance, every look and breath and flutter passed between them. Who’s fucking whom now? Is Miguel going to deny it? Is Castillo telling the truth about it being a set-up, or is it just one more noxious, toxic trick to fuck with me, since I let him know my suspicions that night when I paid? “She knows, man, knows you set her up with me, and she did it anyhow. What, you want her to die thinking you loved her? You that fucked up?” “Son of a bitch!” Miguel turns to me. “Marina, don’t listen to him, he’s fuckin’ with you, he’s fuckin’ with me, that’s all this is.” He moves, just a flinch, and as he does, Castillo raises the gun, points it directly at him. Miguel freezes, and the verbal dogfight begins. They crash back and forth, shouting at each other, mostly Spanish, some English, none of it making sense. By the first exchange of words, accusations and denials, I don’t know anything. I know Castillo’s deranged—I can see it in his eyes. I know he’s out for blood, and he’s not going to be stopped until he has some of mine, and that this is an appetizer for him beforehand. “The fuck you talkin’ about. She paid you, Castillo. I got the receipt. Anything else, that’s your shit, not hers, not mine—” “Think I’m stupid? That it? Think I wouldn’t know someone tipped ’em off to watch for me? It’s your fault, Rodriguez, and she’s gonna fuckin’ pay now.” “You want blood you take mine, asshole, she’s done. She’s done enough!” “She did enough, all right, she did too much!” They’re barking at each other as I look back and forth, spit flying from their mouths, veins throbbing, red-faced, Miguel’s fists in useless balls as he holds himself back as Castillo aims the gun, both of them in a frenzy, me getting wound tighter and tighter with their shouts until it finally converges

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24/7 and hits an apex. Castillo swings his arm, aiming the gun at my chest. Miguel goes silent, and Castillo brays with laughter. Then, with diabolical calm: “Fuck it, I’m gonna waste the bitch now.” Miguel moves in front of me. “Don’t do it, man, don’t. Not for her, not for me. For you—you’ll be fucked.” “I am fucked! She fucked me already. I’m out right now, but they’ve got me for everything!” “You’ll fry if you do this.” “Oh, I’m doing this. The cunt is dead.” “Then you gotta go through me first.” “Rodriguez,” he drawls, “my fuckin’ pleasure.” Miguel raises his hand and lunges as Castillo fires, a deafening bang that ricochets through my splitting skull as it echoes in the room. Miguel falling, me screaming. Blood. I fall next to him, grabbing him, shouting his name, blood all over, he’s grimacing, and then another click. I look up, muzzle in my face. I barely have time to register the fear before Miguel swings hard, sends the gun flying from Castillo’s hand, a shot going off as it hits the floor, glass shattering, and Miguel’s shouting at me now, “Get it!” I scramble after it, Castillo hot on my tracks. I lunge, dive for it. Just as I think I have it in my grasp, he pulls me around the waist and climbs over me for it, getting hold of it first. A shattering crash that pierces my ears. I scream as Castillo crushes down on me, snarling, “It’s called vengeance, bitch. Time for yours.” Now—click—and… “Drop it, motherfucker!” Castillo jerks his head, following the voice. Under him, I lay still but speak my piece. “It’s called attempted murder, asshole, and you’re going down for it.” The deep baritone: “LVPD, asshole, drop it!” “Fuck you,” Castillo shouts at him then turns back to me. The gun glints cold silver as a flash of sunlight reflects off it… And then the deafening shots. Three in rapid-fire succession. BANG!BANG!BANG! The fact that I hear them, hear them all, is how I know I’m still alive because it takes a few seconds for Castillo’s body to slump and fall to the

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side. “Hey, shit, I told the asshole to drop it. Shit, man, better be a good shooting, don’t want no IA getting up in my shit over your spic ass, Rodriguez. Thought you said this one wasn’t gonna be no damn drama?”

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[ 57 ]

I

GO TO THE HOSPITAL WITH MIGUEL. ALMOST IN A TRANCE, I GIVE MY STATEMENT to the cops and bide my time and wait to hear the news. It’s all very clean, a good shooting—Marion doesn’t have to worry. He was off-duty when he got my call at home. He picked up after I was able to hit 1 on the speed dial on Miguel’s cell phone, wondering who the hell would be calling so early when this was his prime time for being busy with a little foxy something. He heard the part about going to Miguel’s place, and after a couple more seconds of listening he knew I was in some serious danger and so was Miguel. He called 911 then raced up. He waited a couple minutes for the backup. He heard the shouting, then he heard the shots and shattering of the glass balcony door, and he didn’t fuck around, he kicked in the door, which was, ironically, open anyhow. They’ve got a full report on the charges already filed against Castillo, it’s very clear why he came after me. Marion, he seems shaken, his first shooting, but he’s playing it off, and he takes a seat with me, reassures me that he’ll be fine. “After all, shit, man, it’s my job, and nobody I’d rather serve and protect than you, baby girl.” He winks at me. “Thank you, Marion,” I say as he takes my hand. “Hey, shit.” “No. Really. Thank you.” I have mixed feelings. Death isn’t funny, and it’s not cool. Even a guy like Castillo. He’s been nothing but a dick to me, and I can’t say I’m sorry to see him go, but I don’t know what else he could have been like. What sort of good things could have been lurking in him somewhere. I feel worse for Marion, though, actually being the one who had to do the shooting. “’Sides, Rodriguez would have my hide anything happened to you that I could’ve stopped. I play it off tough and all but I wouldn’t relish the thought of getting in the ring with that pit bull again. And over you? He’d kill me.”

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“Think so?” “Shit, girl. Don’t you know that yet?” “I thought I did. I don’t know. He took care of me in there. I don’t know if it was just out of guilt and obligation, though.” “Look at me, darlin’. Look at me. He told me about you. You don’t trust him, you don’t trust yourself, whatever. But you trust me on this one, okay? You done left that boy, and it broke his heart in two. I can see it sometimes. He is a typical playah, you know…” “You mean like you?” “Whoa! Hey, shit! Ha-ha, I’m different, see, I’m not the one in love.” “You think he is, huh?” “Baby girl, we done revoked his player card the night he met you.” I nod. “Think it’ll be much longer for him in there?” “Oh. Hey, now, shit. He took a shot in the damn shoulder is all. He’s probably just in there crying, trying to get more Demerol for home or some shit.” I have a lot of time to think, waiting out in that hallway. They let us go in once as he’s still asleep, but a nurse shoos us out when she discovers neither of us is family. He will be fine—it’s a shoulder shot, just like Marion said. He’ll be in pain, I’m sure, need some rehab. But the doctor says it should be a full recovery. He took the hit well. I pace around the halls, go down to the cafeteria to get some juice after Marion has to leave. As the fear drips away and I start to unwind, I realize I still don’t know. I don’t know what to believe. Castillo succeeded—he head-fucked me good before he got shot. One more question mark that may never be answered. On the way back upstairs in the elevator, I catch my own reflection in the doors and it takes me off-guard. Frazzled, tired, rumpled—I look a mess. But beyond that layer, something else shimmers in that reflection for a second before the doors slide open, and for possibly the first time, I see myself clearly. Or maybe distorted, but as I think Miguel sees me. I don’t know—it’s gone before I can double-check, almost like sleight-of-hand. But in that moment, I see who I am. And I trust what I see. I’m a gambler. A gambler who doesn’t believe in fate other than the one we make for ourselves, and who doesn’t have to look past today to make life happy. It could be so hard. There’s so many fuckers trying to drag us down. Including ourselves. But I don’t have to know all the odds or how the deck was stacked before. All that matters is that I trust myself. And in that

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24/7 reflection, there’s a girl who can do this, a woman who’s earned this. I may not be lucky. But I’m damn good. There’s nothing left to fear anymore. And right now, this is what I want. This is what I hope for. Odds and numbers are only part of the story. Hope is the other part. Hope is the good part. I sneak back in and sit beside him as he blinks awake, even groggier than usual, anesthesia still clinging thickly to him. Mumbly: “Where’m I at?” “Hospital.” He tries to sit up, winces immediately. “Stay down. You got shot in the shoulder. Remember?” Rubbing his eye with his good hand: “Mmm. Yeah. Uh, oh. Yeah.” He falls silent again, takes one last visual sweep of the room, leans his head back and looks at me. Big dark eyes, clouded right now, troubled. Pained. “You’re here? You just checkin’ to make sure I’m alive or what?” I sigh. There’s a lot to be said, I suppose. I could laugh, I could cry. I could throw up. I could tell him I’m sorry, I could tell him I’m so scared, I could tell him he owes me forever for all this bullshit, I could tell him I love him. But that just wouldn’t be us. “You’re up on the eighteenth floor here, Rodriguez.” A confused, groggy nod. I wait for him to look me in the eyes again. When he does, I don’t flinch. I stroke my fingers through his hair, keeping him focused on me, making sure he understands, then I pop the question. “Ready to go for an elevator ride in this hospital?”

END

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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usan DiPlacido lives in Pennsylvania, plays in Nevada, and loves to write. This is her first published novel.