Out of Aces (16 page)

The guy ran out from behind the counter. “Hey, you o
kay?”

“Yeah,” I whispered. The cold tile pressed against my
face.

“No, you’re not,” he said. “Are you
s
hot
?”

“No.” I tried to sit, and he slid an arm under my back and helped me up. “You can sit over here.” He walked me to a rickety folding chair and eased me down. Then he stepped back and passed a hand over his shiny head. “I’ll call the pol
ice.”

“No.” I closed my eyes, and after a moment, opened them again. “Can I use your ph
one?”

He frowned. “Why don’t you want me to call the pol
ice?”

“Ple
ase.”

He sighed. Then he moved a few steps to the freezer case and slid it open, keeping an eye on me. He yanked out a Yoo-hoo and stretched out his arm like he was feeding a wild
dog.

I took it, but my hands were shaking too much to get it open. He grabbed it, twisted off the top, and handed it back. I took a sip, and the sweetness shocked my mouth. I closed my eyes and sipped again. The sugar steadied me. I drank
more.

“Is anybody following you?” the man asked, with a nervous glance at the parking
lot.

I shook my
head.

He looked up at the ceiling and demanded, “Why always
my
gas station?” Then he went behind the counter and came back with a white cordless. “No long distance,” he warned as he handed it
over.

I took it and stared at the number pad, realizing I had no idea who to call. Irina wasn’t talking to me. If she even answered, what was I going to say? Tell her I was even
more
of a loser than she already thought? Not that she’d be able to help me an
yway.

Mom would have a heart attack and call the cops, not necessarily in that order. Anyway, she was an eighteen-hour drive away. Berto’s number was in my cell. Same with R
ob’s.

Actually, Irina’s and Mom’s were the only two numbers I had memorized—and they were both long dist
ance.

“How about 9-1-1?” asked the
man.

I shook my
head.

“Your fam
ily?”

I had to do something before he took back the phone and called the cops. I pulled the Helios card from my pocket. Kosta might not be working. And even if he was, he probably wouldn’t remember me. And even if he did remember me, he’d think I was weird for calling him. And what were the chances that he’d come pick me
up?

But it was the only chance I had. I dialed while the gas station man watched me with a cartoon look of distrust. The phone rang four times before someone answered, and with each ring, the spiral of tension inside me wound tig
hter.

“Helios!” The noise in the background was insane: loud music, people yelling, and a crashing sound, almost like glass was brea
king.

I licked my bloody lips. They felt twice as big as normal. “Is Kosta th
ere?”

“You need reservat
ion?”

“No, is Kosta th
ere?”

“Who do you want to talk
to?”

“Ko
sta!”

“Kouris or Andropol
ous?”

“I think the first one,” I
said.

“One moment, ple
ase.”

I held on for a lot longer than a moment. The music on the other end was getting faster, and there was stomping, and every now and then, that strange smashing sound. People were starting to make high-pitched yells—that
couldn’t
be singing—when Kosta picked up. “Hello?” He sounded out of br
eath.

I was sick with embarrassment, but I forced myself to talk. “This is Gabe. I met you at church a few weeks
ago.”

“Yes?” He obviously didn’t remember
me.

“You helped me text my girlfriend.”
Please let him reme
mber.

He laughed. “Oh, yeah. You bartend at Hush. We found out who threw her purse at you. Mrs. Katsandres. That was so fu
nny.”

“Yeah, that’s me.” I took a breath. “I know this is crazy, but I need help. I don’t know anybody else in Vegas to c
all.”

“Hold on. Let me go somewhere quieter.” There was a long pause and the noise faded. “What do you need?” Kosta sounded suspicious. The gas station guy was still a few feet away, arms knotted across his chest, staring at me. I frowned and he went behind the counter and pretended to look at a newsp
aper.

I lowered my voice and tried to sound normal. Not like the kind of psycho who’d call and ask help from a stranger. “Look. I’m calling from a gas station. This . . . this is what happened. I’m only eighteen. I used a fake ID to get the bartending job. My boss found out, and he had these guys take me into the desert and kick my ass. They stole my car, my phone, and my wallet. I don’t know anybody’s numbers without my phone, but I found your business card in my pocket. I guess it’s been there since you gave it to me. So I walked to a gas station, and I’m using their phone. I just . . . I need a ride home.” I closed my eyes.
Please say
yes.

Silence for a moment. Then Kosta said, “Are you seri
ous?”

“
Yes.”

“You’re telling me the tr
uth?”

“
Yes.”

“Are you
o
kay
?”

“I think
so.”

“They stole your car? Why don’t you call the pol
ice?”

“I’m not messing with N—with my boss again.” I shivered. “Anyway, I’d have to explain why they took me to the desert in the first pl
ace.”

“Oh.” Kosta paused. “That’s amazing, man. You’re
eighteen
and you had a job at H
ush?”

“It didn’t turn out too w
ell.”

“I guess not.” There was a pause. “Are you sure you’re telling the tr
uth?”

“Yes!” I tilted my head back. My eyes were welling
up.

“So, you want a
ride
? That’s why you’re call
ing?”

“Yeah.” The phone was trembling in my hand. “They took my cell, and I don’t know any of my friends’ numbers. I tried hitching, but nobody will stop. I just need to get h
ome.”

“Where are
you?”

“Um. An Arco.” I looked over at the gas station guy. “What’s the address h
ere?”

He rattled off, “3240 Red Rock Canyon Road,” and I repeated it to K
osta.

“Hang on, I’m mapping it.” Kosta paused. “It’s not that far. Can you wait for, like, an hour? I get off work in a little wh
ile.”

“Yes. Thank you.” I took a deep breath. “Thank
you!”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you in a wh
ile.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Y
our friend will pick you
up?”

“Yeah. He’s coming in an h
our.”

The gas station guy actually smiled. “I’m
Sam.”

“I’m G
abe.”

Sam turned the tiny TV on the counter a couple degrees in my direction. “You want a smoke? A burrito? A Slur
pee?”

“Thanks, but I’m c
ool.”

Sam shrugged and went down the aisle anyway. When he came back, he was tearing open a pack of diaper wipes. He pulled one out and waved it at me. “You should clean up a little. You might scare your friend.” He snorted a laugh. “You scared
me
. Bathroom’s over th
ere.”

“I’m feeling kind of dizzy. I’ll just clean up here,” I said. Whatever survival energy I’d had was gone, and I felt too tired to stand up unless I had to. I took the wipe and gently touched my cheek. My skin throbbed and stung, and the wipe came back bright red. Sam made a motion like,
more
. So I kept going. I used up eight of those things. Sam pointed out the spots I missed. The smell reminded me of a long time ago, when my mom used to babysit our neighbor’s kid, J
ason.

When I’d cleaned up as best I could, Sam held out a trash can for me to dump the dirty wipes in. Then he grabbed a Snapple from the refrigerator and went back behind the counter. “Let me give you some advice.” His eyes were on the TV—an old
Jeopardy
rerun. “Never show weakness. Never show fear. Your enemies will smell the fear and have power over you.” He gave me a quick, meaningful
look.

“They had a gun!” I
said.

He shrugged. “Power is in the mind. In the
eyes
. I would have looked at them like this.” He turned on a stare that made my skin creep, channeling about three thousand watts of
rage.

“That’s scary,” I admi
tted.

He tapped his head. “Battles are fought up here.” Then he looked back at the
TV.

We heard the Greeks in the parking lot. There was a screech of tires, a blast of crazy-sounding music, and the slam of car d
oors.

A moment later, Kosta and Steve came through the door. They were both wearing sport coats, Kosta’s curls exploding off his head, and Steve with a slick ponytail and a thick gold chain peeking out of his collar. Kosta stopped dead when he saw me. Steve glanced at Sam like maybe he was respons
ible.

“I told you I got my ass kicked.” I tried to smile, but my face hurt too badly to move
much.

“Wow,” said Kosta. “Can you w
alk?”

“Yeah. My legs are okay.” I forced myself up. Sitting for an hour had frozen my muscles, and it felt like they were ripping as I s
tood.

“You need some help?” asked S
teve.

I shook my head and limped toward the door. Kosta and Steve both rushed to hold it open. I raised a hand to Sam. “Thanks,” I
said.

He nodded. “Good l
uck.”

We got in the car, an old Corolla, and I buckled up out of reflex—but Kosta and Steve didn’t. Kosta turned the music very low. Steve shook a cigarette out of a box, and offered me one. “No thanks,” I
said.

Kosta drove slowly, carefully onto the highway. “You’re in bad shape, man. You weren’t kidd
ing.”

“Your face,” Steve put in, “looks like you went through a windshi
eld.”

“That’s great.” I leaned back and shut my eyes. The car smelled like tobacco and something else, something sweet. Apples. “Thanks for picking me up,” I said. I felt like I was going to lose it and start crying, so I left it there. But I could have said it about twenty more times and it wouldn’t have been en
ough.

“Should I take you to the hospital?” Kosta asked. “Maybe you should see a doctor. You don’t want that cut to s
car.”

“No,” I said. I had no insurance, and I knew what happened at hospitals. They nailed you with bills that followed you the rest of your life. “Just home is good. Four Horizons Apartments on Harmon and Tama
rus.”

“Will your parents be there?” Kosta a
sked.

I smiled to myself in the backseat. “I live alone. I’ll pay you gas money when we get th
ere.”

“I don’t want your money!” Kosta sounded shocked. “You live alone? I thought you said you were eight
een.”

“I
am.”

There was a weird silence. I saw Kosta and Steve exchanging l
ooks.

“I’m taking you to the ER,” said Kosta. “What if you have a concussion or something? You look terrible,
man.”

“No,” I said. “Please. I’ll be f
ine.”

Kosta muttered something to Steve in Greek, and they started talking. Good. Maybe they would let me rest. I breathed as deep as I could, trying to ignore the burn in my chest, and to empty my
mind.

I didn’t go to sleep, but I wasn’t exactly awake, either. I heard Kosta and Steve going on and on in Greek, a soft, shushing language, and then the driving changed, with more stops and starts, and I opened my eyes just long enough to see that we were back in the city. A thought floated dimly across my brain:
I won’t be able to get into my apartment without my keys . . . Maybe Berto will let me crash at his place until the rental office o
pens.

The car ground up a hill, working hard, and Kosta cut the motor. I opened my eyes, fuzzy-headed. The first pale streaks of light, tangerine and gold, were painting the sky. We were in a driveway, facing a typical low Vegas house the color of the desert. The yard had no grass, just a layer of chunky red rocks and a garden of tall, twisted cactuses with spines so thin they looked like h
airs.

I forced myself to speak. “Where are
we?”

Kosta glanced over his shoulder, looking guilty. “Sorry. I couldn’t take you home, man. You’re too messed
up.”

“His dad has a couple doctor friends,” Steve said quickly. “So they’ll just come check you out. And then we’ll drive you h
ome.”

They had tag-teamed
me.

My brain was shorting. “We’re at your
house
? No,” I mumbled. “What about your pare
nts?”

“My parents will love this.” Kosta rolled his eyes. “Believe
me.”

“I’ll be fine. Just take me h
ome.”

Kosta and Steve exchanged looks. “Dude, you’re making weird sounds when you breathe,” said Kosta. “Your whole face is bloody. I think you’re in shock or something. You said not to take you to the hospital, so I didn’t, but please just let one of my dad’s friends check you out and I swear I’ll drive you h
ome.”

I was too tired to argue any
more.

Actually, I needed help to make it into the house. My legs were buckling. I let Steve help me up the walk while Kosta opened the door. I had a flash of New Year’s, leaning on Micah as we left McCaw Hall. What was wrong with me that I was always finding myself in these situat
ions?

The house was dark and quiet and smelled like good food. There were lace curtains and pictures on the walls, gold paint shining in the dark. I only got a glimpse of one room full of furniture and knickknacks before Kosta led me down a narrow hall and opened a door. “You can sleep in here. We’ll have a doctor come by later.” He pointed across the hall. “The bathroom is right there. You need h
elp?”

I grimaced and shook my head. “I don’t think
so.”

“Okay, cool. I’ll get you some water. And something to sleep
in.”

Steve had been standing behind us, watching. Now he and Kosta started speed talking in Greek again, and I stumbled into the bathroom to look at my Halloween
face.

I leaned on the sink, staring at the bloody, swollen mess. One eye was completely closed. The other was dark purple, almost black. A bleeding gash ran from my hairline to my cheek. My jaw was scraped raw from the sand. I licked my dry lips and felt one of those insane laughs bubbling up in my chest. I turned on the water to drown out the sound. I only chuckled for a moment. Then I said, “You idiot” to my reflec
tion.

I dreamed of coffee. Black, black coffee, like all the coffee in the world boiled down into one cup. I wanted some so badly, I went looking through all the rooms of a big house to find it. They were white and empty
. . .

My eyes flew open and I turned my head, breathing hard. A tiny lady was sitting about a foot away, reading a magazine. She lowered the magazine and looked at me curiously. “Good afternoon,” she said. I stared at her in confusion. She had a strong, familiar face. A memory floated up through the fog in my mind. The church parking lot. Kosta’s
mom.

Memories of last night flooded
in.

“Morning,” I croaked, tugging the blanket over my bare chest and looking around. The blinds were down, and thin strips of sun filtered onto the bed. The room was almost bare: just a small wooden dresser, Kosta’s mom’s rocking chair, and some religious pictures on the w
alls.

“I stayed in here to make sure you’re okay,” she said. “Kosta tells me you’re hurt, and we need to call a doctor. So we call. But I keep watch.” She leaned forward, and said sternly, “No boys are allowed to die in my house. Sit up, ple
ase.”

I obeyed, still covering myself with the bla
nket.

She snorted and reached for my pillow. “You think I don’t see a boy’s chest before? I have three sons!” She gave the pillow a hard shake and propped it on the headboard. “Here.” She handed me a cup. “Greek coffee. Can you drink
it?”

I took a sip. It was the coffee from my dream. Thick and black, almost like oil. “Thank you,” I said. “This is really g
ood.”

A shadow of a smile flickered on her face. Her black-and-gray hair was down, and her curls were even wilder than Kosta’s. She made a clucking sound. “Look what those animals did to
you.”

I took another sip of coffee. “It’ll heal. I th
ink.”

She nodded. “Yes. Eleni Petrakis is coming. She was a doctor in Greece many years ago. She will give stitches on your f
ace.”

I didn’t want to be rude, but “many years ago” worried me. “Is she a doctor
here
?” I a
sked.

Kosta’s mom shrugged. “Sure, she takes care of many Greek peo
ple.”

“But does she, like, work in a doctor’s off
ice?”

“Why, is a Greek doctor not good eno
ugh?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” I said qui
ckly.

“What do you like for breakfast?” Kosta’s mom asked after
a
moment. “Eggs? Yogurt?
Galatopita?
Galatopita is milk pie, very good. Or
koulouri
is special sesame bread, also very g
ood.”