Blue Crush (11 page)

Yeah, I read about that online. Supposedly, there’s a field of electrodes. Nothing that could seriously harm, but still, what the hell?

Stepping out of the box, I remind myself.

The pit boss lays three new decks on Zach’s table. His only customer glances warily at them and knocks back a watered-down drink before leaving. Gamers hate it when new decks come into play, or when a dealer is replaced. They think it ruins their luck.

“So, yeah, I signed up for the race. It takes place in a few weeks and I’m trying to figure out how to prepare.”

Zach’s gaze cuts eagerly to me. “That’s rad. Some other guys and I are doing it too. We’ll help you train.” He grins, then cocks his head. “To start, you could probably get information on this year’s obstacles from Sallee Construction. On the down low, of course. You know who—”

The pit boss taps Zach’s shoulder.

Zach gives the man a knowing nod before his gaze returns to me. “Sorry, Gen. Talk later?”

“Yeah, sure.” I scribble the name of the construction company on my ordering pad. It couldn’t hurt to talk to them. I’m trying to not think about what
other guys
are participating with Zach this year, but I’m afraid I already know one of them.

Prepared to hurry back, I turn—and freeze, my hand flying to my chest. Maryanne stands two feet away and I’m in her section. She was nice last night with the Drake situation, but I don’t want to push my luck. Casino waitresses are highly territorial. I scan for a discreet escape route.

Before I make a run for it, a loud, nasally, “Hi, Snoooww,” blares from behind.

Amber.

Amber stops a few feet away to talk to a change clerk—and to take in the fireworks she set off.

Maryanne glances between me and Amber, her expression puzzled. She has every right to chew me out for being here. Instead, she snaps back to hyper-multitasking mode: empty glass sweep, napkin placement, drink dispersion.

What? No set-down?

Not sticking around to question it. I move into the lane—

“Hold up, Snow.” Maryanne smiles at her customer as he hands her a tip. “You can have my tables at ten,” she says over her shoulder. “I need to leave early.”

Wait—
what
? She’s offering the tables that pour in a shitload of tips? To me? Not one of the senior girls?

I take too long to respond, because Maryanne faces me, her expression pure exasperation. “Do you want ’em or not?”

“Yes.
Of course. Thank you,” I say in stunted English.

I glance at Amber, who has paused in her conversation to gape at Maryanne. She snaps her mouth shut and walks over. “Uh, Maryanne, I can cover for you.” Her head twitches awkwardly as if she’s trying to refrain from cocking it like a pissed-off bird. She looks down at me, even though I’m several inches taller. “I have more seniority than Snow.”

Maryanne counts her cash and winks at another customer. “Thanks, but Gen’s got it.” She speeds off, her short legs pumping in her Payless Shoe Source heels—the same ones I’m wearing.

Amber’s mouth purses and she glares at me before storming off to Mont Belle Lounge.

That was—I don’t even know what. Unbelievable? Brilliant?

Maryanne was the first waitress to haze me with the Snow White nickname. Now she’s calling me Gen and giving me her tables? And putting Amber in her place …

Wow. Just—wow.

“She said that?
Maryanne?
” Nessa stares in disbelief after I relay the events.

“I can get someone else to cover her section if you think you’ll need me here tonight.” The bachelor party is rowdier than when I left. I don’t want to leave Nessa in the lurch, even if good tips are singing to me.

She shakes her head and waves me off. “I’ve got this.”

I pull in a few hundred dollars working Maryanne’s blackjack tables that night—my best score to date.

Let’s hope my luck holds in the race. There is a five-thousand-dollar pot with various lesser winnings. I’ll be lucky to finish the mudder, but if by some miracle I won something, it would go a long way toward building self-confidence and financial independence.

Half the businesses in Lake Tahoe use the word
chalet
in their title, even the rundown places. Cali and I dubbed our cabin, with its corrugated roof and seventies brown carpet,
the chalet
in honor of the outdated chalet strip malls. The Pinecone Chalet Business Center housing Sallee Construction doesn’t conform. The architecture has a log cabin feel, the building new and well-constructed.

Cali hasn’t returned from her mom’s and she’s ignoring my text messages. The truth about her ex came out wrong. This has gone on too long. I feel terrible and wish she’d talk to me.

I’m thinking about Cali and how to fix things when I push open the glass door to Sallee Construction.

A receptionist in a light green blouse, her blond, frizzy hair held back by shell combs, stares at her computer screen. “Oh—oh, no,” she says, and looks up abruptly. “What’s your astrological sign?”

I glance to my left and right. “Me?” She nods gravely. “Um—Virgo?”

Her mouth moves rapidly as she reads her screen. I glance at the insignia on the wall to make sure I’m in the right place.

Her face relaxes. “You’re fine this month. Just romantic stuff. But those Leos—” She blows out a breath and shakes her head. “—they need to worry. Not a good month to be a Leo.” Her face brightens in a way that’s almost comical after the horoscope drama. “So what can I do for you?” She takes a sweeping glance. “You here to see one of the boys?”

My face heats. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed. I’m not here to see a guy, but her talk of romance throws me. “No. I’m here for … I’m participating in the Alpine Mudder. A friend said your company builds the obstacles?”

“We do.” She looks at me warily.

Shit, didn’t Zach say this would be on the down low? I should have followed up with him before I came. Why the hell did I think I could waltz in here and get information? I clutch my purse, suddenly second-guessing my rationale for coming. “Oh, well, I was hoping to get information—nothing top secret or anything—just the basics on what might be out there. On the course. With the obstacles.” I’m stammering. This is bad. I already sound guilty.

The receptionist breathes in through clenched teeth as if I’ve touched on a delicate subject. “Well—the person who usually handles acquisitions entered the race this year to raise money for his tribe. Conflict of interest.” She taps her lip. “I suppose John is handling this one. He’s the owner. Just a minute.” She picks up the phone receiver on her desk and punches a couple of buttons. “John, I have a girl here who wants to know about the mudder obstacles. Do you have time to talk to her?” There’s a short pause, then, “Okay, I’ll bring her back.” She sets down the receiver and rises. “I’ll show you to his office.”

“Wait. Um … what did it say? The horoscope. About my sign.”

My face heats another ten degrees. Astrology is crap—a couple of cat ladies spinning “predictions” in their den—but I can’t walk away without knowing what she meant about romance. That’s bad karma, right?

She nods, gaze serious, and wiggles back in her chair. “Let’s see.” She clicks the mouse to a past screen. “Here it is.” She purses her lips, and for some reason I’m sweating. I look around to see if anyone’s watching my idiocy.

“Virgo, you begin a new cycle. Your past influences your future and your future brings light to things once dark. To cope, be bold and achieve that which you most desire.” She looks at me expectantly.

“That’s it?” This is why I hate horoscopes. They use a bunch of words and never say anything. “What about the love part?”

Her eyes soften. “It’s always about love, isn’t it?” She stands. “Right this way. I’ll show you back.”

I shake off my confusion over the horoscope stuff and follow her. The room I’m led to could be a storage annex. Piles of unfiled papers and folders lie on every surface, especially the floor. My fingers itch to sort and organize … and open a window.

“Mr. Sallee?” the receptionist says. “This woman is inquiring about the mudder.” She smiles at me and walks away.

A black-haired man with tanned skin and weatherworn wrinkles around his eyes looks up from his computer, a bright look in his eye. “So, you’re doing the mudder this year?”

“Yes, sir. There were pictures on the website, but … I guess—um—I’m a little nervous about what I’ve gotten myself into. I was wondering if you have information you’re allowed to share that could help me prepare.”

This was a stupid idea. Of course this guy can’t help. Why did Zach send me here?

Mr. Sallee stands and walks around his desk. He’s tall, in jeans and a short-sleeved Sallee Construction collared T-shirt. He rubs his jaw. “Well, I’m not allowed to give out information on the location of the race, or really even obstacle specifications, but I could show you more pictures. I don’t see how that could hurt if they’re already providing them on the website. Might help relieve your nerves, or increase them.” He grins.

That doesn’t sound good, but yeah, more pictures might help.

We walk into a room with tables covered in blueprints, written-on whiteboards, and images taped to every surface. Mr. Sallee heads to a board in the corner with about fifty pictures of various mudder obstacles, the images taken from different angles. Pools of ice, narrow tunnels, and walls—tall walls.

“Not your typical race, is it?” He glances from the side.

“No.”

How am I going to do this? There’s the running portion, which will be easy, but the other stuff? Not so much. I’m athletic, but my upper body strength sucks. I can manage one, maybe two pull-ups. That’s pretty good for the average woman, but this race is crazy. I’ll need more than that to survive.

This isn’t going to build my confidence; it will crush it.

Mr. Sallee presses the corner of a picture that came loose, an image of electrodes dangling from a wooden beam. “Well, what do you think?”

I let out a sigh. “I’m screwed.”

He chuckles. “That bad?”

I nod, and a knock sounds behind us.

Lewis stands in the doorway, a shocked look on his face. He blinks, his gaze cutting to Mr. Sallee. “You wanted me?”

“Son, I was just showing this young lady the Alpine Mudder.”

Son?

Mr. Sallee glances over. “Sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“Gen,” Lewis answers for me. It’s a good thing, because I’m freaking out and the ability to speak escapes me.

What is Lewis doing here? Why didn’t Zach tell me … Wait—he may have tried. He was saying something before he had to return to work … Dammit!

Mr. Sallee looks between us, a curious expression on his face. “You know each other. Gen, how did you say you heard about us?”

“I work with Zach. He’s a friend of Lewis’s.”

Mr. Sallee nods and studies his son, who’s staring at me. “Well, if you want to learn about the race and how to survive it, there’s no one better to talk to than Lewis.”

Lewis leads me into his office, a cleaner, more orderly version of his father’s.

Mr. Sallee is Lewis’s dad
. That night at the taco dinner, Zach said Lewis worked for his father’s construction company. And Zach knew Sallee Construction built the obstacles. Why didn’t I put it together? Because I was distracted by the horoscope thing and, before that, getting molested in a hotel suite.

Lewis sits behind his desk, tipping his chair back with an ease that belies his expression. “So what’s going on? Why are you doing the mudder?”

He could have opened with, “How are you?” but that would require a certain level of friendliness. I thought we’d gotten past the stoic Lewis. He hasn’t acted this way since before the club. And after what happened with Drake—

I ran from him when he tried to comfort me. How do I expect him to act?

Fine. I like this Lewis better; he’s easier to handle than the one who makes my mind go blank and my mouth gasp orgasmic moans.

“Because I want to. You have a problem with that?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

I sigh and look around. The degree of responsibility Lewis has within his father’s company is impressive for someone his age. Certificates of accomplishment I can’t read from where I’m sitting frame the walls, along with a whiteboard with dates and project headers.

“The Alpine Mudder is dangerous. You could get hurt.”

Is he serious? I squint and talk slowly, like I would to a small child. “That’s why I’m doing it.” I shift in my seat. “I don’t want to get hurt, but … I’m looking for a challenge.”

“Are you bored? You can’t find anything else to occupy your time?”

My mouth drops before I clamp it shut. What the fuck is his problem? Why is he being so rude? “No.”

He stares and his eyes dip a fraction before skipping back up, as if he won’t allow anything beyond eye contact.

That makes it easier. Better if he’s not interested.

His gaze narrows. “Why are you really doing it?”

I shift in my seat. He’s better at this stare-down stuff than me. “Everyone thinks they can trample me. That I’m weak and vulnerable. I’m not.” Or at least, that’s what I’m proving. I let out a sigh. I didn’t want to get into this with him. “Look, forget about it. I’ll find another way to train for the race.” I stand and walk to the door. This town is too small. I hate that I run into Lewis everywhere.

“Wait.”

My hand is on the knob and I’m not letting go—it’s my escape—but I look over my shoulder because I can’t help myself.

“I could … help you. Train, that is.”

What?
Him?

No way.

“Zach and a few of us did the race last year. We’re training together again this year. Adding you to the group is no big deal. It would be better if you were a part of a team. People who race alone don’t finish. Especially girls.”

My back stiffens and I breathe in, eyes flaring.

He smiles.

He knew that would piss me off. Damn him.

Does he know I can’t back down from a physical challenge? It’s not possible. Not in my nature. And I want to finish the race. Well, I’d like to win the money, but I’ll settle for finishing and building that self-confidence Nessa mentioned.