Hawk (65 page)

The whole day is mine, or what's left of it, since it's past one. I shower, I shave, I scrub my fingers through my hair.

You know, he's right. I need to get my head in the game. So I take the car while he's out doing whatever he does, and I drive.

It's a half an hour ride into the city. Philadelphia. I grabbed some cash from my drawer and have it stuffed in my pockets, and I have a very convincing fake ID that says I'm twenty one years old. At no point as I walk into the casino does anyone bother to check. It's social engineering, all about the swagger, looking like you belong there. I'm not dressed like a scrub, either, which certainly helps. There's a moment of nerves, a little twitch of excitement, when I drop a sheaf of hundreds on the table and look up at the dealer at the craps table.

"Change."

The dealer nods, and the moment has passed, but I'm still scanning the exits, mentally planning my escape, which way to run, which railings to vault over so they can't take me in.

I could play blackjack, but it's too much like work and there's a good chance they'd catch me counting cards, even with a shoe of eight decks. Roulette is too random.

Craps is my game.

It has a reputation for being vastly more complicated than it is, mostly because it's about ten games at once. The main game is called a
line bet
. A bet is placed on the line, hence the name. The shooter, the person with the dice, rolls. If the dice come up two, three, or twelve, everyone on the line loses. If the shooter rolls a seven or eleven, everyone on the line wins 1:1 odds on their bet.

If any other number is rolled, the object of the game becomes trying to roll that same number again before rolling a seven. That's the basics of the game. There's more to it than that- there are side bets which are only good for one roll, or side bets that sit until a win or loss condition is met, and odds can be placed. It's easier to do than to explain and after spending hours and hours playing, I know all of it in and out.

I don't make a line bet. I wait for the shooter to roll a point number, a five this time, and then call out "Hard six" and toss the stickman, the dealer in the middle of the table, a hundred dollar chip. If I win the bet, I get nine hundred back.

From there it's a waiting game, my stomach coiling with each roll. The first number rolled is a four, two and two. If it would have rolled two and four and made a soft six, I'd be down a hundred. Next roll is an eight. The longer the shooter rolls, the more likely seven is to come up, which means I lose.

With the next roll I watch the dice come in. The shooter is at the far end of the table. The dice bounce just under where my hands rest on the rail. One die lands with a three facing up, the other spins on its corner until I'm almost sweating, then drops.

"Hard six," the stickman calls.

He taps the board in front of me and the other dealer starts counting out chips.

I'm in a mood.

"Parlay."

No, it doesn't mean we're going to negotiate. It means I want my winnings rolled back into the original bet. I just won $900, which now sits on top of my original bet, and bumps it to a thousand.

I make another side bet, but it's that stack of chips on the hard six I'm watching intently. The shooter grabs the dice and hurls them my way, frustration on his face. He's pulling for that five.

He gets half of it, a three. The other half is a three, too. Hard six, back to back.

The stickman checks me with a look. I give him a nod. The dealer stacks two orange five hundred dollar chips in front of me. I lose my other bet on the next roll, but I don't care.

When the dice come to me, I take that thousand and put it on the line.

My first roll is a seven. That makes it two. They're watching me. They might be thinking about checking my ID, might be thinking about offering me comps. My next roll is an eight. I put a thousand behind the first thousand, to back it up. Those are my odds, and the payout is better if I roll another eight.

Five. Dice come back.

Two, dice come back. By the way, it's aces, no one says snake eyes at a craps table.

Roll.

Hard eight. Winner.

This time I take it down, as half a dozen people slap my back and punch my shoulders. The dealers are giving me the eye. If I check the dice now it'll be suspicious, so I roll again. I roll a six, easy number to roll, but the magic is gone. Seven out, and I take my winnings. I saunter with a purpose over to the cashier's window, and cash out. The utter lack of interest on the cashier's face always amuses me. They see so much money change hands, and they have no idea how much I started with, so it's hard to impress one. I should probably leave now, but I need a drink.

Casino bars are always a ripoff, especially since players get free drinks, but I don't care in the least. I order up a Screwdriver and spot a girl at the bar, having the same thing. She glances over, and something about her gives me the willies. It sounds dramatic, but it's like I feel a wind blowing over my grave. Dark hair, petite, and freakishly pale, like she's wearing pancake makeup or something. She looks at me hard, and then gets up and walks off, leaving her drink. I blink a few times, and it takes a slug of booze to make me feel warm again.

A much warmer hand rests on mine as a leggy bottle blonde in not much of a red dress slips onto the bar stool next to me.

"What are you having?"

I raise her my glass.

She nods the bartender over. "Buy me a drink?"

"Sure."

High class, this one. Long legs, and a skirt so short it borders on illegal. Nice big breasts, little dimples when she smiles, and silky hair even if it is bleached blonde, in tight ringlets she's piled up on her head in a high updo. Her drink is delivered and I pay the man, and she takes a sip without really drinking. I down the rest of mine.

"How'd you like to go upstairs?"

She bats her eyelashes. "I think I would."

I still feel a nervous flutter in my stomach. I'd put her in her late twenties, early thirties. When she stands up I see what kind of fantastic shape she's in. Flat belly, great ass, tall and shapely legs, and a pretty face. She has brown eyes, and a warm smile.

The walk to the elevator is casual, but I'm nervous about something.

This is wrong. I should stop.

I keep telling myself but I get in the elevator anyway. There's a kind of awkwardness to these transactions. There's a lot of pressure not to be so casual with this kind of thing.

I feel like I'm being watched as I stand by the door while she opens her room. I probably am. I duck in the bathroom, check in the shower as she walks into the room.

"I need to freshen up a bit. Make yourself comfortable."

That's code. I slip my winnings and a bit more from my pocket and leave it next to the sink, and walk out into the room.

When she emerges from the bathroom, I'm sitting on the bed, still dressed. She's discarded her slinky red dress for sultry red lingerie, stockings and a garter belt and a bra with little bows where her nipples must be, the whole nine yards. I look up and get hard instantly. God damn is she hot.

This is wrong.

She drops the sheaf of bills I left in the bathroom on the bed.

"You keep that."

"Uh," I say.

"I'm on my dinner break. You're dessert."

She falls to her knees in between my legs and undoes my fly, and her hand slides over my rock hard shaft, only a thin layer of cotton between her touch and me.

I grab her wrist.

"Stop."

"What? Come on, I"m giving you a freebie."

I zip up.

"Oh my God. Are you a cop?"

I sit back down and sigh. "Believe me, that's about the last thing I am. Besides, I'm allowed to lie if you ask me that. I mean I would be, if I was a cop, which I'm not. Sit."

I pat the bed next to me. She gets off her knees and sits next to me, and I can't stop staring at her impressive cleavage.

"Look, if we're not going to do it, maybe you shouldn't stare at my boobs like that."

"Sorry. I didn't think you'd get high and mighty about it."

"What, just because I let guys pay me for sex, everybody gets to stare at my boobs? No."

I sigh. "I guess I should go then."

"I wasn't kidding about the dinner break thing. You look like you need to talk."

"Uh, okay. Can you, ah, put on some clothes?"

She shrugs, making her breasts bounce nicely in their bra. She puts on quite a show walking over to the dresser, where she bends at the hips and I look away before I stare at her ass too long. When I look back she's slipped into sweats and walks over to drop on the bed.

"I could really use a pint of ice cream," she sighs. "So what's up."

"Um," I say.

"Okay, let's say, hypothetically, I'm a criminal."

"Soliciting a prostitute is a felony, yeah."

"Not like that. I steal things. Big things. Look, this shit is complicated and I can't tell you much."

"I had you pegged for somebody like that. You're not even old enough to gamble."

"Yeah."

"I'm old enough to be your mother."

"You are not."

"Barely. What are you, nineteen?"

"Twenty."

She shrugs. "I'm thirty-seven. "

"Wow. Really?"

She gives me a sharp look.

"Right. Anyway there's this girl, and I don't know what to do."

"I take it you're trying to rob her?"

"Yeah."

"Huh. That's a hell of a thing, isn't it?"

"Not her, but when we do the job it'll hurt her mother a lot, and I’ll have to leave, but I really like her."

"How do you mean, like her? Like you liked me down at the bar, or like-like?"

"You just said like about fifteen times."

She rolls her eyes. "Whatever. Answer the question."

"I've never… I've been with a lot of girls. Just putting my hand on her hip feels better than sleeping with some of them. There's just something about her that…"

I stop when I realize I'm being laughed at.

"You really are young, aren't you? Oh honey."

I sigh. "Yeah. I don't know what to do."

"Do what feels right. You only get one shot."

She's lying back on the pillows, her arms folded under her head. Dressed in sweatclothes, she just looks like somebody's mom, maybe after a night on the town.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah?"

"Is somebody making you do this?"

She snorts. "What, like a pimp? No. Look, I was an engineer for ten years. I lost my job in the recession, my husband divorced me…"

"Kids?"

"Yeah. I have custody, but kids are expensive, and it's more expensive to move. I get some child support and alimony but it's not enough, so I suck dicks for $500 a pop. A grand for everything, extra $500 for Greek, but only if I trust the guy. Repeat customers only."

"Oh," I say. "Not judging you or anything."

"Good. You go ahead and keep not judging me."

"I… will?"

She shrugs. "I was going to let you go Greek… Jesus, listen to me. I was going to let you do anal if you wanted."

My eyes widen. "Uh, thanks? Just so you know, it's not you. You're very attractive."

"I know, I gave you a hard on. That's a pretty solid indicator. Get it? Solid indicator?"

I have to laugh at that.

"I think I'll get going. Enjoy your lunch break."

"Dinner."

"Whatever. What's your name, anyway?"

"I tell people it's Jenna but it's really Laura."

"Okay, Laura. Here."

I pull out the rest of the cash I brought. With winnings minus drinks and tip for the bartender it adds up to about six thousand. Laura stares at the pile of bills, wide-eyed.

"Take the night off. A few nights, if you can."

"Thanks."

I stand, straighten myself up, and leave the room. The door closes behind me with a heavy finality, and my head swims a bit when I comprehend that I just left six thousand dollars laying on her bed. Too late to go back and get it, now.

What the fuck am I even doing here?

Pockets empty, I wander back down to the parking garage.

I hope Diana is having a better day than I am.

Chapter 6: Diana

My mother can be such a
bitch
.

"What the
hell
was that?" she shouts at the top of her lungs, not five minutes after Apollo and his father (whose name I haven't picked up yet, now that I think about it) drive away.

"Well, what happened was…"

"I know what happened. I want to know why you were on his lap."

Exasperated, I throw my hands up. "Maybe because I find him attractive and I thought he liked me. I didn't know his father was taking you out. We just met."

"It's
we
now?"

"Yes. Wait, no. What? Mom, 'we' is the plural used to refer to two humans."

Her look could cut glass. At that moment, Charity decides to walk into the kitchen, clutching her head.

"Hi," she mumbles."How did I get here?"

"Go back to sleep, Charity," Mom snaps at her.

"Oh. Okay."

She wanders back out to the couch, flops down, and is snoring inside a minute. I go over to roll her onto her side, remembering Apollo's caution against letting her vomit in her sleep. If she throws up on the antique sofa,
 
I guess that would be my fault, too. Mom keeps quiet while I tend to my friend, at least. She doesn't start up on me until I walk back into the kitchen and start cleaning up the boxes. Mom gives me the death glare, her fists planted on her hips.

"Do you think I'm going to just drop this?"

I stand up from the garbage can and glare at her.

"Mom, I'm an adult. I met a guy I liked. I kissed him. It's not a big deal."

"You didn't just let him kiss you, he was groping you. In my house. Have you even been on a proper date?"

"No, but-"

"It doesn't matter. I forbid you to see him. You can't be carousing with my boyfriend's-"

I cut her off, wide-eyed. "Your
boyfriend?"

"I'm divorced. I'm not dead. I won't have you carousing with my boyfriend's son. It's unseemly."

"Why?"