Heartless (33 page)

C
alypso

“
F
or the last time
, you don’t need to apologize.” My eyes drift shut, but the cool glass of the passenger window against my cheek keeps me awake.

Crew rolls to a stop at a red light on our drive home.

“I still had fun,” I insist.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to believe me. I know I had fun. That’s all that matters.”

“Fucking facial recognition software.” He spits his words. “Bullshit. I want to see this Lacy fucking Whitmore.”

“Me too.” I laugh. “Come on. You have to admit this whole thing’s kind of funny. And they offered that suite.”

“Still.”

I open my eyelids just enough to see his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. A silver Volvo careens in front of us, cutting us off, and Crew lays on his horn.

I pop up.

I’m awake.

“Jesus, Crew,” I say. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Fuck.” His shoulders rise as he breathes. “I’m sorry, Calypso. I just . . . I just wanted tonight to go a certain way. I wanted to have a good time. I wanted . . .”

I lean closer to him, placing my hand on the side of his shoulder. His muscles flex and tense under my touch, hard as steel.

“I really did have a good time,” I say. “A little bit of this city goes a very long way for me.”

“We barely scratched the surface.”

“That’s all we needed to scratch.” I rub his arm, though I’d much rather rest my head on it. His warmth relaxes my bones and makes me want to sleep for a million years. “Vegas really isn’t for me. It’s why I’m moving.”

Crew slams on his breaks. The metal clanking of tools in his truck rattle in the back. But to be fair, we’ve hit another red light.

He turns to me, staring down his perfect nose. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m closing my shop in three months.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I bought it on loan. I’m supposed to make a balloon payment in three months. I don’t have it. The owner gets to take it back.”

“And you’ll lose everything you’ve paid so far?”

“I try not to think about that part.” A loose strand of hair has fallen from my top knot. It feels messier than it’s supposed to now. I just want to go home, wash this makeup off my face, pull my hair out of this . . . thing . . . on my head, and crawl into bed. Talking about my business is a surefire way to put a damper on any night, but I can’t hold it against him. He didn’t bring it up. I did.

“There’s got to be some kind of solution. Can you liquidate? Run a clearance sale? Fundraiser?”

“Believe me, if there was a way to fix this, I’d have thought of it by now.”

The light turns green and he eases into the gas. We’re stuck behind miles of bumper to bumper traffic now, as if everyone decided to leave the strip at the same time. I heard it’s always like this though. Morning, noon and night.

“I couldn’t stay here anyway, Crew,” I say. “This city is the antithesis of everything I want in life. I don’t belong here.”

“How’d you end up here then? Something drew you there?”

“I wanted to go where no one could find me. No one from Shiloh.” I stare up at the dark sky and miss the stars. The lights are too bright around us. The neon drowns out their faint yellow twinkles. “I applied for a job at this bookstore. I passed by one day and it sort of stood out. Didn’t look like it belonged here. Like me. The lady behind the counter told me they weren’t hiring. She was getting ready to sell. I proposed that I buy it out from her on contract. The Tipsy Poet wasn’t planned, it just sort of happened.”

“You don’t have to fit in to belong somewhere.”

“Right, but I don’t want to be here. Not anymore. Ready to move on.”

“Where do you want to be then?” He leans closer to me, but only by an inch or two. Enough for me to notice.

“There’s this writing school, just outside Chicago,” I say. “It’s one of the top writing academies in the country. Actually, it’s
the
top.”

“Like grad school?”

“No,” I say. “It’s just a little program. It’s less focused on academia and more focused on the craft of writing. It’s where people go to become really great.”

“You’re a writer?”

I nod. “I am.”

“What do you write?”

“Literary fiction,” I say.

“Ah. Guess that makes sense. You own a bookstore. You like to read. It’s not a stretch that you like to write then.” We slow to a crawl and he looks my way again. “I’d have figured romance or something.”

Sitting up straight, I throw him a snarky huff and a bit of side eye. “Why? Because I’m a woman?”

Crew laughs. “God, I’m not that shallow, Calypso. No. I just figured, you know, you’re so soft.”

“Soft?”

He reaches for a loose strand of my hair and twirls it between his fingers. “Yeah. The way you move. The way you talk. Your whole demeanor. You’re sweet and soft. Literary fiction, to me, is so raw and gritty. You make me think of happily ever after.”

“I make you think of happily ever after?”

He still has my hair in his hands, and my heart is pulsing.

“I mean, not like I sit around and think about that stuff, but you remind me of someone searching for her own happily ever after.”

I laugh. Crew drops my hair and reaches for his turn signal.

“There’s where you’re wrong,” I say. “I don’t believe in fairytale endings. I don’t even believe in the idea of fairytales, and I’ve read them all.”

C
rew

T
his is where tonight ends
.

I stand outside Calypso’s door, just a short distance from mine. As soon as I go home and relieve Noelle, this night is over.

“You know,” I say. “Noelle’s going to give me shit for being home by nine-thirty. I’ve got her until midnight.”

Calypso presses her back into her door and flashes me a sideways smile. I love the way her blue eyes glow in the dark.

“You trying to invite yourself in?”

“Maybe. Is it working?”

“Kind of.”

My heart thumps hard in my chest, the way it does when I know I’m holding an unbeatable hand. But my expression is smooth like glass. Unreadable.

“And what might your intentions be if I let you in?” she asks.

I step toward her, closing the space between us. “If I’m being completely honest, I don’t know.”

“This wasn’t supposed to be a date, you know.” She hooks a dainty hand on her hip. “You tricked me.”

“I wouldn’t say it that way.”

“It’s a bait and switch if I’ve ever seen one.”

I lift my hand to her face, unable to tolerate another moment of not being able to touch her. I’m fully aware of how out of character this is for me. I don’t pine after women. I don’t chase anyone. I don’t . . . date.

And here I am, hardly able to keep my hands off this strange, fascinating creature. Everything about her is soft and beautiful, unassuming and gentle. A little bit left of center.

She’s right. She doesn’t belong in a city like Vegas. This place is too hard for her.

“I didn’t bait and switch.” I drag the pad of my thumb along her bottom lip. “I changed my mind.”

Calypso releases a defeated sign, her lips pulling wide and her warm breath grazing across my fingers.

“Is that how it works?” she asks.

“I guess?” I shrug. “I don’t know, Calypso. I’m new at this.”

“I find that incredibly hard to believe,” she says. “You’re bluffing. You’re a poker player. It’s what you do.”

“I don’t need to bluff with you.” I lick my lips to quell my intense desire to kiss her mouth. Right here. Right now. For no other reason than the fact that it feels right, and I’m dying to know the taste of the lips I’ve been staring at all night. “And you should really find some better poker analogies if you’re going to hang around me.”

Calypso sighs. “I was actually looking forward to learning your game tonight. Believe it or not.”

“It’s not too late. Got any cards?”

She leans in with her shoulder to push the door open. It makes a creaking noise, and I’m hit with the faint scent of lavender and sandalwood. This place smells exactly the way I thought it would.

I shut the door behind me and she peels off her sandals before switching on a nearby lamp. The shade is covered in a sheer, red scarf, washing us both in a warm glow.

A vintage velvet sofa is pushed up against her living room wall.

And books.

Books everywhere.

Stacks on her coffee table. Rows upon rows in bookcases.

“Looks like your bookshop gave birth to a baby bookshop,” I say.

She nibbles on her nail, glancing around. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

Calypso sinks into her sofa, slipping a book off the top of a nearby pile and paging through.

“I’m going to miss these things someday,” she says. “Everyone and their eReaders and their iPhones. No one wants these relics anymore.”

I can’t argue that. “I’m sure by the time Emme’s in college, her professors will be telling her to scroll to thirty-seven percent in her textbook.”

Calypso laughs.

“How do people not miss the feeling of a page between their fingers?” She shuts the book, dragging her fingertip down its thick spine. “The feel of a real book in your lap. The weight of it in your hands.” She brings it to her nose. “The smell of ink on old paper.”

I stand patiently, letting her have her moment.

“Sorry.” She snaps out of it. “I should be a better hostess.”

Calypso pops up and treks to the kitchen.

“Would you like a drink? I might have a bottle of wine and maybe some fuzzy navel wine coolers.”

“Wine coolers?”

“Presley brought them over a few weeks ago. Said she was feeling nostalgic. Drank only one,” she calls from behind her refrigerator door. The clinking of bottles precedes the slamming of the door. I watch from the living room as she uncorks a bottle of wine and sniffs it. Her expression sours. “No. Oh, my God. That’s really old.”

“Fuzzy navel wine coolers it is.”

She drains the bottle of wine and slips two glass bottles under her arm, stopping at a junk drawer to grab a pack of playing cards on her way back.

Dropping to the middle of the living room floor, she pushes the coffee table toward her and motions for me to sit across.

“We could play at my kitchen table, but . . .” Her gaze drifts toward a small, round table shoved up against a wall and covered in books.

I take a fuzzy navel and unscrew the top until I hear that satisfying hiss.

“Haven’t had one of these since high school.” I take a swig and let the sickeningly sweet orange liquid drip down my gullet.

She hands me a deck of cards wrapped with a hair tie. They’re worn, bent at the corners and faded in spots.

“You play cards?” I ask. “Looks like these have seen better days.”

Calypso uncaps her drink. “Back in Shiloh, we didn’t have TVs or iPads or whatever. We played games like War and Slap Jack.”

“Slap Jack?” I shuffle, smirking. “Cute.”

“I don’t know why I took these when I left.” Her head is cocked sideways. I’d kill to know what she’s thinking about right now. Or even whom. “Guess I packed in a hurry.”

She takes a drink, then another, much longer drink.

I deal us each five cards.

“This isn’t regular poker, this is five card draw. You’re going to cut your teeth on an easy game. It’ll help you learn your hands,” I say. “Jokers are wild.”

She gathers her cards and slides them toward her, keeping them close.

“See, if we were playing Hold ‘Em, I’d tell you to first decide if you’re playing to win or playing for fun,” I say.

Calypso rearranges her cards again and again, her gaze narrowing. I don’t know if she’s listening.

“Second, when you first see your cards,” I say, “try not to react. Third, keep your bluffing to a minimum. A skilled player, not unlike myself, will pick up on your bluffing habits quickly and easily.”

Her face washes in a seriousness and our eyes lock.

“Fourth. Don’t play every hand.” I pull my cards toward me and give them a quick glance. A pair of kings, a seven of hearts, a three of spades, and a six of clubs. “Lastly, observe your opponents. Know their bluffs.”

“Easy enough.”

“Since we’re playing five card, it’s just your hand against mine. Those rules don’t really apply here.”

“Do I tell you what I have now?” she asks.

“Set them here.” I point to the middle of her coffee table.

She follows my orders. “Three fives, an ace, and a seven.”

“Good. You have a three of a kind.” I place my cards flat across from hers. “I have one pair. Your hand beats mine.”

“I won?” She rises on her knees.

“You won that hand, yes,” I say. “If you had poker chips, we could discuss the chip in. You’d have won the whole pot.”

“I might have a bag of quarters somewhere.”

“Nah, it’s okay. We’re just playing for fun.”

“Yeah, but we need stakes.” She takes another sip, her eyes honed in on mine.

A dirty thought floats through my mind, but I know she won’t go for it, so I won’t bother.

“What were you nodding about?” she asks.

“I’m not nodding.”

“Yeah, you just did. A second ago. You were smiling and nodding and staring at me.”

Busted.

“It’s nothing,” I say.

She crawls on her knees toward me, like a weird, sexy, drunk, panther. “You have to tell me.”

Her hands land on my thighs, inching closer to dangerous territory.

“You can’t just stare and smile and nod and tell me it’s nothing.”

I cup her face in my hands and breathe her in. She smells of lavender and peach alcohol now. She deserves to be more than some neighbor chick I played strip poker with one lazy Friday night.

Plus, if I get her naked, and I will, because poker is
my
game, and I always fucking win, I don’t know that I’ll be able to control what happens after that.

“Please?” she pouts her bottom lip.

An image flashes in my mind. My lips on hers. My hands in her hair.

It doesn’t happen.

“Strip poker,” I say. She’s not going to drop it. “We could play strip poker. Whoever loses that hand has to remove one article of clothing.”

Calypso slinks away and I let my hands fall into my lap. She’s quiet. I shouldn’t have said anything.

I open my mouth to apologize but she cuts me off.

“Shuffle.”

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“Shuffle. Let’s do this.” She takes another drink, leaving a couple of inches of orange liquid in her bottle. “You’re going to be walking home naked by the time I’m done with you.”

“That’d be awkward, considering my sister is—”

“Shuffle, Forrester.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I flash a smirk and get cracking, I cut the deck in half and do a dovetail shuffle, repeating twice and ending with a riffle shuffle.

“Aren’t we fancy?” Calypso floats up and heads to the kitchen, coming back with two more bottles.

I deal out five cards each, and she settles in, cross-legged opposite of me. With her cards fanned and hiding her face, she peeks up and over them at me every so often. Smiling. Frowning. Wiggling her eyebrows.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to throw you off.”

“That might be helpful if we were playing with chips, but this is just plain old, no frills, five card strip poker. Your hand against mine. Show me what you got.”

She spreads her cards flat, and I follow suit.

“Okay. Wow. All right. Your full house beats my flush,” I say.

Calypso snaps her fingers. “Come on, Crew. Get busy.”

I work the buttons of my shirt until I’m freed, leaving myself in jeans and a white undershirt.

“How many layers are you wearing tonight? This is going to take for-ev-er, and you don’t have all night.”

For a moment, I don’t understand.

And then I remember.

I’ve got a kid now.

Gone are my late nights. No more hedonistic debauchery. No more fucking around.

I deal us each another hand. From the corner of my eye, I spot Calypso fighting a smile. She plunks her hand down before mine is even sorted.

“I don’t even know what this is, but I have a feeling it’s going to beat whatever you have,” she says.

At the table, she’d be considered an aggressive player. She’s playing for fun, and if money were at stake, I have a feeling she’d have little regard for it. Those are the ones to avoid. Playing against them is risky, and you almost always lose because they’re fearless.

Good thing it’s only strip poker.

I place my hand across from hers.

“Your four of a kind beats my straight.” I sigh and yank my undershirt over my head.

Calypso squeals and pushes her cards back to me.

“Nobody likes a sore loser,” she teases.

I shuffle and deal. Shuffle and deal. Shuffle and deal. My belt goes next, and then her top, followed by her skirt and my jeans.

“I love that you’re not shy about your body,” I say.

“It’s just a body.” She shrugs. “Growing up, everyone walked around naked whenever they wanted. You’d have thought Shiloh Springs was a nudist colony in the summer.”

My mind threatens to conjure up all kinds of naughty thoughts, but I refuse to allow it.

I deal another hand, both of us in nothing but our underwear now. Two losing hands and she’s naked. If I lose this hand, I lose the game.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t distracted by the way her milky soft skin glows under the warm lamplight. My hands want to caress it just as badly as my lips want a taste.

Five cards.

A quick peek.

An exchange of smiles.

My veins are warm, my inhibition is low, and I’ve been staving off an erection for the last twenty minutes. My heart pulses in my ears and I swallow the dry lump in my throat.

We spread our hands on the coffee table, and my lips pull wide when I realize I’ve won this hand.

“All right, Calypso. Bra or panties. Your choice.”

She gifts me a lopsided grin, courtesy of the fuzzy navels, I’m sure.

“No,” she says. “You pick.”

The galloping in my heart makes everything turn black for a moment. When she comes back into focus, all I see is a watchful expression on her face as she patiently awaits my decision.

I’m going to fuck Calypso tonight.

It’s going to happen.

It’s not even a question.

What I really want to say is, “
Fuck this game
.” And what I really want to do is rip her panties and carry her to her bed caveman style. I want her long legs wrapped around my hips as I plow myself into her over and over, and I want her nails digging into the flesh of my back as I devour her lips.

“Crew,” she says with a half-smirk. “Bra or panties?”

The slide of her fingertip beneath the pale pink strap of a satin bra precedes a quick snap. And then she rises, her hand on the upper curve of her left hip. Her cotton panties are covered in tiny flowers, and they’re sure as hell not the kind of panties a girl wears when she’s planning to get laid tonight.

But I don’t think Calypso thinks that way.

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” I mutter like some star-struck, half-drunk idiot.

“What?” she laughs, like she thinks I’m joking.

Every curve and angle of her body is natural, her flaws perfectly imperfect. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to see a God-given female body in its unaltered state. I’ve fucked so many plastic girls, I’ve forgotten the way a set of real breasts feel in my palms: soft, malleable, natural.

“You act like you’ve never seen a naked woman before, and I know that’s not true.” Her fingers slide beneath her waistband. “So what is it? Are you an ass man or—”