Beautiful Disaster (28 page)

I gave him a wry look from the corner of my eye. “Did I ever tell you how much I loathe that word?”

“Sorry,” he said, pulling me to his side. He lit his cigarette and took a deep breath. The smoke he blew out was thicker than usual, mixing with the winter air. He turned his hand over and took a long look at his wrist. “How weird is it that this tat isn't just my new favorite, but it makes me feel at ease to know it's there?”

“Pretty weird.” Travis raised an eyebrow and I laughed. “I'm kidding. I can't say I understand it, but it's sweet … in a Travis Maddox sort of way.”

“If it feels this good to have this on my arm, I can't imagine how it's going to feel to get a ring on your finger.”

“Travis …”

“In four or maybe five years,” he added.

I took a breath. “We need to slow down. Way, way down.”

“Don't start this, Pidge.”

“If we keep going at this pace, I'm going to be barefoot and pregnant before I graduate. I'm not ready to move in with you, I'm not ready for a ring, and I'm certainly not ready to settle down.”

Travis gripped my shoulders and turned me to face him. “This isn't the ‘I wanna see other people' speech, is it? Because I'm not sharing you. No fucking way.”

“I don't want anyone else,” I said, exasperated. He relaxed and released my shoulders, gripping the railing.

“What are you saying, then?” he asked, staring across the horizon.

“I'm saying we need to slow down. That's all I'm saying.” He nodded, clearly unhappy. I touched his arm. “Don't be mad.”

“It seems like we take one step forward and two steps back, Pidge. Every time I think we're on the same page, you put up a wall. I don't get it … most girls are hounding their boyfriends to get serious, to talk about their feelings, to take the next step …”

“I thought we established that I'm not most girls?”

He let his head drop, frustrated. “I'm tired of guessing. Where do you see this going, Abby?”

I pressed my lips against his shirt. “When I think about my future, I see you.”

Travis relaxed, pulling me close. We both watched the night clouds move across the sky. The lights of the school dotted the darkened block, and partygoers folded their arms against thick coats, scurrying to the warmth of the fraternity house.

I saw the same peace in Travis's eyes that I had witnessed only a handful of times. And it hit me that just like on the other nights, his content expression was a direct result of reassurance from me.

I had experienced insecurity: those living one stroke of bad luck to another, men who were afraid of their own shadow. It was easy to be afraid of the dark side of Vegas, the side the neon and glitter never seemed to touch. But Travis Maddox wasn't afraid to fight or to defend someone he cared about or to look into the humiliated and angry eyes of a scorned woman. He could walk into a room and stare down someone twice his size, believing that no one could touch him—that he was invincible to anything that tried make him fall.

He was afraid of nothing. Until he'd met me.

I was the one part of his life that was unknown, the wild card, the variable he couldn't control. Regardless of the moments of peace I had given him, in every other moment of every other day, the turmoil he felt without me was made ten times worse in my presence. The anger that took hold of him before was only harder for him to manage. Being the exception was no longer a mysterious, special thing. I had become his weakness.

Just as I was to my father.

“Abby! There you are! I've been looking all over for you!” America said, bursting through the door. She held up her cell phone. “I just got off the phone with my dad. Mick called them last night.”

“Mick?” My face screwed into disgust. “Why would he call them?”

America raised her eyebrows as if I should know the answer. “Your mother kept hanging up on him.”

“What did he want?” I said, feeling sick.

She pressed her lips together. “To know where you were.”

“They didn't tell him, did they?”

America's face fell. “He's your father, Abby. Dad felt he had a right to know.”

“He's going to come here,” I said, feeling my eyes burn. “He's going to come here, Mare!”

“I know! I'm sorry!” she said, trying to hug me. I pulled away from her and covered my face with my hands.

A familiar pair of strong, protective hands rested on my shoulders. “He won't hurt you, Pigeon,” Travis said. “I won't let him.”

“He'll find a way,” America said, watching me with heavy eyes. “He always does.”

“I have to get out of here.” I pulled my coat around me and pulled at the handles of the French doors. I was too upset to slow down long enough to coordinate pushing down the handles while pulling at the doors at the same time. Just as frustrated tears fell down my frozen cheeks, Travis's hand covered mine. He pressed down, helping me to push the handles, and then with his other hand he pulled open the doors. I looked at him, conscious of the
ridiculous scene I was making, expecting to see a confused or disapproving look on his face, but he looked down at me only with understanding.

Travis took me under his arm and together we went through the house, down the stairs and through the crowd to the front door. The three of them struggled to keep up with me as I made a beeline for the Charger.

America's hand shot out and grabbed my coat, stopping me in my tracks. “Abby!” she whispered, pointing to a small group of people.

They were crowded around an older, disheveled man who pointed frantically to the house, holding up a picture. The couples were nodding, discussing the photo among one another.

I stormed over to the man and pulled the photo from his hands. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

The crowd dispersed, walking into the house, and Shepley and America stood on each side of me. Travis cupped my shoulders from behind.

Mick looked at my dress and clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Well, well, Cookie. You can take the girl out of Vegas …”

“Shut up. Shut up, Mick. Just turn around,” I pointed behind him, “and go back to where ever you came from. I don't want you here.”

“I can't, Cookie. I need your help.”

“What else is new?” America sneered.

Mick narrowed his eyes at America and then looked to me. “You look awful pretty. You've grown up. I wouldn't've recognized you on the street.”

I sighed, impatient with the small talk. “What do you want?”

He held up his hands and shrugged. “I seemed to have gotten myself in a pickle, kiddo. Old Dad needs some money.”

I closed my eyes. “How much?”

“I was doing good, I really was. I just had to borrow a bit to get ahead and … you know.”

“I know,” I snapped. “How much do you need?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Well shit, Mick, twenty-five hundred? If you'll get the hell outta here … I'll give that to you now,” Travis said, pulling out his wallet.

“He means twenty-five thousand,” I said glaring at my father.

Mick's eyes scanned over Travis. “Who's this clown?”

Travis's eyebrows shot up from his wallet and I felt his weight lean into my back. “I can see, now, why a smart guy like yourself has been reduced to asking your teenage daughter for an allowance.”

Before Mick could speak, I pulled out my cell phone. “Who do you owe this time, Mick?”

Mick scratched his greasy, graying hair. “Well, it's a funny story, Cookie—”

“Who?” I shouted.

“Benny.”

My mouth fell open and I took a step back, into Travis. “Benny? You owe Benny? What in the hell were you …” I took a breath: there was no point. “I don't have that kind of money, Mick.”

He smiled. “Something tells me you do.”

“Well, I don't! You've really done it, this time, haven't you? I knew you wouldn't stop until you got yourself killed!”

He shifted; the smug grin on his face had vanished. “How much ya got?”

I clenched my jaw. “Eleven thousand. I was saving for a car.”

America's eyes darted in my direction. “Where did you get eleven thousand dollars, Abby?”

“Travis's fights,” I said, my eyes boring into Mick's.

Travis pulled on my shoulders to look into my eyes. “You made eleven thousand off my fights? When were you betting?”

“Adam and I had an understanding,” I said, unconcerned with Travis's surprise.

Mick's eyes were suddenly animated. “You can double that in a weekend, Cookie. You could get me the twenty-five by Sunday, and Benny won't send his thugs for me.”

My throat felt dry and tight. “It'll clean me out, Mick. I have to pay for school.”

“Oh, you can make it back in no time,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.

“When is your deadline?” I asked.

“Monday mornin'. Midnight,” he said, unapologetic.

“You don't have to give him a fucking dime, Pigeon,” Travis said, tugging on my arm.

Mick grabbed my wrist. “It's the least you could do! I wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for you!”

America slapped his hand away and then shoved him. “Don't you dare start that shit again, Mick! She didn't make you borrow money from Benny!”

Mick looked at me with loathing in his eyes. “If it weren't for her, I woulda had my own money. You took everything from me, Abby. I have nothin'!”

I thought time away from Mick would lessen the pain that came with being his daughter, but the tears flowing from my eyes said otherwise. “I'll get your money to Benny by Sunday. But when I do, I want you to leave me the hell alone. I won't do this again, Mick. From now on, you're on your own, do you hear me? Stay. Away.”

He pressed his lips together and then nodded. “Have it your way, Cookie.”

I turned around and headed for the car, hearing America behind me. “Pack your bags, boys. We're going to Vegas.”

Travis set down our bags and looked around the room. “This is nice, right?”

I glared at him and he raised his brow. “What?”

The zipper of my suitcase whined as I pulled it around its borders, and I shook my head. Different strategies and the lack of time crowded my head. “This isn't a vacation. You shouldn't be here, Travis.”

In the next moment he was behind me, crossing his arms around my middle. “I go where you go.”

I leaned my head against his chest and sighed. “I have to get on the floor. You can stay here or check out the Strip. I'll see you later, okay?”

“I'm going with you.”

“I don't want you there, Trav.” A hurt expression weighted his face and I touched his arm. “If I'm going to win fourteen thousand dollars in one weekend, I have to concentrate. I don't like who I'm going to be while I'm at those tables, and I don't want you see it, okay?”

He brushed my hair from my eyes and kissed my cheek. “Okay, Pidge.”

Travis waved to America as he left the room, and she approached me in the same dress she wore to the date party. I changed into a short gold number and slipped on a pair of heels, grimacing at the mirror. America pulled back my hair and then handed me a black tube.

“You need about five more coats of mascara, and they're going to toss your ID on sight if you don't
slather on some more blush. Have you forgotten how this game is played?”

I snatched the mascara from her hand and spent another ten minutes on my makeup. Once I finished, my eyes began to gloss over. “Dammit, Abby, don't cry,” I said, looking up and dabbing under my eyes with a tissue.

“You don't have to do this. You don't owe him anything.” America cupped my shoulders as I stood in front of the mirror one last time.

“He owes Benny money, Mare. If I don't, they'll kill him.”

Her expression was one of pity. I had seen her look at me that way many times before, but this time she was desperate. She'd seen him ruin my life more times than either of us could count. “What about the next time? And the next time? You can't keep doing this.”

“He agreed to stay away. Mick Abernathy is a lot of things, but he's no welsher.”

We walked down the hall and stepped into an empty elevator. “You have everything you need?” I asked, keeping the cameras in mind.

America clicked her fake driver's license with her nails and smiled. “The name's Candy. Candy Crawford,” she said in her flawless southern accent.

I held out my hand. “Jessica James. Nice to meet you, Candy.”

We both slipped on our sunglasses and stood stone-faced as the elevator opened, revealing the neon lights and bustling of the casino floor. People moved in all directions from all walks of life. Vegas was heavenly hell, the one place you could find
dancers in ostentatious feathers and stage makeup, prostitutes with insufficient yet acceptable attire, businessmen in luxurious suits, and wholesome families in the same building. We strutted down an aisle lined with red ropes and handed a man in a red jacket our IDs. He eyed me for a moment and I pulled down my glasses.

“Anytime today would be great,” I said, bored.

He returned our IDs and stood aside, letting us pass. We passed aisle after aisle of slot machines and the blackjack tables and then stopped at the roulette wheel. I scanned the room, watching the various poker tables, settling on the one with older gentlemen in the seats.

“That one,” I said, nodding across the way.

“Start off aggressive, Abby. They won't know what hit 'em.”

“No. They're old Vegas. I have to play it smart this time.”

I walked over to the table, using my most charming smile. Locals could smell a hustler from a mile away, but I had two things in my favor that covered the scent of any con: youth … and tits.