Heartless (25 page)

I can’t tell if he’s sticking up for me or not. I almost think he is.

“Exactly. That’s what I try to tell her.” She grins at him before turning to me. “This one’s always so serious. She can’t take a joke these days. She doesn’t get me like you do . . . sorry, what’s your name?”

“Crew,” he says.

“She doesn’t get me like you do, Crew,” Presley continues. Anyone else would say she’s flirting right now, but I know better. It’s just how she is.

He doesn’t take the bait. Instead he turns to me, drinking me in and cocking his head to the side like he’s trying to read me. Like I, of all people, am more fascinating to him than drop-dead gorgeous Presley.

Not that it matters. He’s clearly a taken man.

“Anyway.” The store’s grown ten degrees hotter in the last five seconds. “I’ll drop these off tonight.”

I glance down at the address and stop dead in my tracks.

“301 Vollmer Street,” I say. “The Desert Oasis apartments?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“That’s where I live.”

It’s a relatively tiny complex. Two buildings, with eight units each.

“Small world,” Presley says. “You probably know her next door neighbor then.”

“I’m not home much. And when I am, I don’t really talk to anyone.” He turns, squaring his shoulders with mine. “And I’d definitely remember seeing you.”

I don’t need a mirror to know my face is halfway between cherry and scarlet right now. I
think
he just gave me a compliment, and I
hate
that I kind of liked it . . .

Maybe it’s the arid heat or the fact that I skipped out on breakfast this morning, but my vision blurs in and out as I try to make out the apartment number. I think it says 11.

Yep.

I’m in 12.

“I think you’re next door to me.” I try to swallow, but my throat is as desiccated as the late morning heat outside.

“Really?” His face scrunches. “How long have you lived there?”

“Few months. Not long.”

Too long, if I’m being honest. What I wouldn’t give for a full week of solid sleep.

“You’re in 12?” he asks.

“Yup.” I glance at Presley. Her hand hides the grin on her brightly hued lips.

“So
you’re
the Jackhammer.” Presley smirks.

“The what?” he asks.

“Ignore her.” I shoot her a pinched stare and will her to shut her mouth this instant. When Crew glances away, I mouth to her, “
You’re so fired
.”

Presley shrugs like the defiant little wench I’ve come to love the last couple of years. She’s the bratty kid sister I never had, occasionally my voice of reason, and usually quick to offer an unsolicited, brutally honest opinion when I need it most.

Crew slips his phone out of his pocket. I didn’t hear it go off. Maybe he’s pretending to take a call to get out of here? Can’t say I blame him.

“Noelle,” he says. “What’s going on?”

Ah. I bet he’s talking to his girlfriend or wife or whatever. I watch Presley’s eyes dart toward his ring finger, which is clearly naked. Okay, so Noelle is his girlfriend. Fair enough.

“Yep, on my way home. Just leaving the bookstore now,” he says. “Hang on.”

Crew presses his phone against his chiseled chest and turns to me, his blue eyes disarming in a way that confuses and delights.

“Are we good here?” he asks.

I nod and push the door open for him, welcoming in a gush of hot air as he leaves. The second he steps outside, he lifts his phone to his ear and turns back to give me a half smile and a quick wave.

So much for telling him off.

“Why can’t they all look like him?” Presley leans against the counter and sighs as her dark eyes twinkle.

“He’s taken,” I remind her. “Clearly.”

“He’s so my type though,” she says. “Goddamn it. Why couldn’t I have met him first? I’d have his baby. I’d have so many of his babies. I’d have an entire mansion full of that man’s sweet, sweet blue-eyed babies.”

“You hate babies.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to load these up in my car so I’m ready to go when Bryson gets here.” I grab the dolly and start stacking books, yawning all the while.

C
rew

“
I
’ve decided
she looks exactly like you.” Noelle swings the baby in her arms as I burst through the apartment door, my arms full of sacks upon sacks of baby bottles, formula, pacifiers, clothes, blankets, and towels. “Butt chin and all.”

“It’s a dimple.” I drop the bags and head back out to my truck, returning with an armful of boxes of things I’m sure I’ll spend all night assembling.

“Butt chin.” She says, crouching down to rifle through the bags. “Good. You got her more clothes. Her
mother
only packed a few outfits. They’re really expensive too. Who the hell dresses their baby in Dior? Don’t they know babies ruin everything?”

“You going to stick around so I can put this shit together?”

A bouncer and a changing table sit in upright boxes leaning against the wall. The crib’s still in my truck. I hit up the local baby big box store and grabbed a bored-looking employee. A slip of a fifty into the palm of his hand guaranteed me a personal shopper for the next hour. I took a seat on a nearby bench while he maneuvered the aisles Super Market Sweep-style and met me at the checkout an hour later.

“Sorry, Charlie,” she says, placing the baby back in my arms. She slips her phone from her pocket and checks the time. “I’m working tonight. Picked up an extra shift at the hospital. And you’re welcome. In case you didn’t notice, I picked up your apartment for you. You’re still going to need to baby proof.”

A quick glance around the room, and I realize I can see the floor. The pillows on the sofa are fluffed, and the tops of the end tables shine with fresh polish.

“I stayed clear of your room.” Her hands fly up and her eyes avert.

“Appreciate it.”

“I threw the dishes in the dishwasher for you.” She strides toward the door, stepping into a pair of neon yellow flats garish enough to nauseate our mother. “I’m not enabling you.”

“I know.”

“I’m just being a good sister.”

“You are.”

“You’re lucky to have me.”

“I am.”

“She’s cute.” Noelle’s face softens a bit as she pulls in a slow sigh. “Really, really cute.”

“Of course she is. She’s a Forrester.”

Probably.

“Your life’s about to get all kinds of complicated, Crew.” She shakes her head. “You’re going to have to reprioritize some things.”

“You sound like Dad.”

She juts her tongue out and scrunches her face. “Don’t say that.”

“I don’t need a lecture.”

Noelle checks her phone again. “We’ll talk more later. I gotta go.”

The second she’s gone and it’s just me and a wide-eyed, fluffy-haired baby, I yank a pink fleece blanket from a plastic sack and spread it across the floor before laying her down. Her chubby legs kick as her arms flail, and she flashes a gummy smile when our eyes meet.

I extend a finger and she wraps her tiny hand around it.

I’ve never been a fan of relishing in those still, small moments that force you to feel things, but damn if she didn’t just melt my heart.

I want to remember this—the way I felt when this little girl smiled at me for the first time.

“All right. Enough of this,” I say when my heart feels like it could explode from my chest any minute now. Reaching for her diaper bag, I rifle through, looking to see if Ava had the forethought to send her packing with any toys. She doesn’t seem like she misses Ava yet, and perhaps they never had a chance to bond, but I’m sure she’d still appreciate something that smells like home. I unzip the leather bag and fish around, pulling out a few small items: a rubber giraffe, a silver rattle, and a pacifier with a name etched onto it.

Emme
.

“Your name is Emme?” I ask, as if she could possibly answer.

She kicks with force and blows a spit bubble.

“I’m Crew,” I say. “Dad. Whatever you want to call me, you know, when you’re old enough to decide.”

If I’m going to be a dad, I’m going to be a cool motherfucking dad.

I rise up and grab the box containing a bouncer decorated in circus animals. This little princess needs a place to sit. It’s going to be a long night for the both of us.

* * *

E
mme sleeps soundly
in a vibrating bouncer several hours later, my living room looking like a Christmas morning war zone. Torn cardboard, plastic wrap, and instruction booklets litter the place.

Now I need a goddamned nap.

Falling back into the sofa, I glance at the baby one last time before shutting my eyes and welcoming a dusky sleep.

I’m right there, on the edge, seconds from succumbing to what could only be the most delicious nap I’ve had in ages, when a light rapping on the door pulls me clear out of it.

I groan, remembering the book drop-off. The broken clock, which my sister apparently fixed and rehung, reads half past seven. Sitting up and dragging my hands down my face, I make my way to the door and check the peephole. That organic-looking blonde from the Tipsy Poet stands on the other side.

All this time I’ve lived here, I’ve never seen her before. I suppose we have opposite schedules, our days and nights switched. She’s not exactly my type, but I’m not blind. She’s beautiful in an earthy kind of way. Natural and sunlit from within. Long hair I could lose my hands in and a long skirt that could easily lend its way to easy access.

“Hey.” I pull the door slowly, hoping it doesn’t creak and wake Emme. “Shh. She’s sleeping.”

The blonde honey looks over my shoulder and nods.

I should move Emme to her crib. She’d probably sleep better there.

“Give me a sec,” I say, scooping the baby in my arms and carrying her back to her new room. There’s enough room in my spare bedroom for a crib and changing table. The poker table hogging half the space is going to have to go into storage at one of my flip houses next chance I get, which means no more hosting poker tourneys.

“Where do you want these?” she asks when I return. Her hands grip a silver dolly so tightly her knuckles whiten.

Do I make her nervous?

I reach past and take the cart, pulling it in and depositing the stack of damn near thirty books in the corner. Some of them are textbook size, heavy and filled with pages upon pages of everything I could possibly need to know about taking care of a baby.

“You’re going to read all those, huh?” I think I amuse her.

“I’m a speed reader,” I say. “Freakishly fast. I tested out of a lot of college classes that way. Read the textbook in a day. Tested out the next.”

She says nothing, only studies me.

“Smarter than I look, huh?” I’ve heard it all before.

“I didn’t say that.”

She wants to figure me out. I got that from the bookstore when I saw the way she looked at me when I pulled out my black Amex. But it wasn’t the way most girls look at me when they see that. She’s curious, not opportunistic.

I wheel the empty dolly toward the door.

“I can’t believe I’ve never seen you around here,” I say.

“I’m gone most of the time.” She gathers a long blonde wave in her hand and flattens it along her shoulder. “I work a lot.”

“At the book shop?”

She nods. “Yeah. I own the place.”

“Oh. Nice. How long?”

“A couple of years now,” she says.

“It’s a nice place. Cozy.”

“So not Vegas.” She smiles like she’s embarrassed, gently rolling her eyes. “I’m not sure what I was thinking, opening up a place like that in a city where people are busy doing everything
but
reading.”

I shrug. She’s right. She’s got a painted sign above her shop when the rest of the city has flashing neon lights. The only reason I found it was because a quick Internet search told me it was the nearest bookstore.

“Sometimes it’s good to stand out,” I say.

“What do you do?” she asks. “Seems like everyone around here is a dancer or Black Jack dealer.”

I scratch the side of my jaw. “Definitely not a dancer.”

Our eyes catch. She’s got the longest lashes I’ve ever seen, dirty blonde and thick. They curl up at the ends and frame her sky blues.

“I’m a professional poker player,” I say, “by night. I also flip houses. Usually have a couple of projects at a time going. But if you ask my parents, I’m a math teacher at a private high school in North Vegas.”

Her pretty lips arch up in the corners. “Your parents don’t know what you do for a living?”

“My dad runs a gambling rehabilitation center just outside the city,” I say. “Promise Makers. Have you seen the TV commercials? They run nonstop.”

Her shoulder lifts. “I don’t watch TV.”

“Then perhaps you’ve seen one of our fifty thousand billboards?”

She smiles, shaking her head side to side.

“Anyway, yeah, if he knew his only son was a card playing son of a bitch, he’d lose his shit.” I smirk at the thought of my straight-laced, conservative father losing his cool. I’ve only seen it happen a few times in my life, and it isn’t pretty. And now, with his heart condition, Dad losing his cool runs the risk of being lethal. “Wouldn’t be good for his business either. He’s building this whole empire with a church for reformed gamblers and recovering addicts. Not just gamblers. Sex addicts, drug addicts. Anyone with a problem and family members willing to cough up thousands of dollars? My father finds them.”

Her eyes flutter before she glances down at my feet. She probably doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” I say. “Here you came to drop off some books, and I’m giving you my life story.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” She waves her hand.

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Calypso.” Our stares lock again.

“Calypso . . .”

“No last name,” she says.

“Wait, what?”

She halfway smiles, the apples of her cheeks warming. “My parents are like modern hippies. They don’t believe in anything that keeps you anchored to anyone. They believe we should all be free, floating through life with nothing to tie us down.”

“Huh.” My lips tighten as I wrap my ahead around what it must be like to go through life with just one legal name. “Never met anyone like that before.”

“I’m Crew,” I say.

“Yeah, I remember from the shop,” she says. “I’m guessing you have a last name, though.”

“Forrester,” I say. Forrester is definitely an anchor of a moniker. I envy Calypso’s freedom in that respect. It’s not easy being the son of Conrad and Susan Forrester.

“Like the Subaru.”

Haven’t heard that a million times before. I give her a free pass because she’s pretty.

“Kind of.” I fold my arms, widening my stance and finding myself not in any particular hurry to move this conversation along. Calypso is nice and unassuming. She’s not like the other women in this city, with makeup-caked faces and hairspray-scented hair extensions.

She yawns, covering her pretty lips with the back of her hand.

“You stay up late reading, don’t you?” I ask.

Her expression fades. “Nope.”

“Oh, so, that, uh, neighbor who keeps you up late,” I say. “The one your associate was referring to . . .”

“That’d be you.”

I figured as much, but at the time, playing dumb seemed like my smartest bet.

“Your headboard smacks the wall we share,” she says, her arms folding and her head cocked. “All night. Almost every night.”

“Shit, Calypso.” I drag my fingers through my hair. I rack my brain, attempting to come up with some kind of appropriate apology.

“I don’t know how you do it.”

I can’t tell if she’s flattering or attacking me.

“Do what?”

“Never mind.” She waves me off. “I need to head back to the shop.”

“You don’t know how I do what?” I’m curious more than anything.

She turns to leave, takes three steps, and pauses. “Just, please try and keep it down. I really, really need some sleep.”

“Of course,” I say. Naturally. I don’t plan on bringing women home anytime soon. “But what were you going to say a second ago?”

I’m a dog with a bone, refusing to drop this until I get what I want. Noelle hates this about me. I find it almost always works to my favor.

Calypso exhales, though she won’t meet my gaze. “I don’t know how you can bring women home every night and fuck them all night long while you’ve got a baby sleeping in the next room.”

I smirk.

“Calypso.” I take a step toward her, but she’s already out the door. I can’t chase after her because I can’t leave Emme. “Wait.”

She turns toward me, but she continues walking backward. “You asked. Now forget I said anything.”

“You’re just going to walk off?” I’m not sure where I get off expecting her to stick around, but I’m not about to end the conversation without getting a chance to explain.

“Gotta go back to work.”

“It’s not like that,” I call after her.

“Okay, fine. Whatever. Just keep it down . . . whatever you’re doing.”

The enchantment I saw in Calypso’s eyes has vanished. She seems annoyed with me now. By the time she’s halfway down the sidewalk, I’m standing in my doorway scratching my brow.

A faint crackle comes through the baby monitor, and I step back inside. Emme’s waking, and I don’t have time to figure out why the hell that hippy Barbie doll took off in such a hurry and why the fuck it bothers me so much.