Heartless (30 page)

C
alypso

“
O
uch
.” I wince as Presley plucks a stray eyebrow hair, my eyes watering. “You act like I have a unibrow. Is this really necessary?”

“Actually, you have amazing brows. They’re perfect. I just had to get that one little hair. It was bothering me.”

“I don’t want to look . . . unnatural.”

I’m seated in the swivel stool behind the cash register Friday evening, a large bag of Presley’s makeup resting on the counter.

“You’ll look like yourself, only better.” She smiles, and I catch a mischievous twinkle in her dark eyes that makes me question whether or not I trust her with my face. “A leeeetle bit of powder, a smidge of blush, a couple of swipes of mascara, and a dab of lip balm. And then I’ll twist your hair into a glorious top knot that says, ‘I care, but I don’t, and you can shimmy into that get up I brought and hit the road.”

“I’m afraid to see what you brought. You’re like a size smaller than me.”

“I’m really insulted by your lack of trust.” She stands back, placing a dramatic hand on her hip and tsk-tsking. “Tonight you’re Cinderella, and I’m your fairy fucking godmother.”

I sit in silence, letting Presley perform her magic. Worst case scenario, I can go home and wash it all off. She’ll never know.

“He kissed me last night,” I say after a few minutes.

She steps back, tucking a makeup brush behind her ear. “Say that again?”

“You heard me.” I roll my eyes.

“What’d you do?”

“I kissed him back,” I say. “And then I left.”

Presley’s bony fingers grip my neck as she pretends to choke me. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m not looking for a relationship.”

“One kiss does not mean he wants to commit himself to you, Calypso. Maybe he just wanted to fuck? And you swindled that opportunity like some pansy moron. God, what a waste.”

“The shop is closing in three months, and as soon as it does, I’m gone.” I sit up straight, sure of my convictions. “There’s no point in entertaining any kind of anything with Crew.”

“Then why even bother hanging out with him tonight?”

“Because we’re hanging out as
friends
.”

“A guy like Crew doesn’t have female
friends
.”

“We’re neighbors, and I help him with Emme. It’s nothing more than that, I can promise you.”

“Mm, hm.” Presley’s lips form a straight line as one brow lifts. “Keep telling yourself that, babe.”

* * *

I
feel
silly as I knock on Crew’s door at seven.

To anyone with an eye for style, I know I look fine. Presley piled my long hair on top of my head and tugged and pulled until it was perfectly messy, and then she brushed a few tendrils down to frame my face. I’m wearing some sort of small top that shows a hint of my midriff and a gauzy skirt that hits just below the knee. Tribal sandals with intricate turquoise beading down sides, also belonging to Presley, have temporarily replaced my Birkenstocks.

My tongue barely grazes my lips, tasting a hint of the rosebud lip gloss Presley insisted I wear as she chased me out the door of the shop earlier. My cheeks blush, but that rosy hue is surely hidden by the pale pink blush sitting on them.

Clearing my throat, I stare down at my polished toes—courtesy of Bryson, who couldn’t resist getting in on the action as he reported for his shift tonight.

Crew’s going to think I’m trying to impress him.

The door flings open before I have a chance to even consider ducking back to my apartment and washing all of this off me.

“Come in.” Crew’s eyes scan the length of me and his lips flash into a quick smile until our eyes meet.

He wears a teal button-down, cuffed at the elbows, his tattoos on full display. A pair of jeans, dark as night and free of wrinkles and holes, and a bright white pair of Chuck Taylors finish his look. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him in something other than faded jeans and lived-in t-shirts.

“I made him dress up,” Noelle says. I peek over his shoulder to see her sitting with Emme at the kitchen table. Emme’s chewing on a rubber giraffe and Noelle’s flipping mindlessly through a poker magazine. She glances up at me a moment later. “Oh, look at you. You dressed up too.”

Crew massages his temples and shoots his sister a look.

“It’s not a date,” I say.

He turns to me, an eyebrow arched. I’m desperate for him to say something. Anything to confirm or deny. I don’t think it’s a date. I mean, he didn’t explicitly say it was a date.

“Then what the hell is it?” Noelle laughs. “Just watching you two stand around like a couple of awkward teenagers going to prom is making my palms sweat. Clearly there’s something going on between you.”

Crew grabs his keys from the table, leaning down and kissing the top of Emme’s head. He whispers something to her, though I can’t make it out, and turns back to me.

“Ready?” He points to the door, and I nod, giving Emme and Noelle a small wave.

We step outside, and on the way to the parking lot, Crew walks beside me. Our arms bump and brush against each other a couple of times, and we laugh it off.

“Hope Noelle didn’t put you on the spot in there,” he says when we climb into his truck. It’s black and shines under the streetlamps. I’m willing to guess it’s freshly waxed too.

“It’s fine.” I buckle in and place my bag on the floor by my feet. A pink car seat covered in flowery fabric rests in the middle of the tiny back seat. “It’s cheap entertainment.”

“For her or for us?”

“Both?”

He smiles, backing out of the parking spot and slipping his right arm around the back of my seat. It almost feels like his arm is around me. A light mix of aftershave and clean soap fills my lungs, and I inhale again and again until I’m too used to the scent to smell it any longer.

“You look really nice tonight,” he says as we merge onto a busy street. “I meant to tell you that earlier.”

I smooth my palm along my skirt, my other arm resting against my exposed belly.

“Thanks. You do too.”

We pull up to a red light, and I feel the weight of his stare, which instantly makes my stomach swirl. I’m hyperaware of everything I’m doing now—the rate of my breath, the position of my hands.

The light turns green a second later, and Crew pulls ahead. The closer we get to the strip, the more congested the traffic. It’s one thing I’ve never gotten used to since moving here, and it’s why I’ve always taken the back roads to get to work. He navigates them with ease, like we’re the only two people on the road.

“What’s the plan tonight?” I break the silence once we have a few more miles under our belt.

Crew smirks. “I don’t make plans, remember? Figured we’d just wing it. See where the wind blows us.”

I rest my head against the glass of the passenger window, which is now chilled to a frigid temp thanks to the blasting AC.

“Sound good to you?” he asks.

“I don’t know how to gamble,” I say. “Never done it before.”

He laughs, flipping on a turn signal and careening us around a corner where a man dressed in a white, bedazzled jumpsuit waves at passersby before posing for pictures. We must be getting near.

The flicker of neon lights floods the cab of the truck. They’re beautiful, as gaudy as they are. Every color. Every size. They flash and twinkle, drawing us nearer. The strip feels almost cartoonish with so much going on. It doesn’t even feel real.

Crew pulls up to one of the dozens of casinos we’ve passed since pulling onto Las Vegas Boulevard, and he parks under a valet sign. A man in a maroon sport coat and black slacks opens my door and extends his hand.

“Welcome,” he says with a smile I’m sure he’s offered hundreds of times tonight alone.

“Thank you.” I take his hand and climb out, smoothing my dress as Crew comes around the back of the truck.

A flicker of neon blue flashes in his eyes from a nearby sign, and he offers a half-smile an Elvis impersonator would be jealous of. Glancing at the sidewalk just past the awning, I notice the streets are crowded. People walk shoulder to shoulder in a sea of map-holding tourists and drunken bachelorette party, tiara-wearing brides.

Crew glances down at me and extends his hand. I’m sure he’s mistaking my fascination with apprehension, but without realizing it, I offer mine right back. He pulls me into him, our bodies joined at the sides as we merge with the sidewalk masses.

“Stick close,” he says. “You’re going to see some crazy shit tonight.”

We stop at a walk-up bar half a block down the street and order a couple of cocktails in to-go cups before carrying on.

When in Rome, I suppose…

“What do you think so far?” He gives my hand a good squeeze.

I sip my frozen margarita and contemplate my response. I don’t know what to think yet. I’m thinking so many different thoughts, it’d be impossible to pin any one of them down.

“It’s a lot to take in,” he says. “And you haven’t seen anything yet.”

“It’s vibrant,” I say as we walk past a saxophone-wielding busker. “And loud. And fun.”

Crew digs into his jeans and pulls out a handful of loose change and some small bills, tossing them in the musician’s open case.

“That’s Eddie,” he says. “He works this section every Friday. You hear that? He’s playing Sinatra.
Love and Marriage
.”

“You like Sinatra?”

He squeezes my hand again. “Fucking love Sinatra.”

“What else do you love?” Damn, am I feeling this drink now. I’m swimming in a sea of warmth and unshackled from my inhibitions with every step we take down this crowded sidewalk littered with strip club flyers and takeout menus.

“Poker. Cigars. Late nights. Sleeping in,” he stares up at a flashing billboard where a Britney Spears show is being advertised as sold out. “Anything that makes me feel like I’m somewhere else.”

“And why would you want to feel like you’re somewhere else? Why don’t you just leave if it’s so bad to be where you are?”

Crew’s mouth turns down and he shrugs. “No particular reason other than I think it’s really fucking cool to get transported like that without leaving home.”

“Oh.”

“What, were you expecting some kind of tragic story? A damaged past?”

“Most people who want to escape are running from something.”

“Maybe I’m not like most people.”

“Clearly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He swings our hands until he pulls me around to face him. We’re stopped at a busy corner now, hundreds of people passing around us like we’re some kind of rock in a river with no intention of moving and all the time in the world.

I lift a single shoulder, tucking the side of my face against it.

“Before we met, before I saw your face, I didn’t like you. I thought you were an obnoxious manwhore.” I release a reserved laugh. “And then when you came into my bookstore, and you were so polite, and you were looking for baby books? You really threw me for a loop.”

“Polite?” he laughs. “Did you expect me to rip your books off the shelves?”

I pick a thread off his shirt. I don’t know why, but it bothers me, and I need an excuse to touch him.

“It’s happened before.” I leave out the part about that particular customer being drugged out on PCP. Or at least that’s what the cops told me when they came to apprehend the maniac.

“It’s human nature to want to figure everybody out.” His stare is heavy in mine, anchoring my heels to the cement sidewalk below. “Not to get all philosophical on you or anything.” He glances at a flashing neon sign overhead. “But in the end, none of that matters. We waste too much time trying to figure other people out that we never really get a chance to get to know ourselves. I mean, truly get to know ourselves.”

“So in other words, don’t try to figure you out?”

“What’s the point?” He shrugs, and his gaze never leaves mine. “Don’t waste your time sticking everyone you meet into these neat little categories.”

“I don’t do that with everyone I meet,” I say. “Just you.”

My cheeks burn hot.

It isn’t what it sounds like.

I mean. It is. Kind of.

But he can’t know that.

“Why
just
me?” he asks.

I glance over his shoulder and utter the words I never thought I’d say in my life, “Oh, look. There’s Elvis.”

Crew spins around and follows my pointed finger to a section of sidewalk half a block away.

“Those things are a dime a dozen down here.” He reaches for my hand and tugs me into him. “Wanna meet him?”

“Oh, no. No. That’s okay.” I wouldn’t know what to say to an Elvis impersonator. What do you say?
Hi, I really liked the guy you’re pretending to be . . . before he died.

“Come on. Think of it as a rite of passage. You’re not officially from Vegas if you’ve never had your picture taken with an Elvis.”

Crew treads along, tugging me with him. We walk into dozens of tourists, and it feels like we’re swimming up sea, but I stay a step or two back. He shields me from the crazy and chaos.

A minute later we’re standing in a half circle next to a group of middle-aged ladies wearing matching pink t-shirts with some sorority’s name on them and nicknames like
La La
,
Dot-Dot
, and
Gigi
.