Lucky Break (28 page)

Funny how we choose to protect ourselves from the cruelty of life.
 
Makeup, sarcasm, self-deprecation.
 
The comparison made me uncomfortable, so I shoved it to the bottom of the worry pile which teetered, a house of cards threatening to bury me if I didn’t solve some of these problems.

Flash whistled from the darkness.
 
I followed the sound as far as I could.
 
She stepped out of the darkness into the dim light from the light over the backdoor to Miss Minnie’s.
 
“Man, the things I’ve seen.”

“I don’t want to know.
 
Not unless it’s pertinent to my immediate problems.
 
Any idea where the yellow Lambo guy went?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me anything about him?”

“He was pissed, and, I don’t know where he’d been in the Lambo, but it was covered with dirt.”

“Dirt?
 
We’re surrounded by dirt.”

“It’s all I got.”

I gave her a hug.
 
“You be careful.
 
This isn’t some white-collar exposé.
 
These guys…”

“I know.
 
They’re wild animals with the scent of blood in their noses.”

I laughed.
 
“Good one.
 
You should be a writer.”

Keeping to the shadows, I worked my way around the far end of the building, then headed for the Ferrari.
 
Head down, I ignored Jeremy hiding in the dark, but I felt him watching, and I felt his hurt.
 

Holt Box could shed some light on Kimberly’s situation, but her little bombshell did provide some understanding of Holt’s bolt from Macau.
 
There was something there that warranted further digging.
 
But not tonight.
 
If I even hoped to remain semi-functional, serious shut-eye needed to be my next stop.

Climbing into the Ferrari, I fired the engine, which settled into a low growl.
 
Pausing for a moment, I considered which bed to sleep in; then I pulled out of the parking lot and headed for home … my home.
 
This time I remembered to alert the dealership I’d bring the car back in the morning.
 
Last time I forgot, and they put out an APB, damn near causing my father to stroke out.

A short drive, I used the time to check in with my mother.
 
ICU frowned on cell phone usage, so our conversation was brief.
 
I told her about the babies; she told me about Father.
 
All were in good hands and holding their own.
 
I thought about making her go home, even if I had to swing by and drag her out of the hospital myself, but then I realized she was where she needed to be.

I parked the car in one of the guest spaces in front of the Presidio, then tossed the keys to Forrest on my way through the lobby.
 
“If anyone has a beef, would you have someone move the car to my spot, please?”
 

His face a mirror reflecting all the questions he wanted to ask, Forrest nodded and wisely didn’t comment.
 
“The plumbers were in your place today working on that leak.”

“Thank you.”
 
I didn’t remember a leak, but that wasn’t unusual.
 
Given the events of the past few days, something that trivial wouldn’t have hit the radar, much less imprinted the gray matter.
 
The neighbors below had probably called it in and arranged for it to be fixed. “Have them send me the bill.”
 

The maw of the elevator stood open to receive me.
 
I shoved the card into the slot and hit my floor.
 
Facing the front, I propped my shoulder against the wall and rested my head as the floors ticked by.
 
My last ride in this elevator.
 
Mona.
 
Teddie.
 
Holt Box had still been alive and life had been irritating rather than its current state of terrifying.
 
The elevator slowed, the doors opened, and I stepped out, breathing deeply of my space, my own home.

“Bitch!
 
Bitch!
 
Where you at, bitch?
 
Hungry.”
 
A shrill voice from my roomie, Newton, a very foul-mouthed macaw who had fluttered into my life one day and never left, despite my offering him plenty of opportunity.

Shucking my sweater, I tossed it on the couch and headed toward the kitchen.
 
The great room was dark, the multicolored lightshow from the Strip the only illumination.
 
It was enough, and it was my favorite.
 
Those lights, the magic we created, kept me going through the dark times.
 
And even though problems mounted—serious problems—I just refused to get sucked down that rabbit hole.
 
My life, on the whole, was damn good.

I flicked on the light in the kitchen, scaring the bird who flapped madly, raising a cloud of feathers.
 

“Asshole.”
 
His best word.
 
And he said it with such relish, putting a song in my heart.

“So, you’re hungry?”
 
Hands on my hips, I gave him the eye.
 
“Join the club.
 
I’m so hungry I’m considering roasted parrot.
 
What do you think?”

“Fuck you.”

“Stand in line, big guy.
 
Stand in line.”
 
I found an apple in the bottom bin of the refrigerator.
 
Amazingly, it hadn’t turned to mush or started sprouting things.
 
I peeled it, sliced it, and dropped the slices in a bowl to brown while I foraged for food.
 
Nothing in the fridge.
 
The cabinets were pretty bare as well.
 
Not even a very inventive cook, which I was not, could make a meal out of the sparse boxes and one can of tomato paste.
 
What to do?
 

With food so close, Newton was apoplectic.
 
I stuffed one slice through the bars, careful to keep my skin from getting between his beak and his enthusiasm.
 
He’d sidle over, snatch the morsel, then skitter away, eying me while he devoured it.
 
Watching him eat had me salivating.
 
Where could I get food?
 
Pizza sounded like a stomachache in a box.
 
If Teddie were home … he always had food.

I eyed the back staircase.
 
A trip down memory lane.
 
Could I handle that?

Everybody said I needed to face him, deal with everything.
 
Funny thing was, I could deal with the man.
 
But handling the memories and the what-could-have-beens was much more difficult.

I girded my loins, figuratively speaking, and marched up the stairs, letting my mind take me back.
 
On my way up, I passed memories of Teddie coming down, a smile lighting his face, full of stories … he was great at stories.
 
And when you’re a straight male making a living dressed in women’s clothing, you have stories.
 
At the top of the stairs, I paused.
 
Teddie’s kitchen was a mirror of my own, on steroids.
 
He liked to cook; I liked to eat.
 
A perfect pairing, he used to say.

My appetite under emotional assault, I opted for a banana from the bowl on the counter—they were still green.
 
Life.
 
How quickly it could turn.
 
I peeled the fruit and took a bite as I wandered into the great room, passing the media room where we’d shared our first kiss.
 
Well, actually our second.
 
The first had been in Delilah’s Bar and had surprised the hell out of me.
 

We’d bonded over our mutual love of all things Rogers and Hammerstein here.
 
And we’d taken a great friendship and ruined it with sex.

I tried not to look at the white baby grand in its own alcove.
 
Without Teddie, there was no music.
 
The French doors leading to his patio opened easily, with a twist and a nudge.
 
The night air held a chill and a hint of Christmas.
 
I dropped the banana peel in the trashcan by the door and walked to the edge where the high hedges parted and I could drink in the Strip.
 
I breathed deep, letting my town, its resiliency and ever-evolving skyline, center me.
 
Change.
 
Under pressure, either you grew and changed or you broke.

I had changed.

Teddie had broken.

With aches and bruises and hurts in places I didn’t even know could feel pain, I had half a mind to fire up the hot tub.
 
A relaxing soak sounded like the perfect antidote to a dismal day.
 
But not here, not with the echo of Teddie reverberating from every corner.

We were really good.

And then we weren’t.

The clash of dreams and reality.
 
Teddie wanted to be a rock star, and he should be, he was destined to be.
 
And I fit in Vegas; my soul lived here.
 
My friends, my family, my life, where I found value and felt needed.
 
Teddie had wanted it all and he’d been left with nothing, but only he could fix that.
 
I could get him out of jail, but he’d have to find a way out of his prison.

Two lives that crossed, two futures that diverged.

If word on the street could be believed, it happened every day.
 
Dreams killed nascent love, and I guess the reverse as well.
 
But dreams killed by love sounded like a recipe for resentment.

I really had moved on.
 
Teddie seemed like a teenage crush; Jean-Charles like a man with whom to run the race, weather the storm, walk the path, and every other cliché I could think of.
 
There was a difference, hard to articulate without sounding like a bad poet.
 
But it was real; I felt it in my heart.

Teddie would always be my first love, but not my last.
 
A special place in my heart always, but only a small corner, a warm memory.

Just to test my mettle and prove my theory of being totally and completely over Teddie, I wandered into the bedroom.
 
His scent surrounded me, taking me back.
 
His touch.
 
His kisses.
 
The memories, almost tangible, shuddered through me.

A profound sadness tugged at me as I sat on the bed.
 
His things were still on the nightstand: a novel splayed open, print side down, as if he’d just paused and would be right back; a tablet with some hastily scrawled notes on lines—Teddie always had a melody running in his head; his guitar within easy reach.

This place was his heart.

I’d lived there for a little while once, wrapped in his songs.

I lay down, curling into myself, hugging a pillow. Perhaps the one he’d slept on night before last.
 
I felt sad, so profoundly sad, but not for what was or even what could have been.
 
I simply felt sad for Teddie … his dreams shattered.

I closed my eyes and breathed deep.
 
He’d dream new dreams, write new songs.

And my heart would let go.

At exactly 2:37 a.m. an explosion rocked the building, bolting me out of bed.
 
I knew the time because, oddly, my first reaction was to look at the clock.
 
The explosion was close, very close.
 
Like an earthquake rolling through, but with smoke.
 
And another smell … acidic.
 
These things registered viscerally, bypassing logic and pounding my flight response. Staggering, trying to get my bearings, I rushed to the window, threw open the sash, and leaned out.
 
Smoke billowed as shattered glass caught the wind and the light in a sparkling shower.

The explosion had been directly below, one floor down.

My home.
 

My bedroom.

Where I should have been sleeping.
 
Death tickled the back of my neck.
 

Sirens sounded in the distance.
 
The building fire alarm wailed an ear-splitting shriek, jolting my body to action as my brain spun.
 

What to take?
 
Finally, I focused on my surroundings.
 

Teddie’s place.
 
Nothing of mine here and I had no idea what he would want.
 
I grabbed his guitar, then bolted through the great room toward the back stairs.
 
Funny.
 
Nothing here looked out of place other than maybe a few paintings hanging off kilter.
 
No smoke.
 
No damage that I could see.