Sleepless in Las Vegas (27 page)

“Need to drop off someone’s car in the morning. Mind following, giving me a ride to my office afterward?”

“I’m there, my brother.”

“Around ten?”

“Word.”

The wear and tear of the day suddenly hit him. He could feel his energy bleed out, and all he wanted was to crash. “I’m bushed. Gotta hit the sack.”

“I’ll grab my popcorn, do a J in the bathroom. Peace out, Aqua Man.”

Drake watched Li’l Bit amble toward the hall, the bowl of popcorn in one hand, a beer in the other. Probably the only person he knew who, for the most part, lived in the here and now. A hippie who truly walked the talk.

He tossed the sheet onto the couch, topped it with a pillow, tugged off his shirt. Hearsay was already up on the couch, waiting for him. He left a bowl of water on the kitchen floor, and gave the dog his pill wrapped in a wad of peanut butter. He’d already given Hearsay his nightly snack of kibble at the office before driving over here, so now he could take off his pants and shoes and snag some z’s.

Drake laid his head on the pillow and pulled the thin blanket over him. Hearsay snuggled up against his side and within seconds started snoring lightly.

But Drake couldn’t sleep. Kept seeing Val sitting next to him in the car, her features indistinct in the dark, her form a shadow. Yet he could perceive her smile, see those twinkling brown eyes in his mind’s eye, but most of all, feel her sassy sexiness, its heat rippling across the space between them like a hot summer breeze.

Then, with no provocation, her soft, lazy drawl morphed into clinical psychobabble, and she said no to a date because she was his friend.

His
friend?

Whatever happened in the car tonight, and he had a hunch he might never know, she’d rejected him.

He turned, trying to get comfortable on the couch, which was impossible. Place smelled like an overworked popcorn machine at a movie theater. One of his legs was half off the couch to make room for Hearsay, whose snoring was starting to sound like a low-flying drone. In the other room, Li’l Bit was talking to somebody on his phone, most of it unintelligible except for the occasional “man” and “dude.”

He stared at the Jimi Hendrix poster, wondering why a rainbow flowed out of his guitar. He shifted his gaze to the ceiling. Boring. He returned to Jimi.

Hell of a thing when a body’s bone tired, but the mind keeps sprinting like a racehorse on the inside track. He knew it was going to be a long night alone with his racing thoughts, not dreams. He’d get up and warm himself a glass of milk, but there wasn’t any in the fridge. Several boxes of dry, sugary cereal, but no milk. Almost seemed un-American.

So Drake lay there, sharing space and time with Jimi. Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, he had the half-aware understanding that just because he had chosen to live his life a certain way, didn’t mean others were supposed to understand it, like it or put up with it.

Yet…he vaguely wondered if it was too late to slow down, switch lanes and be a different kind of man.

One who could win Val’s heart, not be her friend.

* * *

W
HEN
V
AL
WOKE
up Sunday morning, she was still tired. Although she’d taken a long, hot bath last night before going to bed, she had slept fitfully. She stared groggily at the bedside clock radio. Nine a.m.

Shifting her gaze to her bedroom window, she stared at a chitalpa tree in the backyard, its soft green leaves fluttering with passing breezes, their lazy, undulating movements bringing back a piece of a dream. She’d been swimming in the ocean, the water surprisingly warm and calm. Light sparkled on the surface, like scattered diamonds, and she swam effortlessly with broad, strong strokes.

Then she dived beneath the surface, kicking hard to propel herself downward, the green waters shading to gray, and she realized she was on fire.

Shivering, Val slid out of bed, walked across the smooth hardwood floor to the leather chair she’d bought for a hundred bucks on Craigslist and pulled her robe off its back. Everything else in the room—a nightstand, queen-size bed with a metal frame and dark wood vanity table, had been here when she moved in, courtesy of Char and Del. She kept the room tidy, except for the vanity table, which rivaled her purse for clutter.

Her real stamp on the room was the colors. She’d read that the color purple symbolized peace of mind, good judgment and mystery—she’d always wanted to exude mystery, and figured she needed help with the other two—so after she moved in, she painted one of the walls a soft eggplant. Another she painted a squash yellow because it went well with the purple. Later she read that the color yellow had all kinds of meanings, from causing frustration to sharpening memory and creativity. At that point, she decided colors were like life choices—choose what you want to believe and stick with it.

She found a purple, gold and green bedspread that tied the room together. She hadn’t planned it, but those were the Mardi Gras colors. A visual echo from New Orleans.

Toddling into the kitchen, she smelled the rich scent of coffee.

A man and woman were singing a soulful, twangy duet about being tangled up and sideways in love. Char sat at the table, wrapped in her pink chenille robe, reading her iPad.

She looked up at Val and grinned mischievously. “Didn’t see your car out front, thought you’d stayed out all night.”

Which Val had never done in her two years living here. Not that she wouldn’t have if the opportunity had presented itself, but then, she hadn’t exactly been open to dating anyone. So Val being invited to dinner at Drake’s family’s house was big news in the Jackson household.

“Had a few martinis last night, so Drake drove me home. He’s dropping the rental car off some time today.”

Char glanced out the far window, which provided a partial view of the street and gravel-filled yard. “Not here yet. Will he be comin’ to the front door?”

Which Val interpreted to mean,
Shall I invite him in for coffee, have him meet your family?
Oh, wouldn’t Del love that.

“No, he’s working today.”

Which was the truth, although that didn’t preclude his coming inside for a few minutes. But unless Drake had lost his short-term memory between last night and this morning, she seriously doubted he wanted to see Val unless it was business related.

Regret twisted in her chest. She really knew how to screw up a good thing.

“Brought some beignets from the store,” Char said. “Box is on the counter.”

Beignets, fried fritters dusted with powdered sugar, were the Louisiana state doughnut. And the perfect comfort food for Val this morning.

She poured herself a cup of dark-roasted coffee with chicory, whitened it with milk and slid a beignet on a plate. Added a second one. Maybe that’s how she’d spend her day, drowning her sorrows in beignets.

She sat at the table next to Char, listening to the woman singer wail about not being able to unlove him.

“What’s this song?” she asked.

“‘Better in the Long Run.’ That’s Miranda Lambert and her husband, Blake Shelton, singing. The song’s sad, but they aren’t. I swear, they are just the cutest, happiest twosome singing country today.”

Val took a big bite of beignet and chewed sorrowfully.

“So,” Char said, her pale eyes twinkling, “how was it meeting his family?”

Val swallowed, not easy when your heart’s in your throat and you’re trying to pass food by it at the same time. She forced a shaky smile.

“Few bumps when I first got there because his mother was expecting a man, so I made up a story about a live-in boyfriend…” She waved her hand as though erasing something in the air. “That part gets complicated, so I’ll skip it. Then his grandmother and I made martinis and after I told her some things, she told me I should forgive myself, and I’m really taking that to heart.”

Her voice sounded strangely airy and high-pitched, so she cleared her throat. “Had a little shakedown in the kitchen before dinner, but after I apologized to his mama for lying, things picked up. Then we ate Dorothy’s world-famous meat loaf, and later went by Drake’s burned-up house, which tore me up something fierce, then he drove me home and asked me out…” Her chin trembled. “And I said no, and he…” She swiped at her eye. “Tore outta here like Jimmie Johnson on the last lap at Daytona—if Jimmie Johnson were really, really pissed—and would you mind terribly if I just took that box o’ beignets into my room and stayed in there all day, eating myself sick?”

Choking back a sob, her vision blurry with tears, she brought the beignet to her mouth. Char gently took it out of her hand and set it back on the plate.

“
Cher,
baby,” she said, holding open her arms.

Val fell into them and sobbed, holding on to her cousin’s soft, warm body that smelled like flowers and coffee, letting herself be rocked like a baby, finding the comfort no beignet could ever offer.

Minutes later, her tears subsided enough so she could hear Miranda singing another song, this one about killing an ex-boyfriend who’d done her wrong, which wasn’t very happy, but at least it didn’t make Val want to write her last will and testament.

Her head was on Char’s shoulder. Her cousin was humming along with Miranda, stroking Val’s hair, occasionally murmuring, “It’s gonna be all right, dawlin’.”

Jaz, wearing her
Je reve
jammies, shuffled into the kitchen, pausing to stare blearily at her mother and Val. Without a word, she walked over, her arms open, and wrapped them around Val, too. She obviously didn’t have a clue what was going on, but it didn’t matter. Taking her mother’s lead, she murmured, “It’s gonna be okay, cuz.”

Maybe it would be okay, and maybe not.

But one thing Val knew at that moment. What really mattered in life came down to one word.

Family.

* * *

L
ATE
MORNING
ON
Sunday, Drake drove his pickup to the strip mall near his old place, and parked in front of Ronald’s Donuts, a favorite stop of his when he lived down here. He’d tossed on a white T-shirt, jeans and sneakers this morning, keeping it simple for the work ahead.

A minute later, he walked inside the store. A middle-aged couple sat at one of the small Formica tables, noshing on glazed doughnuts. Behind the glass counter with displays of pastries stood the owner, Henry, wearing a white bib apron over street clothes, his short black hair neatly parted on the side.

He bowed his head slightly as Drake approached the counter.

“Hi, Henry.”

“Hello, Drake. So sorry about fire.”

When he had first dropped by Ronald’s Donuts five years ago, Drake had thought it was another hole-in-the-wall doughnut shop with bad coffee and cheap doughnuts. It took him several visits to catch on that Henry, a devout Buddhist, was somewhat famous in the doughnut world for his vegan specialties, from soy-cream-filled eclairs to vegan-glazed doughnut holes. Drake, a meat-and-potatoes guy, now sometimes jokingly referred to himself as a Doughnut Vegan.

“I appreciate your concern, Henry. It happened late Wednesday night—was wondering if you’ve seen any new people hanging around the neighborhood lately…or a black Mercedes sedan?”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “No, Drake, sorry.”

“I’m gonna leave my truck parked outside for a bit. Could I have one of your small paper bags, and a few of those wax tissues?”

Henry walked away for a few moments, returning with two small paper bags. “This one with tissues,” he said, handing it to Drake, “and this with your usual.”

An apple fritter. Drake reached for his wallet.

“No.” Henry shook his head gently. “Gift.”

* * *

D
RAKE
MEANT
TO
toss the bag with the fritter into his truck for later, but couldn’t resist the enticing scents of warm dough and sugar. As he walked out of Ronald’s Donuts, he took his first bite. By the time he reached the weed-filled lot behind the doughnut shop, the fritter was history.

For the next half hour or so, Drake walked around the dusty patch of ground. Rocks crunched under his shoes. The air pulsed with the high-pitched whine of insects. He stopped and mopped his brow with the back of his hand as he looked at the two-lane street that rounded the lot’s far edge. His former home sat another hundred feet or so down that street. An easy fifteen-minute walk from where he stood.

A melancholy swept over him, unsettling as the hot, dusty winds, prickling his memories about all he’d lost. Not the objects that had vanished in the fire—most were replaceable anyway—but what he’d lost of himself. His purpose. His meaning.

Sometimes lately he felt like his own ghost, haunting his own life.

He kept going through the motions, getting up each day, taking care of Hearsay, wrestling with issues and commitments. If someone took a snapshot of his life, though, he’d be a shadow on the film. A specter in a world he once inhabited.

It’d be easy to say something out there could anchor him again to his life. A great case, a new apartment, Val…

He had a hunch the answer was somehow within him, but he had no idea how to get to that place.

After wandering around the lot some more, he decided to head back. That’s when he looked down, and there it was. Under a scraggy bush, nearly blending into the dusty earth.

He pulled a tissue out of the paper bag and used it to pick up the cigarette butt.

* * *

L
ATER
THAT
AFTERNOON
, Drake was working in his back office when Hearsay lifted his head and gave a low woof.

“What is it, boy?” Drake listened, thought he heard a muffled noise.

The dog shot across the floor and down the hallway to the connecting door, which he kept barking at.

Somebody appeared to be in the Diamond Investigations office. Had Val forgotten to lock its front door yesterday when she left? No. She might have been angry when she’d left, but she would have locked up.

Downtown Las Vegas was deserted on Sundays, which gave him an uneasy feeling about who this unexpected visitor might be.