SHUFFLE UP AND DEAL
Susan DiPlacido
Shuffle Up and Deal © 2010 by Susan DiPlacido
Smashwords Edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 2010
Front cover, back cover, cards: istockphoto, tatarnikova: http://www.istockphoto.com/user_view.php?id=3300490
Back cover, sign: shellpreast: http://www.istockphoto.com/user_view.php?id=361853
Vegas strip illustration: SaulHerrera: http://www.istockphoto.com/user_view.php?id=3270365
Cover design © 2010 Susan DiPlacido
A Neon Fiction Production
Also Available by Susan DiPlacido:
24/7
Trattoria
Mutual Holdings
American Cool
House Money
Lady Luck
ISBN: 9781450588591
Acknowledgments
I have been dealt some very good cards when it comes to helpful and supportive friends. My thanks to Sheila for her proofreading. As always, innumerable thanks to Don Capone. I owe Bernadette Baker and Gretchen Stelter a debt of gratitude for not only believing in my work, but for trying to so hard for so long with it. I am thrilled to have met Donna George Storey and appreciate all she's done for me to help me grow as a writer. And there have been several people who've done all they could to give me a leg up in my career, whether from publishing my work or reviewing it or giving me encouragement. Among those are Susie Bright, Maxim Jakubowski, Zane, Ellen Meister, William Reese Hamilton, Biff Mitchell, Elizabeth Burton, Dan Reitz. Truly, I've somehow pulled a royal flush when it comes to opportunity in this business, and for that, I will always be grateful.
PART ONE
ON THE FLOP
CHAPTER ONE
"Izzy," he whispers in my ear as he nudges me from behind. It’s gentle, but I was in a deep sleep, so I’m groggy and slow to respond.
I had forgotten he was even here. My boyfriend du-jour. It's an on and off relationship that, for tonight at least, is on.
He pushes his body closer, spooning me, wrapping an arm around my waist. His breath is warm and sultry in my ear. His erection is pressed against my thigh. "You awake, Iz?"
"Mmm,"
I mumble, slowly swimming back up from the depths of sleep to regain
conscious thought.
His hand moves under the covers, caresses the
front of my thigh and starts pulling up my nightgown. His hand is
sure and soft, the fabric silky as it glides across my skin. "Wake
up," he urges as his hand moves back down, between my legs.
"Sleepy," I murmur. I could easily go back to sleep. But the sad fact is that since we're more "off" than "on," I really don't get much fun in the sack, so I'm happy to forego sleep for sex tonight.
"I'll make it worth your while," he says as he gently but firmly coaxes my thighs apart. I'm mostly awake, but still hovering on the brink, too lazy to engage with him, but also lacking the will to resist, mostly just content to wait a few seconds and see if I'll wake up enough or doze back off. He moves back from me slightly, his hand holding my inner thigh, leveraging to pull that leg back as he agilely shimmies himself between my legs and rolls me on my back. He's warm and I like the weight of him on top of me, the warmth of his groin pressed against mine. Awake enough now that I could engage, I still play it lazy and just sigh and keep my eyes closed.
"I know you're awake," he says, calling my bluff. He kisses the side of my cheek, uses one elbow for support as he reaches between us to tug at my nightgown again. Quickly, it's up over my hips, so we're skin on skin contact below the waist. I grin, realizing he must not have just rolled over and started in on me. He must've been horny enough and taken the time to pull off his boxers and pull on the condom before waking me up.
I decide to tease him a bit for it. Asking, "What would you have done if I hadn't woken up?" What I'm hoping for is a little bit of dirty talk.
"I knew you were awake," is all he says as he goes for the top of my nightgown, pushing the skinny strap to the side and then gliding his whole hand beneath the silk to cup my breast. He gives a firm squeeze as the heat of his palm makes my nipple react as I keep my eyes closed in blind surrender, heightening the other sensations. As my nipple hardens, he rubs and squeezes again, grinds his hips to press his erection right up against me.
A sigh escapes me.
"You ready?" he asks me.
"Doubtful."
He goes to work kissing me. He really is an excellent kisser. He slips me some tongue as his fingers playfully pinch around my nipple. He slides down, kisses my neck, warming me inside and out.
I'm getting tuned up, definitely. Flushed skin, those wonderful quivery feelings running through my blood as he dips down and catches my nipple in his mouth. No fooling around taunting me, he sucks. And sucks. It rocks me.
Taking
a breath, he asks me again, "You ready?"
Eyes still
closed, reveling in the dreaminess mixing with the rushes, I say, "Go
ahead and check." That's what I'm longing for now, for his hand
to reach down and stroke me, build the heat right there.
But he declines. Instead answering, "You're ready." He scootches back up, reaching down and taking hold of himself instead of pleasuring me. His skin is fevered, his shoulders taut under my hands, and already there's a trace of humidity and salt in the air between us. Though I can't see it, I can feel his hand moving as he strokes himself a few times. It drives me crazy with heat and I lift my hips in offering.
Wordless, he aligns himself and thrusts inside of me. I was ready, and he glides in, filling me up, making me sigh again.
"Good to go?" he asks as he pumps a few times.
"Go," I tell him, pulling his shoulders down closer to me so I get the full heat of his body.
"Going," he says, picking up the pace quickly. He props himself on his elbows for more leverage so I release his shoulders and raise my knees, wrapping my legs around his waist. "Going harder," he tells me as he pumps more furiously.
I still don't open my eyes, instead reveling in the physical sensations and conjuring images of what we look like. Hot. We look hot. It feels so good, him jacking away inside me, the heat between us. Instead of watching, I imagine Nick's face this way. I'm fantasizing about him watching me. I can feel beads of sweat forming at my hairline, I know my mouth tightens and muscles twitch when he suddenly goes harder, quite hard, quite deep.
I moan and then bite my lower lip as he starts panting above me. I can imagine his face perfectly like this. His deep blue eyes staring rapt as he makes me react beneath his control. His well chiseled jaw, his normally serene, unreadable face betraying him now. There's no way he'd be able to keep that mask in place as he drives into me with power, as I clench tight around him and thrust back against him.
"Izzy," he pants.
"Keep going," I encourage him, but I can tell this late-night round won't last much longer because he's straining and panting, giving it to me with all he's got. So I take matters into my own hands. I reach between us, the heat palpable to my hand, and slide a few fingers across my clit. No fooling around, I press hard and rub furiously, already sensitive and responding.
"So hot," he says, and I know he's watching me. He barely loses a pump but I know he's watching me work myself into a frenzy beneath him.
God, imagining Nick watching me and getting off on it just prods me along. Shameless, I'm utterly shameless about it. I know just what he'd look like, hovering over me, his long, lanky frame, his buttocks clenching with each and every delicious pump. His face betraying every ripple of intense pleasure. "Oh," I moan as I feel him tense, know he's close.
I'm right on the edge, but I need a little more, just a little more time. My hand strokes furiously, I buck against him. "Keep going," I plead with him.
"Close," he says, and I know it's my warning.
"Please. Please! Keep going," I tell him again, setting myself on edge. "Keep going, Nick!"
"Oh, no," he grunts, then rasps my name. Pained sounding, but still frantically pumping.
"Oh Nick!"
"No! Izzy!" he howls again, but his hips thrust, seemingly involuntarily.
"No," I tell him, but I'm so close now it might not matter. "Not yet, Nick! Keep going!"
"Coming." He says that quietly and the pumping stops, but my hand doesn't. Luckily, I'm there. Just a couple more rough rubs and I erupt, coming with him still buried inside me, clenching around him, the mental image of his face watching me egging me on to milk every last aftershock.
Rapt in the hazy glow, I'm catching my breath as he pulls out and climbs off of me and rolls to the other side of the bed. A harsh edge to his voice as he says, "You did it again."
"Mmm?" I ask distantly, still sprawled out and pleasantly holding my hand to crotch.
Over his shoulder, he hisses, "You said his name again!"
My eyes snap open and the glow evaporates. Ashamed now, I close my legs and wiggle upright as I arrange the nightgown to hurriedly cover myself up. Softly, I say, "I'm sorry." I reach out a hand but he moves away and sits up and gets off the bed. He stalks over to the chair in the corner where his clothes are neatly folded and grabs his pants.
"Andy," I say. "Don't go. I really am sorry."
"Hmph. At least you do know my name."
"Don't be silly."
"Silly!" He shouts it. "You think it's silly of me to be upset that my girlfriend called another man's name while we were making love?"
I know he's pissed, and I don't blame him. I feel guilty and deserve his anger. And I will gladly grovel and make it up to him. But right now it's the middle of the night and I just want to defuse the situation, so I try to cajole him and lighten him up. Coyly asking, "Would you rather I called his name while I was having sex with you? Or would you rather I call your name while I have sex with him?"
He gives his shirt a snap in the air but doesn't miss a beat. Says, "That's a flawed question, Isabella, and you know it."
"Why?"
He does stop fiddling with his clothes as he looks at me and says, "It's flawed because it's unrealistic. You can't sleep with him."
"I know!" I say cheerily. "So it's not like I'm cheating on you."
Exasperated, "Please," is all he says as he starts pulling the shirt on. "I just don't understand it. You don't even know this person. What could you possibly be so attracted to?"
I know that this is not the place for me to respond honestly. His tall, lanky body, his penetrating eyes, his beautiful little mouth, but, mostly, how incredibly sexy it is to watch him at the poker tables. How, with just a glance, he can seemingly see and understand everything the other players are thinking. And yet, I can never see the machinery in his mind working. He's completely unreadable. Like the most glassy-surfaced lake that plunges to unknown depths. All that intelligence and intuition are just...
Andy is staring at me, and I wonder if he can tell what I was just thinking about. He looks cross. "You're unbelievable," he says, buttoning up.
Shit. He could tell.
"Andy, please. You're right. You're absolutely right. It was terrible of me and I'm so sorry. But please don't leave. It's the middle of the night and it's cold and rainy out there. Tomorrow is Easter! Just come back to bed and I'll make it up to you."
He picks up his socks and shoes and takes a seat in the chair, but he stops dressing. Says, "I just don't even have a fundamental understanding of what you're attracted to. You don't know him, Izzy!"
"I know," I say with a shrug. Then, "What attracts you to Jessica Simpson?"
"Stop it," he says. "There's a basic difference between men and women and how we process attraction. Men are visually stimulated. Women intellectually."
"Well, maybe I just have some male tendencies is all," I say, lying.
"I don't call out the name Jessica when we're making love!"
"So you'd prefer I call out the name of someone I know, then? Perhaps it'd be better if I'd fantasize about one of your friends?"
"Perhaps I'd prefer if you'd fantasize about me and call out my name!"
He's got me there. If I wanted to turn this around on him, I could start a real brawl by pointing out that it hasn't escaped my attention how much attention he lavishes on Jennifer every time she's around. I could point out how I've caught him being visually stimulated by her while I was sitting right next to him. But I don't want to do that, because what I have done is wrong. It's not about winning this fight so much as about reassuring him and making it up to him. I've hurt him. Worse, maybe he's worried because next week I'm going to Vegas, and there is a small chance I could run into Nick.
Realizing that, I feel even worse, and even somewhat flattered. Maybe Andy's just worried and jealous. But I'd never cheat on him. I just need to reassure him. So I bite my tongue and measure my words and say, "Andy. I am really sorry. And you're right about all this. I promise I'll stop thinking about him. But for right now, you don't need to worry anyhow. Like you said, I don't know him, so there's no chance we'd ever be together."
"Oh, don't flatter yourself, Iz." With that, he starts pulling on his socks.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, darling, that even if you did know him, you wouldn't be sleeping with him." He pauses to pull on a shoe, then looks me in the face as he says, "Don't get your hopes about that trip to Vegas. Sure, you might meet him. But remember, men are stimulated visually, Iz."
I drop my gaze and pull the blanket up to cover myself, twice as ashamed of myself now. Andy's right, of course. That's why the comment stings. There's nothing Nick Nolan would ever see in geeky me.
Across the room, Andy rises, and I realize how badly I've screwed up. He's a decent, good-looking, smart guy, and I've alienated him by not appreciating what I have. Worse, I've hurt him. "I'm really sorry," I whisper.
"And do you really have to be so slutty all the time?"
"Sorry," I say, knowing what he means.
"I know we're familiar and all, and it's hot in a pornographic way that you like to get off. But you're just so selfish and slutty about it. It's pretty off-putting afterward."
"You woke me up," I say.
"I woke you up. You got yourself off, though."
"Someone had to do it," I mutter under my breath.
"You know, babe, you should try appreciating me more. I'm a great guy, Izzy, and I've been good to you over the years."
"I know," I answer.
"Sweet dreams, Isabelle," he hisses as he walks out the door.
But that just sparks my anger. He knows I hate that. I know I shouldn't, but I can't help myself. "Isabella!" I shout after him, just before the back door slams shut.
I stew in it a minute. I'm a shit, without question. But he does oogle Jennifer in front of me. I flop back on the bed and close my eyes and indulge myself with visions of Nick Nolan. Sweet dreams, indeed.
CHAPTER TWO
The oven's timer buzzer goes off just as there's a knock on the door. I don't want to be rude, but I don't want the pies to burn either. I left the door unlocked, so I holler for them to come in as I open the oven door. I get the first pie set on a cooling rack and as I'm reaching in for the second, my dad says, "Can't even greet your father with a hug for Easter?"
"Sorry, Dad," I say, but don't turn away from the pie. I place it on the rack next to the other one before turning around. He wasn't seriously hassling me about not greeting him, just jovially ribbing me as he likes to do. "Would you prefer a hug at the front door or un-singed ricotta?"
As I reach to give him a hug, he pushes me aside and goes to the counter, leaning over the pies and inhaling deeply. Widening his eyes, wiggling his eyebrows, he sticks out his index finger, ready to touch the top of one.
I slap his hand away and he yelps in mock protest.
"Too hot," I tell him. "They're not ready yet." I give him a hug as consolation. I can't get my arms all the way around him anymore. Haven't been able to do that for years, in fact. But he pats my back and wishes me a happy Easter and for one small second, I feel like I'm eight years old again. I guess I should be upset by that feeling, but I'm not.
Next thing I know, Jennifer is pulling the cinnamon shaker out of my cupboard, and before I can push my father out of the way, she's sprinkling one of the pies.
"Stop it!" I snap.
But she doesn't. Her index finger tap-taps gingerly on the bottom of the container, sending the brown granules down like little spice bombs onto the previously pristine pie's top.
"Relax, Izzy," my father tells me. "It'll be fine. I like it like that."
"You do?" I never knew that.
Jennifer, she smiles at me, but it's glib.
"Just leave the second one alone," I tell her.
She doesn't. The smile stays plastered on her face as she starts dusting the second pie. She says, "It needs some flavor, Iz. Everyone likes it better this way."
"No, they don't. Danni's allergic to cinnamon, Jen."
She makes a quick, sharp huff as she turns the spice jar upright and sets it on the counter. Sharply, "We brought something else for Danni anyhow."
"Oh," I say, cowed. "Sorry. I didn't realize that. What? Where is it?"
"Out in the car,” she tells me. “Why don't you go get it for us, Izzy?"
"I'll get it," my dad answers.
"Gigi," Jennifer protests. "It's raining outside. Let Izzy go."
He looks between us quickly, probably debating if it's worse to send me out in the rain to fetch Jennifer's crap or to leave us alone together. I make it easy on him. "Gimme the keys, Dad. I don't mind."
"No, no. I can use the exercise."
Before he's out the door, Jennifer turns to me and sweetly says, "Sorry we're a little early. We didn't mean to barge in and get in your way."
It's rare that she adopts that tone with me, particularly when my father's not around. Believe me, after being widowed for twenty-two years, I don't begrudge my father a new wife. However, I didn't take an instant shine to Jennifer, which is strange, really, considering that she's only one year younger than I am and you'd think we'd have a lot in common to bond over.
It didn't help matters when I suggested a pre-nup to my dad and he repeated my suggestion to Jennifer.
But now, no matter what my suspicions are, I have to admit that my dad is happy with her, and that's all that really matters to me. And when she takes a decent and apologetic tone with me, I'm certainly not going to keep throwing daggers. Not over some cinnamon on a pie, especially when we can all have a nice holiday together.
So, "It's fine," I tell her. "In fact, you're not early, you're right on time."
"Really?" she asks. Leaning a bit closer, she lowers her voice and says, "I thought we were on time, too. But I see you haven't had time to get cleaned up."
"Yeah. I have. I'm all ready." I look down at my clothes, searching for food splatters, but don't see any.
"Oh." A pause. Then, "So you're not wearing any makeup?"
"I am," I tell her. "It's on."
"Oh." She shrugs, turning away from me and peering into the pot of sauce on the stove as she says, "You must've had a really wild time last night, huh? You go out?"
I get it at this point. She's telling me I look like shit without coming out and saying it. I have options at this point. I could call her out and tell her to cut the shit. I could toss off a smartass, self-deprecating yet cutting remark; something about how I don't stay as young and fresh looking like she does by feeding off the blood of my father. Or, I can take the hit, suck it up and blow it off and just move forward so that we can all have a more pleasant dinner together.
At this point, I'm hoping my father is bringing in plenty of chocolate. I have a sudden, severe craving. I know it's psychosomatic, brought on by Jennifer's light jabs, but knowing what's causing the craving doesn't make it go away.
"I was just watching TV," I tell her, keeping my voice even and light.
She digs again, "No hot date?"
"Mm. Just with television. Poker was on. Nick Nolan's replay of his championship a couple years ago. Andy was here a while." I want to swallow those words back down because I don't want her asking where he is now. But she doesn't. She takes another tack.
"Oh we watched that for a while. In bed."
Jennifer, she never misses an opportunity to remind me that she fucks my father. In her mind, I think it's how she asserts her power, proves to me that she's important. In my mind, it just skeeves me out on many levels.
My only answer is to flick on another burner and go to the sink and start filling another pan with water to cook the ravioli in and wonder where he is with that chocolate.
She moves next to me, folds her arms and leans back against the counter. "So. You like that guy, huh? Nick Nolan?"
"I love poker," I answer.
"Mm," she says. Leaning close, conspiratorially, she says, "Andy called. Told me what happened."
"He what?" I'm dumbfounded. If his pride was so hurt, why'd he call up Jen and blab to her about it?
"He just wanted to explain why he wouldn't be here today."
Oh God. "Does my father know about this?"
"Don't be silly," she says.
Thank goodness. I really don't need my own father to be aware of my sexual dysfunctions.
"Of course I told Gigi," she says.
I can feel the steam coming out of my ears.
"Don't sweat it," she says. "See, that's the problem with Andy. He's not secure enough. When I'm with Gigi, I fantasize about all sorts of other men, and he doesn't mind one bit!"
"Enough," I say. "Really. Way too much, already, Jennifer."
"George Clooney, Brad Pitt. Well, pretty much the whole Ocean's Eleven cast."
"Even Julia Roberts?" I say, flippant.
"Oh, especially Julia!"
"Oh Jesus."
"I'm just saying that I understand. Andy will settle down eventually. So you think that Nolan guy is hot stuff, huh?"
I don't know why I admit it, but I say, "Sure, he's cute."
Studying a nail, she goes, "I don't know about cute. He's kind of goofy looking. But I hear he's rich." She looks at me sadly and says, "You know he dates supermodels, right Iz?"
Anyone with even a passing interest in poker knows that about Nick Nolan. Everyone knows his whole story. He was a tech guru who started his own company and then sold it five years later for over fifty million dollars or something ridiculous like that. Not bad for a twenty-two year old. Somewhere between the wine and women, he picked up poker. And he was good at it. Great at it. In his first full year on the tour, he won the PWT grand championship, a feat he repeated two more times in the next six years. But then, as the influx of online players flooded the tournaments, he apparently got bored with playing and picked up a gig as an announcer for the televised tournaments. Though he was at the tail-end of his prime as a player when poker exploded on the airwaves and became a popular sport, he's a recent legend, and if you watch even one tournament, you'll hear about him. It's also gained him some marginal fame outside the poker world, which he exploits in conjunction with his massive wealth to enjoy a playboy lifestyle – with supermodels.
So I have a silly crush and may fantasize about him and call out his name, thus alienating my boyfriend. But I don't have any realistic, grand aspirations to date Nick Nolan. I'd love to have a chat with him for a little article to put in our magazine, though. But it does upset me that Jen can't even let me have my silly, schoolgirl, celebrity crush on someone without reminding me I'm not good enough.
"I was just watching a TV show, Jen. That's all."
"Oh, sure. I was just saying. But aren't you going out to Vegas next weekend to meet him?"
I fry with that. Jen never pays attention to anything I do, but she has to pick up on that. Unless, maybe Andy mentioned it to her? Maybe he isn't upset so much about the name thing as he is worried. Poor, sweet Andy. I really do have to make it up to him.
"I'm going to Vegas," I tell her. "For poker. I won an internet tournament and the prize was a buy-in at the tournament in Vegas next week. I'm going to do an article about it for the travel section of the magazine." It's the truth. So what if I also get giddy little trills in my tummy when I think about how he'll probably be there? And how those trills turn to flushed excitement when I think about looking into his long-lashed, smart blue eyes and saying hello to him. Then that excitement makes my heart beat as I imagine asking him for an interview for our magazine. But that's all! Andy's right. It's totally unrealistic to think Nick would ever look at me that way.
"Sure," she says, like she doesn't believe me. Then another dig, "Just make sure you do your makeup nice. You need to accentuate your pretty eyes, Izzy."
"Really?" I ask. I'm stunned with the compliment, and frankly, grateful for it.
"Oh yeah," she says. "And if you do them up big, they take attention away from your Santillo nose."
There it is. Right on time. She knows that I know that I have a crooked nose. I look at it in the mirror every morning. I've made an appointment with a doctor about it. But I convinced myself I was being silly and superficial and I needed to get over myself and live with what I had.
As I get the water-filled pan lifted out of the sink and onto the stove, I hear the back door again. "Need a hand, Dad?" I call out.
He just grunts, and I turn to see him making his way down the hall, his arms full with a basket wrapped in green cellophane, the paper crinkling with his lumbering steps. And in one hand, he's clutching another giant chocolate bunny rabbit with enormous ears.
"Yay!" I shout as I rush and pull the basket from his arms. Through the cellophane, I can see that the whole basket is molded chocolate, and another large bunny with cockeyed ears sits on a nest of brightly colored shredded paper, surrounded by various smaller bunnies and chicks and eggs. Dad doesn't even get the second bunny onto the counter before I snatch it from his hands, nearly giddy as I check out the size of the ears. They must be a half-pound each.
Joy! Bunny ears. It's an annual delicacy that I developed a taste for when I was still a toddler. The first Easter I can remember, I was up earlier than anyone else and when I made my way downstairs, I found the two chocolate baskets. Of course, they were much smaller than this one for Danni. But it was a holiday, and my parents splurged and got two wicker baskets and filled them up with candy. One for me, and one for my brother, Rocco. I don't know if I didn't understand that one was supposed to be his, or if I just got hopped-up on ears and didn't care. I immediately dove into the first basket and bit the ears off my bunny. Before I was finished with it, I knew I needed the other ears. My basket had plenty more chocolate, including the whole body of the rabbit. But the ears were too much to resist, and I tore into the second basket and chomped those off, too.
When I was discovered, I got in trouble for wrecking Rocco's basket. And thus the Bunny Wars of the Santillo house began. From that year forward, it was a race to get to the baskets. If Rocco got to them first, he ate my ears. I paid him the same discourtesy if I was the lucky one. Mom, she started hiding the baskets, but that only encouraged us more. She used to get all frustrated and freaked out when she'd pull out the baskets and find them with nearly decapitated bunnies. It was always a big scene.
It took me and Rocco a few years to figure out that her carrying on was an act. When I was eleven and Rocco was thirteen and we were decidedly too old to be getting Easter baskets, but Mom bought and hid them just the same, we realized that it had become a tradition. The year after that, mom passed away.
It wasn't like my dad didn't have other things on his mind. And frankly, it felt a little strange to be running through the house, searching for a stupid basket so I could screw over my brother by eating chocolate ears that were rightfully his. Besides, it was mom's thing to buy and fill and hide the baskets. I didn't think it would ever occur to my father to do all that.
But he did. I was laying in bed when I heard him scolding Rocco downstairs. It was nothing new. Frankly, at that age, Rocco was kind of a jerk and needed a good ass chewing on occasion. Sadly, Rocco's still kind of a jerk and could use a good, occasional ass chewing, but my dad's since relinquished the job. Anyhow, I woke up to Rocco getting an earful, and when I crept downstairs, I found him rummaging through a closet. He told me Dad was making him look for the baskets, insisting on it.
It was strange at first. Kind of depressing, actually. But, somehow, between our rolled eyes and complaints, I guess our sibling rivalry kicked in, cause I pushed Rocco, and then he shoved me, and next thing we were furiously searching for those baskets. When he found them, Rocco had no mercy. He cracked and chomped those ears faster than I could wrestle either away from him. I was steamed alright. Really agitated that he'd beat me.
And then I realized how good it felt. It felt...normal.
I hadn't been pissed off at Roc for three solid months. And he'd taken to being kind to me. Gentle, even. But he stood there, gloating, stuffing his face like a pig, without a shred of remorse, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And it was. It was how we were supposed to be.
Even better, Dad started flipping out about it. He called Roc a pig and told him he'd wreck his breakfast. When I whined that he wasn't sharing, Dad grunted. Said, "To the victor goes the spoils. Shoulda been faster, Izzy."
No sympathy. No mercy.
It was great. It was when I knew, for the first time, that things would never be the same without Mom. But I knew Dad would never give up on us as a family. And we'd survive.
And as I realized that, and as Rocco gloated, I was so overwhelmed with happiness and normalcy that I kicked Rocco in the shin. And when he shouted and dropped the rabbits to grab his leg in pain, I picked one up and ran like hell with it. Locked myself in my bedroom, and enjoyed every last bite of my victory.
Now, as I've got my hand on the huge bunny, Jennifer "Tsks" loudly and pulls it away from me, saying, "That's Danni's."
"I thought the basket was hers?"
"It's all for her."
"Well. Where's Rocco's, then?"
Jen asks, "Don't you think you and Rocco are a little old for Easter bunnies, Iz?"
I just turn and look at my dad. He holds out his hands and explains, "Jen said you were dieting!" He looks truly upset.
"Dad, it's okay," I say, even as my mouth waters and my brain is craving the soothing fix of some pure chocolate. "You're right, I am dieting. I don't need all that in the house." I reassure him with a quick kiss on the cheek and then swallow, forcing the sugar craving into submission.
"Alright then," my dad says. "But just so you know, I don't think you need to lose any weight."
Jennifer butts in, saying, "Oh, she's just trying to look her best for Nick Nolan next weekend, Gig."
My cheeks go hot and I know I'm blushing, so I turn quickly and stick my head in the 'fridge, pulling out the rack of lamb.
"Who with the what where, now?" My dad asks, clearly lost.
Jennifer answers, "You know, that poker guy. We were watching him on TV last night. Izzy has a crush on him."
As I pull out the pan of lamb, I just say, "I qualified for a tournament in Vegas next weekend, Dad. Remember?"
"I
know that," he says. "I just didn't know this
other."
"Because there's nothing to know," I say as
I swipe at the oven door with my foot to open it up.
"I thought you were getting serious about this poker thing?" My dad asks.
"I am, Dad."
"Then don't let some slick playboy knock you offstride, Izzy."
That's my dad. He always thought I could do anything I set my mind to. In every sense, I'm Daddy's little girl, and I like being that to him. What I don't like is how everyone else still sees me as nothing but Daddy's little girl. Geeky little Izzy.
"Don't worry, Gigi," Jennifer says. "Izzy's not really his type anyhow. He dates supermodels."
I don't know if my dad doesn't get her dig against me, or if he's just so slick at sliding around uncomfortable moments and turning them right, but he says, "So he likes them dumb, huh? I guess you're not for him, then, Iz."
"He's not for me, Dad," I say. "I've got Andy."
"Yeah," Dad says. "Him." He hasn't quite yet warmed up to Andy, even though it's been eighteen years that I've known him and we've been friends. I'm not sure if it's because of the Daddy's-girl thing, or the thing about Andy sometimes getting too chummy with Daddy's other girl, Jennifer. If I've noticed Andy's eye, I bet Dad has. And I bet Dad doesn't like other men checking out his woman.
Sharply, Jennifer asks me, "What are you doing?"
"Popping this in the oven," I answer.
"But Rocco's not even here yet. What if he's late?"
"He'd call if he was going to be late."
He would. Roc takes liberties, but he knows I went to some trouble with this dinner, from homemade ravs and Mom's sauce recipe to the ricotta pies, now sprinkled with cinnamon.
"If we were on time, he's already late," Jennifer says.
Once I get the lamb in the oven, I toss the ravs into the boiling water and start busying myself with the antipasto. Jennifer offers to help, so I give her some orange slices and a platter to arrange them on and hand her the oil and salt and pepper shakers to dress them while I go fiddle with setting the dining table.
By the time my dad's checking the ravs, I start carrying platters onto the table, peering out the window, checking for Rocco and his daughter Danni, who are pushing a half hour late now. I get Danni's Easter basket from Dad and Jen carried into the living room until after dinner, and Dad says he wants to hear some Tony Bennett for dinner music. By the time I've got the CD loaded and then go back in the kitchen to check on things, I see that Jennifer has the ravs drained and in a serving tray, with sauce drizzled over them. And she's liberally shaking a green can of grated cheese on top of them.
"No!" I shout.
"What?" she turns to look at me wide-eyed.
"We don't put cheese on those," I tell her. "It's my mom's recipe."
She shakes again.
I could strangle her. It took me seven hours to make the ravs last weekend. Another two hours to make the sauce yesterday. I could cry. All I wanted was for Dad and Roc to be able to have a taste that'd remind them of Mom, and now it's wrecked.
"Please stop," I plead.
I know what I want to soothe me, but I tell myself to stop thinking about the chocolate sitting in the other room. It's not mine.
But she doesn't stop.
This is her way of asserting power over me, and I know it. It's one more example of her showing me that I'm no longer the alpha girl in my dad's eyes. I'm a beta. Frankly, I knew I wasn't his sunshine anymore once Danni came along. I didn't mind that, though. Maybe because Danni's never made it a point to put me in my place. Or maybe because I love Danni.
Or maybe because I don't suspect Danni of being primarily motivated by my dad's finances.
Maybe I wouldn't mind so much if Jennifer asserted her power without wrecking everyone's Easter dinner with canned cheese and cinnamon.
"Honestly, Iz," she says and then sighs. "Your father likes some flavor on his food. Believe me, I know what he likes." With that, she wiggles the slightest bit and grins. Turning back to look at me, she goes, "Besides, a couple extra calories won't kill you. You're not going to make supermodel weight in one week's time for Nick Nolan anyhow. Too bad all those calories lately haven't landed in your chest instead of your ass, huh?"
Suddenly, the urge is too strong.
These are my options. 1) Tell her she's wrecked the meal I've busted my ass to prepare. 2) Yell for my dad to settle the dispute. (He'll pick her side.) 3) Suck it up and shut up.
I choose option 3. But I'm not going to suck it up without having something make it taste a little better. A spoonful of sugar with my medicine. A mouthful of chocolate with my frustration.
I go to the living room, wrap my hand around the neck of the giant bunny, stuff it under my shirt as I race past my father, duck into the bathroom, lock the door behind me, sit on the toilet, and claw like a crazy lady at the cellophane paper covering the chocolate.
I don't even get the whole thing unwrapped. I get one ear exposed, take a deep breath. That's when it hits me. This is silly. It's all just silly. I set down the rabbit and go to my bedroom and grab the phone. I dial Andy's cell. When he answers, all I say is, "I'm an ass and I'm truly sorry."
"You should be."
"I am. Why don't you come over and eat some dinner?"
"Iz. I don't think that's a good idea. I think we need to take a break."
"Andy, no! I'm sorry about last night. And if you're worried about next week, don't be silly..."
He laughs. It's a genuine laugh. Says, "If you think I'm worried about you actually hooking up with Nolan, then you're silly."
"You know, Andy, jealousy I can deal with,” I tell him as I move back into the bathroom and close the door for privacy. “You insulting me, I can't."
He says, "I'm sorry."
Tension can make us do ugly things. Looking down at the nearly molested bunny, I can certainly understand that. So of course I can let that comment of his go. "It's okay," I say.
"I wasn't trying to be insulting," he says, very gently. "I was just being honest. I'm not the villain here, Iz. You're pining after a guy who's out of your league, and what makes it so silly is that you already had one who's out of your league. I'm a great catch, and you insulted me."
"Okay, Andy. You sure you don't want to come eat?"
"Who's going to be there?"
"My brother," I say, and Andy audibly grunts at that. "My niece, my dad."
"Jennifer?" Andy asks.
I lie, say coldy, "No."
"I've made other plans," he says and hangs up.
I can't stand it.
I put down the phone, pick up the rabbit, and take a seat back on the toilet, eyeing the ear I'd previously exposed. I whisper an apology to my niece, and nibble off the tip of the ear. Closing my eyes, the creamy sweetness melts across my tongue.
It's not a hug from my mom. And it's certainly not sex with my fantasy of Nick Nolan. But it's the best placebo ever invented.
Greedy for more, I take half the ear in my mouth and bite, hard as I can. Just as I crack through the chocolate, I hear a second crack and feel the quiver in my incisor.
"Shit!" I drop the rabbit, spit out the hunk of chocolate, and my hand goes to my mouth. I run my tongue around lightly. Sure as hell, I think there's a crack. Getting up, baring my teeth, I inspect it in the mirror. Jesus. Fuck. I can see it. Cracked! The left incisor! And chipped!
I plop back down on the toilet and shove the previously abandoned piece of chocolate in my cheek, letting it melt. A knock on the door startles me, but then I hear Danni's voice. "Izzy? You in there?"
There I sit, with her mauled Easter present at my feet, a damning, guilty piece in my damaged mouth, hovering on a toilet like some sort of whacked out, Willy Wonkan addict.
"Yeah," I mumble.
"Can I come in?"
"Where's your dad?" The last thing I need is for Rocco to see this. He'll think I took her chocolate as some sort of sick extension of our childhood battles, excising latent jealousy and resentment upon her innocent soul.
"In the kitchen with Grandpa. And Jen."
"What do you need, Danni?" I ask her as I pick up the remains of the rabbit and tuck it behind the shower curtain, start chomping as quickly as possible on the evidence in my mouth. When it gets too close to the damaged tooth, it sends a spark of pain to my upper jaw, but I also can't bring myself to spit it out and waste it. For all the trouble it's causing, it feels like a last, tenuous string to some sort of peace, something in it somehow so soothing.
"Just," she says. "Please let me in."
Then, from the kitchen, I hear her dad's voice. Loud. Indignant. Bellowing. "Who the fuck put cheese on the ravs?"
Oh Madone.
I unlock the door and pull Danni inside, just as a drool string of chocolate leaks down my lower lip. I suck it in and wipe my lip, locking the door behind her.
"You okay?" she asks me.
"Danni." I chew quickly and swallow the last remaining chunk in my mouth. Looking at her, my heart breaks with my own selfishness. She's only nine years old, and she really is the cutest little girl ever made. She's got big brown eyes and long curly hair. She blinks up at me, and it's more painful than any Oompa Loompa shaming song ever could be.
"I ate your bunny," I tell her.
"It's okay, Izzy. Dad said you would."
"No," I say. "He did not."
She nods. Very seriously. Whispering it. "He did. He knew it."
"I'm sorry, Danni. I'll, I'll get you a new one."
"Iz?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you have some product I can use?"
"What? What product?"
"You know, product. Jennifer said it was a shame the rain made my hair all frizzed out. She said I should put some product in it."
"Oh Danni," I sigh. Reaching behind the shower curtain, I pull out her enormous rabbit, one ear still in tact. I offer it to her.
She looks from me to the rabbit, then back up to me. She goes, "Is my hair all frizzed, Iz?"
"No, Danni," I tell her. "You look adorable today."
"Then why'd Jennifer say that?"
I shake my head. "I don't know, Danni."
I do know why, but I don't know how to explain it to her. So I kneel down and nod for her to take a seat. Once she's seated, I say, "Jennifer. She says things sometimes without thinking."
"Like when she told you that your butt was too big and you should go on a diet?"
"Like that."
"Your butt isn't that big, you know."
"And your hair doesn't need product today, Danni."
"I think I'll have some of that bunny, now."
I know it's more satisfying to bite it off, but I run my tongue over my chipped, cracked tooth and then break an ear off and hand it to her, which she starts nibbling on the way a rabbit would go at a carrot.
Just then, there's one, loud knock at the door. Danni and I both freeze as Rocco says, "Danni. What are you doing?"
Her mouth full, I answer for her. "I'm putting product in her hair," I tell him. Danni grins at me.
"Open the door, Iz."
"Roc..."
"Open it!"
I unlatch it, and I expect him to take one look at Danni, who's stuffing her face with chocolate before Easter Sunday dinner, and then go off on me. Instead, he enters, quickly closes the door behind him, locks it, and says, "She put canned cheese all over the ravs."
"I know."
Turning his back to Danni, he leans down and whispers to me, "She squeezed me really hard when she hugged me, Iz."
I just nod.
He goes, "She didn't hug Danni."
"I know," I say.
"I mean, she really pressed herself up against me." That's when he notices. Louder, he asks, "What's that on your chin?"
"Huh?" I say as I wipe it off.
"You didn't," he says, turning and finally taking in the scene. The earless bunny in my hand. His daughter gnawing away. He looks to the ceiling. Says, "Please tell me you let her have the first ear?"
I don't know what to say.
"You stole my daughter's bunny?"
"I didn't steal it, exactly."
"The fuck is wrong with you, Iz?"
"I broke my tooth on it."
"She's NINE." Then he jabs me with this: "You didn't have time to do your hair and makeup for a holiday dinner but you had time to resurrect a sick vendetta against me by stealing the kid's present?"
It's my only defense left. I tell him, "Jennifer put cinnamon all over the pies, too. It wasn't a vendetta. I just snapped, okay?"
"Oh my God," he says, covering his eyes. He takes a deep breath.
Danni taps his elbow. When he opens his eyes, Danni, while still gnawing on the formidable ear, holds out the remains of the bunny for him. Rocco, God love him, he snaps off the head and hands it to me. He puts his hand on Danni's head and pulls her close, looks at the body he's holding and says, "Happy fucking Easter, ladies."
With that, he sinks his teeth in.
As we gnaw, Danni speaks up. "I think I know why Jennifer tells me I have bad hair and you have a big butt, Iz."
"Why's that, Dan?"
Wide-eyed, she nods solemnly. Says, "Because she's a bitch."
"Whoa!" Roc shouts.
"Well she is," I agree with Danni.
"But my daughter doesn't talk like that. And not on Easter Sunday!"
"He's right, Danni," I say, looking at her. Adding, "That's not a nice thing to say about your...grandmother."
Danni smirks. Roc sighs, then takes another hunk of chocolate between his teeth. As he chews, he tells me, "That's from you, asshole. She gets that filthy mouth from you."
CHAPTER THREE
Four short days later, I've got my shit pulled back together. Enough with the chocolate and who cares about some cheese on ravioli, and so what if Andy broke up with me officially on Monday? I've pushed all that aside for the weekend. This is important, and I know I can do it. I'm going to shelve the old Izzy, the stuffy, daddy's girl, magazine geek writer. This weekend is it. Like a butterfly, I'm going to become something... I don't know what. Just something. I'm going to become something.
I could feel it building on the plane ride out here. Not just anticipation, but also confidence. As the taxi made the turn from Paradise Road onto the strip, it hit me with a rush. It wasn't just the tourists bustling about and cars streaming down the busy road. Like those ornate, improbable buildings that rise like beacons out of the sand, I felt like I was about to finally rise and grow up and reach my potential that some people thought was impossible.
I push through the lobby doors of Bellagio like I'm already the queen of the city that I know I'm destined to be. I don't spend any time gawking at the bright, blown-glass ceiling or watching the parade of new flowers being moved into the conservatory. I'd seen it all before, and this isn't the time for hesitation. I have to be in control, in charge, and in command, just like I'm going to be at the tables. Cause in this town, just like in the game of poker, image counts. Confidence, class, swagger. I have it all. I stride up to the check-in desk.
I say, "I'd like to check in."
The clerk smiles and asks, "Name?"
And I say, "Ithabella Thantillo." I spray a bit of saliva with the unnatural lisp.
Shit.
Okay. Not my most dignified moment. I nonchalantly wipe my lips, and chin, while I press my tongue against the top of the bulky retainer on the roof of my mouth. It sends a mild volt of pain to my gums, but I fight off a wince.
The desk clerk eyes me, politely saying, "Pardon me, what was that name again?"
I take a breath, concentrating to speak slowly, but get a better idea. Instead of speaking, I slide my ID and credit card across the counter to him, and he starts tapping his keyboard, saying, "Ahh, Miss Santillo, welcome back."
"Thank you," I say, since I know I can enunciate it. It's only the "S" sounds that give me trouble. So of course I have a particularly sibilant name.
Friggin' retainer.
Thirty-four years old and I'm wearing a retainer. All because I wrecked my tooth on that stupid bunny ear, and the damn dentist convinced me I'd be better off getting a surgical implant instead of a bridge or crown.
The dentist, he said, "You'll be quite satisfied with the results."
He did the surgery on Tuesday and he promised me he'd cap the tooth on Wednesday. But he didn't. Said it was too loose and tender and he wanted it set a little longer before removing the stitches. So he gave me this retainer with a tooth attached to wear in the meantime so that I don't have a hole in my smile.
The doc warned me it'd be bulky until the swelling went down and the stitches were removed. Hence, the lisping.
But I'm sure I'll get used to it. I'll practice speaking in the shower, and if I can't at least get the spitting under control, I'll just avoid making raises in denominations of six or seven. It won't be a problem at the tables. I mean, there's no S in "All-in".
But for now, the desk clerk looks back to me and asks, "Would you like a king or a mini-suite?"
It's extravagant, but you've got to think big in every way when it comes to a venture like this. You've got to live it to be it. You can bet Nick Nolan doesn't cut corners. He exudes confidence and cocky swagger. So I concentrate, push the retainer up with my tongue, lick my lips, and take this as my first opportunity to practice non-lisp speak. And I go, "Thuite. Pleathe."
Thmooth, very thmooth.
His one eyebrow raises but he nods, clicks a few more keys, and then asks, "Smoking or non?"
I speak slowly, but it still comes out, "Thmoking." Me and the desk clerk, both our eyes follow the trajectory of this tiny spit bubble as it hurtles from my lips and lands on the counter.
That's when he grins and looks back to my face. Prodding, "And you'll be with us for three nights?"
But I'm cagey, I outfox that one and say, "Correct," as I wipe my spit-spot off the counter.
His grin turns to a smirk and he tries again. He says, "For our records, is that Miss Santillo, or Ms, or Mrs?"
He's toying with me. I give him the satisfaction. "Mith," I say, glaring at him.
He holds out my key and goes, "If there's anything I can do for you, please just call and ask for me. My name's Sam." He emphasizes his name.
I just nod. Fuck you, Tham.
"Let me write it down for you," he says as he scribbles it on the card with my key. Again boldly, cockily saying his name. "Sam. Okay?"
"Got it," I say, snatching the key and turning briskly. I nearly bump into a workman carrying an armload of potted lilies who's walking by. "Thorry," I mumble to him and let him pass.
I try to practice speaking clearly as I unpack, but by the time I'm ready to jump in the shower my gums are sore and even more swollen and the retainer doesn't even want to stick in there. So I take it out and gargle to help the swelling and resign myself to avoiding as many S words as possible. But I can't help cursing the dentist, as I'm not quite satisfied with the results yet.
Doesn't matter, I'm not here to engage in conversation. I'm here to play poker.
No! To win at poker.
I take my time getting ready. I put on extra eye makeup to draw attention there instead of my mouth. When it comes to the clothing, it's a tactical choice. The shirt is a no-brainer. I have this tight deep-V thing with ruffles on it. Ruffles to emphasize my girl-ness, so that maybe the guys will underestimate me. The deep V to help distract those guys. As Andy was so fond of reminding me, I don't have much to show off up there, but any little bit helps, and any little edge can help at the poker table.
Then, it's either the tasteful black pants or the slutty tight skirt. It's Vegas. Skirt it is. Checking myself in the mirror, I see the evidence of hours spent practicing at poker tables and the internet instead of working out at the gym, not to mention the chocolate bunny still hanging around in all the wrong places, causing a couple of crinkles and some unsightly bulges. In the pre-J Lo days of bone-thin Kate Moss knock-offs, I wouldn't have even owned clothes like this. But since Jennifer's elevated the cachet of a big butt to not just acceptable, but downright desirable, mine's become quite the asset, no matter what my dad's wife Jennifer says. Even still, sloppy just won't do. I stand straighter, sucking in my tummy.