The Gambler Page 11

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” I said, as though the past ten years of my life could be considered “a time.”

  “Well, you’re here now,” she said, as if me being here meant something. And I wished it did.

  I wanted to be here because this was my home.

  Priscilla sat there, a hundred pounds of speculation and anticipation, and I just didn’t have the strength to wait her out.

  “Okay, just say it,” I said.

  “Juliette was here,” Priscilla said. “You got a death wish over that woman?”

  I sighed. “I think so, yes.”

  “It’s not funny. She’s police chief over in Bonne Terre.”

  “That’s what I’m told,” I drawled.

  “I would have thought that ten years ago you might have learned your lesson. A woman like that, she’s just—”

  I held up my hand not interested in disparaging comments against Juliette, even if they were born out of loyalty to me. I thought she’d get over me in time. That after a few months away from me, a couple of handsome men to take her mind off her broken heart, she’d move on.

  Her father, after all, had been right – she was far too good for me.

  The anger wasn’t surprising. She deserved to be angry.

  But the pain…the pain was still so real. So fresh. Like seeing me ripped a bandage off a wound that wasn’t healed.

  “Trust me, I learned my lesson,” I said, trying to end the conversation.

  “So what was last night?”

  I sighed, tipping my head back, wishing there was some kind of answer to that question that made sense, that wasn’t locked up in the past and those old feelings for Juliette.

  I love her, I thought but could never say. I always have.

  “I have no idea.”

  Priscilla’s eyes snapped and she uncrossed her legs, leaning forward, all but breathing fire.

  “Then stay away, Tyler. Women like her…” She trailed off, and maybe it was the hangover or the peanut shell, but whatever it was, I was pissed.

  “Women like her what?”

  “She’s not for you.”

  I nodded, my temper a bear coming out of hibernation. The likes of us. I’d been hearing that crap my whole damn life.

  “What does that mean, exactly?” I asked, my voice cutting through the haze of Priscilla’s cigarette. “Because I’m rich now, Priscilla. I mean, I’ve got way more money than the Tremblants ever did.”

  “It’s not about money. It’s about blood. It’s about what people think.”

  “Well, it’s not like Jasper Tremblant has been a model citizen his whole life,” I said, thinking about the night I left and Jasper’s role in the whole thing. “I don’t see him pumping huge amounts of money back into my community.”

  I felt slimy tooting my own horn like that, but sometimes being the unsung hero got a little old, particularly when everyone around here still thought I was white trash. Selfish white trash.

  “You’re right, that man’s got some wires crossed, that’s for sure. But I’m just saying—out in the world, you can be whoever you want. But here—” she arched her thin eyebrows “—you’re a Notorious O’Neill. The worst of them. And that’s all that woman is ever gonna see.”

  I swallowed my anger. I was too tired to hold on to a fight.

  But Priscilla is wrong, a voice in my head said. You can be different. And Juliette always knew that about you.

  “Well, since you’re here, we could use you,” she said.

  “I can come out on weekends,” I said. “Play with the band.”

  “That ain’t what I’m talking about. We need your help building them houses.”

  “Oh, come on now, Priscilla, we both know that’s not me.”

  “Why? ’Cause it’s honest work?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “Because I don’t know the first thing about building anything.” And frankly, the idea was ridiculous. My hands were baby soft, not a callous on them. And I liked it that way.

  I cocked my head, turning those words over in my head. Words that could have come right out of my father’s mouth.

  You don’t want to be like him, I thought. Now is your chance. Prove you’re more than a Notorious O’Neill. Prove you’re better.

  “We don’t know much, either,” Priscilla said, and then dropped her voice to a whisper. “Remy’s about useless with a hammer. Swear, he’s gonna put himself in the hospital before something actually gets to standin’.”

  “So?” I asked. “Who’s really doing the build?”

  “People in town. Derek at the hardware store has a crew. You could go and talk to him.”

  Priscilla stood and her palm, soft and frail, the skin like silk and paper, landed against my cheek. “You need to find a woman who sees the real you,” she said. “Sees past that Notorious O’Neill stuff.”

  Maybe it was the girls I chose or maybe it was just me—but no one ever saw past what I showed them.

  Except Juliette.

  “Hey, now.” She stepped back, affronted. “You like being alone, Ty?”

  I thought about saying yes, that I was happy this way. But that nightmare with Theresa, the way I let my father hang around like bad fish, the way I felt when I saw Juliette—like seeing the world in color after years of black-and-white—I couldn’t actually get the lie out of my mouth.

  And suddenly, I felt more alone than I could bear.

  “Oh, honey,” she sighed, my silence answer enough for both of us. “You deserve better. You’re not your father.”

  “You know, one minute she’s not for me and the next minute I’m too good for her. Which is it, Priscilla?” I asked. “Am I a good man or am I a Notorious O’Neill?”

  Priscilla lit up another smoke. “That,” she said with a cagey smile, “is a very good question.”

  It took a moment, but then I shook my head—she’d gotten me again. But I was too far gone to psychoanalyze myself right now.

  “I need to go,” I said, the specter of what my father—no doubt bored and feeling neglected—might be up to haunting me.

  But then Remy walked in from the kitchen with three plates piled high with eggs and bacon.

  “Sit yourselves down,” Remy said, sliding the heavy plates on the table. “I got pecan bread coming out of the oven.”

  “On second thought,” I said, my stomach growling. “I can stick around for a little while.”

  11

  JULIETTE

  * * *

  Monday, five in the afternoon, and I was ice-cold. Unmovable. I was a glacier of cold purpose, and Tyler O’Neill—the kiss, the night out at Remy’s, the truth about those houses and the money he’d given back to the town—were nothing to me.

  I glanced in my side view mirror and could just see Tyler’s head, his blond hair glinting white in the sunlight. He and Miguel were working on something, their heads bent together for the past ten minutes.

  I put on my mirrored aviator glasses and stepped out of my sedan into the humidity of the September afternoon.

  Ready to face down Tyler O’Neill.

  “Miguel,” I said as I approached, the sharpness in my voice surprising even me. Both Miguel and Tyler jumped as if I’d fired my weapon at them.

  Not a great start, but I didn’t apologize, not even when Miguel blew out a shaky breath and tried to laugh. “Wow, Chief,” he said. “You about killed me.”

  “You ready to go?” I asked. I hated the sound of my voice, all the hard and brittle edges.

  Not as cool as I wanted to be. At all.

  “Sure,” Miguel said, shooting Tyler a puzzled glance. “Let me get my stuff.”

  As soon as he left, my skin shrank a size and I was painfully aware that I was alone with Tyler. And that he was staring at me. “I need a favor,” I said, watching him through my sunglasses, grateful for the barrier. “I have an appointment with Nora Sullivan from the Office of Community Services—”

  “I remember Nora,” he said, and shud
dered.

  “It’s Wednesday morning. Can you keep an eye on Miguel and his sister?”

  “Isn’t it a school day?” he asked.

  I nodded. “I need to know where he is, and he’ll skip if he knows I’m meeting with Nora that day.”

  “So don’t tell him.”

  “I promised him I would. And frankly, I’ve broken a lot of promises to Miguel. I don’t want to break this one.”

  Tyler’s gaze was a warm weight, comforting, and I didn’t want to be comforted. Not by him. “Will you do it?” I demanded, sounding like a bully. Like my father.

  Tyler sighed, looking out over The Manor, not answering.

  “You want me to beg?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” he said, “but I don’t think I deserve to be treated this way.”

  He was right, which gave me a moment of hot shame, but then I was only further pissed off. Like I needed a lesson in manners from him.

  “Please,” I said. “Can you help me?”

  “Of course.” He was so reasonable, calm, which made me feel even smaller and more petty. Nervous. Terrified of what would happen if I let go of all my anger, the years of cold comfort my hate had brought me.

  “Thanks,” I said, sounding about as gracious as a rock. He continued to watch me, and the ghosts of the past, the pains and pleasures, suddenly haunted the air around us.

  “Juliette,” he said, his voice soft and much closer than it should be.

  “Don’t,” I whispered, and stepped away, sensing something awful on the tip of his tongue. Something that would change how I felt about him. How I dealt with him. “Don’t do this—”

  “Juliette, I’m sorry.”

  For the kiss, for making me come I thought, and I almost laughed. Almost screamed, actually, because I was a total mess and he tore down all my walls, ran through all my doors.

  “I’m sorry for the way I left,” he said. “Ten years ago.”

  My head went light and I was dizzy. Now he apologizes? I thought, feeling shaky and furious. My knees trembled, weakened, but I locked them. The urge to look at him, to lift my glasses and stare point-blank into his eyes and read his regret like a book, was so powerful I had to clench my hands into fists to keep myself from doing it.

  Instead, I stared at a honeybee’s slow climb over a blade of grass.

  “I was a kid and I was scared. I was…terrified, actually, because you were going to give up Oklahoma State, for me. For us. And I knew I wasn’t worth you doing that. I wasn’t worth any of what you gave me.”

  A stinging melancholy filled me, pushing aside my anger.

  “Jules,” he breathed. “Please say something.”

  Finally I looked at him, my hungry eyes seeing all of his contrition and anxiety. He needed me to accept this apology, I realized, far more than I needed to hear it.

  Which surprised me and made me only more sad that we were who we were to each other.

  “Am I supposed to forgive you now?” I asked, my voice shaken. “You apologize, I say no problem and…what? We’re friends? Or maybe…more?”

  “I have no motives, Juliette.”

  “Please,” I nearly howled. “Tyler O’Neill with no motives. Who are you kidding?”

  His lips were tight, white in the corners, and I relished those small signs of his distress.

  “Fine.” I shrugged. What did it matter in the end—apology or not, our future was nonexistent. Putting the past to bed made no difference. “Your apology is accepted.”

  “You’re lying,” he said. “You don’t forgive me at all—”

  “You’re not asking for forgiveness,” I said. “But I accept your apology, because it doesn’t change anything, Tyler. Just like the kiss. Nothing is different. You’re still you.”

  “Notorious O’Neill.”

  “The worst of them.”

  His eyes narrowed. Hardened. “And you’re still you,” he said, leaning closer, his breath fanning my face, the smell of him going right to my knees. My head. My stupid heart.

  “And I’ve got your number,” he whispered. “You want to pretend that kiss meant nothing, fine. It was nothing. But I’m not the one who walked in here with a favor and mirrored sunglasses and a chip on my shoulder, so if you want to pretend that nothing’s different, feel free. But I’m not buying it, Jules. I’m on to you.”

  His anger struck mine and shot sparks all over the yard. I couldn’t breathe for the tension between us. The sudden wild temptation to crush my lips to his and take out this fury on him.

  “It doesn’t have to be this hard, Jules,” he said, his eyes on my lips, the pounding of my heart in my throat. “I can be your dirty little secret again.”

  “If I touched you,” he whispered. “Would you be wet? If I touched you, right where you like it… would you moan for me? Would you moan my name?”

  “Tyler,” I breathed.

  “Just like that,” he said. “Just like that.”

  He was going to touch me. I could feel it in the air. My stomach. And I had no idea what I would do when he did.

  Miguel cleared the corner.

  Oh, thank God.

  I turned around and headed for the car, the taste of blood in my mouth from where I’d bitten my lip.

  “Let’s go,” I said to Miguel, not looking at Tyler, putting as much distance as I could between us. Between Tyler and the apology I’d been waiting ten years for. And the truth that he’d seen in me, despite my efforts to hide it all.

  My hands shaking, I pulled open the door of my car.

  A few moments later, Miguel slid in beside me and a shadow fell over my face. I knew without looking that Tyler stood beside my car, blocking out the sun.

  “You okay?” Miguel asked.

  “Just great,” I said. I lifted my glasses to the top of my head and turned to look at Tyler, gilded with sunshine and charm, a beautiful, faithless Apollo sent to ruin my life. Again.

  He’s helping you, some unwanted sensible voice pointed out. He’s doing what you couldn’t ask anyone else in this town to do, so how about you drop the bitch routine and act like a decent person?

  I didn’t want to be sensible. I didn’t want to be forgiving or humble. The high road had no interest for me, because I had the terrible feeling that accepting this apology might lead to forgiving him, which might lead to spending time with him. Which might lead places I had no business going.

  Nope, I’d keep my anger and stick to the low road. Where I was safer.

  Wednesday morning, I dropped the kids off with Tyler at the Sunrise Breakfast counter for scrambled eggs and milk shakes.

  At eight in the morning.

  Only Tyler, I thought, torn between exasperation and uncomfortable fondness.

  I can be your dirty little secret again.

  His words lived on in my body, stoking fires that had long been cold.

  Talk to your father.

  Those words were bothering me too.

  And it would be driving me out of my mind if I didn’t have much bigger problems to deal with.

  Like Nora Sullivan and the potential destruction of my career to worry about.

  At some point during my sleepless night I had made up my mind that I wasn’t going to make anything difficult for Nora, I was just going to rip the bandage, as it were, right off, instead of pulling it back one careful, painful piece at a time.

  And maybe today I’d get some kind of sign, an answer about my doubts that I was right for this job.

  But twenty minutes later when Nora Sullivan walked in my office, I had a brief panic. In a glance, I knew why Miguel ran. Hell, I felt like running. Nora looked like the kind of woman who knew how to give bad news and didn’t mind doing it.

  Unbelievably, the woman wore a pink silky shirt with a little lace at the neck. It was like a bulldog with a ruffled collar.

  “Nora,” I said, standing up at my desk to shake the woman’s hand, trying my damndest to get this meeting off on even footing. “Thanks for coming in.”
>
  “It’s my job,” Nora said, and sat in the chair opposite my desk. Nora wasted no time before taking a file from her briefcase and moving my nameplate and my academy mug filled with pens and highlighters to the side.

  Make yourself at home, I thought, trying to keep my cool while Nora opened the file.

  “You’re younger than I expected,” Nora said.

  I had heard that a lot, but now I wondered for the first time if it was a problem. “I worked harder than most to get here,” I said. “My age has not affected my work.”

  Nora pursed her lips. “Well, it certainly explains some of the mistakes you’ve made with Miguel.” She bent back to my file while I seethed with embarrassment and self-consciousness. “We got a call—”

  “From whom?” I asked.

  Nora glanced at me through thin blond eyelashes. “That’s confidential.”

  I knew that, but hearing about that anonymous tip sparked my anger and I sat in my chair, surrounded by the portraits of the chiefs that came before me, including my father, and fumed.

  “Nora, I was hoping we could make this as easy as possible—”

  Nora sat back. “You were?” she asked. “Your actions previous to this meeting would suggest a total unwillingness to make this process easier.”

  My stomach dropped into my knees.

  It’s going to be like that, is it?

  “We’ve started the investigation process and opened a file on Miguel Pastor and his sister,” Nora continued. “According to school records, Miguel’s had some truancy issues. Nothing too alarming and his grades are good. His sister—”

  I held up my hand. “I’ll tell you what I know,” I said, and I grabbed the edge of that Band-Aid and ripped.

  I told Nora about Miguel’s trying to steal the car, how Tyler didn’t press charges. About the informal community service and finally about Miguel’s father. The abuse.

  “Are there medical records substantiating the abuse?”

  I shook my head. “He lied, and I let him,” I said, meeting Nora’s disapproving eyes. “We knew the doctors would call the office of community services and Miguel was adamant about not going to foster care. He worried about he and his sister getting split up—”