Whether her luck had turned or she had lost the ability to concentrate, Blanche hadn’t had a winning night in a week. Down twenty-five thousand, she decided a little vacation from the tables was in order. The first night she stayed away from the casinos, she thought she’d catch up on her rest. But habits are hard to break and one o’clock in the morning found her raring to go. With nothing else to do, she’d gone to the garage and waxed the Mustang.

But the mindless work left her too much time for thinking and by the time morning came, she had a splitting headache and aching biceps. The Mustang looked great though, even if she didn’t. Hollow eyed, she lay in bed after a long hot shower and stared at the sun-spangled ceiling, wondering what the hell she was going to do for an entire week. And how she was going to forget the way Cort made her want something she shouldn’t.

Blanche told herself she’d been there before, in that desperate and lonely place where it seemed nothing went right. She told herself she could conquer the need to have a man in her life. All it would take was a plan. She would be strict, push herself to the limit. Work at it like she had at the Academy...after a day of classes and training she’d been too numbed by fatigue to even think about a lover. There were productive things she could do that would occupy her suddenly one-tracked mind. Go to the library, read some of those books she hadn’t had time for. Learn to cook something besides scrambled eggs and stuff out of a box. Hit the gym and lift weights again, work on tightening her abs until they were back in the shape they had been when she was a rookie.

Exercise. Moderation. Discipline. Worked every time.

So beginning the next morning, she got out of her sleepless bed at the crack of dawn to run. She mapped a two-mile course around the streets of her neighborhood and ran it twice, then came home dripping in sweat, her legs aching, to prepare a simple, healthy breakfast that she barely ate. Throwing good intentions out the window, she drove to Krispy Kreme and bought three chocolate glazed doughnuts which she did eat. Online, she applied for a library card and printed out her temporary, then drove straight past the library to the Venetian and had her hair and nails done at the salon instead. The next day she spent ten straight hours at the mall buying shoes and jeans, dresses and swimsuits, perfume and beautiful lingerie for a man who would never see any of it, instead of going to the gym and working on her stomach muscles.

And though she damned herself for it, she compulsively checked her cell every hour and told herself she was relieved when Cort didn’t call.

As the days went by she missed her life. She missed the Café, missed having a schedule to keep and places to be. She missed the excitement of the casinos, the concentration it took to play poker well. She missed winning and the feeling of triumph that came with it, not to mention the substantial additions to her bank account. There was certainly more going out than coming in of late. She’d always wanted to buy whatever she liked and not worry about the cost, but spending money like water wasn’t as much fun as she’d thought it would be. After ten days of nothing to do, Blanche had a closet full of new clothes and shoes, a great head of hair, and nails like a Chinese mandarin. But she was ready to go out of her mind.

Maureen noticed the difference in her when they talked on the phone.

"You seem awfully subdued, B. What’s going on out there? You haven’t bragged about a good run of the cards in ages," her sister prodded. "And how’s Mr. Bad Boy?"

"Gone," Blanche told her. "It didn’t work out."

Maureen paused. "Too bad of a boy?"

"Nope. Just not interested." Blanche forced a yawn, as if talking about Cort Davis bored her. "What about you? How’s your love life?"

Mo wasn’t fooled, she’d caught the melancholy note in her sister’s tone. "Me? Hell, I haven’t had a man in months. Who has time for a love life?" Maureen scoffed. "I was kinda hoping to vicariously enjoy yours. You know, indulge in a little girl talk, hear all the dirty details." She said wistfully, "Remember sex, B?"

The silence lengthened as Blanche thought of Cort, his breath hot on her face, his eyes intense, glittering with lust. For a fleeting moment she was back in his bed, under him, listening to those low grunts that came from deep in his chest as he pumped them both closer and closer to ecstasy. She remembered how his eyes stayed on hers, begging her to come for him. The muscles that flexed in his shoulders as he braced to sweeten the angle of those relentless thrusts, his voice, low and throbbing in her ear, growling obscenities that sounded like the sweetest love words. And after, how tenderly he’d held her, his hands caressing, playing in her hair, tracing the curve of her waist. The way he couldn’t seem to leave the mole on her shoulder alone. He told her it made him think of a drop of chocolate…said he had to lick it off.

"B?"

"Yeah," she curtly. "I remember sex."

"Did you get some from the bad boy? How was he?"

Magnificent, tender, wild, daring, hot, so fucking hot... "He was good."

"Good? Just good?"

A rush of remorse and longing made Blanche admit the truth. "He was the best lover I ever had."

"And you let him go." Maureen said flatly. "Blanche, Blanche..." She paused, and Blanche could almost see Mo shaking her head. "He got to you, didn’t he?"

"Maybe a little." Maybe a lot, you liar....

"B, why?" Maureen asked quietly. "Why won’t you let somebody love you? Why not go for it?"

Blanche sat with the phone pressed to her ear, staring blankly at the carpet. "I don’t know," she said finally. "But it doesn’t matter anymore. He won’t be back."

* * *

His fingers formed a loose ring around the glass of sour mash balanced on his belly. A cigarette lay burning in an ashtray on the floor beside him, the smoke curling to the ceiling, the tobacco a long unbroken cylinder of gray ash. He’d forgotten it was there.

Cortland Davis was well on his way to a good drunk.

The glass wobbled and he gripped it tighter, then lifted it to his mouth. Too all fired lazy to sit up and drink like a man, he craned his neck and sucked at the lip of the tumbler until he managed a mouthful. The bourbon went down smooth and sweet, made a fine heat in his belly. Naked, he lay back on his sofa, his legs crossed at the ankles, his ass sagging into the space between the cushions. His cock lay exposed and soft over his thigh, spent and satisfied for the time being. He’d just sent the whore home with a thank you ma’am and a five hundred dollar tip.

There was music playing low, just loud enough to be a distraction in the background. He couldn’t fathom the number of choices available to him in this time of overabundance, and so he found a few things he liked and stuck with them. After the article in the Sun, he’d looked up the Allman Brothers and listened to Midnight Rider. The song was fine, even if he didn’t think much of the article. Johnny Cash reminded Cort of his own time, when a guitar and a man’s voice singing a haunting tune was enough to entertain. In the right mood he liked the Stones...there was something about the driving beat and their dark lyrics that breathed life into the darkness in him. But for tonight, for this mood, he chose the Eagles. Because music can talk to a man, talk right to his soul. Like the song playing was doing right then.

She’d been blonde, the whore. Blue-eyes. Fair to middlin’ tall with average sized tits. As close as he could get to the woman whose cold indifference hadn’t stopped the wanting. If he couldn’t have Blanche Donovan, he was going to fuck someone who looked like her. So when he punched in the number, he told the lady on the other end of the line he wanted a blonde whore dressed in tight jeans, with her hair loose and flowing down her back.

But it was no good. He should have known it wouldn’t be. The minute she walked into his house he wanted her out, but the ache in his balls forced him to use her. Disgust a sour taste in his mouth, he’d bent her over the back of his couch and screwed her fast and hard, wanting only the release. And to his shame, he’d gotten rough at the end when the heat had evolved into anger that it wasn’t Blanche under him, her sweet ass molded to his groin. It wasn’t her shoulder he kissed, the right shoulder with the tiny mole that drew his lips like a dot of chocolate. Suddenly furious, his hands gripped the whore’s hips so hard he left bruises, and he pressed his face into her neck and grunted through his need like an animal. He’d scared her, but in a town like Vegas, cash fixes most everything. Well, cash and a sincere apology...he hadn’t meant to hurt her. In the end she left him happy, her fat tip tucked safely away in her bra.

The track changed and the voice came low and mournful. He listened, knowing he shouldn’t.

The fucking song made him ache inside. Cort tipped the heavy glass tumbler and drained it. The bottle was handy, right there on the floor next to the ashtray. He saw the burned out cigarette, decided against another, and filled up his glass again, spilling a few drops that ran down his chest to pool in his navel. He squinted, snorted a laugh.

Sent that whore away...now there’s nobody here to lick it up.

For the last two weeks he’d done his best to put Blanche Donovan out of his mind. Buried himself in work that required intense concentration. Stayed out of the Café to offset the chance he’d run into her. Cort reckoned as long as he was mad, it was best to keep out of her way. But he wasn’t so mad anymore. The anger had faded until all that was left was the hurting. The hurting and the wanting. He just wanted to see her. Touch her hand, hold it. Talk to her, talk her around to his way of thinking. For Christ’s sake, a fucking blind man could see they were perfect for each other.

He kept thinking of that last day, the day that started so good and ended so ugly. The fear that made Blanche run from him. That look in her eyes, God knows he recognized it. He’d seen it in the mirror enough times. Fear ate at you like a flock of crows on roadkill, kept you from taking the right path because you were too scared to put one foot in front of the other. That’s where his Angel was right now, stopped dead in the middle of the road, afraid to take the turn to him. He knew it. And he had experience enough to know the only way to conquer fear was to face it down.

The best defense was to take the offense. Hit first, because dead men don’t hit back. John Herod had taught him that. Someone had taught Blanche the same lesson. She’d hurt him with that hard voice, those cold eyes.

"Like a bullet in my heart, darlin’..." he muttered, his hand unconsciously rubbing his chest.

But he would get her. She’d hurt him, but he’d been hurt before and got over it. If in the end, she kicked his heart to hell and back, well, he’d get over it again. It would be one sweet ride while it lasted. Nothing worth having comes without risk, and goddammit, Blanche was worth it.

In one fluid movement Cort sat up and tipped the glass back again. He gulped Kentucky’s finest like it was water, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The fuck if he’d sit here another day mooning over a woman who didn’t have the sense to see where she belonged. By Christ, he’d make her see.

He stood up and his bare foot kicked his phone. It skittered across the carpet, and came to rest against the wall where it lay, silently tempting. He stared at it, wondering if he should call her. Maybe if they weren’t looking at each other, it would be easier to say the things that needed saying.

He bent, picked up the phone. Yes. No. Held it a moment before he flipped it open and dialed.

Two rings, three. It was five in the morning, she was probably in bed. He was ready to snap the phone closed when the ringing stopped. He waited for her to speak. Waited.

The silence stretched. He heard the soft susurration of her breath, knew she heard his. One minute passed, two, and still neither of them spoke. He couldn’t bring himself to speak and break this silent spell, this sense of communion. Unconsciously, Cort’s thumb caressed black plastic as if it were her skin. Jesus, Blanche...

With a click so faint it was something he sensed more than heard, the connection ended. Dead silence told him she’d hung up. He lowered the phone and pressed the ‘end’ button. Her presence was still with him, hovering in the air like a drift of perfume.

A glance out the window showed faint gray washing the sky and far above him, the full moon paled. Dawn. A new day. Maybe another chance to make it right. Cort stretched, dragged his weary body into the bedroom and crawled between cool sheets. A few hours to sleep it off and he’d get up and call Spelling. Have him send someone smart to LA and find out what the hell Blanche was hiding, because his tough little Queen of Diamonds would never tell him, not even if he begged. But once Cort knew, it would be all over but the shouting. Whatever her demon was, he’d face it down with her, show her it didn’t matter. Because it didn’t. Not to him.

* * *

Steve Bedell checked his watch. Four o’clock sharp.

"Class dismissed," he announced. "I’ll see you all next time...except you, of course, Ramon." The other kids hid smiles while Ramon Guiterrez stared him down. Bedell stared back, his eyes cold. He waited until the last of his after school class students filed out of the room. The good kids were always reluctant to go, they played for extra time, carefully tucking their notes away, lingering to ask a question or comment on the lesson. But today Ramon Guiterrez was the last to leave, swaggering out the door behind Salma Comacho, his eyes on her rear end, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth, a sound he made incredibly vulgar.

Ramon shouldn’t even have been in his class, but the principal had asked if the kid could work off some detention time so he could graduate with his class in the spring. Steve didn’t give a damn if Guiterrez graduated or not, and doubted Ramon did either. His attitude certainly didn’t show any signs of improvement...Ramon was a sullen, smart-assed little bastard. Seemed like the only reason he came to school was to torment nice girls like Salma.

Scowling, Bedell picked his notes up from the lectern and bent to lift his briefcase from the floor.

"Your name Steve Bedell?"

The voice startled him, and he jerked upright. The last time someone had asked him that question, they’d been the bearer of bad news. The hulking man at the door had the same look about him as the other cop had. Steve sighed and set the briefcase on his desk, began stuffing it with test papers. "Yes, I’m Steve Bedell. Who are you?"

The man advanced into the room, flipped a wallet open to show a private investigator’s license. "Name’s Ray Andreen. I’m a PI out of Nevada." Without asking if Steve minded, he pulled up a chair and sat beside the desk. "I have a couple of questions about a woman named Blanche Donovan. You know her, right?"

Steve grimaced. "Used to know her," he corrected.

"Yeah? What happened, she dump you?"

Steve’s lip curled. "Hardly."

"So what? You two were engaged, right?"

His briefcase was full. Steve snapped the locks closed and lifted it, ready to go. "It’s nobody’s business what happened. Now if you’ll excuse me..."

Ray Andreen stood to his full height, a menacing six feet four. "I don’t think I will excuse you, Mr. Bedell. Sit down. We’re gonna have us a little talk."

* * *

It made Salma nervous when Ramon followed her down the echoing corridor. And that disgusting tsk noise he made, it embarrassed her. It sounded like...well, it sounded like a wet woman grabbing at a man. She glanced down the hall and saw that nobody was around. It was late, her friends had already left school and the corridor was deserted. She knew if she stopped at her locker for her books, Ramon would corner her. And then what would she do?

Ramon was trouble, everybody knew it. Even her papa had warned her about him, said he was into drugs and the gangs. Salma knew Papa was right. Her cousin had told her Ramon banged with the Mara Salvatrucha, and even ran dope sometimes for a couple of dealers up in Los Feliz. And now he’s following me...Madre! She slowed her steps, shifted her books to her left arm.

Though she had quickened her steps, Ramon was so close behind she could feel his body heat. Her heart hammering in fear, instead of going to her locker Salma made the right turn into the girls’ lav and leaned against the door as it sighed closed, hoping Ramon wouldn’t follow her inside. It wouldn’t be the first time a boy at Hollywood High pulled that trick, but thank God, he didn’t. She waited a few minutes and then peeked out though a tiny crack. No Ramon. She blew the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding out in a relieved sigh.

But as soon as she came back to the main corridor, she realized she’d been duped. Ramon was still there, lounging near her locker. Salma stopped dead and stared at him, fear coursing through her veins again. Behind her, she could hear Mr. Bedell’s voice talking to someone in his classroom and an idea sprang into her head. She’d go to him, ask if he’d walk her to her locker. That would scare Ramon off. She turned and headed back toward Room 209. Ramon’s footsteps came up fast behind her and Salma broke into a run.

But he caught her outside the door and clapped a hand over her mouth. "Calle te, nina..." he whispered, and with his free arm, he pressed up under her breasts until her breath choked in her lungs.

He hadn’t really meant to scare her. It just pissed him off that she wouldn’t talk to him, wouldn’t even look at him. Ah Dios, Salma Comacho with her madonna’s face and quiet manners. She was one of the prettiest girls in the school and he was loco for her. But she thought she was too good for him. It was infuriating and now that he had her, instead of kissing her pretty mouth and sweet talking her, his temper took over and he decided to show her who was el jefe. The boss.

And then he heard something that piqued his interest even more than the trembling breathless girl he held tight against his body. Although they spoke quietly, in the silence of the vacant corridor, the voices inside Room 209 were crystal clear. Ramon’s head came up and he almost loosened his hold on the terrified girl when he heard Steve Bedell say, "The cop told me she was suspected of stealing money from a drug bust. Said it was a big take, over half a million dollars. And he said it made the LAPD look bad when their own cops couldn’t be trusted."

There was a low whistle. "Over five hundred large. So that’s why you broke it off with Blanche Donovan?"

The history teacher replied curtly, "That’s why. I didn’t want to marry a thief."

The other voice was sarcastic: "So even though there was no proof, you dumped this Blanche just in case, huh? Nice guy, pal."

Out in the corridor, Ramon whispered, "Don’t make a fucking sound," and when Salma nodded, he loosened his hold. He didn’t bother to watch her silent sprint down the corridor; he was edging closer to the door, his ears strained to catch the rest. Because Ramon Guiterrez knew when he heard information worth passing on.