Page 14 of Forbidden Love Still Blooms

Grabbing the box by the handle, I duck through the packed shop. Once I'm outside, I fill my lungs until they ache. Then I do it again.This is it. Here we go.I have to find Dezmond. I can't risk waiting any longer.

I'm not stupid, though. After how he robbed me last night, I'm not going to walk up to him with more money in my hands. I head to the bank first. The trip is easy as my car drives smoothly on its new tire. It's amazing it was the only damage after the impact.

My lunch break is normally forty-five minutes. The bank trip eats ten of that. There's no way to know how long it will take me to find Dez. Luckily, his reputation means I'm not shooting blind. I have a list of locations to work through. His hunting grounds are limited to bars, strip clubs, gambling halls, and his friends' houses. It's noon, so only a few of those places are open.

The further I get from the ocean, the more run-down the town becomes. The cops clean up the areas that draw the most tourists and the most money. Here in the back alleys, where the fresh salt air can’t reach, money still exists. It’s just dirtier.

Pulling my car into the parking lot of a Denny’s, I peer into my rear-view mirror. Behind me, on the other side of the street, is a small plaza. Eight stores are squeezed together on two levels connected by rusty metal stairs. The top level is a massage hut that no one looking for an actual massage goes to. There's a closet sized convenience store selling lotto tickets, old hot dogs, and over-priced condoms. Strangely enough, I've heard the tattoo shop in the right-hand corner does excellent work. I'm not here for any of that.

I've ridden by two bars Dez is known to frequent, The Drip Head and The Surfside, and saw him at neither. I'm not ready to enter a strip club and see what sort of regulars show up at lunch time. The tinted door of the poker den glows with a red-light sign declaring “Big Money! Jackpot Over One Million!”

Checking the parking lot around me, satisfied it's clear, I hop out, lock my car, then rush across the road. There's parking in the cramped plaza, but it's riskier to be seen there. I'm hoping to be in and out, business complete, without being recognized. The last thing I need is more gossip.

The entrance to the poker den is partially hidden by the steps that lead to the shops upstairs. Outside it claims to be a pool hall—the owner can't legally run it otherwise—but everyone knows what to expect once you enter the smoke-filled room.

It's dark; my eyes take a bit to adjust from the daylight outside. Blinking rapidly, I turn my head to get my bearings. I'm in a tight hallway that spills into a room no more than a hundred-by-hundred square feet. The mirrors along each wall create the illusion it’s bigger.

There are four pool tables that barely pass as green, their surface scraped raw by use. Nearest to me is a small bar with two televisions overhead; one plays UFC reruns, the other displays the winning numbers of the various keno games. Stacks of red and white paper stand tall at every stool next to overflowing ashtrays; men sitting at the bar scribble on the little paper slips, waiting for their numbers to come up in between sips of beer.

The bartender looks up when I enter. He winces at the sunlight that enters the room before vanishing as the door closes behind me. There are quarter-size gauges in his ears. His eyes are black and piercing when he stares me up and down. Ignoring his suspicion, I start searching the room.

Dezmond's harsh shout of “Fucking fuck!” draws me to him right away. He's slumped at a tiny circular table in a far-left corner. His fingers clutch blue playing cards, holding them so roughly they crease. Surrounding him are three other men, all of them laughing derisively.

My heart starts its nervous little dance.Here we go.Wetting my lips, I walk across the room. One of the men sees me coming, whispers something to the skinny freckled man sitting closest. They both stare at me, and that catches Dezmond's attention. When he sees me, his eyes widen, and it's enough to let me know he didn't expect me to show up here.

“Dez,” I say when I'm in earshot.

He lifts his glass, draining it so the ice bangs his lips. Wiping his mouth, he slams the empty drink onto the table. “Hey, sweetheart. Come to play cards?”

“We need to talk.”

“Then talk. I don't need my ears, just my hands for this.” He throws his cards into the center of the table. There are piles of poker chips in front of every guy but him. “Deal me in,” he says.

The hot and curious stares of the other men are fixed on me. I keep my attentionon Dezmond, ignoring them. “Not here. Can we go outside for a minute?”

“No can do, I'm on a hot-streak.”

My confusion deepens—I look again at the table. The dealer, a man with a gaunt face, red hair, and dirty nails is passing out cards. “You don't have any chips," I say.

Dez snorts, motions at the dealer. “Nah. I'm good for another hundred-dollar buy in. Right, Alemo?”

Alemo slaps the rest of the deck down next to his right hand. “Sure, man. Why not. Long as you got more of that heavy load you keep bragging about.”

“Dezmond, stop,” I insist. “This is really important. Please.”

His grin is massive. “Please? Wow. Wow, wow.” Leaning towards me, Dez runs his tongue over his top row of teeth. “You're much nicer when you need something.”

Heat flushes through my body; pure humiliated fury. “Stop playing your game and talk to me. We can go over there in the corner. We don’t even have to leave.”

“He’s in the middle of a hand,” Alemo says. “Let him finish it out.”

“Didn’t you lose the last one?” I ask angrily, remembering how Dez had been cursing.

“He lost the last five,” the freckled man snorts.

“What?” I ask, my anger growing by the second. “Why the hell do you think you’re on a hot streak then?”

“Because,” Dez says, flipping up his cards to look them over, “it’s the odds. Lose enough times in a row and you’re owed a win.”

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