Page 3 of More With You

Yawning, I burst through the swing door out of the casino floor and head down a stark, strip-lit corridor to the staff room. The fluorescent lighting stings my eyes, my feet dragging along the vinyl floor. I’m tired, all of a sudden. Exhausted. The adrenaline rush of dealing high-stakes cards drains out of me; the high turning into a crushing come-down.

I quickly change out of my uniform, rank with the scent of cigarettes. In jeans and a tank, I’ve shed my work skin like a snake. The smoke is the worst thing about working in the Diamond Palm. It reminds me of my childhood and the wrinkled noses of my classmates when I’d walk past, praying they wouldn’t comment or mockingly try to spritz me with some sugary thing from Victoria’s Secret. Even now, that acrid scent of tobacco brings back dimly lit memories of my mom, surrounded by a haze of bluish smoke, as she lounged on her latest booty call, lighting a fresh cigarette from the burning tip of his.

And you wonder why I avoid men like the plague, Mom.

Dropping my uniform into a Ziploc bag I use for laundry so the smell of cigarettes won’t infiltrate everything else in my car, my house, my other clothes, I head back out. The slap of my flip-flops against my heels echoes through the employee parking lot, tucked away in the casino’s underbelly. It always freaks me out at night, and the harsh rasp of someone clearing their throat does nothing to put me at ease.

I’ve got pepper spray. Don’t think I won’t use it, I warn silently, hurrying to fish my keys out of my purse. I hear my grandma’s voice in my head: “Always take your keys out before you get to where you’ve parked your car. Always take your keys out before you get out of the car to walk up to your front door. Always put your house keys between your fingers.” She’d drilled it into me.

Rushing to my car door, I finger the pepper spray canister attached to my keyring. I’m not skittish without reason. A few months ago, I had a run-in down here with a drunk casino guest who thought this was the taxi stand. Security stepped in before I had to use the pepper spray on him, which I was obviously grateful for, but they can’t be everywhere all the time.

“Play nice,” I murmur to my crusty Honda Civic. “I’m getting you a shiny new tail light.”

The engine rumbles to life and, just like that, I’m pulling out of the parking structure and flooring it along the beach road, with the arcing bridge silhouetted up ahead by a full moon. I turn onto it and wind down my windows, comforted by the salty, somewhat rotten scent of low tide that breezes in and the thump-thump of my tires as I drive across. I can’t explain it, but there’s something soothing about driving over a body of water, putting distance between “this” and “that.” It’s cleansing for my soul, like I’m pushing through the water instead of whizzing over it.

A loud ringing disturbs my meditation, followed by the pulse of red caution lights. The barriers have come down across the center of the bridge, signaling that it’s going to open for a tall-masted sailboat or, maybe, a fishing boat.

I put my scrappy Honda into park and watch the operator push the button that cuts the bridge in two. I’ve come to know the faces of the operators—this one is different from the day guy. Grumpier, scowling at the button like he wishes he could hammer it into a different job. The day guy is always smiling, and has an easel set up in the booth. I’ve never gotten close enough to see what he’s painting, but, with the view of the pristine beach front and the wild landscape of the Sound, he can’t be short on inspiration.

The nightshift guy talks into his radio, presumably to the boat captain passing through. A few minutes later, the bridge begins to slot back into one whole piece, and the dinging that accompanies the caution lights comes to an abrupt stop. As soon as the barrier lifts, I’m away again, breezing toward the less offensive illuminations of the opposite shore.

I smile as the sound of a horn wafts in on the thick, salty air. It’s not the sound of a car horn, blaring at me to speed up, but a brass horn. A jazz band must be at the Quarter Mile tonight.

I could use a drink… The Quarter Mile—so called, creatively, because it’s a quarter mile off the main road—is one of my favorite after-work haunts. Shrouded by live oaks draped in Spanish moss, right on the back bay, there’s no better place to forget the slog of the night. And their whiskey sours are not to be missed, especially with a chaser of live jazz. Musicians come up from New Orleans most nights to play there, and there’s no telling what you’ll hear or what kind of magic they’ll conjure in such a mystical setting.

I point my headlights in the direction of the sax solo that has just sent the fireflies wild, down by the marshy shore, and head straight for it.

2

SUMMER

The bar is the kind that only locals know about. From the parking lot, it looks like an oversized swamp shack, dwarfed by ancient live oaks, with a sloping veranda and soot-streaked windows, lit up by lanterns on the sills. Most tourists are put off by the exterior, but once you set foot inside, it’s clear that this place is nothing short of enchanting. Every time, it’s like stepping into a different era, and I’ll never get enough of the atmospheric escapism.

“Looks like my luck did change.” A smarmy voice cuts through me like razor wire. I’m five paces from my car, my flip flops crunching over the gravel parking lot. I don’t need to turn; I know that voice.

“I’m not on the clock now, Levi,” I shoot back. A piece of gravel lodges under the arch of my foot, hobbling me to a standstill until I can shake it out. It’s lost, somewhere between my toes.

Slow, shambling footsteps approach on my right. “What’s the rush, honey?” The zombie appears: his words slurring. “It’s a beautiful… night, and I think you… owe me after I threw you that… yellow earlier tonight.”

“You didn’t tip me a yellow, Levi.” I know I shouldn’t engage, but I can’t help it.

Grinning through his too-bright porcelains, his eyes glassy, he’s suddenly in front of me, and he’s too damn close. He’s swaying slightly and I can smell the bourbon and cigar smoke on his breath. How did he get here so quickly? More to the point, why is he here? Couldn’t he have just stayed in his lane, letting me leave my work life behind on the other side of the bridge? Apparently not.

I try to step to the side, but he mirrors me. “Back off, Levi. I don’t owe you anything and you know it. You had a good night at the table, a good run. But this isn’t the casino.”

I sidestep again. He lumbers with me, doing some kind of drunken grapevine like he’s the worst member of an amateur line dancing group. I know I’m quicker, but he’s bigger, covering more ground in one step. Plus, from the cocktails I’ve seen him chug at the casino a hundred times, he’s a high-functioning drunk. For all I know, this could be an act, to lure me into a false sense of security about my soberness and his lack of it. I doubt even he could get this wasted between leaving the casino and my arrival here.

“Aww, come on, Summer. Don’t be like that.” He flails a hand out, missing my chest by an inch. I can almost feel the scrape of dirty fingernails on cotton. “I’m not asking for much, just a flash of your tits in that top; they’re so fucking perky. I just want to…” He giggles as he makes a squeezing motion, his class ring glinting in the bronzed light that’s spilling out from the bar. For the first time, possibly ever, I’m willing there to be some smokers on the veranda, who’ll charge out of their toxic haze to help me with a greater health hazard.

When no cavalry appears, and he reaches for me again, I smack his hand out of the way. “Levi, I swear to God, if you touch me, I’m going to scream so loud that—”

He lurches forward and I stagger back, morphing my threat into a gasp of fright. I’m not used to seeing him with legs attached, since they’re usually out of my view at the high stakes table. He’s taller than I thought, more imposing than I could’ve imagined. I do my best to maintain my poker face of calm, but my heart is pounding like a hummingbird’s and every instinct inside me is telling me to run.

“Whoa… why is the sky spinning?” Levi slaps a palm to his forehead, like that was his intention all along, driving his fingers across his crispy hair. He blinks slowly, like there’s something—bourbon, probably—in his eyes.

I take another step back, feeling the ridge of a car hood against my spine. “Because you’re drunk, idiot.”

“I might be drunk, and you might be beautiful, but I’ll still be drunk in the morning,” he purrs, frowning. “Wait… that ain’t right. I might be drunk, and you might be beautiful, but we’ll both be together in the morning. Yeah, that sounds more like it.” He edges closer, bringing his hand up to my face.

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