5. Gabby
Gabby
The pit boss’s eyes find mine across the floor, and my stomach drops.
Raymond’s got a radio in his hand, and he’s looking at me the way people look at you when they already know the answer to the question they’re about to ask.
I’m in trouble. Did they find out who I am? Did my ID fail? Greg promised me that I could keep it. He told me it was real enough.
Greg also warned me about trying to work at a casino. The background checks were a lot harder to pass than a basic inquiry at a minimum-wage job.
Shit, shit, shit.
He walks toward me. I keep my face calm through sheer force of will.
“Collins.” He stops at the edge of my table. “Do you have a son?”
Every muscle in my body locks up.
“Excuse me?”
“A little boy. Dark hair.”
My heart is pounding so hard that I feel like I might vomit.
“What happened?” I ask. “Is he okay?”
He sneers at me, snaps his fingers, and another dealer rushes over to my table.
He gets in my space. “How fucking stupid can you be?” he hisses. “You brought your fucking kid to work?”
I shove past him. “He’s not a fucking kid.”
I walk away, heading for the break room where I’d left Luke. I round the corner, dash down the steps to the lower level, and barrel into the break room. I stop so fast that I almost fall flat on my face. Nikolai Sokolov is standing against the wall with his arms crossed.
Luke is exactly where I left him. Sitting on the couch watching his cartoons. I notice the juice in his hand.
Safe.
He didn’t run off. He’s not wandering down Las Vegas Boulevard.
And then reality hits. I’m about to lose my job. A job that’s barely keeping a roof over our heads.
“I am so sorry.” The words tumble out. “My babysitter cancelled twenty minutes before I had to be at work. I don’t have anyone else to call.
I know this is unacceptable, and it will absolutely never happen again.
I promise you it will never happen again, I just…
I had no other option, and I thought if I kept him in the break room and he was quiet…
” I stop because I’m rambling. I pull in a breath. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Nikolai is watching me with those pale eyes. I genuinely cannot read him. He’s a wall. A very tall, very sexy wall. He would make a very good poker player.
And that almost makes me laugh, given where we are.
“He’s four?” he asks.
“Four and a half.”
He says nothing. I resist the urge to keep talking. I’ve already said too much.
“He didn’t answer when I asked his name,” he says finally.
My heart dips. “He doesn’t talk much to people he doesn’t know.” I glance at Luke, who has not looked up once through any of this. “He’s not being rude. He just… he’s selective.”
Nikolai looks at Luke. Luke focuses on SpongeBob.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “He’s a really good kid. I knew he’d stay right here.”
“Go home,” Nikolai says.
My shoulders sag. I knew this was the likely outcome, but I had no other option.
I take a second to pull myself together and then find the courage to look at him. He’s watching me.
“When can I pick up my last check?” I ask.
“Your last check?”
“Yes. Can someone pay me today?”
“You’re not fired.”
“I’m not?”
“Go home. Find a babysitter.”
I’m not fired. Thank fuck.
My head bobs up and down. “Yes, sir. I will. Thank you. I promise, I won’t do this again.”
“What’s his name?”
“Luke.”
“And you?”
“Me?”
“What’s your name?”
I point to my nametag. “Gabby.”
And then he’s gone. I step out into the hall and watch him walk away.
“Weird,” I murmur.
I go back into the room and turn off the TV. I kiss Luke’s forehead. “Let’s go, buddy.”
He slides off the couch, puts on his backpack, and dutifully follows me out of the casino and to my car. Once I get him loaded in, I sit in the driver’s seat for a moment with both hands on the wheel and just breathe.
I still have a job. I don’t know why, but I still have a job.
“Mama.”
“Yeah, buddy.”
“We’re out of chicken nuggets.”
I close my eyes. He’s right. I used the last of them two nights ago and told him I’d get more. But I didn’t because I didn’t make the tips I’d hoped to.
“I know,” I say. “We’ll stop.”
I pull out of the parking garage and head to the grocery store. I tally my tips in my head while I drive. A short shift meant few tips, but could I really tell my son that I can’t buy him a six-dollar bag of nuggets?
It’s fine. I’ll make it work. I always make it work.
In the grocery store, Luke walks beside me with his hand on the cart like I’ve taught him to.
“Hey. Hey, stop.”
I look around and see a guy watching me. I instinctively push Luke behind me. It’s been five years, but I will never stop looking over my shoulder.
“Me?” I ask.
He starts to walk toward me. My hand slips into my purse, and to the can of bear spray I keep. Greg told me to carry a gun, but I was too afraid to have it around Luke.
“Don’t I know you?” he asks.
I swallow. “No.”
He nods. “Yeah, I do. You work at the casino, right?”
“Look, I’m just trying to get some groceries,” I tell him.
“Let me get your number.”
“No.”
He laughs. “You’re cold.”
I don’t dare turn my back on him, but I do take a few steps backward.
“I need you to leave me alone,” I tell him.
He scoffs. “Whatever. No need to freak out.”
I stare at him until he walks away.
I relax, release the bear spray, and turn around. “Alright, let’s finish shopping.”
I grab the chicken nuggets, a bag of frozen peas because I can stretch those across several meals, a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a carton of eggs.
I stand in the cereal aisle for a long moment, looking at the box of the dinosaur cereal he likes, which costs a dollar fifty more than the store brand.
I put the store brand in the cart. Then I stand there another second and swap it back for the dinosaur one.
He’s four. He can have the dinosaur cereal. The kid doesn’t get new clothes or even Netflix. He gets dinosaur fucking cereal.
I put back the yogurt I’d grabbed for myself. And the granola bars. I don’t need them. I can have a peanut butter sandwich.
I watch the numbers climb on the register screen at the checkout and do the quiet math in my head. I’m silently praying it’s not more than the cash I have in my purse.
There was a time that I never looked at a price tag.
A life that allowed me to walk into a grocery store, or send someone in for me, and the word “budget” didn’t exist. I grew up in a penthouse in Manhattan, with six bedrooms and a housekeeper named Rosa.
Then it was to the brownstone with a summer house in the Hamptons and a closet full of things that cost more than I made in a year.
And the price for all of it was paid in a currency I can’t put a word to without feeling sick.
I’d take cockroaches and chicken nuggets and store-brand everything over one more day of that life. I’d take my shitty car and not think twice.
I count out the cash from the tips I earned and almost cry when I have eighty cents left over.
I give Luke the lightest bag to carry. I’m trying to teach him responsibility.
I scan the parking lot. The guy in the grocery store spooked me.
I am alone in the world. When I left the witness protection program six months ago, I thought I was ready.
I did it because I wanted to put down roots, and they had me moving every six months, landing in tiny towns with no resources for my son.
And now, I was on my own. If someone recognized me, it was up to me to find somewhere else to run to. That would be hard to do with eighty cents to my name.
I double-lock the door as soon as we step inside at home. “Stay here,” I tell Luke.
I do a sweep. Bathroom, closet, behind the shower curtain. Luke stands in front of the door and watches me do it. He never asks questions about the checking. It’s part of our life.
I set the grocery bags on the counter and start putting things away. Luke settles on the far end of the couch in his little blanket nest. It’s too hot for it, but that doesn’t bother him. The window unit rattles and hums. The apartment is eighty-two degrees. It’s the best it’s going to get.
He’s wrapped in his soft minky blanket. The one Greg sent him for Christmas. He’s got several similar ones, but he loves that one the most.
He doesn’t need it for warmth. He needs it the way I need to check the locks. It settles him.
“Nuggets in twenty minutes,” I tell him.
He nods without looking up from the book he’s pulled into his lap, tracing the outline of a stegosaurus with one small finger.
I go back to the kitchen and start the oven.
While it preheats, I stand at the counter with a glass of water, staring at the toaster and thinking about the cockroach from last night.
I haven’t seen another one today. That means nothing.
They’re patient. They outlived the dinosaurs, and they’ll outlive me.
I make myself a peanut butter sandwich and eat it standing at the counter.
When the nuggets are done, I cut them in half, the way Luke likes, and put them on the plastic plate with the T. rex on the bottom. I bring it to him with a cup of milk and sit on the couch beside him.
“Good?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says.
Luke finishes, drinks his milk, and hands me the plate with the T. rex showing.
“Good job,” I say.
He almost smiles.
Bath, pajamas, teeth. The same order every night, the same songs I hum without realizing. He gets into bed, and I tuck the minky blanket around him even though sweat is gathering at his hairline. He won’t sleep without it. We’ve tried.
I read him two pages of the dinosaur book and kiss him goodnight.
Outside, a car alarm goes off somewhere down the block and then stops. Las Vegas never really goes quiet. You learn to sleep through it, or you don’t sleep.
The burner phone is in the box of tampons in the bathroom. I pull it out and go into the living room. I don’t take it out for anything except this. One contact. No name saved.
“Hey, kiddo,” Greg answers.
Hearing his voice makes me smile.
“Hey,” I say.
“How are things?”
“Good,” I say. “Really good, actually.”
The lie is easy. I’ve been telling it for six months. It didn’t used to be a lie.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah. Work is going well. Luke’s good. We’re good.”
“He eating okay?”
“Like a champion. We found this dinosaur cereal he’s obsessed with.”
“That’s good. A new food.” A pause. “You’re being careful.”
It isn’t quite a question.
“Always,” I say.
“Nothing unusual? No one’s been around? Nobody asking questions?”
“Greg, I’m fine. I promise.”
He exhales. “I know. I just worry.”
“I know you do, and I love you for it.”
“You know you can tell me if you’re struggling.”
“How are you?” I change the subject.
“Same as always.” Another pause. “Getting closer to that retirement date.”
“Good, you deserve it.”
“Call me next week. Same time.”
“I will.”
“And Gabby?”
“Yeah.”
“You know you can tell me if something’s wrong.”
I almost tell him that I need help. He’s sent me money before.
But I need to do this on my own.
“I know.”
“Take care of yourself, Gabby. Not just him. Yourself, too.”
“I will. Night, Greg.”
“Goodnight, kiddo.”
I take a deep breath. Tomorrow will be better. It has to be.