He sat down next to her, put an arm over her shoulder, and clinked her glass in a silent toast. He seemed sullen and preoccupied, which puzzled her.
“How was Vegas?”
“Fine.”
She took a delicate sip and let the expensive wine loll on her tongue before swallowing, just like the wine reps did when they hosted staff tastings at Pearl Club. “That’s it, it was fine?”
“Just business. Boring compared to you.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “I’ve been thinking.”
Melody sensed a subtle shift between them and felt a wisp of anticipation stirring through her body. She’d suspected for a while that he might ask her to move in with him, and now might be the time. And how would she react? Not too enthusiastically, she decided. “About what?”
“Pearl Club. I want you to quit.”
She blinked at him, confounded. He might as well have dumped a bucket of ice water over her. “What are you talking about?”
He glowered into his wine, then got up and started pacing. “You heard me. It’s not a good place for you, for us. Shitheads like Markus Ellenbeck drooling over you all night—hitting on you—it’s embarrassing and makes me sick. I don’t want you around him, and I don’t want you at Pearl. I can’t take it anymore.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not. Quit.”
She felt her mouth slip open in astonishment. How could this even be a topic of conversation, let alone a serious one? “I can’t quit. I make great money and I have rent and tuition to pay.”
“I’m sure you can find something else that pays just as well where they don’t make you dress like a…” He eyed her abbreviated tank top and shorts disdainfully. “Like that.”
Melody’s stomach knotted and her heart was pounding so hard that she could feel the throb in her temples. Ryan was being outrageous, ridiculous, and so viciously cold. She felt brittle all over, on the verge of shattering. But she couldn’t find any words. She would be like millions of other people who tossed and turned in their beds tonight, imagining what clever, cutting things they might have said.
“Guys hit on me, big deal,” she finally said, hating how feeble her voice sounded. “Pearl Club isn’t unique in that regard.”
He stopped pacing and sipped his wine thoughtfully. “Maybe you like it.”
“And maybe, since you haven’t offered any alternatives, this conversation is over.” She stood abruptly and grabbed her jacket. “I’m not fighting about this, it’s ludicrous.”
“Come on, Mel, don’t ruin things over a stupid job. We have fun together, and you want to keep having fun, don’t you? I know I do.”
Fury and heartbreak didn’t seem to go together, yet those were the two overwhelming emotions she felt. “That sounds like an ultimatum.”
He shrugged apathetically. “It’s just a choice. I’m surprised you’re finding it such a difficult one to make.”
Stand up for yourself.
“I’m not quitting,” she said with resolve. “Pearl Club helped me pull my life together and it’s paying for my education, which should be more important to you than your fragile ego.”
His speed startled her and she couldn’t duck fast enough. Suddenly, she was fifteen again, semiconscious on the filthy floor of her father’s trailer in eastern Coachella Valley. Bright, spiky stars floated behind her closed eyes and his hateful voice was remote, thick and garbled, like it was coming from someplace far away. But not far enough.
One day you’re gonna learn to keep your mouth shut, you stupid little bitch.
Chapter Five
SAM WAS SITTING IN THE HOT sand, playing poker with Kev, Shaggy, and Wilson. Old-school, five-card stud because they were all sick of Texas Hold’em. They were drinking Cokes they wished were beers, trash-talking each other, laughing. Planning the next prank that would keep everybody from hanging themselves.
The landscape was desolate, except for a free-standing Pizza Hut guarded by two goats with bells shaped like guns hanging from their skinny necks. More goats materialized, coming down from the distant mountains, followed by military personnel from enlisted to generals. They swirled around them, oblivious to their presence and their poker game.
Except for Captain Greer, who approached them carrying a tower of pizza boxes. “I’m in for the next hand with pepperoni and extra cheese.” He tossed the boxes on top of the kitty, made up of the dog tags of dead service members.
Sam searched the crowd of humans and goats. “Where’s Rondo?”
“Who cares?” Kev said.
“Probably off by himself, unraveling somewhere,” Shaggy snorted. “Dude’s not cut out for this shit.”
Wilson was flicking his fingers against his cards impatiently. “Weak of the herd. Guy like that could get us all killed.”
Sam couldn’t understand why his friends were being such assholes. “He’s still got our backs, cut him some slack.” He looked to Captain Greer, who was busy feeding a slice of pizza to a goat.
“We won’t leave anyone behind,” he finally said. “Not even Rondo.”
Wilson called the hand and Sam threw down a full house. Black aces and eights. The dead man’s hand.
“Lucky fucker!” Shaggy howled, throwing his cards in the air.
Kev smiled. He didn’t have any teeth, and there were dark holes where his eyes should have been. “Not so lucky.” He slapped down four of a kind, made up of decapitated queens.
A scowling Afghan air force officer appeared, wearing a powdered wig and a shredded, black judge’s robe over his uniform. “It doesn’t count if the queens don’t have heads. Off with their heads!”
Everyone but Sam started laughing. Even the goats were laughing. He started to panic. “Where’s Rondo?” he asked again.
“Rondo’s gone,” Wilson said solemnly. “We’re all gone. Go home, Sam.”
“I don’t know where that is anymore.”
“Sure you do. For fuck’s sake, don’t stay here.”
Everything flashed white, then red. In the distance, a child screamed as a set of bloody dog tags flew through the air and landed on his lap. They seared his hands when he turned them over to read the name: Ronald Doerr. Rondo.
Sam didn’t wake up on the floor this time, but his throat was raw, so he knew he’d been shouting, maybe screaming. Yuki wasn’t here to wake him up anymore, so the dreams went on for as long as his subconscious allowed it, which was always too long. His zero-three record was perilously close to being nullified. Still, it was true he hadn’t had a dream for three nights. That was something to hang onto.
He lay on his back, steeping in sweat as he stared at the ceiling. Supposedly, remembering was the only way to forget. But dreams like this one weren’t memories, they were ghoulish, torturous mosaics of guilt and fear, sorrow and regret.
When he was fairly certain his heart wasn’t going to explode, he went to the shower to find comfort in a familiar ritual: avoid the face, look at the backside, watch the magic white leprechaun foam swirl down the drain. He pulled on running shorts and an Army T-shirt and headed for the kitchen to make coffee.