“Good luck,” she said, and immediately smiled for the next customers who were standing behind me.
As we walked away, Camden grabbed my elbow and pulled me to him. “Who was that?” he whispered.
“Who?” I asked, playing dumb.
“That Ellie Watt. I know the real Ellie Watt and she’s not that much of a people person.”
“Which Ellie do you prefer?” I asked teasingly.
He stopped walking and pulled me closer to him, staring down into my eyes.
“Whichever one I’ve got.”
I felt a blush coming on as his stare intensified. I couldn’t help but stare back, trapped in his eyes. Thankfully a loud beep came from my phone, making both of us jump and interrupting the weird aspect of our relationship that kept cropping up like a weed.
I quickly fished it out of my purse, heart racing, hoping it was Uncle Jim.
It was. “Fuck, finally,” I cried out, opening the message.
Uncle Jim said: Not much, what’s new with you? Hope you’re staying out of trouble.
Camden’s forehead wrinkled as he read it over my shoulder. “Staying out of trouble? Does he know something?”
I smiled with relief. “No, he’s always telling me to stay out of trouble.”
“And you never listen, do you?”
“Nope. Though I’m starting to think he might be on to something.”
I quickly texted him back, telling him I was just checking in and that the weather was gorgeous in Santa Barbara. Then I put it and part of my worry away. Now came a little bit of fun. Like the getaway, you had to find it where you could.
We invaded the penny slots first since we both needed drinks and you could sit there for a long time playing. The longer you sat and the better you tipped, the stronger and more regular the “free” drinks were. After our fourth rum and Coke, our waitress never came back. I guess we’d been cut off.
At this time of the year, the casino wasn’t as busy as peak seasons, so Camden was able to sit at the machine next to me without pissing anyone off. Only sometimes would you have a local who had to sit at the same machine and usually we’d just move over. I didn’t want to sit next to the crazy gamblers anyway; they usually smelled bad and had a way of eyeing you down if your machine was paying out more than theirs.
We had the most luck at the twenty-five cent Wheel of Fortune games. I wasn’t that much of a gambler to be honest—I normally just cleaned my money and got out—but I always had some bizarre luck with these ones. Plus it’s fun to yell “Wheel! Of! Fortune!”
As I pulled the lever (much more satisfying than hitting the spin button), and as the pictures spun around, Camden whistled a short but familiar tune. A tune that made my heart wrench.
“That was it, wasn’t it?” he said. He was watching me expectantly.
“Pardon me?” Another pull, another sip of my drink.
He whistled again. “The tattoo on your arm. The tune. It’s from ‘On Every Street.’ Dire Straits.”
Again, I was impressed he was able to deduce it from just the few notes.
“It suits you,” he said, quietly this time.
“Rough and sweet and sad?” I joked.
“No,” he said. “Just sad. God, that’s a sad song.”
I don’t know why but my eyes suddenly flared hot with tears. What the hell? A few rum and Cokes and a sad song and I was ready to go.
I swallowed loudly. “I like that song.”
“I’d hope you would since it’s tattooed on your arm. What does it mean? Are you looking for somebody’s face on every street?”
He started singing underneath his breath, going through the lyrics. I blinked hard, shrugged my shoulders, and resumed pulling. I wanted him to stop. He did when he hit the part on my arm, the three notes from the guitar after Knopfler sings the titular sentence. Three notes that never sounded so desolate. Three notes that sounded so much like loss in a song that ended with hope.
“That song is not about someone. That song is about you. You still refuse to be traced.” He sounded awed.
“There’s a cowbell in that song,” I reminded him, trying to make light of it while simultaneously wiping away a tear that sneaked out of my eye. “Let’s not look into it too much, shall we?”
“Fine,” he said. The conversation was dropped and we went back to losing.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The two of us ended up going to bed quite early, well early for a casino. After we lost two hundred dollars and earned back one hundred and fifty, we cashed out. I got the same girl as before and she didn’t give me any grief over making up a cashier’s check. Nor did she tell me she’d have to report my earnings to the IRS. At least we had that going for us.