Games of the Heart (Crimson Romance) by Eva Shaw Read Free Book Online Page B

How could I have missed it? Gramps’ ladylove clenched her meaty fists.
    She winked at me again and a false eyelash stuck to her lower lid. She had to take her thumb and index finger and separate what looked like a caterpillar. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness of the casino, I did a triple take. There was stubble on her chin.
    Gramps was involved with a man or a woman with severe hormone problems. I couldn’t help but see the tufts of inky black hair right above the deep V in her leopard jumpsuit. I’ve been accused of being as worldly as a pineapple, but I’ve seen cross-dressers before. Remember, I worked in the inner city, and I’ve watched a lot of CSI .
    My eyes rolled and nearly tumbled to the bilious colored carpet. I swayed dangerously. My heart fell to the lower portions of my gut, straight to the end of the lower intestine, if you get my drift.
    What does one say to the happy couple when they were about to take the happy leap to become happily husband and husband? Now, trust me, I’m pretty liberal, I just never thought my fuddy duddy Gramps would be gaga for Arnold Schwarzenegger.
    I grabbed the coffee cart, missed it and slipped to the floor. Scrambled to my feet, ignoring any shred of dignity. If Arnie made Gramps elated, euphoric, and ecstatic, I’d plaster on a peachy-keen smile. Would the great state of Nevada honor a same-sex union? I didn’t want to think about it. The man who would be my relative picked a booger from his nose, wiped it on the back of his dress, and I knew that never in this lifetime would I ever call him “Grandma.”
    At that second the gal fixing coffee said something, and Gramps caught my shoulder, lifting me up. “Did you get any lunch today, Jane? You don’t look good,” he said.
    Look good? Whatever would it matter how I looked if Gramps was about to walk down the primrose path with a drag queen? I could be jaybird naked and it wouldn’t make a hill of jalapeños because I would never be able to top this.
    The woman behind the cart spoke again. I could hear sounds, but nothing filtered through. I was about to demand some answers, all righteous and huffy-puffy, when a dapper dude the size of a dime came up and grabbed my grandfather’s loving Arnold Schwarzenegger. I gulped as they did that guy thing of knuckle-rapping and trotted off toward the baccarat room.
    Someone had just stolen Gramps’ beloved and he didn’t even squawk. “Did you see that?” I demanded.
    “Janey, cool your jets. This is Vegas.” The barista handed Gramps a cup of coffee, and a word came out his mouth I’d not heard him say since my buscia, the Polish terms for grandmother, went to be with Jesus. He said, “ Dziekuje ,” and then added another sentence in Polish. He was speaking Polish, and I could feel my forehead wrinkling. After a day like it had been, those wrinkles would become permanently etched.
    “Jane, are you even listening to me? This is Petra Stanislaw. Petra, I’m pleased to have you finally meet my precious granddaughter, Jane.”
    She said, “ Czesc, jak sie masz ?”
    Then something even weirder happened as I replied, “ Czesc, jak sie masz ?” Where had that come from? I had just replied, “Hello, how are you?” in Polish. Truth be told, I could understand quite a bit more thanks to my grandparents using the language of their parents in order to keep things from me.
    “ Czesc ,” Petra said, with a far better Polish accent than I could muster and then added a long string of something more, but of course I was still searching the crowd for Miss Hussy of the Year.
    My voice caught in my throat, “Can we speak English? Who was — ” Yes, I pointed to the young woman “ — she and why should I care?”
    “Yes, I do,” Petra said again with that lilting accent and diminutive smile. She was as pint-sized as I am large, and her hair was real blonde. She looked precious in a coffee bar’s apron. I was covered in chalk crumbs that had adhered to my