Meredith nodded. “Plus, he was hot. You should have at least taken his number.”
I shifted my weight and pushed the seatbelt tongue into the buckle, thinking of the cute Ukrainian, his cautious smile and the gentle way his fingers had curled along my lower back. He’d offered us front row seats and a tour of their facilities. He’d also asked me to come home with him.
There’d been a moment where I’d thought about leaving with him. He’d leaned in close, whispering in my ear, and I’d thought about turning my head. Letting him kiss me. Seeing if there was a connection—the sort that might lead to a night of rumpled sheets and moans and orgasms.
But I hadn’t. Instead, I’d pulled away from his lap and turned down the hockey invite, and absolutely none of it made sense because I shouldn’t, couldn’t, make decisions based on Dario, or on any man’s weak comparison to him. And that had been half the problem—that the goalie, that Ian, that every man seemed suddenly unimpressive when compared to Dario’s pull on me.
“In regards to your heart? I can’t protect that. That’s a risk you’re going to have to decide whether to take.”
I’d always been a gambler, with my money, my time, my safety … but never my heart. Still, didn’t it mean something that it was even at risk? Didn’t the fact that I had the potential to fall for someone mean that I should take the jump?
For four days I’d been mulling over that question. Four days. Countries made peace treaties and war decisions in less time. I’d buried myself in studying and work and had made no headway with the decision.
I could take the jump. Be Dario Capece’s girlfriend. Live in his million-dollar suite. Accept his decadent lifestyle and ignore the wedding band on his finger. I could do it.
But would I? Should I?
Meredith turned on the radio, and I rested my head against the window. When we got home, I changed into sweats, washed my face, and called a taxi.
* * *
The access card got me into the garage, and I rode the giant car elevator up on foot. When I got to the coded door, I paused, taking a moment to remember the sequence. Birthday. Last four of my phone number. 04182996#. The lights changed and the knob gave underneath my palm. I pushed the door open and stepped into quiet tranquility, everything smooth and perfect. A lamp on the entry table illuminated woods, leathers, and fabrics, a gorgeous place I didn’t fit into.
I moved into the bedroom and stripped, leaving my clothes where they fell and crawling into the bed. I unlocked my phone and stared at the text from Dario, sent a half-hour ago.
—Let me know when you’re home safely.
It was the same text I’d gotten the last three nights. Short and sweet, easy to ignore. But, I hadn’t. Each night, I had texted him from bed, my phone now filled with short chatter about my shifts, classes, and life. I typed out a quick response.
I decided to come to the suite for the night. I hope that’s okay…
—More than okay. It’s yours, for as much or as little as you want to use it.
I settled into the pillows and curled onto one side, cupping the phone close to my face. The bed, which had seemed so cozy with him beside me, suddenly felt cold and empty.
The bed feels lonely without you :(
I repositioned the pillow under my head and watched as dots appeared, then his response quickly followed.
—Is that an invite?
yes
—On my way.
I grabbed one of the giant feather pillows and pushed it between my knees, settling into a cocoon of comfort. I laid the phone on the bed beside me and watched the clock, wondering how long it would take him to pull on clothes, make an excuse to his wife, and come down to this level.
Though, maybe he didn’t need to make excuses to her. According to him, they slept in separate beds. Maybe he just came and went as he pleased, and she did the same.
I was half asleep when the bedroom door clicked open, my head lifting off the pillow enough to recognize his build. I threw back the covers, inviting him in, and smiled when I felt the warm length of him, curling up behind me.
He kissed my bare shoulder and I felt his arm tighten around my waist. Before I could tell him goodnight, I was asleep.
* * *
I dipped a strawberry slice in whipped cream and brought it to my mouth, the sweet taste mixing perfectly with the chilled mimosa. I stepped away from the tray and curled up at the end of the couch, picking up the note that had been on my bedside table and rereading it for the tenth time.
I could wake up to you every morning.
I smiled and wandered into the bedroom, picking up my phone to text him. He’d beaten me to the punch, and I opened a text from him, sent just a few minutes ago.
—Want a massage? I can have a team at your suite in fifteen minutes.
I tapped out a response.
I’m not claiming it as “my suite” just yet.
The phone rang, his name lighting up the screen. A hundred men couldn’t have stopped me from answering. “Hey.”
I could hear the chimes and cheers of the casino in the background. “Good morning, beautiful.”
I yawned in response, stretching my legs forward and examining the polish on my right big toe.
“I hated leaving you this morning.”
I smiled. “You should have woken me up.”
“You looked too peaceful. Listen, I’m about to walk into a meeting. I’ve got to go but let me send up Paul. Every woman at the spa raves about his hands.”
“You really want another man rubbing all over me?”
He lowered his voice, and I imagined him ducking his head and moving away from his staff. “You haven’t met Paul. I’m not too worried about it. Plus, I like the idea of you being naked. It’ll get me through the next hour of spreadsheets with Chinese investors.”
I eyed the clock, a sleek piece that hung next to a blood-red painting. “I better not. I need to head home soon and study a few hours before work.”
“This weekend, I’ll have the staff outfit the suite. I don’t want you trekking back and forth over things you could have there. At least until you move.”
“I’m not moving.”
He laughed, and maybe he’d heard the waver in my voice. “Okay. Whatever. It’s there if you want it.”
His voice became muffled, and I heard bits of a conversation, something about rooms and time. He came back on, and there was a new clip to his tone, a business-like edge that lost all of its playful warmth. “I’ve got to go.”
I said goodbye and ended the call, feeling detached from him, wanting a moment of before, where his voice had curled around the edges, and there’d been a smile in his tone.
I swung my legs off the couch and stood, thinking of Vegas traffic, of the taxi line and crowds of tourists. I sighed and sucked the last bit of whipped cream off my finger.
Time to get back to real life.
* * *
DARIO
This late at night, the view was all lights, a hundred tiny specks of pulsing color. He rested his weight on the railing and looked at the smaller hotel beside them. The curtains were open in some of the rooms, bits of people seen, movements recorded, shadows on balconies. The door behind him slid open and Gwen stepped through, coming to stand beside him.
“It’s good to be home.” She rested her head on his shoulder.
“You don’t mean that.” He smiled to soften the words, and she laughed, pushing her thick dark hair over her shoulder. Her hair reminded him of Bell. They had the same dark coloring, the same long hair. Gwen’s, he’d handled a hundred times, knew the scent of her shampoo, the texture of its strands. Bell’s… he’d barely had a chance to grip, to pull, to appreciate.
“You’re right. I miss it already. And the horses miss you. You should go there soon. Ride BB. He needs the work.”
“How’s Nick?”
Her back stiffened a little at the cowboy’s name, but she hid it well, turning to lean back against the railing, her glass of w
ine brought up to her lips. “He’s good. Said to tell you hi.”
“I bet he did.” It came out wrong, as if he cared about her cowboy fuck toy, though he knew the man was more than that. Honestly, if anyone had married Gwen to save her from her father, it probably should have been that strapping stretch of masculinity and good intentions. Lord knew the man was protective enough of her.
But Nick hadn’t married Gwen. Dario had. Nick hadn’t even known Gwen back then. Dario had wanted an empire, and Gwen had needed a savior.
It had worked out for both of them. It had been perfect, thirteen years of side fucks and friendship, of mutual respect and understanding. Only now, suddenly, it felt like shit. It felt like she was still trapped, and both of them were still dancing for Robert Hawk.
From contentment to misery. How could everything change in just weeks?
He knew, of course. It was Bell. Ten thousand cocktail waitresses in this town and he had to meet the one that might break him. The one that might ruin everything he and Gwen had built. The one that might be worth it all.
The one that might not be.
He thought of last night, how it had felt, having her in his arms, listening to the soft sighs as she slept. It’d been over a decade since he’d slept beside a woman other than Gwen. And his nights with Gwen had been perfunctory, each staying on their own sides of hotel beds, their pillow talk filled with financials and business plans.
He had liked sleeping next to Bell. In the half hour it had taken him to fall asleep, he’d felt a level of calm and contentment he hadn’t experienced in years. And that, in itself—fuck the addictive way she’d wormed into his mind—was a problem.
Gwen’s arm slid around his back and she looked up at him. “I was going to watch some TV in the theater room. You want to join me?”
He shook his head. “No. We’ve got someone in the cage.” It was a lie. The cage was now clean, disinfected with bleach, a fresh coat of paint covering the bloodstains. Bell’s rapists had been set free, dropped back in their shithole lives with a very clear understanding of their mistakes.
Gwen’s face curled in distaste, as he’d known it would. “Well. Go easy on him, will you?” It was funny. As bloodthirsty as her father was, Gwen was the exact opposite. Her gentle nature, despite her upbringing, was something he’d always loved about her.
He glanced back at the view, the city stretched before them, the city they owned. He followed the Strip down, let his gaze linger on the patch of buildings where The House was, and thought of Bell.
The way she’d panted beneath him, her hands gripping his hips, trying to pull him tighter to her. The way she’d looked curled inside a robe, a puzzle piece in hand, smiling at him.
He should probably watch some TV with Gwen. Talk about business, laugh at some stupid show, and enjoy some time with his best friend. Like they’d always done. Pushing her off and avoiding moments like those felt wrong. Wanting those moments with Bell ... that didn’t feel fair to Gwen. Shit.
Instead, he kissed the top of her head and stepped away, heading inside. He could go to his office for an hour. Push around some papers and pretend he’s beating the shit out of someone.
He ran a hand over his mouth and swallowed a groan. Talk about properly fucking things up.
Eighteen
BELL
Some nights, when The House was closed, we played poker at Lance’s. Strip poker, if we got drunk enough.
Tonight, we were definitely drunk enough. I tipped back a cold bottle of Miller Light and eyed my cards, my jeans and tennis shoes already kicked into the pile of clothes beside the table. The rules were simple. If you won the hand, you got the pot, and your clothes stayed on. If you lost, a piece of clothing hit the floor. I had panties, a bra, T-shirt and sweatshirt standing between me and stark nudity.
“Come on, B,” Lance urged. “You ain’t got shit.”
I glared at him and ran a thumb along the side of my first Ace. The second Ace, cozying right next to it, I ignored. “Raise, twenty.”
I pushed the chip into the pile and studiously avoided Rick’s eyes, who sat to my left. It was a ploy, one that he bought with a laugh and a push forward of chips.
“Re-raise. I’m putting Bell all in.”
I made a face, then pretended to catch the action, pursing my lips together and raising my eyebrows at Lance. “Please call this asshole.”
Lance shrugged. “You know I can’t say no to a lady.” He eyed Rick’s chip stack. “I can cover your stack. I’m in.”
Rick stood, flipping over two pair, kings and queens. “Go ahead. Give me your money and take off those clothes.” He pointed at Lance. “Keep yours on. It’ll be more of a win if I don’t see your dick tonight.”
Lance read the cards and winced, tossing his into the center of the table. “Come on, B. Tell me you’ve got three of a kind under there.”
I flipped over my Aces, which paired nicely with the fourth-street Ace, and lifted both hands in the air with a whoop loud enough to raise the dog’s head. “And that’s how you do it.”
I pointed to Rick, then Lance. “Both of you, keep your underwear on. I’m taking my money and running.”
I pulled the pile of chips toward me and picked through them. Britni, who had perched herself at the bar, wandered over to help me. I caught the brief eye contact between her and Rick, then she looked at me and smiled.
“Good hand.”
“Thanks. It was about time. I’ve had crap luck all night.”
She stacked a tower of fives and slid them toward me. “That’s why I bowed out once the strip poker began. I’d be butt-naked in five minutes.”
Rick stood up, moving past the table and heading to the kitchen. He reached out to squeeze her shoulder. I wanted to smack myself in the head for not seeing the signs earlier.
I counted out my chip stack and pushed it toward Lance. “Four hundred and forty.”
Not bad for a night off work. Maybe I’ll quit The House and become a full-time player. Lance’s eyes met mine over the table, and he smiled. “Nice play.”
“Hard to lose with pocket aces.”
He stood, reached for the baseball cap that held our buy-ins, and started to count out the cash.
* * *
I watched my bare legs as they shimmered under the water, my limbs distorted by the hot tub’s churn. Beside me, Lance was quiet, his arms splayed out to either side, a cold beer in one hand. He pressed it against my neck, and I smiled. “That feels good.”
“I know. I’m tempted to jump in the pool to cool off.”
I tilted my head, considering it. “Nah. Too far away.”
He laughed, bringing the beer to his lips and tilting it back.
I watched the inside of the house, the figures of Britni and Rick moving through the kitchen, then disappearing into the living room. “You think they hook up?”
He chuckled. “Absolutely.”
I closed my eyes, enjoying the heat from the tub, the massage against my back. I contemplated loosening my bra, the underwire a bit uncomfortable, but left it alone.
“How’s your boy?”
I cracked open one eye. “Which one?”
There was the flash of white teeth in the dark as he smiled. “Oh, so it’s like that?”
I shrugged, closing my eyes again. “I don’t know. It’s a mess.”
“But you’ve seen Capece again.”
I wet my lips. “Yeah. He wants me to move to The Majestic, to a suite there.”
He started coughing mid-sip and leaned forward, setting his beer on the ledge and wiping his mouth. “What the fuck, B? And you haven’t said anything?”
I scissored my legs under the water. “I’m not moving in there. You know me and relationships. We hide from each other.”
“Huh.” The skepticism seeped through the word and I rolled my eyes, wondering exactly how transparent I was. He picked the beer back up and took a sip. “Must be nice, to have spare condos lying around.”
I snorted a
nd looked over at him. “Oh yeah, because you need that?” I waved my arm in the air, gesturing to the empty pool deck. “All these women, everywhere. God, where are they all going to sleep?”
The water was unexpected, a splash of heat, and I sputtered, using my hands to force a wave back in his direction.
“Shit. Stop. Truce. Watch the beer.” He held it out of the way and waited for the hot tub to settle.
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