by T. K. Leigh
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” He shuffles away.
“What a tool,” my mystery man remarks as he drops his hold, turning to face me, his eyes filled with concern. “Are you all right? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“I’m fine,” I snap. “I can handle myself. But thank you for intervening on my behalf. It wasn’t necessary.”
I begin to retreat from him. If I didn’t hate Vegas before, I do now. With it being the stereotypical destination for a hormonally charged bachelor or bachelorette party, it’s open season to hit on anything with a pulse. I wish people had to take a test before entering the proverbial Vegas wildlife, like hunters have to in order to obtain their license to hunt prey. That’s what this place is like. A jungle. During mating season.
“Got a name?” he calls out before I can take more than a few steps.
“Yup,” I shout over my shoulder with a smirk. “Thanks for checking.”
“You’re not going to tell me?” he yells when I continue to squeeze my way through the hordes of people. “What am I supposed to call you? Dick Girl?”
His words seem to carry over the beat of the music and I stop in my tracks, sensing curious eyes watching our interaction. I spin around, stalking toward him.
“Dick Girl? Why? Because I’m wearing a short skirt and my hair’s a little different so I must really enjoy dick? I’m pretty sure there are lesbians out there who wear short skirts and color their hair differently, too. That doesn’t mean they like the dick, does it? Or is it just because we’re in Vegas?”
He’s about to respond, but I cut him off before he has a chance to utter a single syllable. My presence in my least favorite city for a ritual I find cliché, trivial, and ordinary, all things I try to avoid being, causes the thin filter between my brain and mouth to evaporate.
“I get it. Some guy who probably considers himself a marketing genius concocted a brilliant ad campaign all those years ago when he came up with this city’s tagline. Can you imagine being in the room when the creative team discussed that gem as an option? It’s almost like their mission was to come up with the slogan most likely to result in surprise pregnancies, STDs, and infidelity, all of which do not stay in Vegas.”
He tries to speak again, but I hold up my finger, silencing him.
“So, as tempting as the idea of living out my wildest fantasies is…and truthfully, you’re not so bad to look at, and I do have quite an active imagination…I do not hook up with random strangers, not in this town anyway. But fear not.” I give him a trite smile. “This city is full of bachelorette party attendees who would love to have a piece of you. Hell, you could probably even score a threesome or foursome. Maybe even a fivesome, like a sorority porno gone incredibly wrong. A simple online search will lead you to any number of sex clubs within a short Uber ride from here. But that shit won’t be happening with me.” I gesture to my crotch area. “This pussy is on a much-deserved break.”
I remain in place as my words seem to ring out between us. I expect him to be stunned and unsure how to respond, maybe offer an apology for his assumption about me. Instead, he reaches out. I attempt to step back, but before I can, he toys with the chain dangling from my neck.
Smirking, he says, “I was referring to your necklace. Dick. Girl.”
A tingle sweeps across my cheeks as my shoulders drop. Thankfully, it’s too dark for him or anyone else to see my complexion turn red. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” He chuckles as his full lips curve in the corners. He flashes his white teeth, his smile exuding a confidence I’m not used to seeing. Something about it intrigues me. It’s such a simple thing. The flexing of muscles to turn up your lips, demonstrating happiness, amusement, or any other number of positive emotions. But with that one smile, I feel something I’ve avoided for years now…
Vulnerability.
“Have a nice night… Dick Girl.”
He turns from me, the crowd seeming to part to allow him passage. Then he stops, facing me once more.
“And, for the record, I didn’t ask your name as a preface to sleep with you. I did so because my mother taught me manners, to treat everyone with respect.” He keeps his dark eyes locked with mine, allowing his statement to sink in. “Stay safe tonight. It’s a jungle out there.” He treats me to one last smile, then disappears into the crowd, leaving me bewildered.
Has being single in New York so long jaded me to the point that I assume every straight man only approaches me because they want to get into my pants?
At one point, I dreamed of having the love story I read about in fairy tales…until I realized all fairy tales eventually end. Soon, the Prince will question Snow White’s devotion to him whenever she runs off to the forest to spend time with the dwarfs. Prince Phillip will accuse Aurora of always just lying there, practically asleep, during sex. And poor Aladdin and Jasmine… He’ll never stop feeling emasculated every time they have an argument and she so kindly reminds him that if it weren’t for her, he’d still be a street rat.
If that’s a fairy tale, I want nothing to do with it.
Chapter Two
The spicy, robust flavor of red wine dances on my tongue as I relax into my barstool, savoring these last few moments to myself before embarking on another night of bachelorette party fun. About to flag down the bartender for the check, I stop when my phone pings with an incoming text.
On a scale of one to murder, how’s the bachelorette party?
I laugh at how well Nora knows me. After all, she was my college roommate. Even though I ended up leaving before the end of my second year, we’ve managed to remain friends.
Let’s put it this way… Most would consider Ted Bundy a compassionate serial killer compared to my brutality. However, any murder I commit would probably be excused as justifiable. Or, at least, I could plead not guilty by reason of insanity. I believe the courts recognize the bachelorette party defense in homicide cases.
Her response comes almost instantly.
I’m not so sure that’s a thing.
It should be. And in case I haven’t told you, I’m so glad you don’t want any of this stuff for your wedding. It makes my job as your maid of honor much easier and won’t require me to resort to murder.
Blech. The last thing I want is to make my friends suffer through a night of penis jokes and scavenger hunts that border on sexual harassment. Try to have a little fun while you’re there, although I know how much you despise Vegas. New York misses you. See you in a few days.
I sigh as I lean back in my chair, typing out one last text.
And I sure miss New York. See you soon.
I close out of our message and open my email, scanning my inbox. As a celebrity news columnist for one of the top women’s magazines, I’m required to keep a constant pulse on what’s going on in the world of the rich and famous. But this weekend has been quiet. No big breakups. No pregnant celebrities giving birth. No arrogant has-been who thinks he’s above the law getting arrested for drinking and driving.
“For you, miss.”
I snap my head up just as the bartender places a martini in front of me. “I didn’t order this.” I start to push it across the bar, but he smiles, leaving a cocktail napkin beside the glass. Scribbling in blue ink catches my attention, the pen stroke masculine, but still legible.
Thought I’d make up for the martini you didn’t get to enjoy last night.
There’s only one person who could have sent this. On a sharp inhale, I scan the lounge. It’s on the darker side, the lighting dim, votive candles placed sporadically on the bar and each table to add to the romantic ambience, despite being mere feet from a roulette wheel.
As I search for familiar green eyes, I sense a warmth approach from behind. The hairs on my nape stand on end, and I freeze.
“I wasn’t sure what kind of vodka you preferred, so I had to guess based on what little I know about you. But something makes me think you’re a Belvedere girl. Smooth. Layered. Sophisticated.”
I take a moment
to compose myself before facing him. The instant my gaze floats to his, an involuntary shiver rolls through me. “A rather astute assessment. I prefer Polish vodkas.”
“Smart woman.”
His eyes dance as he gestures to the free chair beside me, silently asking permission to sit. I nod, then turn forward once more, smoothing the lines of my gray silk tank, adjusting my navy blue blazer. I’ll most likely get shit from Bernadette for not wearing my “Bride’s Bitch” shirt tonight, but I need to draw the line somewhere. One night was fine. There’s no way I’m going to wear that sweat-stained, smoke-infested thing again.
As he assumes the chair beside me, his scent filters through my nose, addictive and mouthwatering. It’s a woodsy and manly scent, reminiscent of rain on a hot summer day. He flags down the bartender and orders a few fingers of a top-shelf scotch. My assessment of him last night wasn’t that far off after all. He would have fit in better at a quiet bar sipping scotch instead of a dance club where everyone was just one tequila shot away from alcohol poisoning.
Truth be told, it wasn’t my scene, either. I’m not sure what my scene is.
Once he takes a sip and exhales in satisfaction, he returns his gaze to me. I tap my nails against the counter, the silence painfully loud. I’ve never felt so on edge in the presence of a man, so out of sorts. But I felt it last night. And I feel it now.
This man is different.
Despite him being a stranger.
Despite him barely uttering more than a few sentences to me.
Despite my not knowing anything about him.
When the heat of his stare becomes too much, the connection too palpable, I turn my eyes from his, taking a sip of my martini, the combination of dry vermouth, vodka, and just a hint of olive juice perfect.
“How did you know I liked my martini dirty?” I ask in a smooth voice, trying to calm the butterflies swimming in my stomach by bringing the glass back to my mouth.
He licks his lips, leaning toward me. “I had a feeling you liked things…dirty.”
I choke on my drink, coughing as I struggle to breathe. He hands me a napkin and I cover my mouth. If anyone else used that line on me, I’d roll my eyes and send them on their way. But this guy isn’t saying it to get into my pants. At least, I don’t think he is. It’s all part of his personality — cool, confident, yet lighthearted.
“Wouldn’t you like to find out?” I quip once I clear my throat.
“You have no idea.” His voice is guttural and wanton as he inches closer. I zero in on his lips, drawn to them like a moth to a flame.
Then he pulls back, bringing his drink to his mouth, acting as if his statement didn’t leave me squirming. When he speaks again, he sounds different, his tone lighter and more conversational, a complete one-eighty.
“More bachelorette festivities planned for the evening? Or is that all over?”
I draw in a deep breath to compose myself. “Don’t I wish. I stopped by here to ensure I’m in the right…frame of mind for what awaits me.”
“And what is it that awaits you?”
“I’m not sure you want to know,” I respond with a roll of my eyes.
“Is it as bad as doing blowjob shots while wearing a string of penises around your neck?”
Squinting, I cock my head, his statement catching me off guard. There’s no way he’d know about those shots unless he were watching me earlier in the evening. I remind myself it could just be a coincidence. I was at a bachelorette party. It’s not a big stretch to assume we’d do blowjob shots. They tend to go hand-in-hand.
“That was child’s play compared to tonight’s festivities.” I flash him a coy smile over the top of my glass as I tilt it back, then return it to the bar.
“Do tell. You can’t leave me hanging with a statement like that.” His eyes sparkle with amusement and intrigue.
“What would you say if I told you I’d be learning how to strip and pole dance?” My voice comes out breathy, laden with desire, as I inch toward him.
His expression widens momentarily, muscles clenching, before he recovers, that unaffected attitude returning. “I’d say I’d love to see that.”
I lean even closer, barely a breath between us. “I bet you would.” I scrape my lips ever so slightly against his. The touch is no more than a whisper, yet it ignites a spark deep within. “Maybe later, I can give you a private show of what I learned.”
“But I thought you didn’t hook up in this town?” I can feel his mouth turn into a wry smile. “I thought you said your pussy was on a break.”
Moisture pools between my thighs, the combination of his proximity and words making me want to blow off tonight and do my own private striptease with my mystery man.
“An exception can be made.”
A slight growl escapes his throat, his lips about to press firmly against mine when a loud, shrill voice cuts through.
“There you are!”
I quickly tear away, snapping my eyes to my right as Bernadette rushes toward me, her blonde curls bouncing with each long stride, a woman on a mission. As expected, she’s still wearing her “Bitch of Honor” tank top. I wonder if she slept in it.
“I’ve been texting and calling you the past five minutes. The party bus is out front. Izzy said you were coming here for a drink and a quick bite…”
She trails off, halting in her tracks the instant she notices the man beside me. The way his body is positioned makes it apparent we’re not simply strangers sitting next to each other at a bar. Her eyes rake over his crisp suit, unshaven jaw, and wayward dark locks. A smirk forms on her lips as she all but salivates over him.
“I guess you did come for a quick bite.” She flirtatiously waggles her brows.
He opens his mouth to say something, but she advances, closing in on his personal space like a lioness in heat. He scoots back in his chair to put distance between them, but she doesn’t get the hint. I wonder if her husband knows how she’s behaved all weekend, that she’s shamelessly flirted with anything with a pulse, male and female.
“Want to come with us? We’re about to go to a striptease and pole dancing class.” She sticks out her chest, squeezing her arms against her body to make her cleavage pop. “I’d love someone to perform for.”
Rolling my eyes so hard I’m confident I see my ass, I scoot off my stool, stepping between them. I hope I didn’t come across as desperate as Bernadette when I propositioned the same thing. I don’t think anyone could come across as desperate as Bernadette.
“I’m ready,” I announce, pulling my wallet out of my purse. “I just need to pay for my dinner first.”
I’m about to ask for the check when he places his hand on my forearm. The instant I feel his skin on mine, my pulse skyrockets, breath quickening. I look at him, questioning. I expect him to withdraw his hand. Instead, he lingers, his fingers tracing light circles.
“It’s taken care of,” he states with authority.
“But—”
“It’s taken care of.” This time, his voice is harsher, leaving no room for argument.
I part my lips, my words stuck in my throat. How can I make him understand why I don’t like the idea of anyone paying for my meal or my drinks? That it makes it easier to walk away after a night, a week, a month, whatever it may be? That it’s helped keep my heart guarded? It helps keep their heart guarded, too, safe from the inevitable destruction my life will unfold on them.
That it brings up too many memories of a past I want to forget.
“Say okay.” His tone is a cross between a plea and demand.
Hypnotized, oblivious to everything other than giving him what he wants, I respond, “Okay.” My voice doesn’t even sound like my own. I’m a puppet and he my master pulling the strings.
He brings his fingers to my chin, tilting my head back. “Say thank you.”
My pulse skyrockets. It’s so simple, so innocent, yet has me wondering what it would be like to hear him tell me what to do in the bedroom. And based on what I’ve o
bserved, he’d do just that.
“Thank you,” I whimper.
His lips inch toward mine, every synapse in my body firing. “You’re welcome.”
I close my eyes, bracing for his kiss, but it never comes. Instead, he drops his hold on me, the warmth of his breath disappearing. I flutter my eyes open, disoriented. Then I spy Bernadette standing off to the side, smirking like an older sister would when catching the younger one kissing a boy. It’s not that far off. At one time, Bernadette was like an older sister.
Trying to settle my raging hormones, I hop off my barstool, pretending I’m a composed, professional twenty-eight-year-old woman. Bernadette’s smirk only grows wider. I keep my head lowered as I loop my arm through hers, dragging her away.
“Who was that?” she whispers once we’re outside the restaurant, glancing over her shoulder.
The realization hits and I blink repeatedly. “I don’t know.” I stop walking and look back to where I was just sitting. He’s no longer there, as if he vanished. If Bernadette hadn’t seen him, I’d think I imagined the entire thing. “I never got his name.”
“Pity,” she replies with a dismissive shrug of her shoulders. “He was quite the looker. But fear not. There will be more than enough eye candy for us tonight.”
She grabs my hand and pulls me toward another night of bachelorette torture.
Chapter Three
Relief rolls off my shoulders as I make my way through the quiet corridors of the hotel and toward a bank of elevators, pulling my roll-a-board behind me. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy about a vacation ending as I am about getting on that plane in a few hours. As much as I love Hannah, I’d rather be stuck in my cubicle at the office than in this city for another second.
