by Shandi Boyes
I return his perceptive stare, but I don’t speak a word. I'm silenced by my heart sitting in my throat. I honestly don’t know how to reply. I’ve never been one to believe in the death penalty, but that was easy for me to preach when I wasn’t confronted with a flurry of heinous crimes. Child molesters and murderers are the lowest of the low, but how does that give Rico the right to deliver justice?
“Two wrongs don’t make a right.” My low words point to the uncertainty of my reply. I’m at a loss on which direction I want to take our conversation.
“No, it doesn’t. But justice isn’t about what's right or wrong. It's about equitableness.”
Our conversation comes to a shrieking halt when the Escalade pulls onto the curb of McCarran International Airport. When the driver exits the vehicle, Rico closes the small gap between us. Just like when we were together in the dingy bedroom, a vibrant, electric current fires between us. But it doesn’t heal the damage my heart sustained in our volatile discussion. This man is technically a stranger; I’ve only known him for hours, but something deeper in my soul is telling me this isn’t true.
The muscles in my cheek twitch when Rico brushes away the tears sliding down my face with his finger. His gentle touch and the cloud of sorrow in his eyes are a vast contradiction to the man debating who has the right to deliver justice mere seconds ago. It's like he is two completely different people. In front of others, he's a callous cold-hearted monster who can dish out cruel punishments, but when he's with me alone, he's a man who appears caring—almost loving.
Once all my tearstains have been removed, Rico connects his dark gaze with mine. “I'm the son of a monster, Kitten. Not a monster myself,” he mutters, like he can hear my internal dialogue.
My chance to reply is lost when the driver of the Escalade gathers my suitcase from the trunk and opens my door. Hot, muggy air streams into the cabin of the car, adding to the giddiness of my swishy stomach. The blaring desert heat of Las Vegas will always be stifling, but it's nothing compared to the roasting temperature building between Rico and me.
I commence curling out of the vehicle before my queasy stomach decides to act. My fast exit halts when a warm hand curls around mine. I sink deeper into my seat before swinging my eyes to Rico, discounting the way his simplest touch caused a shiver of euphoria to run the length of my spine.
The stern mask Rico was wearing earlier has slipped back into place, and his jaw is tense, but his eyes are still carrying the heaviness of remorse.
"This is as far as I can go," he explains, his tone flat and brimmed with anger.
I swallow the brick in my throat. “Okay. Thanks for the lift.”
I catch my eyeroll halfway. I met and married a man in less than twenty-four hours, yet I'm acting all modest and cordial. My mother would be so pleased. Overlooking the hammering of my heart, I lean in to press a kiss on Rico's cheek. He twists his neck, forcing my kiss to land on the edge of his mouth instead of his cheek. I stop frozen with my lips attached to his. It isn't just the shock of excitement dashing through my veins that have my movements stiffening, it's the quickest snippet of a memory flashing through my mind. . .
“I want to kiss you, Enrique,” I declare, peering into a pair of soul-capturing eyes.
My heart stops beating when the quickest flash of a smirk freezes time. “Nothing is stopping you, Blaire.”
Closing my eyes, I rest my hands on his well-formed pecs and tilt my head to the side to align our mouths better. Just as my lips brush against his soft, sensual mouth, I open my eyes. His dark, beautiful gaze is staring dotingly into mine.
“You’re supposed to close your eyes.” My minty breath bounces off his lips and filters into my nose.
“I don’t want to close my eyes,” he replies as his heavy-hooded gaze dances between mine.
A grin curls on my lips. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want to wake up and find out you were a dream.” He runs the back of his hand down my flustered cheeks, causing every hair on my body to bristle.
I smile. “If it's a dream, it’s the most beautiful dream I’ve ever had.”
“Me too,” Rico confesses, smiling a lazy grin that surges my heart into dangerous territory. . .
I pull back and peer into Rico’s eyes. He’s watching me with the same amount of intensity he bestowed on me in my memory, but his eyes are void of the tender spark that brightened his dark gaze last night. . . until I mutter, “It was the most beautiful dream.”
Not giving him the chance to react, I curl out of the car, snag my suitcase, and become lost in the heavy foot traffic on the terminal sidewalk.
In a muddled haze, I weave in and out of the bustling airport on my endeavor to reach my gate. The nicks in my heart enlarge with every step I take. My mind is scrambled, trying to recall any other events buried beneath the rubble of my drunken state, while also ignoring the insane hope my statement might force a reaction from Rico.
I need to leave Vegas as soon as possible. This place is messing with my head. I only signed annulment papers twenty minutes ago, and now I’m praying my soon-to-be ex-husband will track me down and beg me not to leave.
Vegas doesn’t just steal your morals, but your sanity too. . . and perhaps even your heart.
Chapter 5
“Come on, Care Blaire, the water is beautiful,” my best friend Lacey shouts, splashing me with the refreshing coolness of the inground swimming pool at our apartment complex. My skin is so sun-kissed, the water sizzles when it hits the skin high on my bare thigh.
Lacey cocks her brow and stares into my eyes. “What’s the deal? You’ve always been a water baby.”
I rise from the daybed I'm lazing on, fling off my sunglasses, and gaze into Lacey’s blue eyes. Lacey is right: I’ve always loved the water, but after researching ways to have a tattoo inconspicuously removed, I discovered a range of new facts a tattoo virgin is naïve about. The most compelling one: you can’t swim in chlorinated water for two to three weeks after getting a tattoo. Considering my tattoo was only inked on my skin five days ago, I’m not willing to risk getting an infection on my newly open wound even if I'm melting on a ninety-six-degree Fahrenheit afternoon.
“I’m fine here,” I lie, my tone as low as my hydration levels. “I thought I’d add a few more hours to my summer tan before school returns.”
Lacey arches her brow into her drenched hairline. “Fine, but it’s your loss.”
I screw up my nose and stick out my tongue. After returning my snicker, Lacey dives into the holy looking water. People may construe our little banter as bickering, but there's no maliciousness in our exchange. Lacey is straight to the point, and calls it how she sees it, but she doesn't have a malicious bone in her body. She’s my very dear friend and my closest confidant. That's why I find it so shocking I've managed to hide my Vegas antics from her the past five days.
Don't take my admission the wrong way; Lacey was onto me like white on rice the instant my plane landed in Ravenshoe, but since I've always been the straight-laced friend, her interrogation never went further than asking what food was served at the conference, and if there were any hot male teachers she could use to fulfil her naughty teacher/student fantasy.
Her interest in the boring life of a kindergarten teacher only lasted as long as our ten-mile trip to our apartment building. By the time we walked into our two-bedroom unit, my adventures in Vegas were a forgotten memory to Lacey. . . and, unfortunately, me too.
No matter how hard I try to unlock my memories, the only snippets I’ve unearthed the past five days are the quickest flashes of Rico’s beautiful, tormented eyes and lazy smirk. The flashbacks are short enough to keep my Vegas memories hidden, but long enough to tether my heart to a man I don’t know.
This is incredulous for me to say, but I never thought it was possible to miss a man you only knew for hours. Rico defies that logic. Most of our time together is lost in the background of my mind, but when I'm lying in bed, I miss him—the stranger I married.
>
I stop staring into space when Colt Rogers from Apartment 4A charges across the shimmery pool tiles and does a cannonball into the pool.
"It's Friday, baby girl!" he shouts at the top of his lungs before the pool water swamps his words.
His playful antics force a smile on my face while also saturating my one-piece swimsuit. Leaping up from my sun chair, I snag a towel off the table next to me and pat my vibrant red one-piece swimsuit dry.
Since I’m so immersed in drying my swimsuit, I don't notice Colt sneaking up on me until it's too late. Goosebumps prickle my forearms when he wraps his thick arms around my torso and hoists me off the ground. I squeal an ear-piercing protest. My pleas to be put down are barely heard over Lacey's boisterous giggle.
“Do it, Colt! Throw her in the water!” Lacey yells through a barrage of laughter.
I scamper up Colt’s torso—climbing him like a monkey climbs a tree—before locking my eyes with his mischief-filled gaze.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn, my voice low and crammed with false anger.
I've always been a sucker for Colt's mischief-filled eyes and cheeky grin. Normally, he just flashes me the quickest smirk, and I do anything he requests. But today is different; I'm not the same Blaire I was five days ago. Not even close.
“Don’t you want to go for a swim, baby girl?” Colt smiles so broadly, the dimples in his bronzed cheeks become exposed.
“No.” My reply is quick and resolute. “I’m happy tanning.”
Colt stops striding when we hit the edge of the pool, then drops his gaze to me. The afternoon sun beaming off his blond locks shrouds him in a golden halo, making him look more angelic than his mischievous composure.
“Tanning?” His quick reply is unable to hide his laughter.
I return his sassy glare before nodding. Chlorinated skin, sunscreen, and the scent of a burly male filters through my nose when we face off in an intense, sweat-producing stare down. Lacey doesn’t pay us any attention, as this type of bantering is nothing out of the ordinary for Colt and me. Every time we’re together, flirtatiousness hangs thick in the air. We’ve been flirting pretty heavily the past seven months, but it’s never gone any further than two friends toying around.
"What are you willing to give me not to throw you in the water?" Colt barters with his green eyes locked on me.
I narrow my eyes into thin slits, pretending I’m annoyed by his banter. "Nothing, because you’re going to put me down as I'm requesting."
My grip on his thick biceps tightens when he straightens his arms and dangles me over the water like I'm a weightless child. This is no hard feat for Colt. He works as a personal trainer at the local gym. He can bench press two hundred and fifteen pounds, so my five-foot-six 120-pound frame is easy-peasy for him.
“Colt! Don’t you dare!” I squeal, praying to the lord he doesn’t dump me into the pool.
Colt’s smile broadens when I wrap my legs around his waist and clamp his hips with my thighs.
"Do you have your phone on you?" he asks, obviously recalling the prior time he threw me into the pool fully clothed while I had my cell phone in my pocket. His wages were stretched to the absolute limit when he replaced my phone with the latest model the very next day.
“Yes!” I lie. “I have my cell!” I’ll say anything if it saves me from being thrown into the deep end.
My lie is squashed when he turns his eyes to the lounge chair I was lying on and spots my cell phone sitting on top of my beach towel.
“Nice try, baby girl,” he chuckles, returning his blazing eyes to me.
I dig my nails into his biceps. “Please, Colt. I'm begging you.”
This time, my voice comes out sounding like a plea instead of a demand. I’m not below getting down onto my knees at this point.
“Three, two, one...” Colt counts down, ignoring my begging protests.
“I have a tattoo!” I scream when his shakes loosen my death-tight grip curled around his waist.
Colt freezes.
Time freezes.
Everything freezes.
Feeling an indiscreet stare burning a hole in the side of my head, I swing my eyes to my left. Lacey is staring at me, open-mouthed and wide-eyed.
"No way. You'd never get a tattoo.”
The veins in my neck thrum when she scampers out of the pool and stands next to Colt in less than a heartbeat.
“Bring her in. She has some explaining to do,” she demands, her voice stern.
I gulp, loudly. Lacey only brings out her bossy boots during dire situations. Obviously, she feels this is a dire situation.
Colt draws me away from the water's edge before placing me on my feet. A new type of awareness prickles my skin when every inch of Colt's rock-hard body glides past mine in the process. Normally, his playfulness would have caused the pulse in my body to redirect to my pussy, but today his tease is less effective. Don’t construe my admission the wrong way: my nipples are budded and euphoria has thickened my blood, but his appeal is nowhere near what I felt standing across from Rico in the dungeon-like room five days ago.
“Ms. Blaire Williams, cardigan-wearing, has never said a curse word in her life, kindergarten teacher got a tattoo? I knew there was a rebel hiding in there somewhere,” Colt jests, lazily raking his eyes over my body. “What did you get? A cute little heart? A butterfly?” He locks his lust-filled eyes with mine. “Come on, baby girl. Are you going to show me? Or am I going to go on a treasure hunt?”
Lacey bumps my hip, her eyes wide, her jaw hanging. Even she can't miss Colt’s innuendo-laced flirting. He has no troubles ruffling up any woman's interest; he just smirks, and they all flock to him. But this is different. Normally, our flirting is an acceptable notch over the friendship line. This feels more like a gigantic leap.
After returning Lacey's hip bump, I cross my arms in front of my chest, ensuring my body’s reaction to Colt’s avid gaze remains concealed. Unable to locate any ink on my scarcely covered body, Colt lifts and locks his eyes with me.
“Where did you get it?” The waggling of his brows doesn’t hide the eagerness in his words.
I tighten my arms under my chest, hoisting my moderately sized bosoms higher into the air. “Not in any place you’ll ever see.”
His smirk enlarges to a full-toothed smile, not believing a word I'm saying. He knows as well as I do, if given a chance, I’d climb him like a jungle gym. Well, I would have before Vegas. Now, I’m not so sure.
Colt’s real name is Marshall, but we all call him Colt, because. . . well. . . He’s hung like a horse, that’s why. And from the noises Lacey and I regularly hear bellowing from his apartment, he has no troubles bucking for hours.
Ignoring my flaming red cheeks, I say, “I’m. . . leaving.” After snatching my phone and towel off the chair, I bolt for the exit.
“But the fun is only beginning, baby girl,” Colt jests, his tone low and tempting.
I’ve just hit the pool gate when Lacey catches up with me. “You have a lot of explaining to do, young lady.” She weaves her arm around the crook of my elbow. “But I don’t know where to begin. With the fire-sparking showdown I just witnessed? Or that you got a tattoo on an obviously private region of your body that you failed to update your best friend on.”
After guiding me into the elevator, Lacey snags the towel out of my hand and commences drying her light brown hair. The elevator ascends to our apartment in absolute silence. She doesn’t need to speak. Her questioning eyes are more interrogating than her mouth ever could be. If the elevator car wasn’t air-conditioned; I may have melted under her stifling gaze.
Her quiet approach lasts as long as it takes for us to walk into the front door of our modest apartment. “Spill. Now.”
Throwing my house key onto the glass and wrought iron entranceway table, I pad into the living room. My steps are lazy, weighed down by the confusion still muddling my heart. I sit on a red wing-backed chair while Lacey props her backside on a stark white loveseat, not at all concern
ed her dripping wet two-piece bikini is soaking into the expensive material. She eyeballs me but has reverted to her silent stance, her gaze a unique mix of intrigue and shock.
“I got a tattoo in Vegas.”
She huffs and rolls her eyes. “Duh.”
The arch of her manicured brow increases when I blubber out, “And a husband.”
Her mouth gapes as her eyes bulge. “Wait. What?” The shock of my admission has reduced a woman who can talk under water to one-word sentences.
I gulp, washing away a lump in the back of my throat. “I don’t remember exactly how it transpired. All I remember is waking up with a wedding band on my finger and a man’s name tattooed on my hip.”
“Wow,” She breathes out heavily. She scoots across the double seated sofa to sit closer to me. “No half-baked Vegas experience for you. You went straight for the complete package.”
I throw my hands over my eyes and slump into my chair. “That’s not even the whole story.”
Lacey gives herself a few moments to settle her shock before she sits on the edge of my chair and pries my hands away from my face. “Okay. We can handle this. First thing first: did you use protection? If not, there's a pharmacy half a block over; I can go get—”
“Yes,” I interrupt, my words weak. “Although I have no recollection of the actual deed, empty condom wrappers were in my room.”
Her lips quirk as a glint of curiosity fires in her expressive eyes. “Wrappers? How many are we talking exactly?”
I munch on my bottom lip before raising three fingers into the air. Her bugged-eyed expression grows, and the corners of her lips twitch, but she respectfully holds in her smile. Lacey knows me well enough to know the finger signal I’m holding in the air is the combined number of times I’ve done the deed the past two years, so to achieve that in one night is a record-breaking achievement for me.
“Okay. Good. Protection was used.” Her voice is high with shock and excitement. “Second. Was your husband still present the following morning, or did he do the Las Vegas hightail escape?”
