And finally, I packed a spare pair of pushing gloves; it’s surprising how quickly they wear out from all the extra work.
With my suitcase half full already, I thought about the clothes that a Vegas trip required.
I’d planned to wear my favorite skinny jeans, but loose clothing is far more comfortable when you’re sitting all day.
It got boring being sensible.
I didn’t always have to use a wheelchair, only on the days (or weeks, or sometimes months) when I had a flare-up. On those days I couldn’t walk. On those days, it could hurt to breathe.
Today, I was somewhere in the middle: walking was painful. Even rising to my feet took several minutes while tears streamed down my cheeks, and I gasped in oxygen, willing the burning in my joints to recede, praying for the meds to work and the piercing pain to ebb.
Some days I only needed a walking cane, moving slowly like an old lady, grimacing as I tried—and failed—to pull my shoulders back from the safety of a hunched position.
But other days—most days, in fact—I was just like every other 29 year old, albeit one who wore comfortable shoes and took her meds with an almost religious fervor.
Sitting at my desk, at a table in a restaurant, I could feel normal.
I’d planned to dance with Vanessa and Jo wearing my sneakers, the ones with the special gel insoles. High-heeled pumps had no place in my world most of the time, but this weekend, I’d be able to wear them again.
I glanced at my Louboutins, discarded under the bedroom chair, and smiled, their irreverent red soles flirting with me. I couldn’t walk, but I could show off my fabulous shoes.
The irony was not lost on me.
There are certain indignities associated with disability, I thought bitterly. Apart from the doors you can’t reach, or the ones that are too heavy to open from a sitting position, apart from the shops you can’t enter or move around if you do enter, apart from the ramps that are too steep or badly positioned, apart from the pitying glances, or the irritated looks from people who stumble over and around you, apart from the well-meaning but ill-informed people who talk to whoever is with you but not to you, apart from all of that, there is the horror of the disabled toilet.
Distant, dirty and dire.
There are the bathrooms that defy belief: with steps, with too-steep ramps, with doors that can’t be opened from a chair, with no handrails, or handrails that are too high, or . . . I could go on, but do you care?
I was red in the face and sweating hard by the time I reached my gate at O’Hare. My arm muscles burned from the exercise, and my neck and back ached. My thighs trembled from the tension of trying to keep my small suitcase balanced on my knees. I was close to admitting that Collin was right—but that meant admitting defeat.
A stubborn streak told me it would all be worth it—Las Vegas would be amazing.
“Are you traveling alone, ma’am?”
The gate stewardess didn’t seem unduly concerned, although a little surprised by my lone status.
“Yes,” I smiled. “I left my boyfriend at home. It’s a girls-only weekend.”
The steward returned my smile politely.
“I’ll arrange your pre-boarding now, ma’am.”
While she picked up her phone to make the arrangements, my good mood took a dive. I very much doubted that I still had a boyfriend to come home to. Collin had been so angry—angrier than I’d seen him in a long time. But what had fueled that anger, I wondered. Why had he been so incensed that I traveled alone? Did he want me to become dependent on him? Couldn’t he be happy for me that I wasn’t giving up? Use it or lose it: isn’t that something to be proud of?
I shook my head. Maybe I was being selfish by making Collin worry. But honestly, what was going to happen in a resort where a credit card could solve every problem?
No. I’d been right to fight him on this. I was already too reliant on other people. I needed this weekend. The harder it was to get there, the more important it became.
Hoping it would be a peace offering, I sent a selfie of me by the gate and typed out a short message to Collin.
Nearly there. Love you.
My finger hovered over the ‘send’ button. I reread the message twice, then deleted the last two words and sent it.
It felt like a marathon to get this far, but despite my anxiety—or maybe because of my incessant planning—the airline hadn’t dropped the ball. Three hours later, I was sitting in a window seat watching O’Hare shrink as the plane gathered height, the ugly tangle of concrete buildings and tarmac runways giving way to misty clouds pressing against the Perspex.
Four hours and two movies later, the plane descended through the bank of cloud and the pale baked Nevada landscape rose up to meet me. Dust and sand with small patches of green made way for straight roads and then blocks of high rises. The background of mountains was ghostly and insubstantial in the heat haze.
From my small window to the world, I could see the Pyramid Hotel glittering in the harsh sunlight, a reminder of the desert city’s true purpose.
Las Vegas.
The name alone brought a colorful host of expectations, mixed with drama and Hollywood glitz, and maybe a little darkness, memories of movies glamorizing the darker, grittier aspects.
These days, it was marketed as a family-friendly resort, and I was looking forward to spa treatments and lounging by the pool with my friends, taking in a couple of shows and yes, spending a few dollars on the slot machines.
I was excited to see Jo and Vanessa again, but weary too, from worrying, as much as the journey itself, and I still wasn’t in my room. An anxious knot started to tie itself in my stomach: would the assistance I’d organized for the transfer be there? Had my hotel really changed the reservation? Was the whole weekend the mistake Collin had described?
“We are now making our final descent to Las Vegas McCarran International Airport.”
Mistake or not, I was about to find out.
Once the plane landed with a jarring bump, passengers were leaping out of their seats, rummaging through the overhead compartments and huffing impatiently until the fuselage doors opened.
I watched quietly, waiting until I was the only one left in the cabin. Usually people with wheelchairs de-board first, but since I’d requested a window seat, it was easier to wait until everyone else had gone.
A steward arrived with the airline’s lightweight chair to transfer me to the arrivals terminal and reunite me with my stout, black, old faithful wheelchair.
This was the part I was dreading. I moved slowly, grimacing as my joints protested against the movement, flinching when my feet touched the ground.
“Can I help you?” asked the steward, looking askance at my slow and arduous progress from my seat to the wheelchair.
“No, it’s better if I do it,” I said tightly, lips compressed against the pain. “Thank you.”
Flipping up the armrests, I shuffled my backside awkwardly from seat to seat, arms trembling as they took my weight. Then I let out a gasp and a sigh of contentment as I lurched into the chair.
The steward looked as relieved as I did, and we shared a conspiratorial smile.
“Welcome to Las Vegas!”
There are two different expressions people have when they see someone in a wheelchair: pity or distaste.
A small minority, tiny, in fact, treat me just like anyone else: neither more nor less concerned.
And then there are the old friends who have long stopped seeing the wheelchair, and see the person.
“Laney!”
Vanessa’s shrieks turned heads across the airport’s terminal, and she hobbled toward me, weighed down by an enormous suitcase and five-inch heels.
“Oh my God! Are those Louboutins! I’m so proud of you!” Vanessa cried, hugging the ever-living crap out of me, making me laugh as I winced. “And how come you’re in Old Ironside?” she asked, kicking my wheel.
“No idea,” I grimaced. “One of those things.”
“Will it stop you drinking?” Vanessa asked, cutting to the chase.
I laughed. “That’s a hell no!”
“Thank God! We so need to have some fun!”
Well, I wasn’t supposed to mix alcohol and meds, but this weekend was about letting go and relaxing. I’d have one or two drinks, take it easy and be careful. Mostly.
Being drunk in a wheelchair wasn’t something I particularly wanted to relive, although the memory made me smile.
Vanessa was obviously thinking the same thing.
“I’ll try not to push you into a fountain this time.”
I grinned at her.
“Maybe I should get a seatbelt on this thing.”
“I could tie you in,” Vanessa said with a wink.
“You getting kinky on me, Ness?”
“Nah, you’re not my type. Sorry, honey.”
“How come you’re at the airport—I thought your flight from Seattle landed a couple of hours ago?”
Vanessa rolled her eyes. “It did, but my luggage didn’t. I decided to wait for the next flight. Whatever—it’s here now. Although I wouldn’t have minded the excuse to do some more shopping if it hadn’t arrived.”
I smiled. Vanessa had an infectious love of life—nothing got her down for long.
“So, what are we going to do first?” she asked. “Slot machines, dinner and dancing?”
Vanessa’s smile dropped.
“Oh God, sorry! I forgot about the chair.”
I grabbed her hand. “It’s one of the things I love about you the most,” I said quietly. “You see me, not the chair. And you are so going dancing! I want to see you strut your stuff and shake your tush. No wimping out!”
Vanessa knelt down on the hard polished floor and carefully wrapped her arms around me.
“We’ll have an amazing time,” she said, then gave me a sly look. “And what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. We’ll have to find you a hot guy.”
I laughed and gestured to the chair. “I don’t think there’s much chance of that, and besides, did you forget about Collin?”
Vanessa scrambled to her feet awkwardly. “Saint Collin? I wouldn’t dare forget about him.”
I rolled my eyes at Vanessa’s nickname.
“He’s not that bad!”
“He’s a killjoy. Whenever I meet him I feel like I should go sit on the naughty step.”
“You probably should,” I laughed.
Then I sighed, remembering the argument before I left.
“I think we’re kind of broken up at the moment.”
“Kind of? What does that mean?”
I explained the argument and watched Vanessa’s eyes flash with anger.
“He really tried to stop you coming, even though he knew we’d be here?”
I shrugged unhappily. “He said I was being selfish.”
“What a prick!”
“I don’t know, Ness. I wondered . . . maybe he’s right. He worries about me and . . .”
“No, he’s not right,” Vanessa said emphatically. “He should be on your side.”
“He is, it’s just . . .”
“No, Laney! If you want to skydive out of an airplane, he should be helping you achieve your dreams, not telling you it’s too hard, too dangerous all of the time. It’s not his life—it’s yours.”
“I know, but . . .”
“No more buts unless they’re tight, sexy ones on a cowboy. Deal?”
She held out her hand, and I shook it—she always made me smile.
“Deal.”
Half an hour later we were at the hotel and I felt like I could relax. My room was just as they’d said, with full disabled access. And they’d even found me a shower chair. I tipped the man who took me to my room and decided that if this standard kept up, I’d write to the hotel’s management to thank them.
“He was cute,” said Vanessa, as she unpacked my clothes and toiletries. “Do you need any help getting ready?”
“You’ve done enough,” I said gratefully.
“Wrong answer,” Vanessa said with an arched eyebrow. “Do you need any help?”
I smiled. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, sweetie.”
Vanessa winked and blew a kiss, before sashaying out of the room. Jo would be arriving shortly, and we were all meeting in my room before going for a few drinks and hitting up the slot machines, then dinner and dancing.
Or dinner and sitting.
Five hours later, I was dragging.
I’d won seven bucks and some change on the slots—woohoo!—then enjoyed a wonderful lobster dinner, before heading back to our hotel for dancing and more drinks.
Vanessa and Jo were still going strong and I was determined not to spoil their evening by admitting I was tired.
“Stop being a wimp,” I muttered to myself. “You’ve got the rest of your life to sleep—but right now you’re in Vegas!”
I glanced back to the crowded dance floor, my eyes tracking my friends, smiling as a cowboy with a large Stetson and no rhythm staggered up behind Vanessa, trying to attract her attention as he swung his hips randomly, completely out of time to the music. Cute, though.
Then I saw a man who captured my attention utterly.
He was easily the best looking guy in the room, although not the tallest or the most built. But he danced with an easy elegance that made him seem a thoroughbred among carthorses.
My God! That guy can move!
I was surprised when I saw his partner: a short, plump woman who was red in the face and gasping for air. It was hard to imagine them as a couple—even harder to imagine that the sexy guy had picked her up. Although they definitely weren’t dancing like brother and sister. Or mother and son. My smile disappeared because only one answer was left.
He must be one of those men I’d read about, a gigolo in all but name. It was a depressing thought.
I watched as the woman stopped dancing, clearly out of breath as well as out of her league, and definitely ready to call it quits. Her eyes darted away from her partner as if trying to find an escape.
When the man grabbed her arm, it was several seconds before he released her, reluctantly backing away. I realized that I’d been holding my breath as I watched the small drama unfold.
I inhaled deeply, still curious about what the man would do next.
He ran his hands over his hair as he searched around the room, his eyes ticking off the women he saw, some internal checklist that remained hidden to all but him.
But then his gaze flickered to me, and a wide smile stretched his full lips. He stalked forward and I automatically pressed myself backward in the chair, defensively crossing my arms.
“Hi, I’m Ash. Are you by yourself?”
I gave him a polite smile.
“No. I’m here with my friends.”
“I don’t see them.” He paused, his full intensity fixed on me. “Would you like to dance?”
He held his hand toward me and my eyes opened wide. Was he expecting to swing me around in my chair? Did he think I was that desperate?
I laughed at his nerve.
“No, I’m not dancing.”
He frowned, his hand still suspended between us. “But you like to dance?”
I stared, my gaze sinking into his, puzzled, annoyed. He hadn’t seen the chair?
Isn’t this what you wanted? I asked myself. A man who sees me and not the chair?
My expression softened as I met his intense dark eyes.
“What makes you think I like to dance?”
His hand fell to his side and he shrugged again.
“You’re in a nightclub, and you’re not drinking. So you must be here to dance. Please, dance with me.”
I sighed with disappointment. Even if he was good looking, the guy couldn’t take a hint. I’d made it clear that I wasn’t dancing.
He held out his hand again, but I shook my head impatiently. “Then go find someone who will dance with you.”
His eyes widened in surprise, and then he grinned as h
e leaned on the table, his face inches from mine. “Maybe I want to dance with you.”
“Then you’ll be waiting a long time,” I laughed coldly.
But I couldn’t help my traitorous eyes tracking over his too handsome face. Golden skin stretched across sharp cheekbones, and his lips looked soft and generous. His black eyebrows were arched over dark eyes. And then I noticed a beauty spot shaped like a teardrop beneath his left eye—a perfect imperfection.
“I’m a good dancer,” he said, looking almost wounded at my continued refusal.
My anger snapped. Tiredness, my fight with Collin, and frustration at the damned wheelchair taking away this weekend that meant so much.
“I’m not dancing!”
“But everyone comes here to dance.”
“Not me!”
“You’ll have a good time.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I sneered. “Your last friend seemed to enjoy herself immensely.”
A dull red flooded his cheeks and he looked away.
His reaction surprised me. I’d hurt his feelings.
Then I felt guilty taking out my bitterness on him, but dammit! Why wouldn’t he leave me alone?
“Maybe I’d like to dance with a pretty girl for a change,” he said softly, glancing up at me from beneath long dark lashes.
I didn’t believe him. Not even for a second. I gave him a supercilious look and turned my head away.
“You are missing out,” he whispered.
My jaw tightened in disgust.
“Laney, is this guy bothering you?”
I breathed a sigh of relief as Vanessa and Jo strode toward us, their lips pursed and their eyes flashing dangerously.
Ash looked nervous, his glance flicking between my friends and the bouncers by the exit. He started backing away, his hands held out from his sides.
“I just asked her to dance, that’s all. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
Jo threw him a disbelieving look and stood with her hands on her hips.
Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1) Page 7
