by T. K. Leigh
“Well, I know something you don’t, too.” I bring my mouth to his.
“And what’s that?”
I bite his lower lip and tug at it before releasing it. “That I’m not done with you yet.”
“God, I love blackouts."
Chapter Eleven
An obnoxious pinging wakes me from one of the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time. Then again, Lincoln worked me to the point of utter exhaustion. I’ve never been with someone as enthusiastic and salacious. And let’s not even talk about his stamina. With him, it certainly is a marathon. Slow and steady won the race. Again. And again. And again.
It takes me a few moments to register what I’m hearing, the sound strange against the silence. Then it hits me — my cell phone.
I bolt up, grabbing it off the nightstand, surprised to learn I have service again and am being bombarded with texts from my concerned friends.
Nora: Ohmigod. I just saw the news. A blackout in Vegas? What happened? You’d better text and tell me you’re okay. You guys better be okay. Please text. Like now.
Evie: Hey. I heard about the blackout in Vegas. I know you and Izzy are still stuck in that shithole. Just let me know you’re okay. The news says cell towers have been affected so I don’t expect an immediate response, but I promised Nora I’d text. You know how she can be about stuff like this. There’s no reasoning with her. Love you. Stay safe.
Flopping back onto the bed, I check my flight status to see it’s not canceled, then type out a quick text to both of them to let them know I’m okay and that I’ll be getting into New York later today. Curious as to what happened to cause the loss of power for a little over twelve hours, I open the web browser and run a quick search. Unfortunately, there’s not much information, apart from the fact that Vegas lost power for a period lasting a little over twelve hours, but that all power and cell service is now restored.
I’m about to check my email, cringing at the idea of all the unanswered messages waiting for me, when an arm snakes around my waist. If it were anyone else, I’d shrug them off, make up some excuse, like needing to get to the airport to catch my flight, which I do, but I crave one last taste of Lincoln before our bubble bursts.
Moaning, I melt into him, craning my neck to give him better access. He feathers light kisses against my skin, his touch different from the commanding, dominant lover he was last night. Now he’s gentle, tender, affectionate. Truth be told, I like this side of him just as much. Maybe even a little more.
His hand roams from my stomach, creeping its way up to my chest. As his fingers ghost over one of my nipples, I whimper, my body coming alive. He pushes me onto my back, then crawls between my legs. His vibrant green eyes are lazy in the light of day, his exhaustion from our night of sin evident. But that doesn’t stop him from wanting me again.
Lowering his mouth to my breast, he delicately scrapes his teeth along the sensitized flesh of my nipple, and I lose myself to his touch yet again. Synapses firing, I wrap my legs around his waist, thrusting against him, my body a slave to sensation.
“Say you want me.” His voice is raspy from broken sleep.
I smile, running my hands through his hair. Every time he woke me up in the middle of the night, he demanded the same thing. Now, whenever I hear those words, I’ll only think of Lincoln, of his desperation to have my desire.
“I want you.”
“Say you need me.” This time, his plea is filled with more urgency.
“I need you.”
Groaning, he pulls away. I loosen my grip around his waist, allowing him to lean back and roll on a condom.
“And I need you. More than I’ve needed anything.” He covers my mouth as he pushes into me, filling me to my breaking point before retreating, continuing the same torturous, yet satisfying rhythm. Over. And over. And over.
Unlike last night, there are no carnal words, no harsh, punishing motions. It’s sweet and affectionate, making me feel more fulfilled than any previous sexual encounter. My body quivers, my heart quickening as I struggle to think of something else, anything other than the amazing way Lincoln seems to strum me, like a practiced musician would his instrument.
He lowers his mouth to my neck, licking and biting before he murmurs, “Let go, baby. Let me have it.”
My breathing grows ragged when his motions increase. Before I can fight against it, I unravel, a kaleidoscope of lights blinding me. He moans my name, finding his own release before collapsing on top of me, nuzzling his head against my chest.
I run my fingers through his wayward hair, swiping at the sweat on his brow. My eyes shift to the window, sunlight beaming into the room. Everything seems so different in the light of day. I’m not sure if it’s a good different or bad different.
“Come to dinner with me.” Lincoln’s voice cuts through the tranquility.
I smirk. “Did you forget I’m headed home today? My flight’s still showing as being on time.”
“Not here. Back in New York. I want to take you out.”
My heart catches in my throat, my body becoming rigid, my brain unable to tell my lungs to breathe, to perform that simple task of drawing in air, then exhaling.
Noticing my reaction, Lincoln pulls back, meeting my eyes, his brow wrinkled in confusion. “What is it?”
I shake my head, my lips parting. Most normal people would agree, would want to see if these feelings were real, if they’d survive outside the bubble. But I’m not most people. I don’t have the luxury of being able to pursue a fantasy.
Pushing against him, I free myself from his hold and roll off the bed, scrambling around the room for my discarded clothes.
“Chloe, what is it?” He stands, stepping toward me. “I thought you—”
“Trust me,” I interrupt, finding my yoga pants and tugging them on after the search for my panties ends up being fruitless. “You don’t want that. We’re not exactly compatible, are we?”
I stumble across my t-shirt and yank it on, feeling much more comfortable having this conversation now that I’m dressed. Lincoln doesn’t seem to mind his lack of clothes, though. He’s still as confident as he was last night. As he was yesterday when he gave me that lame tortoise and the hare analogy. As he was that first night I saw him.
“We’re as opposite as they come,” I continue, my tone frantic. “Not just in physical appearance, but in personality. There’s no way this…” I gesture between our two bodies, “would ever work out. We don’t even know each other.”
This was never an issue with any of the other guys in my past. But they were aware of the score going in. They were happy with the score going in. I broke one of my rules. I failed to have that important conversation with Lincoln. I didn’t think I had to. We all agreed last night. What happens in the bubble stays in the bubble.
“And once you get to know the real me, you’ll—”
“Do you always try to control everyone else’s decisions?” he interrupts, his voice calm.
“I don’t try to control everyone else’s decisions.”
“You’re doing it right now. You’re standing here, claiming I’d never want to be with you, the real you, but you won’t even give me a chance to get to know the real you. That’s all I want. A chance.”
I wrap my arms around my torso, shrinking into my tiny frame. “Once you get to know the real me, you’ll understand how much of a mistake it is. Last night was great. Better than great. But we were in the blackout bubble.”
“What about this morning? The blackout bubble is gone, yet I still want to know you. I still feel the same thing I did last night. That hasn’t changed just because the power’s back on. I still feel this connection. And I know you do, too.”
“That wasn’t a connection. That was just the result of too much alcohol, being stuck in this house, and a pair of dice.”
“You’re wrong. I felt it the instant I touched you Saturday night. The entire time you were going off about how much you loathed Vegas, all I could think was that
I wanted to know you, but that I’d never get the chance. And then I did. We kept running into each other. Over. And over. And I knew it wasn’t a coincidence. That it wasn’t just a chance meeting. I didn’t even know your name, yet what I felt for you was stronger than anything I’ve felt for anyone in a really long time. It makes no sense, and I can’t even attempt to explain it without sounding like I’m fucking crazy, but there it is… I just…” He licks his lips, his chest heaving as he collects his thoughts.
It takes every ounce of resolve I possess not to avert my eyes to steal a glimpse below his waist. But that’s not a solution. Not here, not now.
“I’m not asking you to move in,” he says, his voice softer. “Hell, I’m not even asking you to be my girlfriend. I’m just asking you to take a chance on getting to know me, on allowing me to get to know you. To see if this has the potential I feel in my heart it does.”
On a long inhale, I close my eyes. Maybe if my life weren’t so complicated, I’d be able to say yes. Just like it takes a certain type of person to date a woman who already has children of her own, it also takes a certain type of person to date a woman who has an alcoholic mother. When she falls, I’m the only one who cares enough to catch her. And when I do, Lincoln will just let me fall, too.
I open my mouth, wanting to tell him all of this so he’ll understand. Instead, all I can muster is, “I’m sorry.” I hold his gaze for a moment, then dash into the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
Seconds stretch as I lean against the wall, hyper-aware of every sound. Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every frustrated sigh. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I hear his footsteps retreat, the door to my room closing. I exhale deeply in what should feel like relief, but it isn’t. It’s something else.
Regardless, I shake off the exchange, convinced I made the right decision. As great as last night was, it wasn’t real. We were in a fantasy world where nothing else existed outside the bubble. Fantasy and reality don’t mix. Lincoln and I in the real world won’t mix.
Not wanting to get stuck in Vegas yet another night because I missed my flight, I turn on the water and take one of the quickest showers of my life. As I rush around the room, throwing my few belongings back into my suitcase, I spy a piece of paper placed on the desk next to the full wine glasses from last night.
I stop in my tracks, my heart thumping as I walk toward it, admiring Lincoln’s neat, yet masculine scrawl.
Dear Chloe,
I meant what I said. I do believe we have a connection. This connection won’t go away simply because the blackout is over. I felt it before. And I still feel it now. There’s a reason we kept running into each other. The universe has a plan for us. You just need to finally realize that.
Until then, I’ll be yours…
Lincoln
P.S. - I took your panties. If you want them back, meet me at The Living Room in the Park Hyatt. Thursday night. 9 o’clock.
The sound of a door slamming reverberates through the house, and I snap my eyes away from the paper, dropping it on the desk. I listen as heavy footsteps storm from Izzy’s room, past mine, continuing down the hall. I get the feeling things didn’t end well between Izzy and Asher, either.
My phone dings, alerting me to a text message and I rush to it, finding a message from Izzy.
Requested an Uber. Will be here in ten. Meet me by the front gate.
I type out a quick reply.
Okay. Just packing up.
I hit send, then finish throwing all my things into my suitcase. Once I’m confident I have everything I came here with, well…almost everything, I open the door to head out to catch our ride to the airport. Glancing behind me one last time, I spy Lincoln’s note, taunting me.
“Oh, fuck it,” I exhale, rushing to the desk and stuffing the paper into my bag.
The house is silent as I make my way down the steps, everything about this place different from the day before. It lacks life, vitality…hope. All the more reason I need to get out of this town as quickly as possible.
I step out the front door and walk down the long drive toward where Izzy’s already standing, looking down the street for our ride.
“Hey, Iz.”
“Hey, Chloe.”
Neither one of us says anything else for several long moments. Despite the silence, our thoughts are deafening. I glance at her, catching her eyes. We both shrug at the same time, then say, “Vegas.”
Our laughter fills the air as we wrap our arms around each other, offering the comfort we know we both need.
When our laughter dies down, Izzy comments, “So you’re not going to see him again.” It’s not a question. She knows me, is fully aware of my reasons for not getting involved.
I pull out of her embrace. “What choice do I have?”
She pinches her lips together, nodding. Thankfully, she doesn’t press the issue.
“You’re not going to see him again?” I ask.
She meets my eyes. “What choice do I have?”
Chapter Twelve
“Nothing interesting happened in Vegas? At all?”
I smile at Nora’s doe-eyed expression, grateful to be back in New York and doing something I do every week — Thursday happy hour with two of my best friends.
“It was just an uneventful weekend in the tenth ring of hell,” I say dismissively, taking a sip of my martini.
“Apart from the blackout,” Nora says. “Do you have any idea how worried we were?”
“I read the texts,” I respond, rolling my eyes. “All 187 of them, Nora.”
“I did not send 187,” she scoffs, indignant, smoothing her strawberry-blonde hair. Then she gives me a devious smile. “It was more like 186.”
The sound of our laughter carries through the trendy bar. This is exactly what I needed after my weekend. A night with my girls. As I take in my surroundings, it’s almost like I never left New York. The city’s still the same. Nora still gets distracted anytime I ask her a question about her own wedding plans. Evie is still madly in love with her boyfriend, Julian. And I’m the perpetual single girl. Same as it was last week, and the week before that, and the week before that. My experience in Vegas didn’t change any of that.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
“So, tell me…” Evie squares her shoulders. “How was the bachelorette party? Did you have to wear something ridiculous, like a crown of penises?”
“No crown of penises, but I did have to wear a necklace of phalluses.” I furrow my brow, deep in thought. “Phalli? Phalluses?”
I look between my two friends as we all murmur amongst ourselves, as if trying to answer a riddle.
“Actually, it can be either,” Aiden, our bartender, interjects with a wink.
I turn my attention to him and tip my glass toward him before taking a sip. “Thanks, Aiden. What would we do without you?”
“Pay a lot more for your drinks than you do.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Evie salutes him with her manhattan before sipping it.
“Please tell me there are pictures of you wearing a line of phalluses around your neck.” Nora’s eyes all but plead with me to admit there are.
“Probably. But that’s not even the worst part.”
“There’s something worse than wearing penises around your neck?” Evie asks in disbelief.
“Oh yes. We all had tank tops. Bedazzled tank tops.”
“Oh god,” she laughs, a devilish glint in her eyes. “What was on it?”
“Mine said ‘Bride’s Bitch’. And the maid of honor wore one that said ‘Bitch of Honor’.”
They look equally horrified at the thought.
“I can promise we won’t be doing anything that cheesy for my wedding.”
“And this, my darling Nora, is why I love you.” I raise my martini glass, toasting her.
“You’d love me even if I made you wear a crown of penises.”
“You’re right. I would.” I pass her a sincere look, then bring my drin
k to my lips, sipping on it. When a song I recognize from Fallen Grace comes over the speakers, I choke on it, liquid shooting out of my mouth.
Before Vegas, I never paid much attention to the band. In the past twenty-four hours since I landed back at JFK, I feel like I see and hear them everywhere, a constant reminder of what I did in their Vegas house while they were back in London.
Almost like the universe refuses to let me forget it.
“What is it?” Evie asks in concern.
“Nothing. Drink went down the wrong pipe. That’s all.”
At that moment, a bar back rushes behind the counter, his arms filled with bottles. “Here’s the Belvedere you needed,” he says, handing them over to Aiden, who gets to work on restocking the shelves. All I can do is stare at the sleek bottle, trying to convince myself it’s just a coincidence. It has to be. I’d purposely ordered a different kind of vodka for my martini to avoid the memory of Lincoln. Yet someone, something doesn’t want me to forget.
“Chloe?” Nora says.
I whip my eyes to hers, my expression panicked, confused, and everything in between. “I—”
A flicker from the large screen television hanging over the bar catches my attention. I lift my eyes, scrunching my nose at the low-budget commercial for a used car dealership. Normally I wouldn’t give it a second glance, but I can’t stop staring at the actors dressed as George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, and you guessed it…Abraham Lincoln.
I could deal with hearing Fallen Grace. The radio stations play them at least once an hour. But the Belvedere vodka and a commercial with Abraham Lincoln? It’s too much. Maybe Lincoln was right. Maybe the universe does have a plan for us.
Pushing out of my barstool, I grab a few bills to cover my drink and throw them onto the bar. I check my phone to see it’s just a few minutes after nine. If I hurry, I can still make it.
