It was just buried beneath a dozen layers of womanizing man-child.
If he could just outgrow the juvenile behavior…
“You okay?”
I looked up, jarred out of my daydream. “What?”
“Are you alright?” Simon asked. “You seem distracted.”
I suddenly realized I’d been thinking about the guy I hated while I was on a date with another man.
Ugh.
“Sorry,” I said. “Thinking about work.”
“Your new job you mentioned?”
“Yeah.”
“Which is… what, exactly?” Simon asked. “I never quite understood exactly what it was that you do.”
“Wrangling Vic, basically.”
“That’s your job?!”
“Yup.”
“Why does he need wrangling?”
I explained about his billionaire uncles, the VC firm, the yacht, and finished with, “He’s out of control.”
Simon raised his eyebrows and made a Huh face. “He seems pretty cool.”
I narrowed my eyes in irritation. “Which part are you most impressed by, exactly? The floozies or the money?”
Simon laughed. “Neither. He just seems like a good guy, deep down.”
He was right. No matter how douchey Vic acted sometimes, he did seem to be a really good guy at heart.
But I wasn’t about to admit that.
“Maybe,” I said.
“I can tell he likes you.”
I dropped my fork in surprise. It clanked loudly on my plate.
“What?!”
Simon frowned. “It’s obvious.”
That annoyed me even more. “Just because he hits on anything wearing a bra – or not, in some cases – doesn’t mean jack.”
Simon put up his hands like Don’t shoot. “I’m not saying he likes you like that – ”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying he… I don’t know. He likes you, but he respects you.”
Huh.
“He better, or I’ll rip him a new one,” I said as I picked up my fork again.
“If I were less secure, I’d be threatened,” he smiled, then added hastily, “But I'm not.”
I almost laughed.
I wasn't sure which was funnier: the thought that Vic was attracted to me in anything other than a Hey babe, nice ass kind of way…
…or that Simon actually believed he would take on somebody like Vic or Domenico.
Or, worst of all, that I might have the barest, slimmest, tiniest hint of an attraction to Vic, too.
EW.
I slugged down my wine and tried to forget that last thought.
14
The end of the evening did not go well.
First there was the heart-attack-inducing matter of the bill.
After the sommelier suggested Vic’s favorite red – a Château Lafite – I checked the price on the wine list while he was gone.
There was a Château Lafite for $250.
I hesitated for a second, then figured, What the hell. We’ve got $1000.
Turns out I should have gone farther down the list, which is where the earlier vintage we had was listed.
It was $900 per bottle.
I nearly screamed when I saw the bill. “What the HELL?!”
There followed a rather freaked-out conversation with the waiter, who called over the sommelier, who assured us that Vic wouldn’t mind at all if we charged it to his house account.
“You’re friends of his, right?” the somm asked. “He won’t care.”
“No, I can’t do that,” I insisted.
During the whole back and forth with the sommelier, Simon was absolutely useless. When I appealed to him for support – and, implicitly, some cash to help me out – he just shrugged. “Vic did say we could charge dinner to his account.”
“He already gave us a thousand dollars!” I said, humiliated that I was even having this conversation.
Simon shrugged again. “He’s a multimillionaire, right? With billionaire uncles? Let him buy the wine.”
You DICK.
I wrestled with the idea of putting the wine on my own credit card… but with my brother Spence breathing down my neck, and my full-time salary still 30 days away…
I mean, today I’d flown in a helicopter to and from a yacht, then took a private jet to Vegas. A $900 bottle of wine was a mere drop in the bucket.
Still, it stuck in my craw that I gave in and put it on somebody else’s tab.
And Simon never offered a penny of his own to help.
After all that pleasantness, we took a taxi back to the Mandalay Bay. I was already dreading how this would play out, and wondering whether I should tackle the issue now or later, when he did me the favor of broaching the subject himself.
“So, what’s the room situation?” he asked as we passed by the elevators.
Perfect opportunity.
I pulled out the cardboard sleeve Vic had given me. “Here you go.”
He took it from me and gave me what I’m sure he thought was a seductive look. “Shall we?”
“You go ahead.”
He frowned. “You’re not coming with me?”
There’s a joke in there that Vic would love, I thought, but wisely didn’t say anything.
Instead I just shook my head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“What’s wrong?”
I’ve never been one to beat around the bush, so I dove right in. “Simon, I’ve enjoyed our time together, but I really don't think we’re right for each other.”
He just stood there, speechless, mouth slightly open in shock.
For a second I thought I might have broken his heart – maybe even broke him – and I was feeling horrible about what I’d just done.
That is, until he got angry.
A mean, vicious scowl broke out on his face. It was the first instance of real emotion I’d seen from him since we started going out.
“What the hell?! If you knew you were going to dump me, why did you lead me on? Why invite me to Vegas?”
At first I was taken aback at his Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde-like transformation. It took me a second to regain my composure.
“I’m not dumping you, I just don’t feel like this is right for me. And I had no idea before tonight,” I said, telling the teeniest of white lies. I’d known it in my gut – probably all along – but I figured it wouldn’t help the situation any to tell him that.
“So what happened tonight to change your mind?” he snapped.
I thought back to the scene with Domenico and Vic in the lobby, which is probably where it really happened. Although the two hours of boring chit chat over dinner hadn’t helped matters any – not to mention his complete failure to step up and help me with the $900 bottle of wine.
“Nothing,” I lied again. “I just finally figured things out, that’s all.”
“Is this about the $900?” he seethed. “Is that it?”
“It didn’t help matters any,” I said, finally telling the truth.
He gave a single, bitter laugh. “For somebody who accused me of being impressed by Vic’s money, it sure seems like you’re the one who’s impressed.”
“This has nothing to do with Vic or his money,” I said coldly.
“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Simon basically went off in his own little private fantasy world for a second as he muttered to himself, “That son of a bitch, I bet he was trying to sabotage me by paying for dinner…”
I wanted to say, He didn’t sabotage you, dude, you did that all by yourself, but I wisely bit my tongue.
“I should kick his ass,” Simon growled.
A single laugh escaped me. I couldn’t hold it in. Maybe it was the three glasses of wine at dinner (The asshole was trying to liquor me up! I realized), although more likely it was the ridiculousness of the statement. Simon’s stringbean body versus Vic’s bodybuilder physique? He wouldn’t last five seconds. Anybody could see that.
Well, anybod
y but Simon.
“What?!” he barked. “You think I couldn’t?!”
“I think you should go to sleep,” I said, and turned away.
“What are you going to do, go fuck him in his penthouse suite? You can take turns with his other sluts.”
OH NO HE DIDN’T.
I whirled around and gave him a death glare.
I thought I’d given a nice guy a chance. Turns out I still hadn’t cleared my life of assholes.
Simon smiled nastily when he saw he’d gotten my goat. “It’s going to be pretty awkward after you sleep with him and then we all have to ride back on the plane together.”
I drew myself up to full height. “Not that it’s any of your business, but A, I'm never going to sleep with Vic. And B, it won’t be awkward, because you won’t be on the plane with us. I’ll make sure there’s some cash at the front desk tomorrow morning so you can buy a ticket on whatever flight you choose.”
“I don't need your money – or his,” he sneered.
“You might as well take it, because that’s all you’re getting from me for the rest of your life,” I said as I turned heel and walked away.
15
I found the nearest bar on the casino floor and ordered a glass of good bourbon.
By the time I was on my second, I was feeling a little better.
Oh well. I’d saved myself months before I discovered I was dating a closet asshole.
In my buzzed state, I thought the idea of Simon being ‘in the closet’ was immensely funny.
If you date a closeted gay guy, he doesn’t want to fuck you. Whereas a closeted asshole just wants to fuck you over.
Vic might be an asshole, too, but he definitely wasn’t in the closet. With Vic, you knew what you were getting upfront. Not to mention he was fun and witty, unlike another vanilla asshole I’d spent the evening with so far.
Vic…
I looked across the sea of slot machines, with their blinking lights and clanking coins, to the blackjack dealers, the roulette wheels…
…the high-stakes poker tables…
I wonder what Vic’s doing right now.
I finished off my bourbon and slammed the glass down on the bar.
Let’s go find out.
16
Vic
God, I’d never been this bored playing poker before.
For a high-stakes table, there was surprisingly little action. Everybody was too timid to go all in, so I had to string them along and make them think I didn’t have anything. Otherwise it was just too easy. I’d put all my chips on the table and they’d all fold like a cheap suit.
Which meant I was playing for piddly little ten grand pots instead of the hundreds of thousands (or millions) I normally like.
It was too early for the true degenerates to be out – professional players like my buddies Steve Wu and Moe Carnahan. They’d probably show up around midnight at the earliest.
And that asshole Domenico wasn’t here yet, either. I hated the fucker, but I had to admit, he had balls. He’d go all in on the first two cards, no matter what he was holding, just to see if I was bluffing or not.
But nobody here was like that.
Booooooooring.
And the girls… man, I’d picked a trio of winners back on the boat.
That was sarcasm, by the way.
Even though they were hot, and they looked good hanging all over me while I played, they were dumb as doorknobs.
For example:
I’d been stringing along a couple of guys on one hand, letting them think they had a chance, when the dealer laid down the fifth card.
“You’re gonna need a bigger boat,” I said to some shlubby dude in pleated khakis who couldn’t decide whether to shit or get off the pot.
The Asian chick – who was stroking my beard – said, “Huh?”
“Because of the river,” I explained.
The redhead was like, “What?”
The Brazilian didn’t even know enough English to understand what the hell was going on.
I pointed at the last card the dealer had laid down. “That’s the river.”
“It’s a card,” the Asian said contemptuously, like anybody who called it anything else was an idiot.
“Yes, but they call it the river.” I pointed to the other cards lying face-up on the table. “Those first three are the flop, that’s the turn, and that’s the river.”
The redhead leaned over and looked at it closely. “But there’s no water on it.”
Jesus CHRIST.
All the guys at the table, the dealer included, laughed their asses off.
The redhead got pissed. “Well, there isn’t.”
That just made them laugh harder and start talking shit.
Normally I would have chewed them out for ragging on a chick of mine, but I wasn’t about to go to bat for somebody who would have lost on Are You Smarter Than a Second Grader.
And yes, I know the show’s called Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader.
It made me think wistfully of Monica. How smart she was – and sharp-tongued. Damn, she could throw down. She’d sliced and diced Domenico like a Ginsu knife. The guys here laughing at the redhead wouldn’t stand a chance against Monica.
I wish SHE were here right now instead of these three Einsteins.
Which was kind of weird for me to think, seeing how much of a bitch Monica was.
But she was sharp as a tack, which was entertaining. Like verbal jousting.
…and she was hot, in that naughty executive kind of way.
As my thoughts drifted in that direction, I thought back to this afternoon on the yacht and how I hadn’t been able to get it up unless I was thinking of Monica.
Which was disturbing on so many levels.
What the hell are you doing, Vic?
I shook it off. Forget Monica – I had three Maxim cover models right here.
I looked over at them –
The Brazilian was taking a selfie.
The Asian was playing Candy Crush on her phone.
And the redhead was still stewing about there not being any water on the river card.
Oh God.
My mind wandered to Monica. She and Simon would have finished dinner by now.
I wonder if ol’ Simon has the balls to seal the deal…
Suddenly I felt depressed as hell.
And antsy, too. I wanted to get up and do something.
Maybe get blind drunk, which was not a good way to play poker, not even against idiots like these guys.
“I think I’m going to cash out,” I announced.
There were a bunch of complaints from the other players about getting a chance to win their money back.
As if.
I was doing them a favor by walking away now and not taking any more of their money.
The Asian stopped playing video games long enough to coyly ask, “Want to go up to the room and have some fun?”
“Sim, Papa,” the Brazilian said out of nowhere, like she suddenly realized it was show time.
Every guy at the table was staring daggers at me. I’d not only taken their money, but now I was going to go have a foursome with the three hottest girls they’d seen in their lives.
If they only knew how I was feeling.
I don’t know what it was – maybe the thought of what Monica might be doing at this very moment in a king-size bed somewhere – but I had zero interest in the three amigas.
“Ehhh… not now,” I said. I handed each of the girls a $5000 chip. “You all have fun – I’ll see you later.”
You should have seen their eyes light up – like they’d just gotten EXACTLY what they wanted. They made some perfunctory protests about how they really wanted to go up to the room and party, and to call them if I changed my mind, but then they ran like Usain Bolt as soon as they had the chance.
The guys at the table were staring at me like they’d just seen a guy commit suicide right there in front of them. Horror, shock, and disbelief.<
br />
I didn’t care. I just tipped the dealer five grand and walked away.
17
Vic
As I headed towards the cashier window, I considered my options dejectedly.
I was in funk, and I had to shake it off. Had to do something.
I pulled out my phone and sent off a mass text: The Beard is in Vegas one night only! What’s skakin’?
It would take a few minutes for the replies to start rolling in. In the meantime, maybe I’d go up to the room and order some food… pre-game at the mini bar…
As I got up to the VIP cashier’s window and turned in my chips, I heard a familiar voice behind me.
“Awwww, did your paid companions decide to go seek employment elsewhere?”
I turned around, utterly surprised.
Monica.
She was smiling at me in her sarcastic, badass way.
And she was alone, which was awesome.
I cannot begin to describe the wave of relief and happiness that washed through me.
Which sort of bothered me a little. Why the hell should I care?
But then I said Fuck it and just enjoyed the feeling.
“Where’s Simon?” I asked with a grin. “You didn’t give him any nookie? Or did you, and it was just over that fast?”
She laughed. “No nookie, and no ‘handie’ either – ”
Holy shit, did she just LAUGH?
And did she just SAY that?!
“ – but I did get my stress relief from a bottle of Château LaFite. The sommelier said it was your favorite.”
Ah, so THAT’S it. Monica’s buzzzzzzed.
“It is,” I said, “but as I recall, the one I like is about 900 a bottle.”
She gave me a sheepish Don’t hate me grin. “Yeah… I know.”
“I only gave you a thousand – what did you guys eat, bread and appetizers?”
“No… I charged it to your account.”
“Oh-HO! Naughty, naughty!” I said, secretly delighted she’d cut loose a little. “How are you gonna explain that one to my uncles?”
The guilty look suddenly vanished, and she smiled impishly instead. “Eh… I’ll just say you did it.”
Strip Poker: Bad Boys Club Romance #2 Page 5
