Submitting in Vegas: (Vegas Morellis, #3)

by Sam Mariano

  Submitting in Vegas

  (Vegas Morellis, #3)

  Sam Mariano

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1. Rafe

  2. Rafe

  3. Virginia

  4. Rafe

  5. Rafe

  6. Virginia

  7. Rafe

  8. Virginia

  9. Rafe

  10. Virginia

  11. Virginia

  12. Rafe

  13. Virginia

  14. Virginia

  15. Virginia

  16. Rafe

  17. Virginia

  18. Virginia

  19. Virginia

  20. Virginia

  21. Rafe

  22. Virginia

  23. Virginia

  Untitled

  24. Virginia

  25. Rafe

  26. Virginia

  27. Rafe

  28. Virginia

  29. Virginia

  30. Rafe

  31. Virginia

  32. Virginia

  33. Virginia

  34. Rafe

  35. Virginia

  36. Virginia

  37. Virginia

  38. Virginia

  39. Virginia

  40. Virginia

  41. Virginia

  42. Virginia

  Epilogue

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Dedication

  For Ginger.

  I’m so glad you stumbled across my books!

  Enjoy your Rafe. ;)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Submitting in Vegas (Vegas Morellis, #3)

  © 2018 by Sam Mariano

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Thank you for not being a pirate!

  Cover Design: Covers by Combs

  Created with Vellum

  Prologue

  Virginia

  Memories.

  For most people, memories are generally pretty pleasant, barring the obvious and perhaps traumatic exception. Little snippets to tuck away in the mind to recall special moments, until inevitably most of them fade away.

  Mine don’t fade away.

  I can still recall in crushing detail the time I was dumped for a middle school cheerleader. I remember the shirt he wore, how scrawny his legs looked in his khaki cargo shorts. I remember how much gel he had in his hair and what it smelled like, and I remember the despair of my 12-year-old self that the love of my life was dumping me (I was dramatic, okay? I was 12) right before the winter formal.

  I remember everything about the night of the formal, right down to the songs that played while I was in the gymnasium. I remember my burgundy dress and the way it clung awkwardly to my developing breasts. I remember the metallic strappy sandals that my mom paid $14 for at Walmart because I thought they would look so cool, I remember that I put on too much blush—rose silk, the wrong shade for my complexion anyway, but my mom didn’t know anything about make-up so she didn’t know to warn me. I remember the painstaking effort I put into getting ready and doing my hair, I remember the disappointment of realizing there were only sparkly silver flakes trapped in clear liquid, and my nail polish was not the metallic color I thought it would be when I applied it.

  I remember how none of that mattered anymore when I got to the dance and the first thing I saw upon entering the gymnasium was him dancing with her. I remember how much prettier her hair looked than mine, how much prettier her dress was, how much prettier she was. She wasn’t wearing blush because her mother knew she didn’t need it. I remember the pain and embarrassment, I remember feeling like an unlovable clown. I remember hiding out in the library until it was all over so I could go home and pretend to my mom that all the effort we put into that night wasn’t wasted so I could spend five minutes at the dance and the rest of the night crying alone in a room full of books.

  I remember every single second of that night as vividly as I remember my shower this morning, and it was over a decade ago.

  I remember everything. It stopped being nice a long time ago; now it’s just damned annoying.

  I remember the face, the dress, the shoes, the smile of every woman Rafe has ever brought through this restaurant. I remember when I didn’t care, and boy, was that nice. Of course the lethal Vegas playboy with his easy charm and his effortlessly seductive smile tickled my interest—I mean, I liked playboys when I was 12, and how much game can a 12-year-old really have?—but I learned to avoid those sorts of guys, even if they don’t commit crimes for a living. They contribute way too many painful reels to my memory library.

  The problem is—and this is a strange and unique problem to have with him, I realize—that every single memory in my library containing Rafe Morelli is a good one. Even the ones of him in his booth with the parade of random women. I don’t focus on them, I focus on him. I catch his jokes and charming conversation in passing, see that gorgeous smile stretch across his face. Rafe has the best smile. He doesn’t just smile with his mouth. It starts there, but then it takes over his whole face. No matter where I’m at, no matter what I’m doing, all I have to do is pluck a memory of Rafe’s smile out of the vault and my insides soften. His smile, even in my memory, is contagious, and I can’t help smiling, too.

  My first memories of Rafe are ordinary. I knew who he was when I applied for the job at his restaurant, but I certainly didn’t look at him in a romantic light. He was a bad guy, after all. Back then, that still mattered to me. Not in a personal way, just in the sense that I had a societal responsibility to condemn the men who made their fortunes from the misfortune of others. Mobsters were cretins, leaches, scumbags. Just because he had a pretty face didn’t mean he didn’t have an ugly heart.

  I hadn’t given up dating at that point, and I had a boyfriend—not that it mattered. Rafe was hardly knocking down my door. He was friendly to me when I crossed his path, but he is blessedly professional enough not to hit on waitresses at his own restaurant, so I was an asexual object, as far as he was concerned.

  None of those casual memories were his first impression, though. Those are throwaway memories—or, they would be, for someone with the ability to throw memories away. Despite his role in the world at large, despite even what I already knew about him, Rafe Morelli’s first impression in my memory will always be of him as my hero.

  My breath hitches pitifully as I stare at the screen of my cell phone, waiting for a response from that cheating little weasel I call a boyfriend. I didn’t think I would be experiencing a traumatic break-up during my dinner break, but as the crate I’m seated on presses marks into my ass, as I listen to the sounds of the kitchen operating normally outside this little supply corner, I know it can’t be put off just because it’s inconvenient. My pride may be battered, but it still calls for Nate’s blood—now, not later.

  The bitch tagged him in a photo. He sneaks around behind my back with some harlot while I’m working a double shift to pay our rent, and I find out in a tagged picture along with everyone else on his friends list?

  My mind drifts to the humiliation I’ll face in front of our mutual friends. Do they already know? I noticed one of them liked one of her photos from a week ago. Have they met? Do they like
her more than me? Am I the last to find out that my boyfriend is already in a new relationship? How could he do this to me? That asshole swore he loved me, and this isn’t even something you do to someone you like. I know people fall out of love, but I’ve seen no evidence of it in my own relationship. Sure, things have been a little boring lately, but that happens in long-term relationships. I guess I have been busy working extra shifts, but only because his incompetent ass can’t handle more than part-time work while we’re in school.

  I guess he could, since he clearly has time to cheat on me with this bitch.

  I pull up the picture again and my face crumbles. I need to stop looking at it. I don’t even need to look at it because it lives in my memory forever now.

  God, the cruelty of that knowledge. I’ll never be able to shake it. I’ll never forget how much this hurts. I’ll never be able to forget the way the sun hits her blonde hair and makes it look pink in the photo, the easy smile on her pretty face, or the adoring look on his.

  He doesn’t look at me like that anymore, but I remember when he did.

  Break-ups are so, so hard for me, because I remember every last detail. It’s hard to accept that things you believed in, things you felt… they expire, like a loaf of bread.

  For some people, I guess. Not for me. I have so many memories of Nate being good to me, and it is uniquely easy for me to stay in love with someone who has been mostly good to me. I can relive what made me fall for them at will, replay the highlight reel of our relationship when things get tough. Revisiting those memories brings back those feelings like it just happened, even if it has been much longer. Even after the excitement has fizzled and there are less good times, I can still look at the man I love with the same starry eyes I had on the best days of our relationship, if I choose to.

  I need to just give up men altogether. They are not worth this. I’m so much happier when I’m single and there is no one to tank my emotional well-being.

  My phone vibrates and a message pops up. It’s from him, “Fuck, Gin, I can’t believe this. I don’t know what to say.”

  I don’t know what he should say either. He can’t say he’s not a cheating assface, because I have lots of information now emblazoned into my brain to shut that argument down real quick.

  Another message comes through, and my heart drops. “I didn’t want you to find out this way. That’s so shitty.”

  What the fuck? The way I found out isn’t the shitty part, asshole. I text back to let him know that.

  When he responds, lacking in real remorse, it makes my stomach hurt even worse. Tears burn behind my eyes and blur the message, but it’s already too late. Every pixel is emblazoned to memory, completely inescapable.

  “I’m sorry, Gin. I’m just not in love with you anymore. I want to tell you I’m sorry, but honestly I’m so happy with her… I’m sorry I didn’t say something to you sooner.”

  “Oh, God,” I murmur to no one, putting the phone down on top of my thigh. I can’t look at it anymore. I don’t want to look at it ever again.

  Suddenly overwhelmed with a helpless rage, I fling the phone against the white cinderblock wall. The phone doesn’t break. I want it to break. I want every picture, every text message, every memory erased.

  Only I know erasing them from the world won’t erase them from my mind, and this is why I despise my memory.

  Sobbing quietly to myself, I drop my face into my hands and try to hide from the world. At least I’ll have the memories of this pain to remind me why I avoid relationships. I let Nate trick me into thinking he was worth it, but I should have known better. My freakish brain makes heartbreak too intense. Dealing with the inevitable letdowns is too much.

  I should be so good at breakups. I can build a case against someone just by watching their imperfections. Normally, I can’t keep from watching the signs and noticing when it’s clearly not going to end well.

  I completely missed this one, though.

  This is the first time I’ve ever been in a relationship serious enough that we moved in together. I’ve never slept in someone else’s bed before, never unpacked boxes in a kitchen where I thought we would be doing cute coupley things. When we slept in that bed cuddled close and unpacked those boxes, I never could have imagined him doing something like this.

  God, I am an idiot. Now that the admission is out there, so many things rush to mind. So many stories I believed that now sound like lies. He was going to meet his study group for coffee at 8pm? Who drinks coffee at 8pm? Not Nate, because he can’t stay up past 11. The time his car broke down when he was at his friend Tom’s house and it was late, so he just decided to stay the night and get the car fixed the next day. I offered to pick him up, but he didn’t want to interrupt my studying.

  Right. My studying. How fucking considerate.

  I wasn’t suspicious, that’s the problem. I didn’t think I had a reason to be. Things were fine. We live together. We have a routine.

  I trusted him.

  “Oh, shit.”

  My head jerks up just in time to see a man in a sharp tan suit in the narrow hall leading to this supply room. He has already swiftly pivoted and started to turn away, but now his steps slow and he turns back in my direction, albeit reluctantly.

  Rafe Morelli rakes a hand through his golden hair, looking somewhat torn on his own reaction to catching a woman alone in the supply room, crying her eyes out. The gallant side of him must win out, because he approaches me, even though I’m a crying mess.

  “Hey. Everything okay back here?” he asks.

  I nod my head. “Yeah. Fine. Sorry, should I not be back here?”

  Rafe shakes his head. “No, you’re fine, I just… I was going to grab Craig some oil for the fryer.”

  I sniffle again, shifting my legs to make more room for him to get past. “Go ahead.”

  Clearly my crying was more the problem than the close quarters back here, but he nods like all is well and eases past me so he can grab oil out of the corner. He pauses when he almost steps on my phone. Bending down to grab it, he asks, “This yours?”

  I nod, too drained to care about how embarrassing this is. “Yeah.”

  For a moment, he looks at the phone as if weighing his options. Clearly, the phone holds the answers to why I’m crying, or I wouldn’t have thrown it. The devil and angel on his shoulder don’t fight for very long.

  Once he has made his decision, he doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s checking my phone right in front of me. First he lights it up, then he checks my open programs. I still have the picture of Nate and her open so he probably sees it, but doesn’t know what it is. The ongoing text message of horrors is also open, and if he actually read it, that might answer the unasked question. Rafe looks it all over briefly and I can’t help wondering if he’s looking at her. Does he think she’s pretty? I bet he does.

  When he finishes his perusal, his eyes drop and he sighs. Finally, he reaches forward and offers the phone to me.

  I don’t want it, but it’s not his problem, so rather than telling him to burn it, I take it and shove it in my apron.

  Rafe hesitates, then walks out of the back room and leaves me here all alone.

  I try to figure out how I’m supposed to go home after this. Home to our apartment where I’ll see all his things, where I’ll be haunted by visuals that are already assaulting me—our first night together in our new place, curled up on the couch. We’re both broke, so we can only afford one lamp for the big living room. It’s so dimly lit, and somehow I fell in love with the charm of it. Everyone struggles while they’re still in school, it didn’t matter. It was our first place. This was where we would begin building our future.

  It meant so much to me, opening my life up to someone that way, and clearly it meant so little to him.

  I look up as Rafe strides back into my little nook of sadness.

  “All right, you’re clearly not all right,” he states, coming to a stop right in front of me. “Why don’t you talk to me abou
t what’s going on? Talking might help.”

  “It won’t.”

  “Why don’t we give it a shot?” he suggests. “Boyfriend problems?”

  I nod my head. “Something like that.”

  “What’d he do?”

  I look up, smiling faintly. “What makes you think he did something? Maybe I did.”

  “Well, you’re the one crying, and he’s the one out living in his life with someone named Alison Marie, so I clicked together the pieces. Trust me, you’ll feel better if you get it all out.”

  “Sounds like you’ve pretty much worked it all out,” I tell him. “My boyfriend—whom I live with, which is wonderful—is out with some stupid girl while I’m here at work, and I found out about it because she tagged him in a mushy post. He’d be sorry, but apparently he’s too happy to mean it.” A sound bursts out of me, half laugh, half sob. “So, there you go. You’re caught up. I want to die. The end.”

  “Jesus Christ, he said that to you? What a prick.”

  “Yep. Right? How fucked up is that? Sorry, you’re—I shouldn’t say fucked up.”

  “Hey, it’s fucked up,” he says, his charming smile coming easily. “I know it probably doesn’t help right now, but he sounds like a piece of shit. I also have a good bit of experience with girls who go by two first names and spend that much time on their eyebrows, and let me tell you, he is not going to have a good time.”