by Nikki Chase
“Hey, don’t judge, man,” I say. “My mom watches those gossip shows all the time and I can hear the TV from my room. You know how fucking thin the walls are. There was a special on celebrity break-ups last night.”
“Okay, whatever. Let’s save the girl talk for tomorrow. How’s your mom?”
“Oh, you know. Stubborn, as usual. I’ve been telling her to reduce her hours at the diner because she’s always so exhausted when she gets home, but she won’t budge.
“I tell her we could live off her savings for now, and I’d deal with student loan payments when I start working full time. But of course she insists on paying my tuition and working herself to the bone.”
“Of course.” Earl chuckles.
Earl knows what my mom’s like. He used to live a few doors down from us in our grey, grody apartment building, and we used to hang out all the time—that is, until a Vegas girl charmed him and stole him away.
Seriously though, I’m happy for him. I wish I could find someone like that too, because it feels like nobody understands my shit the way Earl used to. Now that he lives in another city, things aren’t exactly the same as they used to be, although he’s still one of the closest friends I’ve ever had.
“Aiden,” he says, “I’ve got some wedding shit to deal with, so I need to go now, but I’m really looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, you beautiful asshole. Say ‘hi’ to your mom for me.”
“Sure thing,” I laugh as I end the call with just another press of a button on the steering wheel.
Cool car. I’m glad Matt’s letting me use it for the weekend.
It’s crazy because this car is more expensive than my medical degree, but he’s got a fleet of cars just like this one, and he happens to like me enough to lend it to me for free.
Matt’s such a chill guy I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind a scratch or two. But I was still hugely relieved to find that the kid on the skateboard didn’t cause any damage to the car.
Funny, I can't even afford to rent a shitty beat-up car. But I suppose it pays to have rich friends, even if their spending habits irk me.
As I turn the car onto the highway leading to Sin City, guilt plagues me.
I feel bad about not telling my mom about Earl’s wedding, but I have no choice. I wonder if she’ll understand when I tell her—after I get back from Vegas, of course.
My mom holds on to this superstition that bad things will happen to us if we ever step foot in Vegas again. But that’s irrational, right?
I can’t blame her after what she’s gone through, but that doesn’t mean I have to live by the same absurd rules she does.
So, I’m going back to Vegas for the weekend. I’m sure everything’s going to be just fine.
Aubrey
I stare at the rotating blur of pictures in front of me. It stops again—a pair of cherries on the first reel; the number “7” on the second reel; and another pair of cherries on the last reel.
I’ve been sitting here for the past half hour, jealously defending my seat from little old ladies. The casino is pretty crowded today, and I need to sit somewhere.
Mom and Hannah are upstairs, talking to the wedding planner about stuff I can’t care about. My sister’s wedding reception is going to be held in the hotel that’s attached to this ginormous casino. (Let’s not pretend that these establishments are more about hospitality than gambling.)
I stayed with them in the meeting room for as long as I could stand. But honest to God, they were arguing about whether to curl the ribbons wrapped around the thank-you gifts. Arguing.
I couldn’t take it anymore, and I figured I wasn’t helping either because, honestly, both versions of the thank-you gifts looked exactly the same to me. But I couldn’t go home without them either since we came here together.
So here I am, stuck in a glitzy casino jam-packed full of gamblers and tourists.
Don't get me wrong. I love my sister, so I’m actually really happy she's happy. I’m just not into weddings in general.
Hannah and her fiancée are the perfect couple, though. They’re always touching each other and smiling at each other . . . and there’s nothing more envy-inducing than watching them gaze at each other. It seems like they communicate so much in just one look, saying secret things to each other even when they’re surrounded by people on all sides.
Hannah and I used to have our own secret language when we were little girls, but it was pretty easy to crack. In fact, even though you don’t know it yet, you’re already fluent in this language. Basically, we just added “idig” to every word. For example, “thidigis iidigs aidig secridiget langidiguage” means “this is a secret language.”
We learned to do that from a bunch of girls in school, so it wasn’t even original. Plenty of kids were doing it.
For years, Mom and Dad pretended not to understand what we were saying, and I bought it.
I was sure all the parents whose girls spoke the secret language had sinister meetings where they talked about us in the shadows, working tirelessly to translate our mysterious language. But it was not only secret; it was sacred. And so we kept our lips tightly zipped.
In reality, of course the parents understood our secret language perfectly. They were just pretending not to, in order to gain an advantage in the eternal parent-child battle.
So no, Hannah and I never really had a secret language.
The looks that lovers share—that’s the real secret language. The only one that will never be decoded by anyone else.
Oh, but what do I know?
I’ve never had what I’d call a “healthy relationship,” and I know what the problem is: the guys I’ve dated were way too clingy. Somehow, I have a knack for picking out these guys.
Here’s how a typical relationship goes for me: I go on a handful of dates with a great guy; he tells me he loves me and I say it back because it’s awkward not to, and he's a great guy anyway; he wants to move in together; I put it off; he nags me to set a deadline; I tell him to stop bothering me; he keeps bothering me anyway; I leave him; he eventually fades out of my life; single again, I go on a date with a great guy.
The order and intensity of these stages differ, but that’s basically how it would go. Whenever I’m seeing someone, in my head I track our progress through this cycle and wonder how much longer it will take this time around.
There was only one time my relationship didn’t follow that trajectory.
I was sixteen, and he was the first boy I ever loved. When he told me he loved me, I cried and told him I loved him too. I meant it then.
And then, suddenly, he left. Without a trace.
He didn’t even leave a note, or call me on the phone, or email me, or text me.
I thought about him obsessively, always looking for something from him. Anything.
But nothing ever came.
I don’t know how long I waited for him. Hell, maybe I can’t fall for anyone else because I’m still waiting for him, as pathetic as that sounds.
Or maybe my heartbreak was so traumatic that I haven't been able to allow myself to fall in love again.
I don’t know.
One thing’s for sure, though, he doesn’t care about me. It’s been ten years since he disappeared, and I’ve never heard from him again.
So I have no luck in love, and apparently no luck in gambling either.
Maybe I should try doing something different. Wasn’t it Einstein who said the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results?
I should try a different game, or at least a different slot machine. And with regard to love, maybe it’s time for me to move on, to take a risk with another guy, to let myself be vulnerable again.
“Excuse me,” someone says, close to my ear. He smells like whisky. “I just have one coin left. Do you mind if I put it in?”
I expect to see a dirty drunk, but the sight I see when I turn my head takes my breath away.
This man, he’s beaut
iful. I swear I don’t usually use that word for men, but the creature in front of me deserves it.
His eyes are the color of glaciers, and they seem as cold, too. It suits him. In contrast, his hair is so dark it’s almost jet black. There’s a little bit of dark, chestnut brown in the sheen of his hair and the ends of the strands.
He tilts his head, and the warm light from the crystal chandelier above his head permeates his hair. Rough stubble the same mysterious color covers his strong jawline.
Like many other men here, he’s wearing something casual for the hot desert weather. But the way his jeans hug his ass, and the way his thin white shirt shows just a glimpse of the broad, hard chest underneath . . . If I stare at him any longer, I’ll have to start fanning myself, but I can’t look away.
There’s something about this beautiful man. Something familiar, although I’m pretty sure I’ve never met someone as captivatingly gorgeous before.
“So can I put it in?” the man asks again, his eyebrow cocked as he smirks.
He’s obviously noticed me staring at him. A man like him probably gets a lot of attention wherever he goes.
I blush as I realize the double entendre. Either way, for a man like him, my answer is “yes.”
“Thank you,” he says as he sidles up close to me, the rough denim of his jeans brushing against my bare arm.
I can vaguely feel the heat of his sturdy thigh underneath those jeans. I want to reach out to touch him with my hands, but I know I shouldn’t.
“Kiss it for me,” he says in a confident, self-assured voice.
I stop myself before I blurt out something stupid like, “You mean your thigh?” Think, Aubrey. He obviously means his coin, which he’s holding up.
“Sure,” I say as coolly as I can, under the circumstances.
His lips curl up and a chill runs down my arms. I return his smile, then I lean forward and kiss the coin, maintaining eye contact the whole time.
My lips meet the cold, hard coin but also graze against his warm fingers. Electricity courses through me at the contact, and I’d almost swear his eyes darken for a split second . . .
“Thanks,” he says with a panty-melting smirk before he turns his attention to the slot machine.
My gaze drops down to the bulge in his pants. It looks like a nice size. I wonder how he would feel against my palm, against my lips, or inside me . . .
I raise my gaze to look at his face. High cheekbones, thick eyebrows, and lips that are just so kissable. I lick my own lips as I imagine how he’d taste.
I should probably stop staring. Yes, I don’t see many people as beautiful as him, and maybe a part of me wants to prolong this moment as much as possible. But at the same time, I’m being weird and more importantly, I’m not using this opportunity as best as I can.
This is the first instance of good luck I’ve had all day.
This morning, before the plane finally took off from San Francisco, it sat on the tarmac for three hours—with all the passengers inside.
Then, my phone battery died, so I had to sit there doing nothing, while Mom and Hannah had a long discussion about whether to use bright-white or off-white cloth napkins for the reception—again, I love my sister, but I just can’t get myself interested in that stuff.
After that, when we finally landed in Vegas, I waited and waited by the conveyor belt, but my bag never came.
And now, I’ve wasted a lot of (Dad’s) money on this slot machine that just won’t let me win.
So maybe the Universe is finally giving me a break in the form of this man. After all, he appeared right after I thought about taking a risk in love, so maybe that was a sign.
Plus, you know, the way he said “put it in” . . .
I part my lips to start some small talk. Maybe I should ask him if he wants to get out of here and hang out at some coffee shop.
“Oh, shit!” the man exclaims before I can say anything.
The slot machine plays some extra-loud music while the screen flashes.
“Yeah!” he says as the sound of coins clanging against metal fill my ears.
My jaw drops as the coins continue pouring like water into the bottom of the machine and spilling out onto the carpeted floor.
People are gathering around behind us, watching with the same shocked expression as the one I’m wearing.
What the hell…?
He just won!
After I sat here and played for more than half an hour, this guy just came along, inserted a single coin, and won the jackpot.
Life's not fair, and casinos are even worse.
I mean, this guy is hot and all, but he’s probably just going to walk away now, after using my slot machine and winning a big bucket of coins that I should’ve won.
Sure, he has a pretty face. But all things considered, it would’ve been better for me had this handsome stranger not messed with my machine.
“Fuck, yeah!” he shouts with an elated grin. He cups my face with both hands and quickly pecks me on the lips. “You must be lady luck. Let me buy you a drink at the bar.”
I stare at him. Did he just . . . kiss me?
“Sure,” I say quickly before this gorgeous man changes his mind.
Okay, maybe life isn’t that bad.
Aubrey
“That was crazy,” he says as he takes a seat by the bar. “A Macallan for me, and anything my lady luck wants.”
“Big winnings, huh?” the bartender asks with a big, opportunistic grin as he rushes over. Here in Las Vegas, every service provider who dreams of making a fortune learns to quickly identify lucky gamblers who are ready to celebrate.”So what does lady luck drink?”
“Um, a mojito, please.” I take my high leather seat and look around.
Is this a new restaurant? I haven’t been home for a while and things change so quickly here. The interior is dominated by the black, textured wallpaper and the dark-stained chunky wooden furniture.
“A mojito! Excellent choice,” the bartender says. Lowering his voice, he says, “I happen to have yerba buena from Cuba tonight, and I can use that instead of regular mint in your drink for a special winners’ version.”
Normally, I’d say yes to that offer, but I’m pretty sure it’s significantly more expensive, and I’m not paying for myself right now, so I turn to the guy who’s buying me this drink.
“Of course! My lady luck deserves the best,” he says to the bartender.
What was that? What did he just say?
My chest tightens. I thought that old wound has healed, but turns out it’s just hardened into a shell around my heart. The stranger’s words pierce through that armor and stab into me.
There’s something familiar about those words, and about him.
How can I feel this much attraction to a man I’ve just met? It doesn’t make any sense. I’ve only ever felt this way about one boy.
“I really shouldn’t be drinking,” the stranger says. “I just met a few old friends and had too many drinks already. But we’re celebrating, right?”
“Of course! You’re in Vegas! Do what you want to do,” says the bartender. Another self-serving suggestion.
I watch the stranger sitting beside me.
His sharp gaze, his chiseled jawline, the five o’clock shadow all over the lower part of his masculine face. This man can’t be him. My Aiden was a lanky kid who was adorably awkward; this man is built like a Greek god and a little cocky.
But then again, he was only sixteen when he left, and a lot of things could’ve happened in ten years. He could've gotten a gym membership, for example.
After the bartender puts both our drinks on the counter, the stranger leans forward to rest his strong forearms against the dark wood. With the sleeves of his button-down shirt rolled up, I can see the veins popping just under the skin of his forearms.
He turns his head to look at me, as if he’s expecting me to say something. Does he feel this strange aura, too? Does he feel like we know each other, too? He stares at me strangely
, and a small frown appears on his golden skin.
My heart picks up its speed as I watch his lips part. The way he’s gazing at me so intensely… could this man really be him? Has he realized who I am?
Without saying anything, the stranger picks up his drink and holds it up. “Cheers?”
“Oh, right,” I say nervously. I realize I’ve been zoning out.
Of course he was just waiting for me to pick up my drink too.
Jeez, Aubrey. Desperate much? You’ve literally just met this guy a few minutes ago, and now you think you’ve mastered the kind of telepathic looks that Hannah shares with the father of her child?
There’s no need to read too much into a look.
I raise my glass of special, authentic Cuban mojito and clink it against his glass. I give him a smile as I crane my neck to look just outside the restaurant.
“Sorry,” I say after I take a gulp of the mojito. “If I seem a little distracted, that’s because I’m waiting for my family right now.”
“Family vacation?” he asks with a grimace.
I laugh. “No. A wedding.”
“Oh, one of those. I’m here for a wedding, too,” he says. “But it’s not like the couple decided to elope or anything. They just live here in Vegas.”
“Right.” I decide to get to the point. “Do we know each other?”
“We’re sitting at a bar having drinks together, lady luck, so I’d say yes. Yes, we know each other.”
“No, I mean… Have we met before?” I ask.
His lips spread across his cheeks to form a wicked smile, matched perfectly by the sinful glint in his eyes. “Is that a pick-up line?”
“No,” I say, irritated. I was trying to ask a serious question.
“Now that you mention it, you do look familiar…” he says as his intense gaze studies me.
I swallow my nerves. My body grows hot under his stare, even though the casino is air-conditioned and I’m wearing a light floral sundress. But I can almost feel the caress of his stare over my curves.
Could it really be you, Aiden?
“Bee!” a kid’s voice stabs my ear.
