Okay, I might be a little jealous. Maybe.
The man takes a step back, his hands up in surrender. “I don’t wanna start any trouble, man.”
I hitch an eyebrow, narrowing my eyes menacingly. “Then, don’t.”
Faith doesn’t even seem to have registered the confrontation. “Drunken Treasure Chest…” she says, tapping a finger against her lip. “Oh, that is so what you need right now, Masters! To get you out of your funk.”
“No, it really isn’t,” I groan, tilting my head back and craning it from side to side, hoping to loosen some of the kinks in my shoulders. My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. “I tend to do stupid shit when I drink too much.”
“C’mon! We’re in Vegas! Live a little!”
I look at her. Some of that irresistible spunk is back on her face. She’s getting excited about this. I like her this way.
Sometimes she gets shy when I study her too hard. She gets self-conscious under my penetrating gaze. But the real Faith Monroe is as audacious and fun-loving as she is smart and witty. Sometimes she just needs a little alcohol for her hard, defensive edges to soften.
“Pleeeaassseee,” she begs, clasping her hands together in a prayer and batting her lashes at me.
“Okay,” I say in defeat. “Drunken Treasure Chest, it is.”
The bartender wiggles his eyebrows at her before turning back to the wall of bottles behind him and snatching a few off the shelf. Before long, he places a rectangular wooden box on the counter in front of us. Faith eagerly unlatches it and flips the top open to reveal twelve shot glasses, each filled to the brim with a different, strange-looking liquid. She rubs her hands together excitedly. "Okay. Let's do this."
This is not a good idea. I look at her heart-shaped lips and those catlike eyes and all I see is trouble. "This is a thousand bad decisions waiting to happen," I warn under my breath.
She smiles deviously. "Then let them happen. We're in Vegas. It's Christmas. Let's do this, Masters. Don't chicken out on me."
The bartender chuckles, silently challenging me to man up. I shoot him a nasty glare. He quickly gets the message and hurries back to the other end of the bar.
I look at her pretty face again. It's the kind of face you want to see smiling across at you when you're about to do something stupid. It's the kind of face you hope you'll wake up next to the following morning. "Tell them the peer pressure made me do it..." I say to the older couple sitting a few stools away. My fingers wrap around the first shot glass.
"Sure thing," the elderly man says offering me enthusiastic thumbs up as I toss the drink back.
Chapter 12
Faith
Maxwell is perched on his barstool with his face buried in his hands, still depressed about about losing his contract. It’s all he’s been rambling about since the alcohol started working its way into his blood.
Apparently, he’s a talking-drunk.
Coach Martineau, this…Oscar Murphy, that…Ken Laureto, the other…None of this is Maxwell’s fault.
I roll my eyes before tossing back another shot. I gag as it sets fire to my throat before pooling caustically in my empty stomach. Definitely tequila. "Would you stop complaining?" I slur.
Shit, I'm already slurring. That's not good.
The clock above the bar tells me that it’s inching toward 8:30. I should have paced my drinking because I’ll need stamina and sobriety if I want to make the most of Vegas. Tonight will not be just another dull night in the life of Faith Monroe. It’s going to be awesome-pants. And tomorrow, I’ll have the throbbing migraine to prove it.
I reach for the refilled platter of shots on the counter as Maxwell gives me an incredulous glare. "Faith, I just lost a shitload of money. I’m allowed to fucking complain."
I jerk my shoulders in time with the Pussy Cat Dolls song playing over the speakers. I haven’t heard this song in a long time. “Here, have a shot,” I say offering him a tiny glass of I-don’t-know-what.
He takes it from me and gulps it back, making a ridiculous face as he slams the glass down on the counter.
He’s fucking adorable, I think to myself with a giggle. I bring my fingers to my lips and I’m already numb. I gaze down at my palm and titter. “I can’t feel my hands…”
I hear Maxwell grunt, frustrated. “I should have known – you’re one of those girls who can’t hold their liquor. Am I gonna have to babysit you tonight?”
Ugh, whatever.
I’m in Vegas. And I’m drunk. Sue me. I want to have a good time and this guy is being a raincloud right now.
I hobble off of my seat and climb into his lap. "Okay, time to loosen up. I’m gonna take your mind off of all your problems," I say confidently, trying my best to sound like a sober person.
I'm clearly not.
I clasp both of my hands around Maxwell's cheeks. And just before I slide my tongue into his mouth, I press my forehead to his and whisper-shout, "Tonight, we're gonna have fun. We're gonna live it up. We're in Vegas, for godssake. Tonight will be unforgettable..."
Chapter 13
Faith
I don't remember a thing.
That's the first thought that crawls into my sluggish brain as I peel my heavy lids open in the darkness. I want to move but I feel like I'm being weighed down by another body.
That's when I realize that there is, in fact, a strong, (moderately) hairy leg wrapped around me from behind and a firm, warm chest pressing against my back. I would greatly appreciate the ten or so inches of morning wood nestled comfortably between my legs if I didn't feel like utter crap right now. It takes me a second to remember exactly where I am.
Oh yeah. That's right, I think happily to myself as I snuggle close against my pillow. Christmas...Honolulu...Wilson...
Wait, what?
"Nnnoooo!!!" I bounce to my feet, standing on the mattress with my pillow raised over my head in full-on ninja mode, ready to attack that catfish motherfucker.
The light flicks on and an obscene amount of brightness floods the room. Maxwell squints up at me, with a confused expression on his face and a thick forearm thrown over his eyes as shade. "Faith? You okay?"
It takes a moment for me to adjust to this new reality. But it's far more pleasant than the previous one. I breathe out in relief. "Sorry, forgot where I was for a second."
Maxwell rolls over onto his side, turning his broad, smooth back to me. “Sometimes, I wonder if I’m safe around you because you obviously have a few nuts and bolts loose.” He brings his finger to his temple and makes a screwing motion.
I should probably come up with a retort but I’m in way too much agony to argue with him. "My head feels like there's a jackhammer inside trying to pound its way out. What the hell happened last night?" I cup my palm over my forehead as I drop my weapon-pillow and lean back against the headboard.
He faces me with amusement in his expression. “You don’t remember?”
I try to jog my memory but all I come up with is a haze. I bite the corner of my lip and wince. “Nope.”
"I remember that there was drinking,” he says. “Lots of drinking. At the bar downstairs. Then you took me to a strip club. You said it was to cheer me up, but you might have been even more turned on than I was. It was the most entertaining thing ever, watching you trying to out-twerk one of the strippers.”
My mouth hangs open. “I didn’t.”
He waggles his eyebrows. “You did.”
Mortification prickles my cheeks. “Stop lying,” I chide, yanking the duvet off of him and clutching it over my naked chest.
“Not lying,” he says with an easy, cocky grin as he throws an arm over his head, causing his delicious muscles to ripple. “Then there was sex. Lots of clumsy, sloppy, drunk sex."
"Wait sex with who?” I ask, horrified. “The stripper?"
He gives me the crazy eye. "No,” he says slowly, “sex with us. You and me."
I touch my neck. It’s so tender. Hickies. Hickies on the neck. Great.
Maxwell rubs his eyes. "I can't remember much after that. But I’m pretty sure the night ended with my cock down your throat." He chuckles.
I sigh, relieved as I lean my head back and relax. It could have been worse, right? My relief lasts a second. Then, I’m horrified again. "We didn't get married, did we?"
Maxwell gives me a look of disgust. "No Faith, we didn't get married." I can almost hear what he’s thinking. Something along the lines of me being desperate for marriage.
That’s why I feel the need to explain. "Well we are in Vegas and all. Crazy shit happens here."
His trademark cocky expression is back on his face. "No, we didn’t get married. All those mind-blowing orgasms I gave you last night were out of wedlock."
I scoff, trying not to smile. "Who said my mind was blown?"
"Oh Faith, I know a blown mind when I see one." He clasps both hands above his head and takes a long stretch. His muscular torso beckons to me. My lips practically twitch to taste it.
The first time Maxwell and I had sex, I convinced myself that it was a one-time thing and that it wouldn’t happen again. But it did happen again. And judging from the ache between my legs, it happened a lot last night. And judging by the way my body is reacting to his right now, it’ll probably happen some more. Unless I get away from him. Now.
“Whatever,” I grumble, rolling out of bed and grabbing my phone off of the night stand. I open my camera app as I pad over to the window and start snapping away before Maxwell gets a look at my blushing cheeks.
We must have gotten the shittiest hotel room in the city. It doesn’t even face the Strip. Instead, I have a view of the desert with its parched, red earth and its clusters of thirsty-looking cacti poking out of the ground. I guess that’s one of the downfalls of rolling into Vegas on a whim. I try to capture the scene as best I can with my subpar cellphone camera and my amateurish photography skills. After just a few shots, my memory card is full.
I pop the card out of my phone as I roam off in search of my carryon. I find it sitting with Maxwell’s next to the couch. I’m pretty sure I walked with an extra memory card when I left for vacation. The question is, did I pack it in my carryon or is it in my lost suitcase?
As I’m rummaging through my things, Maxwell pads into the living room. I gawk at him as he opens his own bag and grabs a fresh pair of jeans and a two-toned gray Henley. He looks over at me suddenly and I try to look away casually, like I wasn’t just mentally groping his toned ass.
“Gonna take a quick shower before we head down for breakfast,” he says as he straightens, giving me an unrestricted view of his wide shoulders, his narrow waist and the long, thick member hanging stiff and proud between his legs. God cut no corners when he was carving this one.
“Mmm-hmm.”
He makes it halfway to the bathroom before spinning around on his heel and coming back to his bag.
“Hey, what’s up with you and the shampoo?” I ask as he swipes a tube of the product from his bag.
He gives me a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”
“Your bathroom cabinets are full of the stuff.” I perch on the edge of the couch as I speak.
He lifts an eyebrow, his thick arms folded across his broad chest. “You went through my cabinets?”
I shrug, imitating his posture. “Yup,” I say unapologetically. “Needed to make sure you weren’t hiding any dead bodies in your bathroom.”
“Ah!” he says feigning sudden enlightenment. “Well, you’re still here so I’m assuming that you didn’t check under the loose tile behind the laundry basket.”
“Shoot!” I say, playing right along. “I was sure that I hadn’t missed a spot.”
He grins at me. I grin back.
“So…what’s up with the lifetime supply of shampoo?” I press.
The corner of his mouth pulls into a smile that almost looks embarrassed. “I have an endorsement deal with Vital Life Hair Science,” he informs me. “And it’s not ‘shampoo’. It’s ‘hair cleanser’. They sent crates of it after my last photo shoot.”
I’m giggling now. “Wait – so you’re a hair model? You barely have an inch of hair on your head.”
He grunts defensively. “No – I’m not a hair model. I’m a spokesperson.”
“What is up with you and the semantics? Shampoo, hair cleanser. Spokesperson, hair model. Call it whatever you like. It’s the same damn thing.”
“Anyway,” he says, rolling his eyes, “you don’t need to steal the cheap complimentary shampoo from the hotel bathroom. When we get back to L.A., you can stock up on Vital Life toiletries. I can even get you some of that really girlie shit they have. Just tell me what you need. I’ve got the hook-up.” He winks exaggeratedly.
I plop down onto the couch, curling my legs underneath me. “I’m not going back to L.A.,” I announce as I pull on the tassels hanging off of the throw pillow next to me. “I’m pretty sure I can get a bus from here and find my way back to Reyfield.”
His expression drops visibly. “Oh…I didn’t realize that you were still in a rush to get home,” he says. He actually looks pretty disappointed that I’m leaving.
I shrug. “Well, yeah. I can’t just stick around in your house at Christmas time. Nobody likes an uninvited guest, especially around the Holidays,” I laugh despite the confusing blend of emotions I feel on the inside. “I figured that there must be a bus terminal somewhere close by and you could drop me off before you head back to L.A.”
He scrubs his palm along his scalp. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea. Have you heard about the Terminal Mugger? It’s been all over my Facebook newsfeed. The guy lurks at bus stations and train terminals and robs women traveling alone when they go to the bathroom. It’s not safe for you to travel such a huge distance all on your own.”
The Terminal Mugger? This is all news to me. I haven’t been up to date on current affairs over the past few days. “So, you don’t think I should take the bus? How do you suggest that I get home, then? I don’t have ID to board a plane and I’m seriously concerned that I may be on the No Fly List for assaulting that Wilson guy.” My worry lines carve deep ditches into my forehead.
“How about this?” Maxwell suggests diplomatically. “How about you come back to L.A. with me and apply for a new drivers’ license from there? You can have it shipped out to my place. Then, you can fly back home instead of getting crammed on a bus with strangers for the next four days. I can call my lawyer and have him look into the No Fly List thing.”
I weigh his game plan in my mind. It sounds like a good idea. At least, better than hopping on a bus. My butt feels numb just thinking about sitting through the bus ride from Vegas to Reyfield.
“It would take forever for me to get a new license,” I gripe weakly. “It’s the Holiday Season. I might have to end up spending Christmas in L.A. if I decide to sit around and wait for my new ID to show up.”
“You were gonna spend the Holidays in Hawaii, anyway,” he reminds me. “What date did you initially plan to get back to Reyfield from your vacation?”
“First week of January,” I say slowly.
“Okay then, stick around in L.A. until you get your ID,” he says simply. “I’ll make sure you have fun.”
I scrunch my eyebrows skeptically. “You don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” he smiles, shaking his head.
Wow, this is not an offer that I was expecting. I figured that he’d be eager to get me out of his hair so that he could return to his philandering lifestyle.
“You know what? I think I like your plan better than mine,” I say with splitting my lips. “My friend, Prescott Brooks, is a lawyer back home. I’ll call him and see if he can help me navigate the whole process.”
Something that looks like relief floods Maxwell’s face. “I’m glad to hear you’re choosing the sane option,” he says.
Our eyes hook onto each other for a long while. I don’t want to break the contact. It probably means nothing, but I like the way he’s looking at
me. It warms the pit of my stomach and makes my toes tingle.
“I’ll go take that shower,” Maxwell says eventually. “We’ll go down for breakfast afterward.”
I nod, feeling way too fluttery to speak as he steps into the bathroom and his naked ass disappears from view when the door closes.
I feel giddiness in my stomach as I pull up Prescott’s number on my phone to get the driver’s license application process rolling. Ohmygod. It looks like I’ll be spending Christmas with Maxwell Masters.
Chapter 14
Dirty Player (The Dirty Suburbs Book 2) Page 9
