Pretty Remedy

by S. E. Hall

  Or so I thought.

  But neither of us are having the time of our lives, and now, we’re not even doing it together. Once the waitress leads me through the maze of sinuous mayhem to table twelve, she takes my order and saunters away, leaving me to sit, stiff and awkward, alone. I’m not exactly terrified—I’m not a prude, and there’re no signs of immediate danger—just unfamiliar with the atmosphere.

  Nor am I a shut-in, far from it, but meeting my life goals dominates my time and attention. Thus, my wavering level of comfort and lack of social “moves” at the door. Could I have possibly made a bigger ass of myself with the gorgeous bouncer? For crying in the night—the guy was holding my driver’s license and I actually asked, out loud, how he knew those few things about me—like my name and birthday—often found on driver’s licenses. That’s not novice; that’s blatant idiocy. My humiliation causes my body and face to flush, so I lift my heavy blond mane off my neck and lean back to get some fresh air… since oddly enough, this club has some weird lack-of-outside-walls thing going on.

  The only things between my back and downtown Vegas right now are sheer dark red drapes and the night air. No windows, bricks, nothing. It’s different, creating a sexy, exposed ambience, all while making it very easy for someone to sneak up behind you and rip you out of your seat.

  Forget waiting for my drink. I rise from my seat quickly, straighten my skirt, and decide to go find Landry. I immediately realize that won’t be as easy as it sounds. Bodies everywhere are tangling and sweating against each other with the shameless intimacy only alcohol can provide. Before I know it, I’m swept up into the mob.

  I struggle to weave through the swarm, ignoring the far too many hands sampling a feel of my body. But I’m forced to walk backward, deeper into the mosh pit, by an obviously drunk and menacingly large man moving all up in my “I don’t want to dance” space. I’m not panicked per se—surely someone will notice and save me if he gets too out of line—but I’m certainly uneasy.

  My back hits a wall. Under any other circumstances, this would be when I’d kick, scream… something. But I instantly, instinctively, recognize this wall. The signature scent and baritone chuckle that snared my senses at the door greet me again now. My body goes lax with a security that should alarm me, and the creepy guy stops his advance, his eyes bugging out before he spins and all but runs away.

  With an absurd familiarity, my hips are now being moved for me, his large, purposeful hands gripping them from behind. His rigid physique and unmistakable desire are pressed flush against my back, and all I feel is… noticed, pursued, desired. Some version of myself I’ve never met lifts her hair, hotter now than ever, and moves with him. The hard but supple rocking of his hips and dig of his fingers overcome my every inhibition. It’s above and beyond the sexiest, most liberated I’ve ever felt, swaying to the rhythm of his heartbeat, the command of his frame. One hand stays at my hip, guiding our synchronized union, while his other holds up my hair for me.

  He blows up and down my neck, completely defeating any cooling purpose. “Better?” His voice is low and breathy in my ear, his head bent and lips hinting at my slightly ticklish flesh.

  I nod and keep dancing, fearful what speaking aloud, which would need to be either very loud or whispered just for him, would reveal. My voice could betray me and tell him exactly what his feral proximity is doing to me. That would be bad…very bad. I don’t do hookups or one-night stands; I don’t even date regularly. So while I’m all too eager to surrender to this mysterious, intoxicating bubble for a few songs, that’ll have to be it.

  I’ll give Landry time to sort out her possible catastrophe. Yeah, this is me being a helpful friend.

  “Red Nose” plays, and his suggestive swagger behind me changes, not to a raunchy grind but a slower, closer—I didn’t think that was possible—seduction. He releases his hold on my hair to skim his fingertips down both my arms and entrap my hands. He pulls our entwined fingers up and wraps my arms behind his neck, rendering me defenseless against the demanding instruction of his pelvis and chest— to which I submit seamlessly. He’s so much larger than me, so “things” don’t exactly line up how I’m sure he’d like, but our bodies still allow for his total domination. I let my eyes shut, and my head fall back, as I writhe harder against his body, lost in the moment.

  “Hated this song until right now.” His deep, devastatingly masculine words waft along my neck. “Now I love it. Love the way you move to it even more.”

  An unnamable sound, something between a squeak and a gasp, gets away from me. I’m shocked at how inviting I find his boldness. I clasp down on our joined hands, embracing the wave of sexuality washing over me. Should I say thank you? No, definitely not.

  “You always dance with strange men like this?” he murmurs, tugging me impossibly closer to him.

  I shake my head and inhale sharply as his hands move down, teasing my thighs and the hem of my skirt. God, what am I doing? His rough fingertips and gentle strokes have stolen any semblance of my composure.

  “I believe you. Aren’t you going to ask my name then?” he taunts in my ear.

  I shake my head again, which he seems to thrive on, judging by his low hum.

  “Leave your arms up,” he growls, running his hands achingly slow up and down my sides, learning every curve of my body. They trail across my stomach, exploring. “No, huh? I’m gonna tell you anyway, tiny dancer. It’s Rhett, Rhett Foster. So the man you recognized the minute he slid up behind you—which I liked very much by the way—now has a name.”

  Why does that name… where have I… no, I’m hearing things, or romanticizing in my head. I want to associate this moment with other things so badly that I’ve subconsciously done just that. He probably actually said his name was Fred Jones, right? Right. Or… lots of people have the same name. Why, I bet there’s at least five-hundred Fred Joneses in the world. It’s impossible, too convenient, or inconvenient depending on how you look at it, to even fathom. Then again… Vegas is a strange place.

  Unable to resist another second, I glance over my shoulder at the man controlling my movements and heart rate. A tremor only believable in novels vibrates along my limbs. His eyes—which are, my best guess in this lighting, a dark blue—are clearly smoldering, and the nostrils of his strong, Romanesque nose are flared. His confidence is palpable, whereas I’m emerging from my fog and surely look like the frightened, helpless baby bunny I now feel. I see the weed-eater coming toward my grassy hideout—yet I don’t move. Well, I move, just not away from him.

  “Tell me how you knew.” He smiles down at me, tracing a fingertip along my jawline, never stopping the taunt of his hips.

  “Kn-knew what?” My already meek stutter fades with each syllable.

  A cocky grin transforms his face from mesmerizing to indescribable. “That it was me behind you. Immediately, you knew me. How?”

  Often the way a person asks you something—their inflections, how hard and fast they swallow, the desperate longing for validation in their eyes—tells you how important your answer is to them. In spite of the noise and dim lighting, somehow I’m certain that what I say next is vital to him. I’m just not sure why or how to answer. He’s inviting honesty, or I’m over-thinking it and about to embarrass myself.

  I open my mouth to reply, but needing a cloak, I close my eyes and bow my head.

  But he won’t allow that. He tilts my head back up with a finger under my chin. “No way, Teaspoon.” With one powerful maneuvering of my hips, he turns my body to face him. “Tell me. Open those eyes, look at me, and say it. Make me wanna write a love song.”

  Damn. He’s got an excellent start to one right there.

  “Your laugh. I heard it outside too. But mostly… your smell,” I mumble, trying to step back, my heavy breaths propelling my ample breasts against his chest. His arm snakes around my waist and hauls me back to him. “Outside, on the breeze, I-I smelled you.” Oh, sweet floor, open and swallow me whole, now or never.

  �
��Nuh uh, Reece, get ‘em on me.”

  I assume he means my once-again shut eyes, so I comply. “I recognized your smell when you walked up behind me. Yes, I scented you like a pervy headcase.” I bulge out my eyes and huff, exasperated and exposed. “There, happy?”

  His laugh is hearty and deep, a melodic noise for which he owes God money… or maybe I do? I stare at him, speechless—which isn’t unusual for me. The way the sound permeates my chest and tickles whatever parts make you happy to be alive—that’s a bit unnerving.

  “I need a drink,” I blurt, overwhelmed by my inexplicable draw to him, and spin to march away. The tinge of liquid calm will round off my edges, but I’m stopped by an authoritative hand at my elbow.

  Ominous, smoky words rumble at me from behind. “Drink, fine. Prancing away, alone, through a bar? Not happening. Let’s go.” He moves in front of me to pilot, interlacing our fingers. “I wrote that number on your hand for a reason. I wanna know where you are. You’re quite the wanderer.”

  Yes, yes, I should scream and be completely freaked out by my bossy stranger… yet I’m only beguiled and tingly. “Do all your table twelve girls just do what you say?” I yell over the music.

  He turns toward me with the wickedest of grins. “Do you want to hear you’re the first girl I’ve ever marked?”

  “Not if it isn’t true.”

  “Then let’s go get you that drink.”

  That was my cue to rip my hand from his, tear my eyes away from his tight ass, and storm away, insulted. Guess I should brush up on taking cues, ‘cause I’m still following him.

  The bartender serves us immediately—I assume because Rhett works here—and I order a Long Island iced tea. Go big, Reece. You’re gonna puke from nerves soon anyway.

  “There you are!” Landry’s shriek pierces through all the noise I’d blocked out, brutally interrupting the Rhett-induced fog I wasn’t ready to leave. “He’s here, fucking with some redheaded waitress. I knew it!”

  I’d long since decided I don’t like the friend and should ignore her, but On Tap only employs one waitress with red hair, so I have no choice but to eavesdrop on her blathering. JC evidently overheard as well. He leans over the bar, zoned in and shooting me an apprehensive look.

  “What was your name again?” I ask her, my hand on Reece’s hip. I’m ready for this chick to get gone so I can slide my hand around other places.

  “Landry. You need to know that why?” she sneers.

  I feel Reece tense under my touch.

  “Hey,” Reece says far too sweetly, rubbing her friend’s arm, “it’s not his fault, be nice. What’d you see, Lan? You want to leave?”

  Also not happening. I dig my fingers into her luscious curve and pull her body into mine. The only place Reece is going tonight is underneath me.

  “Hell no, I don’t wanna leave,” Landry says. “I’m gonna confront them both. I just have to wait ‘til she gets a break or whatever and they actually hook up, so I can bust ‘em in the act.”

  “Are you sure he’s not just drunk and flirting a little too much?” Reece reasons, as I grow increasingly impatient.

  “Well, let’s see. Last week, when I searched his phone, the lovely snatch sext I found was from a ginger. And whadda ya know, the waitress who tongue-fucked his ear while his hand was up her skirt is…also a ginger! You tell me!”

  Now it’s officially my business.

  “Jarrett’s here tonight, man,” JC mutters. “Up in VIP.”

  “Landry,” I snarl, “who is this he with his hand up skirts?”

  “What’s with this guy?” she asks Reece, jerking a thumb my way.

  “I, uh…” Reece’s eyes flit between Landry and me as she searches for words, so I rescue her.

  “The one redheaded waitress who works here just so happens to be my brother’s girlfriend,” I say. “So I’m interested in why you’re interested in tracking Jarrett’s hand, or I’m more than a little puzzled as to who the fuck’s hand you’re actually tracking. Feel me?”

  Reece gasps, and her eyes fill with a sympathy that makes my skin crawl.

  “My fiancé!” Landry screams, tears following.

  “Fuckkk,” JC drones, sweeping a hand down his face. “Some bachelor party booked Vanessa’s section. That’s why Jarrett’s perched in VIP. Eagle-eye view.”

  “Now wait,” Reece blusters, squirming out of my hold to lay a hand on mine and Landry’s shoulders. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Landry, show us.”

  “Fuck that. Grab your drink and follow me,” I demand, pulling Reece toward the stairs to the VIP section. There’ll be no vigilante, crazy-female bullshit breaking my brother’s heart until I’ve surveyed the situation. Guys get drunk, and Ness plays friendly to make tips. Doesn’t mean anything more than that… yet.

  Reece talks to Landry as we approach the stairs. “M-maybe it was a different girl’s hoo-ha in the picture, which p.s., is reason enough to have already canceled the wedding. And maybe this Jarred—”

  “Jarrett,” I correct. “Up, both of you.”

  I gesture for Landry to take the steps ahead of us, then guide Reece with a hand at the small of her back. I follow them, distracted as all hell. Despite possessing the certainty of a newborn fawn, the way Reece climbs stairs is lethal to any other thoughts. From the small amount of information I’ve gathered thus far, I’ve got a crisp hundo that says Landry dressed her tonight. So far, that’s the only point in Landry’s favor.

  No way did my shy teeny-meeny paint that skirt over her ripe peach of an ass of her own accord. Nor did she decide the top that droops just low enough in both the front and back to lure me in was a good idea. The propped-up sandal things on her feet though? Those she picked—hoping amongst hopes to appear the bullshit 5’3” she claims on her license—and they’re doing crazy nice things for her toned calves and thighs. No question, Reece is white-flame fucking hot in the most fascinatingly fun-sized kind of way.

  I did not just think spinner.

  When we reach the top, my private screening of “This is how to climb stairs, ladies” over, I return my palm to the dip of her back and lead her to the corner booth. Jarrett sits nearby, his eyes trained on something that’s causing lines of worry to case them.

  “Brother?” I clap him on the shoulder, but he doesn’t even notice. “Jarrett, can I get a second? Slide in,” I prompt Reece, who clamps on to Landry’s hand and drags her into the booth beside her. “Jar—”

  “What?” He turns toward me, deep creases in his brow, hair sticking up, bulbous blood vessels looking about to pop. “What the fuck do you need right this goddamn minute?”

  “Your girl stepping out?” I ask calmly, more than willing to bear the brunt of his anger.

  “I’m not airing my shit in front of tonight’s pussy platter. Jesus, Rhett, not cool. Gimme a shout when you’re done and we’ll talk.”

  “First of all, watch your mouth,” I scold him like the lil’ shit he’s acting. He knows better than to call me out or disrespect a woman, regardless of what he thinks he knows about her. “Apologize to Reece”—I indicate her with a tip of my head—“and might wanna do the same to her friend. Thinkin’ you two are about to have a lot to discuss.”

  “Seriously, bro? I’m a little fucking busy for this shit. Nessy’s messing with some needledick motherfucker down there!”

  “Hey!” Landry screeches, slamming both hands flat on the table. “He’s not a needledick! If he was, I wouldn’t care that he’s messin’ around with your whore! And I’m not his pussy”—she stabs a finger in my direction—“and Reece isn’t ever anybody’s pussy, so shut it, prick! You’re not the only one with problems!”

  And then there’s that. I may have seriously misjudged Landry; she’s up to two points. I want to fix the crimson shade of mortification on Reece’s cheeks though. “Get up, come sit over here,” I grate at Landry and pull out the chair closest to me.

  “What? I’m not moving. Didn’t you hear me? Reece doesn’t—”
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br />   “Landry, quit talking and move your ass,” Reece snaps, looking at the table of course, but still pretty forceful and hot as hell.

  Landry’s slow to rise, her skeptical eyes boring into me, and she hip checks me as she crosses in front of me. There’s definitely something about her growing on me. She flounces down in the chair beside Jarrett as I slide in with Reece and lay my hand on her trembling knee.

  “Hey.” I give her leg a squeeze. “Why are you shaking?”

  She turns her face slightly toward my own, her head dipped so that her golden hair falls over us. “Landry’s, well…” She sighs, lifting her eyes to mine. “A loose cannon. If the miraculous bout of stability her engagement brought on turns out to be a hoax, her fallout will be considerable.”

  “Jarrett’ll be crushed too,” I empathize, unashamedly staring at her tiny but plump lips. They’re so temptingly close, I could trace them with my tongue without even moving.

  “No, you don’t understand. Landry won’t get sad. She’ll get crazy, self-destructive.”

  “Hmm.” I’m unsure what to say. Another thing of which I’m positive—having known Reece for a minute—Landry’s problems will be made Reece’s. “Let’s worry when we have to, huh?” I smile and squeeze her knee again, some of the worry sliding off her face as she agrees. “What’d you two figure out over there?” I say louder, to get Fred and Velma’s attention.

  “Reece, is it?” Jarrett asks her, civility reinstated. She nods and he continues. “I apologize for my crude, unfair behavior. Won’t happen again.”

  “Apology accepted, thank you,” she rushes out, diving into her drink.

  “Vanessa’s break’s in ten minutes. So we’ll see. She doesn’t know I’m here. Didn’t get the chance to mention it before I walked up on her eating some dude’s ear. Left the way I came, been sitting here watching ever since.” He sighs, and I want to kill all responsible for the agonized look on his face. “Only one place to hide and play here, so if she takes him to the closet beside the game room, you’re bailing me out tonight.”