I stared up at the man with the same cerulean eyes as mine and wondered if it could be remotely possible that he wasn’t my father, but merely some animatronic replacement designed to look a lot like the real thing. That could be the only explanation for the heartless way he went about treating his only daughter, right?
I know, I know. It’s too early for the daddy-doesn’t-love-me spiel.
Giving him as fake a smile as I could muster, I said, “I suppose you may.”
He crossed his arms and lowered his chin, assuming what I’d always called his “stern parental stance.”
“You embarrassed your mother and me tonight,” he said, inclining his head toward my mother, who was standing nearby, smiling and laughing freely with the L.A. mayor’s wife. Yeah, she looked horrified, all right.
“Liles,” he said, snapping his fingers, and when my mother looked up and caught his expression, she quickly joined his side.
“Oh, Paige, don’t be upset. You’ll love Paris,” my mother said. “We’ve already been invited to dine with the prime minister, and his son is about your age. Perhaps we could arrange—”
I waved my hands and shook my head vehemently. They’d officially lost their minds. “No. Hell no. I’m not going to visit you, I’m not dining with prime ministers, and I’m sure as fuck not letting you arrange a date to further your interests.”
“Paige,” my mother said in surprise, just as my father hissed out, “That’s quite enough.”
Maybe it was what people refer to as a psychotic break. Maybe it’d just been twenty-nine years of neglected bullshit, or maybe, just maybe, there was more vodka swirling around in my bloodstream than I’d realized, because I lost control of all the fucks I had to give.
“Quite enough?” I echoed, and louder, “Quite enough? Hah! No, quite enough happened when I was six and you packed your dog instead of your daughter for the family vacation to Telluride and I had to spend two weeks with the housekeeper. Or when I was eight and you told me Santa wasn’t real and handed me your credit card to, and I quote, ‘buy my own damn presents from now on.’”
My father’s face had gone tomato red. “Paige—”
“Oh, and let’s not forget about the fact that you were so disappointed that I was a girl that when I was born, you handed me back to the nurse and offered to pay under the table to, and I quote, ‘switch me for a son.’”
Dawson’s hand went to my waist, pulling me back so I didn’t go any further, and then he whispered my name in warning, an attempt to curb my mouth, but there was no way I was stopping now.
“Oh, Dawson, I can’t go without reminding them about the time I caught Mom licking powdered sugar off the pool boy’s abs.” I feigned a big smile and gave my mom a nudge. “Not really sure if I’m dad’s biological kid, are ya?”
Gasps echoed around the room.
“Aaand we’re leaving,” Dawson said, and before I knew he was going to do it, he had me over his shoulder, fireman-style, and was heading for the exit. I didn’t even bother putting up a protest. I was ready to get the hell out of there.
“Have fun in Paris, everyone,” I called out as Dawson picked up the pace. “I hope you all choke on escaaargooooot!”
“Jesus, Paige,” Dawson said under his breath, as I bounced along his backside, my middle fingers raised high while we made our way through the crowd of gawking onlookers. The looks on their faces were priceless. It made me wish I could stick around to hear them talk about how “scandalous that Traynor-Ashcroft girl is.”
What a bunch of kiss-ass prudes. KISS-ASS PRUDES, I SAY.
Once we were out the door, Dawson didn’t stop, but kept going down the long hall that would eventually lead to the casino floor. “You know, this is a perfect example of why I call you Pita.”
“Why? Because I stick up for myself? Because I call people out when they’re assholes? Because I have fucking balls of steel?”
One of the bellhops we passed stopped in his tracks at my admission, and stared at me with wide eyes.
“What?” I asked. “You wanna see my steel balls? Dawson, put me down so I can show him.”
Instead of doing what I asked, he delivered a firm slap to my ass in an effort to shut me up. Hmm. He gave a good ass slap. I wondered if he did the same in—
Whoaaaaa, buddy. Nope. Uh-uh. Not going there. I squeezed my eyes shut and pictured my celebrity crush, David Garrett, in an attempt to rid myself of that visual.
There. Better.
When I opened my eyes and it became clear Dawson wasn’t stopping anytime soon, I sighed and then flipped off a few more people we passed. ’Cause why the hell not.
Once we passed the first of the slot machines, I lifted up slightly and called over my shoulder, “You can put me down now.”
“We’re still within ten thousand feet of your parents, so I’m not taking my chances.”
“I’m gonna vomit down your Lanvin suit.”
“Yeah, okay, this is far enough.” Dawson bent down, and as I slid off his shoulder, he held my waist firm. I gripped his arms as the room swayed, struggling to get my bearings.
He cupped my chin and tilted my head up, and then his eyes searched mine. “Are you okay?”
“Um…” A response was on the tip of my tongue, but nothing came out. What the hell was wrong with me? It was the second time in a matter of minutes that my brain was not communicating with my mouth. I rubbed my temples. “I think…all the blood…rushed to my head.”
As soon as I spoke the words, the room stopped moving. But he was close, too close, and I stepped back, out of his arms.
“Sorry about that. I figured it was the fastest way to get you out of there before they shipped you off to a psych ward.”
“Promises, promises,” I muttered.
Dawson shoved his hands into the pockets of his tailored pants and cocked his head to the side.
“So,” he said.
“So.”
“Want me to take you upstairs to your room?”
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. “Smooth, Romeo. Real smooth.”
“I meant so you could lie down, not so I could fuck you. But if you insist—”
He made a move toward me, and I took a step back. “Whoa, whoa, don’t get it up over there. First of all, I’m fine, and second, I’m not staying here.”
“Let me guess. Staying in the same hotel as your parents is still too close for comfort.”
I touched my nose and pointed at him. “Bingo.”
“Then we’ll go to yours.”
“What’s this we business?”
“I know how much you’ve been looking forward to spending a night together like old times, so I’m happy to oblige you. Tonight, anyway.”
Stifling a laugh, I began to back away. “No, no. There’s no we tonight. There’s an I and a you, and both of those are going their separate ways. Bang a bachelorette, remember? I’ve got my own cock to catch.” Turning on my heel, I headed for the closest exit that would take me out to the Strip, but I could feel him trailing me. Whatever. He’d lose interest as soon as some hooched-out sex kitten caught his eye.
CHAPTER TWO
Low on Fucks, High on (a Good) Time
AS I HEADED out of the Bellagio’s front exit, the chilly evening air took me by surprise. The sun had gone down in the hours I’d wasted inside, and I cursed the lack of a jacket—it was still hanging over the chair I’d left it on, and there was no way in hell I was going back to the party.
I kept moving, and every now and again, when we’d get caught in the crowd, Dawson would brush up against my back, letting me know he wasn’t going anywhere.
“You’re wasting your time following me,” I said over my shoulder.
“I’m coming with you. There’s a difference.”
“That might prove dangerous. I’ve got my Taser and I’m not afraid to use it.”
“Where’s it stored, love? In that sexy cleavage of yours, or maybe up underneath this handkerchief you call a skirt
—”
Dawson’s fingertips trailed up the back of my bare thigh, and I jumped. As I slapped his hand away, my hip grazed the low wall surrounding the Fountains of Bellagio, and he took the opportunity to cage me in against it. His eyes glimmered something dangerous, and I understood then how his game worked. How so many fell under his spell. “This would be a lot easier if you didn’t fight it,” he said.
Hell-o. His nickname for me was Pita, short for “pain in the ass,” which was also a take on my initials, so if that wasn’t a reminder that I wasn’t the type to lie down and take it, then I wasn’t about to sit there and explain it.
“Oh, Dick. Despite what your parents commissioned you to do, I don’t need you to be my guardian. In fact, I’d prefer it if you found another skirt to harass.”
“I like yours just fine.” His lips tilted up into a lazy grin. “So, where were you going?”
“Wherever the wind takes me.”
“Okay, clarification: where are you staying?”
He was nuts if he thought I was gonna willingly hand over that info. Dawson and I had a relationship that spanned back since we were kids living next door to each other, and though we’d been best friends back then, things between us had been strained for years. The past couple, in particular, had him showing up at the most random times exactly where I was. My friends had always teased that there was something more there between us, but they were wrong. It was more of a one-upping type of relationship—as in, who was the more in-demand singleton, and who could score the bigger fish in the large pond of L.A.’s eligible bachelors and bachelorettes. I’d like to say my conquests far exceeded his, but truth be told, we were probably neck and neck. And didn’t that just aggravate the shit out of me.
I crossed my arms and stared at him, unwilling to tell him what he wanted to know, but Dawson stared right back, waiting me out.
Ohhhh, not this game. I’d win every time.
A minute passed, then two, but I stood my ground, even as the wind blew up my skirt and I began to shiver from the cold. Hypothermia wasn’t a great look on me, but my pride was worth more, so I would stand there even when I turned the color of a Smurf.
Another minute passed, and when it was clear I wouldn’t budge, Dawson sighed.
“All right, come on.” He grabbed my hand in a grip that wouldn’t let go, and headed back down the sidewalk as I reluctantly let him drag me along. Once we hit the crowd making their way up and down Las Vegas Boulevard, he made a right.
He’s not going to leave me alone tonight, is he… “Where are we going?” I asked, but it was a wasted question. He led us into the Cosmopolitan entrance and headed straight for the Chandelier bar, a three-level monstrosity that was encased in beaded curtains of crystal.
Thank fuck. I’d never have admitted it to him, but another couple of minutes and icicles would’ve formed in my nose.
When we’d commandeered a couple of barstools, Dawson quickly scanned the menu laid out on the bar, and then said, “She’ll have the Monkey’s Uncle, and I’ll have the Montague.”
“Hey, I can order my own damn drink,” I said.
Dawson cocked his head to the side as he and the bartender watched and waited while I perused the menu. And…shit. I was a sucker for anything with Nutella.
“I’ll have the Monkey’s Uncle,” I mumbled, and Dawson smiled victoriously.
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, get that smug look off your face. It just means I’ve become too predictable and need to switch things up. But…tomorrow.”
“Pita, the last thing anyone would ever call you is predictable. No need to change your alcohol preferences just to spite me.”
“That’s exactly why I should do it.”
“That hurts. And here I thought we’d bond tonight.”
“As long as by bonding, you don’t mean horizontally.”
He waggled his eyebrows. “Always a first time for everything.”
“Jesus.”
As our drinks were set in front of us, Dawson slid his card across the bar, and I didn’t put up a protest. If he was forcing himself on me like a leech, it might as well be on his dime, am I right?
My hands were still numb from the cold, and I rubbed them together like two sticks trying to start a fire, and when that didn’t work fast enough, I blew out hot breaths of air onto them. The downside to dressing to attract the opposite sex was that there was a very real possibility you might freeze to death before you got them into your bed.
“Let me,” Dawson said, and before I could ask what he meant, he’d taken his jacket off and placed it around my shoulders. The warmth of it had the trembling in my arms immediately slowing to a stop, my body relaxing, and when he sat back down, he took both of my hands in his. My first instinct had been to pull away, and I did, but Dawson’s fingers tightened around mine, refusing to let go.
“Don’t be a stubborn ass,” he said, rubbing my hands between his large ones. “Get warm and then you can go back to telling me to get lost.”
I frowned, but couldn’t deny that it felt good. The heat, of course, not the feel of his hands on mine.
“How are you so warm? You’re not a shifter, are you?” I asked, thinking back to a scene from a movie Shayne had made me see with her where a werewolf guy kept this human girl warm in front of her vampire boyfriend. Titillating stuff.
“A what?”
“Never mind.” The feeling was coming back into my fingers, and this time when I pulled away, he let me. “Thanks, I think I’m good now.”
“Keep that,” he said when I reached up to pull his jacket off.
“I don’t think so.”
“Would you rather sit there and freeze?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
I opened my mouth to object, and he pointed to the drink that had just been set in front of me.
“The faster you drink, the warmer you’ll feel,” he said. “Leave it on until then.”
Couldn’t deny that logic.
My lips tipped up as I lifted the sweet banana, cream, and Nutella concoction to my lips. “You’re a bossy little fucker, aren’t you.”
“Bossy fucker, yes. Little, no.”
“Ahh, so that’s what it is. I knew it wasn’t your sparkling personality attracting the masses, so my guess was either you’re a master in hypnosis or you’ve got a nine-inch dick.”
Dawson laughed, shaking his head. There was amusement in his eyes as he leaned in, close enough that I could feel his hot breath on my neck, and said, “Nine and a half, love.” Then he straightened and picked up his drink. “But who’s counting?”
“Bullshit. I was joking.”
“Come back to my room and I’ll let you count.” His eyes dropped to my lips. “With your mouth.”
A groan escaped my lips. “Oh my God. You are so fucking full of yourself. How many girls actually fall for the stuff that comes out of your mouth?”
“What can I say? I learned from the best,” he said, inclining his head toward me.
“Me? You’re saying you learned arrogance and the art of wheeling and dealing that so-called nine-and-a-half-inch cock from me?”
“You are the best at tempting men to their fates, are you not?”
“To say nothing of my skills with a strap-on.”
Dawson’s eyes widened slightly, his lips forming a small O as he soaked in that visual. There wasn’t much that could shock either of us, but I supposed he’d never considered how far I was willing to go on occasion to assert my female-on-top status. The next reaction would determine whether it crossed his line of comfort or whether he was intrigued.
“Fuck me,” he said, and I smirked.
So he was intrigued. And why that sent an unexpected thrill zipping down my spine, I had no idea. Maybe it was the thought of riding a man comfortable with his sexuality, who had a clear “anything goes” mentality in the bedroom, that turned me on. Maybe it was the alcohol turning my brain stupid.
Or maybe I’d lost my damn mind.
“Why, Dawson, surely that’s not an offer.”
“It’s whatever you want it to be.”
The look in his eyes dared me to take him up on his proposition, but I knew better than to do a silly thing like that. There was too much history there, good and bad, to ever open up to Dawson again. Not that I ever had in a sexual way, of course, but in the vulnerable way of myself that I’d locked up good and tight years ago.
So, I did the only thing I could. I changed the subject.
“I will never understand how our parents are friends,” I said, running my finger around the lip of the glass. “Yours are so nice and…well, normal. They actually like each other.”
Dawson’s eyebrows went up at the abrupt change in conversation, and after a beat, he shrugged. “It’s not unheard of to be married to someone you like. Or love.”
“I beg to disagree.”
“Ahh, yes. The wedding planner who hates marriage. You’re quite the contradiction, aren’t you, Pita?”
“Hey, if people want to ruin their lives by throwing a big party to tie their lives together forever and ever, that’s their problem. And since that means I get to shop with their money, it’s a win-win.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but I think we both know the reason you got into the business.”
“And what’s that?”
“To give a big, fat ‘fuck you’ to your father.”
Laughing, I nodded. “Can’t say you’re wrong about that. He was so hoping I’d follow his footsteps and go into big-money real estate.”
“Hmm. You do have the ability to convince people to do whatever it is you want them to, but I can’t see you working for your old man.”
“Me either. And truth be told, weddings weren’t my first choice. I had my heart set on divorce shebangs, but there’s not nearly enough money in those after prenups.”
“Well, if you manage to influence the whole of Los Angeles with your anti-marriage rhetoric and find yourself without a job, you know we’ll welcome you with open arms,” Dawson said.
P.I.T.A. (L.A. Liaisons Book 3) Page 2
