The Redemption

by Lauren Rowe

  “I won’t post them, don’t worry. I just want to remember being here in Vegas with my best friend for her first time.” Kat suddenly wraps Sarah in an emotional hug. “Thank God you’re okay. I was so worried about you. I love you so much.”

  “I love you, too.” Sarah says, nuzzling into Kat’s blonde hair.

  “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t pulled through.”

  “I’m fine. ‘Twas merely a flesh wound, Kitty Kat.”

  I watch them, fascinated. Their exchange is so affectionate and effortless and natural—it makes me envious somehow. I want to be the one hugging Sarah and declaring my love so easily and openly to her.

  Sarah whips her head up and gasps. “I’ve got it,” she says.

  “You’ve got what?” Kat asks.

  Sarah disengages from Kat. “We use their greed against them.”

  “That’s my girl,” I say. “I knew you’d think of something.”

  Sarah leaps over to me and hugs me. “This is gonna work.”

  “Of course, it will,” I say. “We’re an unstoppable team.” I kiss her softly.

  Henn looks at his watch. “Okay, get your plan figured out and we’ll launch first thing tomorrow. I’m gonna work all night on my malware. I want to make sure whatever we send them is ironclad.” He grabs his laptop, clearly excited to get to work.

  Sarah and I exchange a look. There’s a lot at stake here.

  “Well,” Kat says, her hands on her hips. “While Henn’s hard at work cooking up a fancy virus, I guess the rest of us will have to find something to do in Las Vegas. Hmm.” She taps her index finger on her temple, pretending to think really hard. “What on earth could we possibly do in Las Vegas?”

  I look at Sarah, hoping she’s thinking what I am: that she’s not the least bit interested in being part of a foursome tonight. But nope—one look at Sarah and it’s abundantly clear she’s thrilled at the idea of going out.

  “You like to gamble, Kat?” Josh asks.

  “I love it.”

  “What’s your game?”

  “Blackjack.”

  “Lame,” Josh says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The real fun is craps.”

  “I’ve never played,” Kat says. “It seems complicated.”

  “Nah, it’s easy. I’ll spot you a grand and teach you how to play.”

  Kat’s eyes pop out of her head. “I’m not gonna take your money. I’ll just watch you.”

  “No, you’ve got to roll the dice for me, Party Girl. You’ve got first-timer’s luck and lady-luck on your side, and they only let you roll when you’ve got a bet on the table.”

  “Well, then, I’ll bet my own money.”

  “Kat,” I interject. “Let my brother pay for your fun. There’s nothing Josh Faraday loves more than throwing his hard-earned money away on mindless entertainment.”

  “That’s your idea of helping me, bro?”

  I laugh.

  “You’d be doing me a favor, Kat. Betting on a first-time roller is the dream of every craps player—it’s as exciting as it gets.” He smiles. “And I love excitement.” Even from here, I can see Josh’s eyes flicker when he says that last word.

  Kat grins. “Okay, Playboy. I’m in. You had me at ‘excitement.’ But we’re all going out together, right?” She looks at Sarah for assurance.

  “Of course,” Sarah says.

  Damn. I was hoping she’d say her dance card was already filled for tonight with the Underwater Rumba. I clear my throat, trying to catch Sarah’s attention. One look at me and she’ll know I’m not up for going out.

  But the expression on Sarah’s face melts me. Oh man, she’s so fucking adorable—just bursting at the seams about painting the town red. What am I thinking? Sarah can have sex with me in a goddamned hotel room any time—I’ve got to nut up and show my baby a good time in the Seventh Circle of Hell.

  “Where should we take these lovely ladies to dinner?” I ask Josh.

  “It just so happens I know the perfect place.”

  “Of course you do,” I reply.

  “Do you ladies think you can handle a night out with the Faraday brothers?” Josh asks.

  Both girls squeal with excitement in reply, and Sarah throws her arms around my neck. “Thank you, Jonas.”

  “You bet,” I say softly, kissing her neck. “I’m gonna show you a good time in hell, baby, just like you deserve.”

  “And then we’ll come back here and have an even better time in heaven—in that Jacuzzi tub, just the two of us.”

  Oh, how I love this woman.

  “Henn, you wanna join us for dinner?” Josh calls to Henn across the room. “Yo, Henn?”

  Henn looks up from his computer.

  “You wanna join us for dinner, man?”

  “Oh, Josh,” Henn says, shaking his head. “How many times do I have to tell you? You can wine and dine me all you like, but you’re never gonna get me into bed.”

  Chapter 17

  Jonas

  Okay, I admit it. I’m having fun. In Las Vegas. The Apocalypse is nigh. I guess I can count on having fun anywhere, anytime, even in hell, as long as Sarah’s by my side. The restaurant Josh selected is superb—Sarah uses the word “ridiculous” at least ten times to describe her food—and the Cirque Du Soleil show we stumble into after dinner, totally on a whim, is spectacular. Every time I look over at Sarah during the show, her face is beaming with an almost childlike joy that makes my heart burst. So this is what happiness feels like, I think.

  After the show, when the girls gallop off to the bathroom together, I use the opportunity to grill Josh about Henn.

  “How well do you know the guy?” I ask. “You sure we can trust him?”

  “One hundred percent sure.”

  “Sounds like we’re messing with some pretty hairy shit,” I say. “You sure he’s completely trustworthy?”

  “Jonas, I’m sure. He’s been my guy since college. He’s like a brother to me.”

  What the fuck does that mean? Henn’s “like a brother” to him? Why does Josh need a friend who’s like a brother when he’s got an actual brother? And why have I never heard of Henn before now, if they’re so damned close?

  “When I first got to school, I kind of took Henn under my wing when he needed it most,” Josh says. “At first, I thought I was the power player in the friendship, but I wound up relying on him far more than he ever did on me.” He shrugs.

  My stomach lurches. I know the exact timeframe he’s referring to: right after Dad killed himself. The Lunacy. Josh went off to UCLA for his first year of college while I stayed behind, school deferred for a year, fighting to reclaim my mind from impenetrable darkness.

  “I just needed someone to lean on back then,” Josh adds. “And Henn turned out to be that guy.”

  “I get it,” I say. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel guilty as hell about it—and, if I’m being honest, jealous that Henn was there for Josh when I couldn’t be. Henn is like a brother to Josh? Well, fuck me. The whole idea of Josh needing to lean on someone besides me surprises me—though it shouldn’t, now that I think about it. Of course, Josh needed support after suddenly finding himself fatherless and brotherless all at once. Of course, he did.

  But what about after The Lunacy? Did Josh continue to rely on Henn, even then? I guess I just assumed Josh has leaned on me through the years, despite all my weaknesses and flaws and fuckeduppedness, the way I’ve always leaned on him. But I should have known. A guy can’t lean on someone who has broken legs, or they’ll both come crashing down. I look at the ground, emotion threatening to rise up inside me.

  “Hey,” Josh says softly. “I’ve leaned on you, too, bro. More than you know. You’re the man.”

  I look up at him. Now that I think about it, I can’t remember a single time he’s leaned on me. All I can recall are the countless times he’s rushed to my aid when I’ve needed him so badly.

  “And I still lean on you, all the time,” he
says. “All the time.”

  “You can, you know,” I say. “Lean on me. Anytime.”

  “I know. And I do. You’re half my brain, you know that—the better half, except when you’re a dumbshit.”

  “I’m strong now,” I say. “You don’t have to take care of me anymore. I can take care of you sometimes, too. I’m strong now.”

  “I know you are,” Josh says. “You’re a beast, man.”

  “So are you,” I say.

  I suddenly remember the text Josh sent me as I sat vigil in Sarah’s hospital room. I love you, man, he wrote. Thanks, I replied, emotionally stunted asshole that I am.

  “Thanks for your text,” I say. “When Sarah was in the hospital.”

  He knows the one. He nods.

  My mouth twists. “It meant a lot.”

  There’s a beat, neither of us knowing what to do.

  Maybe I should say more, but that’s all I’ve got.

  Josh tries to grin at me, but he fails. His eyes are moist.

  Fuck this. This is too weird. I slap my face and Josh laughs in surprise. I’m never the one who slaps first. Ever.

  “Are we good, pussy-ass motherfucker?” I ask.

  Josh laughs. “Yeah, we’re good, motherfucking cocksucker.”

  I hear the sound of Sarah’s laughter. I glance behind us and, sure enough, Sarah and Kat are traipsing noisily toward us from inside the theatre, big smiles plastered across both girls’ faces.

  “Hey,” I say to Josh before the girls reach us, “if Henn’s your brother, then he’s mine, too. I’m glad he’s been there for you.”

  Chapter 18

  Jonas

  The Playboy and The Party Girl have been making a killing together at the craps table for the past hour. Josh was right—he can’t lose, not with Kat rolling the dice for him. For a ridiculously long time, Sarah and I have watched and cheered and high-fived and even bet more money than we should—but win or lose, my brain is utterly incapable of remaining interested for long in what numbers show up on a pair of dice.

  When Sarah whispers to me, “You wanna get outta here?” every square inch of my skin tingles.

  “You read my mind, baby,” I reply, pushing all my chips over to Kat’s mammoth stack and grabbing Sarah’s hand. “See you guys later,” I call out to Josh and Kat over my shoulder. “Let’s go, baby.” My cock is already hardening with delicious anticipation.

  But, as it turns out, Sarah hasn’t read my mind at all. She doesn’t want to beeline back up to the suite for water sports like I do—she wants to race into the tattoo parlor on the other side of the casino to get inked with her first tattoo.

  Sarah sits on the tattoo artist’s table, explaining exactly what she wants him to do. I’m watching her, enraptured and turned on like a motherfucker. All I can think about is tasting her and making her come and then fucking her brains out in that Jacuzzi tub.

  “Sounds simple enough,” the guy says. “Show me exactly where you want it.”

  She lies back and without hesitation pulls up her dress to reveal her leopard-print G-string underneath. Wow, apparently modesty’s not an issue for Sarah tonight—when in Rome, I guess. Or maybe she’s just a lot bit drunk. Or maybe she’s finally come to peace with how fucking hot she is and doesn’t give a damn who knows it—because, holy fuck, this woman is most definitely smokin’ hot. I glance over at the tattoo artist and it’s abundantly clear he appreciates the olive-toned canvas he’ll be working on.

  What the fuck is she doing now? She’s peeling down the elastic of her itty-bitty panties, prompting me to lurch forward and reach for her hand to stop her—is she really that drunk?—but she stops on her own, just before she gives up the goods.

  She points at a tiny swatch of olive skin normally covered by the front of her panties. “Right here,” she says, her fingertip touching the exact spot she wants inked. “Boom.”

  I can’t resist. I reach over and touch the spot, too, and she visibly shudders under my fingers. Oh man, what the fuck are we still doing here? Let’s get into that fucking Jacuzzi tub already.

  “You sure about this, baby?” I ask. The feel of her skin under my fingertips is making me rock hard.

  “Hellz yeah,” she replies. “The tattoo will be covered up when I’m wearing panties or a bikini—visible only when I’m buck naked—which means no one’s ever gonna see it except me. And you.”

  My blood pulses in my ears.

  She licks her lips. “You’re the only man who’s ever gonna see this tattoo, Jonas.”

  My chest tightens. I nod.

  She blinks slowly and grins. “The only one.”

  “Forever?” I ask.

  Whoa. I can’t believe I just said that. But, fuck it, I did, and I can’t take it back now. Forever. Yeah. That’s exactly what I want from her.

  Her cheeks flush a beautiful shade of scarlet. She shrugs shyly and bites her lip.

  “I want to be the only man who ever sees it,” I say, my voice low. I motion to the tattoo artist. “Besides this guy.”

  She swallows hard and nods.

  My skin is on fire. I wish I could consummate this pact of ours right now on top of the tattoo table, but since that’s obviously not possible, even in a city as debauched as Vegas, I do the next best thing—I take her face in my hands and kiss her like I own her. Our kiss is so full of heat, so deliciously arousing, I can’t muster the willpower needed to pull myself away from her. I know in my head the tattoo guy is sitting there waiting for us, but my body doesn’t care. She’s my crack. And, right now, I want my crack.

  I make a big point of pulling Sarah’s dress back down over her thighs—I’m the only man who’s allowed to see my baby’s panties, motherfucker—and then I scoop her up into my arms. Mine.

  “Sorry man,” I say to the tattoo guy. “We’ll be back to do this another time.” I look at Sarah in my arms. “I’ll get you whatever tattoo you want before we leave this Godforsaken city, I promise, baby. But right now, I’m taking you straight to our room—straight to that Jacuzzi tub.” I lean into her ear so the tattoo guy doesn’t hear this next part. “And then I’m gonna dine on some delicious, par-boiled pussy.”

  Her face bursts into flames.

  I reach to pull my wallet out of my pocket, but it’s too hard to do while holding her in my arms. “Do me a favor and pay the nice man for me, baby—for his inconvenience.”

  She grabs my wallet and practically throws two hundred-dollar bills at the guy. She could have given him a thousand bucks and I wouldn’t have cared—whatever I have to pay to get the fuck out of here so I can taste my baby’s beautiful, sweet pussy underwater in a warm Jacuzzi tub is fine with me.

  I kiss her again. “You are so fucking hot,” I say.

  She’s panting.

  I bound out of the tattoo parlor with my baby in my arms and beeline through the noisy casino toward the elevator bank on the far side of the lobby. When tight aisles and slot machines and crowds make it impractical to continue cradling her, she hops out of my arms and leaps onto my back, and I continue making my way past gaming tables and cocktail waitresses and drunk bachelorettes wearing tiaras, my hands grasping Sarah’s smooth thighs, my cock aching with anticipation. I’m a man on a mission. My legs are pumping. My heart is racing. I hear her tipsy laughter from atop my back. Yeah, baby, I’m a horse racing back to the sweet-pussy barn. Nothing’s gonna stop me from tasting my horny little pony as soon as humanly possible.

  But my legs suddenly cease pumping. I stop dead in my tracks. What the fuck? Apparently, my legs have a fucking mind of their own because I’m positive I didn’t instruct them to stop moving. I look up.

  I’m standing in front of a wedding chapel. It’s an Elvis-themed chapel, a true Vegas absurdity—but a bona fide wedding chapel all the same.

  I feel her heart beating against my back, but she doesn’t speak. Neither do I.

  Fuck. I shouldn’t have stopped. Why did my legs stop? I didn’t tell them to do that. Did I? They hijacked me and
took over. Fuck. Her silence on top of me is as thick as molasses. I feel her chest heaving against my back. Why did I stop?

  Because I want to marry this girl.

  What?

  I want to marry this girl.

  Oh my God. I want to marry Sarah. I want her to be mine and only mine, and no one else’s, ever again. Forever. I want to call her my wife.

  But it’s not possible.

  I could never ask Sarah to pledge herself to me for eternity without first letting her see the non-traversable wasteland inside of me, the bastion of fuckeduppedness I’ve somehow managed to obscure from her thus far. I can’t ask her to vow to love me forever without first telling her every last thing about The Lunacy—and that’s something I’m just not willing to do.

  Wordlessly, I start walking again, leaving the wedding chapel behind. As I gain speed, I feel the tension leave her body and melt away. She lays a soft kiss on the back of my neck.

  I see the elevator bank, including the private elevator leading to our penthouse, off to the right—and I hang a sharp left.

  “May I help you, sir?” the woman behind the jewelry counter asks.

  “Yes, please. We’re in the market for a couple of bracelets.”

  Sarah slides off my back and stands beside me, grasping my hand.

  “There was blood all over my bracelet from Belize,” I whisper to her. “I had to take it off.”

  She nods, her big brown eyes melting me. “They cut mine off at the hospital,” she says softly. “I don’t know where it is.”

  “See if you like any of these,” the saleswoman says, placing two trays of bracelets on the counter in front of us. “These ones here are men’s and those are women’s.”

  I pick up a plain, platinum c-band off the men’s tray. It’s as basic as you can get. “Can I get this engraved across the face?” I ask.

  “Of course,” the saleswoman says.

  “Sarah,” I say, handing it back to her. “S-A-R-A-H.”

  “Very good.” Now she looks at Sarah, her eyebrows raised. “And what about you, miss?”

  Sarah peers at the tray of women’s bracelets. Virtually all her options are much more elaborate than the simple one I’ve chosen for myself—full of diamonds and curlicues and chains and colorful gems.