Waking Up in Vegas

by Stephanie Kisner

  I was again puzzled by how women both desired flaying themselves open and how they freaking handled it day in and day out. Two hours on two separate days and I was ready to kill something.

  I found my mom, giving her the hug that was our standby, then corralled her into a quiet back hallway to plead my case. There was no other way to put it—one did not tell my mother what to do, nor simply ask without a catalogue of reasons ready to present. If I hadn’t known she adored her job almost as much as she loved me, I’d think she was a frustrated lawyer wannabe.

  “I need to ask a favor, Mom,” I said, doing my best not to look down and shuffle my feet like a third-grader. I stand a full head taller than her and thirty is looming on my personal horizon, yet asking the woman for anything still reduces me to an age when I believed in Santa Claus.

  “What do you need, Spartacus?”

  “That. That right there,” I said, pointing my finger around like the words were dangling in the air. “My new co-host is here. For tonight, would you please call me Tack, like the rest of the world does?”

  I was surprised when, without further justification on my part, she blew out a breath and nodded. My mother knew I’ve hated my name since kindergarten when I discovered Spartacus was weird in a world of Zacks, Mikes, and Jeffs.

  “So is she cute, this new morning girly of yours?”

  “She’s not mine, Mother.” The full Mother just slipped out. But now she knew she was getting to me. Fantastic.

  “So she’s cute.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you didn’t deny it. So that means she’s attractive.”

  “Her picture just got put up on a billboard that you drive past every day to get to work. Don’t tell me you don’t know what she looks like.” And there we were, just like always, wandering off the topic as we descended into bickering.

  “Of course I know what she looks like. I’m trying to figure out if you know how she looks.”

  “I see her five mornings a week, Mom. I obviously know she’s cute.”

  Aaaand there we had it. Mom’s Needling–1, Keeping Confessions to Myself–0. I should have suspected when she caved on the whole Tack thing without arguing. Because the woman never gives in. And lately, what she hadn’t wanted to give in on was finding me a happily-ever-after. She was living proof that there was no such thing, so I don’t know why she bothered.

  I switched back to the topic at hand before she could swing in for the kill.

  “So we’re agreed, then? You’ll keep Spartacus under wraps until I say otherwise?”

  She smiled like a snake and reached up to pat my cheek, once again affirming that I would be forever a child in her eyes. “Of course, dear.”

  I’d been watching Jen suck back the drinks since we were officially dismissed from celebrity duty. With a frame as tiny as hers, I didn’t know where she put all that alcohol, nor how she managed to not be on-her-ass drunk. And I knew exactly how many she’d had—the place was so crowded that, after the radio-station junk came off the table, we stayed where we were because there was nowhere else to go.

  We weren’t talking to each other. And for once, not because she’d pissed me off or vice-versa; I’d found a pretty blonde who seemed on-board with Tack’s Rules of Engagement, and Jen was busy talking to a guy who made my skin kind of crawly.

  He looked alright, and he said things that made Jen laugh; still, I kept half an ear on their conversation, because the guy’s vibe was... off. Unfortunately, the gem who had Tack Jr. standing up in interest had noticed that she wasn’t the sole object of my attention and thought I wanted to drag our tablemates into our conversation.

  “Hey, Jensen,” the nameless gem said, “what’s it like seeing this guy’s smiling face every morning?”

  Jen flicked her eyes over to me, and left them there. “I’ll let you know, once he starts smiling in the mornings.”

  Now that was entirely unfair. “I smile in the mornings.”

  “Not lately.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  She polished off her drink and waved to the waitress for another. “Whomever you spent the night before with, I would imagine.” She batted her eyes and tried to look innocent, but I knew better.

  There was no way in hell I was admitting (in front of the woman who would be breaking my dry streak, no less) that there had not, in fact, been anyone warming my sheets, so I mumbled something that wasn’t even words. A quick moment later and girly-drink-with-an-umbrella number six was delivered.

  Three slurps and she had that sucker down to red-streaked ice with a bent straw. Jen snatched up the umbrella by the button on the top and attempted to eat the cherry it was stuck in. She went from grinning to giggling, and when she missed her mouth for the fourth time, had begun to list to one side. Right into the chest of Skin-Crawling Guy who seemed more than happy to prop her back up again.

  By using her boob as a hand-grip.

  Jen didn’t seem to notice the catch-and-grab and her thanks for keeping her from falling off the stool had a distinctly fuzzy edge. He kept an arm locked around her shoulder, even when she got herself back upright. I watched her shrug a couple of times, and even lean forward onto the table on her elbows, but that arm stayed clamped tight as a vice. So she did what any self-respecting girl would do: she asked my sweet evening selection if she wanted to hit the ladies room.

  To this day, I still do not understand the peeing-in-pairs thing.

  Skin-Crawly snatched up his drink and headed off without a word; I assumed he finally got the shrug-lean-away-then-leave message and didn’t make any attempt to stop him. If I had, maybe things would have turned out differently.

  Or maybe they wouldn’t. Since then, I’ve pondered the inevitability of some things… but once again, I’m getting ahead of myself. Sorry about that.

  My prospective bed-sports partner zoomed back to the table–as hurried as she could manage in those fuck-me heels, anyway, which we should take a moment to admire (both the way her legs looked in the stilettos, and the speed she managed to accomplish in them)—looking worried and saying that Jensen was having some sort of trouble with the guy who had been at our table. Big Brother Mode kicked in and I asked her where she saw them last.

  I didn’t need this tonight. Truly. Mr. Happy thought he was gonna get some long-overdue action.

  But she was new in town, and pretty, and pretty drunk, and I discovered a little pocket of chivalry I never knew I possessed.

  Asshat had backed Jensen into a corner, clearly ignoring her efforts to push him off. Which even I could see she was doing, from fifteen feet away—and closing fast.

  Jen was shoving at his shoulders, and while he may have had a few inches on her, I had more than that on him. I peeled him off like a wet Kleenex, and I’m pretty sure he bounced off a wall. I took a quick look at Jensen and, though her eyes were red, they were also narrowed in the look I’d become quite familiar with these last few weeks. I thought it might be a good idea to pick the asshole up off the floor before Jen started kicking him. The toes on her shoes looked wicked-pointy. Besides, security had finally arrived and this was one club guest who needed to never return. That meant sitting his drunk and grabby ass down and getting his info for the eighty-six list. Did I mention I worked security in this very club for my mother while I was in college?

  “Spar—Tack!” Speak of the devil. At least she corrected herself on the name. “What happened here? Is everyone alright? And who’s responsible?”

  “I think so.” I left the groaning pile of drunk guy to the security team and my mother. I’d take bets on which one he should worry about more. In two quick steps, I was standing in front of Jen. Her white-knuckled fists were shaking, and her eyes were shooting laser beams through my midsection toward the shit-heap who’d been pawing at her. Purely on instinct, I reached out and ran a hand down her back.

  I guess that’s all it took to break her. She sort of crumpled and sagged, and my hand, which was now curved aro
und her ribs, was the only thing holding her upright. No tears, though; I’ll give her that. It was more like she was a house of cards, carefully held together and balanced, and my touch had just knocked her into a heap.

  Jen mumbled something against my side that I couldn’t make out. I’m not sure if it was muffled against my shirt or she was starting to really slur. And although it was still early (by my standards), it was time for the plastered pixie to go home.

  I walked us both—okay, shuffled, the alcohol was definitely having an effect now—over to my mom, introduced Jensen to her, and asked that the guy be eighty-sixed for the rest of his natural life.

  “You know I can only restrict admission for five years, unless there are criminal charges, Tack.” She put a hand on the shoulder Jen didn’t have tucked into my ribs and asked, “Did you want him arrested for assault?”

  Jen shook her head, wobbled more than a bit in her ridiculously high heels, and I pulled her in a little tighter.

  Just so she wouldn’t fall.

  My mother took out her phone and hit some number on speed-dial. “She said no charges, Mom.”

  She shooed me with her hand and introduced herself to whomever was on the other end of the line, finishing with, “Could we get a taxi sent over as soon as possible, please?”

  “I’ll take her home.” Wait, was that my voice just now? What the hell was I thinking? I had a sure thing waiting for me back at the table.

  Too late. Mom had said, “Nevermind,” into the phone and hung up.

  Crap.

  I would just make my excuses to what’s-her-name at the table and come back after.

  Except that I didn’t.

  And damned if I understand why. I had a definite fuck waiting for me at Pure, and God knows I needed one. Bad.

  But once I’d gotten Jensen into her condo, watched her try not to fall up the steps while Angus danced around her feet, and finally scooped her up and carried her up there myself, it just didn’t feel right.

  Not after I’d slipped off those silly shoes of hers, pulled the comforter up to her chin, and heard her softly say, “You know, Tack, you’re a pretty nice guy when you’re not working so hard at being an asshole.”

  Chapter 9

  *Ants Marching*

  I’d gone home and, wonder of wonders, climbed right into bed. Alone, unless you count Lita cuddling up and eventually hogging three-quarters of the mattress.

  Quit laughing. Like your dog doesn’t do that to you.

  I was awake until nearly sunrise; I could have moved Lita, or pushed her off. But I didn’t. She was my number-one girl, and her warmth next to me was a comfort. Not that I needed it, mind you.

  But I just couldn’t get Jensen’s comment out of my head. She’d been nearly unintelligible by the time I got her home and most likely wouldn’t remember saying anything, but I was finding it hard to forget.

  Did I really come off as that much of an asshole? And was it to everyone, or did I reserve it for Jensen alone?

  The way I saw it, Jen was being completely oversensitive. Everybody at the station always acted happy to see me and didn’t do the stop talking ‘cause he just walked in thing. The presents I got in the holiday gift exchange were decent and didn’t appear to be of the get-the-jerk-anything variety, and nobody ran away (or even seemed reluctant) when I cornered them under the mistletoe in the lobby. Which I totally did not put up.

  People visited me in the booth just to shoot the shit, I got invited to parties and barbecues… it sure felt like everyone liked having me around.

  Except for the people who filed sexual harassment complaints. No, that was not a mistake, saying people and not women. I found out that Milo logged a grievance, too; I don’t know how he managed to make it out of high school without living through locker-room chatter. Every guy makes fun of the size of other guys’ dicks.

  Milo’s such a pussy.

  Or else he really does have tiny junk.

  Unlike yours truly.

  And there we go again, talking about my penis. Stop making me do that, will you, please? I’m trying to be serious here.

  Now, back on topic, ladies: having an unfathomable prick doesn’t mean that I am one.

  I held open doors and pulled back chairs at dinner. If someone asked for help, I would if I was able. I donated both my money and my time to charities; I worked to put a criticism in the kindest terms. Hell, even most dogs liked me, and they say animals are a good judge of character, so there you go.

  I’ve never lied to a woman to get her into the sack, and never represented those bedroom sports as anything more than playtime. Once in said bed (or the occasional bathroom stall), I get off on them getting off first.

  I ask you, are those the actions of a jerk?

  I’ve been living inside this skin my whole life, and I know a thing or two about myself. I’m confidant, but seriously, it isn’t arrogance when you know your strengths and utilize them. Can I help it I’m better than some people, and can I help it that it’s patently obvious?

  I’ve been told—many times—that I’m a handsome man, and when I look in a mirror, I have no reason to doubt it. My face is put together well, I think, which helps me win numerous partners for those bedroom acrobatics.

  That’s not to say that good looks are required to be a popular girl with the guys, ladies. Take note of that. Confidence is attractive. Confidence is sexy. Confidence is something you pull on like your favorite shirt, and just as visible.

  Let’s take a rock-n-roll example, shall we?

  Mick Jagger.

  Skinny, and always has been. His head’s too big. Ridiculous hair that always looks like he just rolled out of bed. Dresses like he pulled on the first thing he found lying on the floor. He looks like a caricature of himself, and don’t get me started on that weird square thing he does with his lips. According to Men in Black 3, he might be an alien… and all of that stuff is irrelevant. That funny-looking waif-man has gotten more pussy than Hugh Hefner.

  Why?

  Because he struts around like the rooster in charge of the henhouse. And the hens respond.

  Is Mick Jagger a jerk? I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. He gets the cooch, and that’s what does.

  And let me set you straight, before you go jumping to unjustified conclusions about me: I love women because they’re women. If you need advice, a sympathetic ear, or just some understanding, they’re the go-to gender to give it. They have a perspective on life that men don’t. They’re soft, they smell delicious, and are different from men in so many amazing ways.

  Still, in some respects, women are exactly the same as the opposite sex they dearly love to complain about.

  See, my mother has run the nightclub at Caesar’s since as far back as I can remember. During the late nineties, it was a performance club with house cover bands, and in 1999, there was an all-girl Bon Jovi tribute group with the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. I was only fifteen, but since my mom ran the place, I could come in after school and watch the bands rehearse.

  Actually, I was forced to report there within half an hour of school getting out. I’d been suspended a few times for cutting class to go smoke weed, and my mom didn’t trust me for a while after that. Anyway, since the bars inside were all closed, it was okay for me to be there, even if my mom came and went from the club or was in her office, taking care of paperwork.

  I would run water and sodas up to the stage for the band during practice, and got to know them a little. The lead singer, Lacey, I got to know way more than that. She was barely twenty-one, hot as hell, and would hang out and talk to me after the rehearsals would end.

  As more time passed, I gained back a little of my mother’s trust and she didn’t watch me as closely. Maybe she should have. A month or so into our friendship, Lacey asked me to bring her wireless mic to the dressing room so she could put in fresh batteries. I’d been in their dressing room a thousand times, and hadn’t really thought much of it.

  She pretty much attac
ked me as soon as I walked through the door. I was a horny, besotted fifteen year old virgin—who was I to say no?

  We had sex a few more times, then she seemed to either get tired of me, or maybe thought it best to stop, since I was so young and she might lose her job. I know she’d told the other girls in the band, though, because once she was turning me down, the lead guitarist started getting cozy. And after her came the drummer, and then the bass player.

  I wanted their approval, and they knew I was enthusiastic but completely without skill, so whenever they didn’t come right out and tell me what to do, I’d be sure to ask, every step of the way. All of them taught me how to please them, individually and as women in general, and they were lessons I learned well.

  I’d also learned to do the dropping before I could get dropped, myself.

  I’ve stuck with what works. And hell, I’m having a way better time being a dog.

  But am I an asshat? I prefer to think I’m not.

  Does Jensen bring out my inner jerkwad? Maybe, and I’d rather that she didn’t. I think it’s because she’s the only woman I see in close quarters on a damn-near daily basis. Thank God for the weekends to reset my point of view.

  And everything about that rubs me the complete wrong way.

  I don’t know her well enough to get her to change how she provokes me, so all I can do is change how I react to it. (See, Doc? I can self-analyze. Look at me go with all the questions in here.)

  Thing is, I don’t know just what it is that she does. It’s like she walks into a room and I’m completely aware of it. My skin gets tight, my scalp feels tingly like all the hairs are standing straight on end, and my eyes keep creeping back over to her. What the hell is with that?