Waking Up in Vegas

by Stephanie Kisner

  God help me.

  I’ll never see ‘The Music Man’ the same way again. Not that I’m likely to ever watch it. Voluntarily, anyway.

  I stifled my snicker in a chuff of air, but apparently not quietly enough, because Jen leaned her head back and asked, “What’s funny?”

  “Just humming a showtune in my head.” What? It was true.

  She moved away enough to turn her head and look me square in the eyes. “You sing showtunes in your head? I’m worried about you.”

  “You started it—you’re the one who wanted to see the musical fountain.”

  “Nuh-uh, mister. I recall you actually bringing it up first,” she smirked.

  Yeah, I wasn’t touching that one. Not even in my head.

  She turned back and settled into me again with a sigh. The friction against my zipper from just those tiny movements was killing me.

  “Despite the crappy choice of songs, Mr. Judgmental, I think it’s really cool. Like fireworks made out of water.”

  A low fog had begun to creep across the surface of Bellagio’s small lake, and the Paula Abdul song that had been annoying me through the myriad speakers wound down mid-Do-ya-love-me until I couldn’t hear it anymore. The walkway lights dimmed and, with no further preamble, a row of round fountains illuminated to the opening strains of a violin, rising higher like ballerinas.

  Jensen gasped, her fingers digging into my forearms as she leaned further into my body.

  The spray rose and swirled, and a woman’s beautiful voice began to sing in Italian.

  Shit.

  Of all the songs they could play… Bocelli’s duet of ‘Time to Say Goodbye’ was definitely not what I would have picked. It was soaring and beautiful and the universe could not possibly be trying to tell me something here.

  I rejected it as just a coincidence—these things were scheduled. They would have played this song at this time, whether or not we were here to hear it.

  Jensen was swaying against my entire front. No fucking way could she keep that up and still leave me able to walk away with any dignity.

  Pushing gently at her shoulder, I eased her around to face me, still caged in my arms, and sent up a silent prayer that I still remembered my mother’s waltz lessons from eons ago.

  Jen’s eyes were bright with questions as she met my gaze, her lips parted and quirking up in her perennial semi-smile. As I slid one palm down her arm to cup her hand and brought the other to her waist—I guess the muscle memory was still there after all—she cocked her head and it was all I could do not to kiss her.

  “Dance with me.” The words came out as a whisper.

  “Here?” she whispered back.

  I nodded slowly and mimicked her slight smile.

  In answer, she settled her fingers gently on my sleeve and, as I steered her into what I could remember of a waltz, she gave my bicep a squeeze.

  “Are you man-handling your dance partner?”

  Her giggle seemed to shimmer in the misty air. “Certainly not. I’m ogling.”

  “Me, or the fountain?”

  “Both.” I’d turned us sideways to the water, so she could still watch the show. But instead, she kept her eyes right on mine. I felt a weird little flip low in my stomach that I’d never experienced before.

  One side of her face was bathed in the fountain light, the rest so shadowed I could only barely make out the glitter of her eye.

  How perfectly appropriate that I’d only get to see half of her while a soaring duetic tale of separation guided us around our makeshift dance floor.

  I felt Jen easing closer, and there was just no way in hell I could handle her rubbing up against me right now. I was already thinking of rescinding the no-sex-til-she-stays rule as it was. For the sake of my sanity, I stepped back and adopted simply the No Orgasming in Public in My Pants law. To keep her away from my zipper region, I steered us into a series of turns and hoped to God that there were no people nearby that we might trample.

  “I think we’re the only ones dancing,” Jen said, straining to be heard over the music and the slapping sound of the fountain-water.

  “So?”

  “We look silly.”

  I made sure she was looking at me before my eyes slowly made their way down from her breeze-tousled hair to the notch in her collarbone—which was seriously begging for my tongue to dip into—then back up to her chin.

  I didn’t go past her lips. I couldn’t. They were mesmerizing. “You look beautiful.”

  Knowing her, she was probably blushing, but I wouldn’t know—I was spellbound as she sucked in her bottom lip and caught it in her teeth.

  I tilted my head until my mouth was a whisper above hers. “No fair. I wanted to do that.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  Before I could answer, she closed the final distance between us to feather her lips against mine. As my eyes drifted shut, I ended our swaying and, with a slow slide of my hand down her bare spine, pulled her nearly flush against me.

  She fit perfectly. As always.

  I nipped at her lips until those little noises from her throat that drove me half out of my mind turned into one long, low moan. At some point, her hands had landed on my lapels; when she used them to tug me even closer, a muffled roar hit me square in the ears. I was startled until I realized that it came from my own chest. And I only figured that out because I did it again.

  With the pressure of her soft belly against the iron behind my fly, I had to keep reminding myself that grinding against her on the very public sidewalk in front of Bellagio was a truly bad idea. In an effort to distract myself, I concentrated on her maddening mouth and getting her to let me inside.

  She was either a mind-reader, or was as on-edge as I was, because she opened for me without so much as a nudge.

  All the fooling myself I’d done over this woman was erased with the first hint of the toffee that was uniquely Jensen. Fireworks, explosions, waves crashing—hand me any trite expression and, I swear to God, I lived it when her tongue slid alongside mine.

  Wrapped in her scent, her taste, and her arms, I asked myself again how I would let her go. How she could even want to.

  A whistle and a smattering of applause broke through the haze of desire that whirl-winded around us. Jen stepped back, her eyes glued to mine. I didn’t know if they were clapping for the show that had just ended, or for the show Jen and I had been giving them.

  And I didn’t care.

  “Let’s go home,” Jen said in a low voice that arrowed straight to my groin.

  I didn’t tell her that, with her in my arms, it felt like I already was.

  Our mouths were pretty much fused from the moment we got out of the car in my driveway, and, ricocheting off the walls ‘til we got to my room, we left a trail of clothes and shoes until all that remained was our skin and her smile…

  Except that didn’t actually happen. Can you hear my blue balls screaming here?

  For the entire drive back home, Little Head was at war with Big Head. My need for her—and the resulting samba of my pulse below my belt—was a dangerous distraction. Three hobbling old ladies with canes, two pigtailed girls on bicycles, and a couple of guys carrying a plate-glass window should all count their lucky stars that the head on my shoulders was marginally in charge and I didn’t run them over in various crosswalks.

  Neither of us said a thing on the short drive back to my place. I wasn’t sure what Jen was thinking, although, from her staccato breathing, I had a pretty good idea. I kept catching her in my peripheral vision, looking at me and chewing her bottom lip like dessert. By the time we pulled into the driveway, my hands were shaking and I parked halfway across the lawn because I was losing my ability to steer.

  I had also managed to talk myself down (in a manner of speaking) and planned to keep my trembling fingers to myself. The Rule still stood, regardless of how seamlessly we fit together while we were dancing.

  We were on the third day without her sorting through her stuff. There wa
s still a ton left to go through; I know, I’d looked out there. She hadn’t packed up anything from her bedroom, and unless she was sneaking off to make phone calls, she wasn’t even talking to her folks, let alone anyone else in Arizona.

  I was infinitesimally encouraged.

  And incredibly frustrated. It had been ten damn days of celibacy and I was ready to crawl the walls. Before Jensen had skated into town, my longest dry stretch had been Sundays through Tuesdays. Now, I didn’t even want my own hand, let alone some other woman.

  She’d ruined me. And fuck me upside-down if I would have it any other way.

  “It was a beautiful evening, Tack. Thank you,” Jen murmured. She wouldn’t look at me. Instead, she slipped off her high heels and fled down the hall to her room.

  Chapter 21

  *Down With The Sickness*

  I should be sleeping.

  I’m supposed to be sleeping.

  It’s quiet enough to be sleeping.

  It was also quiet enough that I heard Jen’s phone receive at least seven texts.

  Who could she be having a textversation with? We both know the same people.

  Unless it was a friend from Kansas City.

  Or maybe it was her mom.

  Assuming her mother is tech-savvy. Lord knows mine is, and she has no problem whatsoever peppering me with a barrage of whatever’s on her mind, like edicts advice on how to run my life her way.

  I still can’t believe I didn’t plaster her to the nearest flat surface when we got home and strip both of us naked in less than sixty seconds.

  I also can’t believe that she didn’t do the same.

  The whole damn point of The Rule was to get her to come to me, whereby I could then point out—afterward—that she must not have wanted to leave that badly if she was willing to give it all up for a handful of Tack-generated orgasms.

  But she still hasn’t done it.

  We only have two nights left under the same roof, and she wasn’t cracking.

  Maybe she does truly intend to leave.

  I was out of ideas to stop it.

  God dammit.

  I woke up to the smell of brewing coffee.

  She actually got up on her own? Chalk up another unbelievable for Little Miss Sunshine.

  Just how in the royal fuck will I get through our timeslot today, knowing that tomorrow’s our last?

  I can’t.

  Add in my exhaustion (I have no clue what time I fell asleep; the last time I looked at my phone, it was after three) and I knew my temper wasn’t going to hold.

  “Jen?” I called out.

  Her towel-wrapped head poked through the opening in my half-closed door. “What’s up?”

  “Tell them I’m not coming in today.”

  She quirked one eyebrow and her ever-present semi-smile disappeared. “Are you okay?”

  “I will be.” I faked holding back a gag. “But I think it’s best I don’t go on the air feeling this lousy.”

  What—none of it was a lie.

  She bustled over to my bed and laid a cool palm across my forehead. “What’s wrong? You feel normal.”

  I made a big show of swallowing a lump of nothing and got a bellyful of air. Now I did feel like barfing.

  Great.

  “Maybe it was something at the restaurant last night.” Again, that wasn’t untrue, for those of you keeping score. “I’m going to try to sleep it off.”

  “What should I tell the boss?”

  “Tell him anything you want. You’re a big girl, you can handle the show all by yourself. You’ll be doing it soon enough, anyway.” That last bit came out with a touch more bite than I’d intended, but screw it.

  “You’re right,” she said stiffly. “I should thank you for the practice.”

  But she didn’t actually thank me as she walked out, closing the door behind her a little harder than she needed to.

  I really did go back to sleep. After I really did throw up.

  My stomach was aching from the quart of air I’d swallowed, that’s all.

  Shut up.

  The dog’s ecstatic greeting when Jen came through the door at one-thirty woke me up.

  “Tack?” she yelled. “You here?”

  My lips were glued together and my tongue tasted faintly like puke, despite the Colgate and mouthwash routine I’d done earlier. “I’m in bed.” Christ, my voice sounded like I’d gargled razor blades.

  I heard her coming down the hall, thanks to the hyper dogs. She snapped her fingers twice and told them to back off before coming into my room. Amazingly, they both sat down outside the door, panting happily. “And here I was going to apologize for being so late. You look like hell, by the way.”

  “Matches how I feel.” I ran a hand over my head, trying to make order out of the bed-head. “Better?”

  “Marginally.” She smirked. “My ex- landlord called and told me my deposit check was ready.”

  “Well, that’s a surprise.” I was starting to sound more normal, but I still didn’t feel like coming out from under the blankets.

  “I took it to his bank to cash it,” she said. “I don’t trust the bastard. After, I called Carmen and we went out for lunch.”

  The mere suggestion of food made my gut roll, and leave it to Jen to notice. “You just turned green.”

  I nodded, worried that if I opened my lips to speak, whatever might be left in my stomach would launch across the room.

  “That’s so weird. We ate that same thing, and I feel fine.”

  That’s because you don’t have a bunch of gremlins jumping around in your belly, wearing tee shirts emblazoned with ‘Jensen is Really Leaving.’

  “Would crackers help?”

  I fought my way out of the covers and barely made it to the bathroom in time to heave.

  At least I wouldn’t be wrestling with my conscience and The Rule today.

  Or all night, as it turned out.

  Jen went out for saltines and ginger ale, and after bringing them to me, left and came back with an armload of pillows. She piled some up behind my shoulders, then made a stack out of the rest for herself.

  I turned on the TV as she slid her hand into mine.

  I dozed off while her thumb rubbed little circles onto the back of my hand.

  When I woke up around three-thirty because a loud infomercial had taken over TNT, she was still in her blouse and jeans, but under the blankets and snuggled into my side.

  I sighed and tucked her in closer, falling back to sleep wondering how to keep her there for good.

  Chapter 22

  *With 0r Without You*

  It’s our last show together.

  I can’t believe it.

  It utterly defies explanation that Jensen would choose being alone in Phoenix over staying in Las Vegas with me.

  Physically, I was feeling better, but my outlook and attitude had not been equally healed by crackers and Canada Dry.

  We drove in together because I insisted on it (small battles won and all that crap) and I immediately regretted pushing the issue. All we did was bicker the whole way to work—she wants to say goodbye to the listeners, and I told her I’d break off her damn microphone altogether if she even tried.

  I’ll tell them myself on Monday. Jensen telling the entire metro area makes it too damn real.

  So now it’s five minutes to six and we’re silent and glaring.

  Silent, unless you count the grinding noises coming from my molars, that is.

  What a way to wake up the beautiful citizens of Sin City.

  There will be no signature Good Morning, Las Vegas today.

  I don’t even want to fucking be here.

  Where I want to be is on my hands and knees over Jensen’s naked skin, convincing her with my body to stay.

  ‘Cause I haven’t been able to persuade her any other way.

  I finally broke away from her livid stare to string a few songs up to play. ‘Breathe’ by Breaking Benjamin and the Goo Goo Dolls ‘Before It’s Too L
ate’ were both not in our normal rotation, but screw it. They said exactly how I felt, and therefore were what Jen really needed to hear. Besides, it was early for all those office workers and I didn’t think anyone would call in to complain about a slow and easy start to a Friday.

  One verse into Breathe, she took off her headphones.

  Christ, what did I have to do to get through to her?

  I turned up the volume in the studio, so she was stuck with the lyrics I was sending.

  And what did she do?

  She slid off her stool and went out in the hall, that’s what.

  I left the volume up anyway and added Dirty Vegas’ ‘Days Go By’ to the queue. In the Fuck the Playlist Olympics, I might as well go for the gold.

  Jen came back in with a few pages in her hands while the last line (…Without you…) repeated over and over as the song wound down. She didn’t look at me, just climbed back into her seat, pulled her mic a little closer and flicked her glance up at the speaker in the corner.

  I wasn’t sure if it was the lyric or the potential feedback that was irritating her, but I turned off the booth sound, anyway.

  Jen launched into the road report without even looking at me once.

  I guess that was all the feedback I’d be getting.

  When she was done, she pointed at me without so much as an intro; I read off a couple of concert promotions and put on some Avenged Sevenfold so no one would come running in to see what the hell was going on in our booth besides the rare blasting of the in-room speakers.

  Cue the mug of sugar with a splash of coffee.

  So the little pixie wasn’t immune–or deaf–after all.

  Good to know.

  The next personal song was actually not verboten: ‘Thinking About You’ from Puddle of Mudd. We played that one heavily when it first came out, and it still managed to surface from time to time.

  Jen tossed her phone up on the counter and it immediately started vibrating across the smooth surface to signal a new text. She typed a short reply and went back to studying the sweet sludge in her coffee cup. Her eyes were narrowed and her mouth was frowning. The classic Pissed-Off Jen face, which made no damn sense to me, because she was getting what she wanted.