by Harlow James
“Sounds like she’s excited.”
“You don’t know the half of it. So, we’re flying there?”
“Yes. I’ll have the plane ready to go so we can literally hop on and take off.” He grows quiet and then whispers as if the words cause him pain. “Thank you for coming with me, Shayla. I don’t know if I could do this without you.”
His confession seems out of place. “What do you mean?”
“It’s… never mind. But hey, I’m leaving the office now and headed home. Call me tomorrow?”
“Of course. Goodnight, Wes.”
“Goodnight, Shayla. Sweet dreams, baby.”
We end the call and then I contemplate Wes’s words. He can’t go to Vegas without me? What the hell does that even mean? And why do those words remind me that there is something I’m missing when it comes to this man, a detail that prevents me from falling asleep quickly, and keeps my mind occupied for the next few days until I’m on a private plane to Vegas with my boyfriend, his sister, and my best friend.
***
“Alright, Wesley. You officially have the best friend stamp of approval,” Chloe declares as we roll our suitcases into the lobby of the Morgan Hotel in Las Vegas, Nevada, just after seven o’clock at night.
“I won’t take the honor lightly, Chloe,” he replies as he leads us to the receptionist desk with his hand placed firmly on my back.
The lobby of the Las Vegas Morgan Hotel is reminiscent of the one in Los Angeles—gold seems to be the color of choice as the main draw to your eye, but red up-lighting along the walls and swirls of black and red in the carpet give it a more Vegas type feel.
“I mean, it’s kind of easy to give it to you. You fly us to Vegas on your private jet, you put us up in your swanky hotel, and I guess the fact that you make Shayla smile is a good thing too.”
Wes leans in close to my ear when we arrive at the counter. “The world is either going to spontaneously combust or the stars will align when Chloe meets Hayes.”
I chuckle. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I’m pretty sure that your best friend is the female version of mine.”
Chloe sticks her head between us, forcing us to move apart. “What are you two gossiping about?”
“Nothing,” Wes mutters before turning his attention to the receptionist.
“This trip would be so much more pleasant if Hayes wasn’t even a part of it,” Waverly interjects, obviously overhearing Wes’s comment.
“You’d better be nice, Waverly. Don’t make me regret bringing you.” Wes glances over at his sister in warning.
“He’s the one you need to be threatening, big brother. The man doesn’t even know how to spell manners, let alone possess any.” She rolls her eyes and then distracts herself with her phone.
I lean back in to Wes. “Are they going to be okay with each other in the same room?”
“They’ll be fine.”
“Good evening, Mr. Morgan.” The blonde standing behind the counter forces our attention to her with her greeting.
“Hello, Holly. I called earlier this week to reserve rooms for myself and my friends.”
She clicks around on the computer and then glances back at us with a smile. “Yes, sir. Everything is ready as requested. Two junior suites and one pent house suite for three nights.”
“Excellent.”
Holly hands Chloe and Waverly their own key cards, and then Wes a black card that stands out against the rest.
“That looks fancy,” Chloe pries.
“Shayla and I will be staying in one of the penthouse suits, but you have access to anything your heart desires, Chloe. Just ring Holly here or room service, and they will make your stay worthwhile.”
Chloe turns to me and raises her eyebrows. “I just might steal your billionaire at this rate, Shayla. You’d better watch out.” She rises on her toes and kisses Wes’s cheek before patting it harshly. “You’re the best, Wesley. Now, I need to settle into my room and break in the sheets with a good masturbation session so I’m not hard up all night. You two go break the bed in the penthouse suite and then we’ll all meet up in about an hour, right?”
Wes shakes his head at her as I stifle a laugh. “Yes. We’re supposed to be at the club at eleven, but we’re going to have dinner here before we go.”
“Sounds good.” And then she’s off, rolling her suitcase to the elevators to make her way to her room, leaving us alone.
“She doesn’t have much of a filter, does she?” Waverly looks at me questioningly.
“Nope.”
She shakes her head. “This night is either going to be a shit ton of fun, or a nightmare.” With a fleeting glance, Waverly takes off in the same direction that Chloe went, leaving Wes and I alone for the first time since he picked Chloe and I up from our apartment.
He places a chaste kiss on my lips and then grabs both of our suitcases, dragging them behind him as he turns down a different hallway and down to a private elevator.
“Is this elevator just for you when you drop in to the hotel?”
He laughs. “No. These are the elevators for all of the penthouse suites. Usually the clientele staying in these rooms require a certain level of privacy, so we give them their own entrance.” He points to double doors at the end of the hallway.
“Fancy,” I mumble as we make our way inside of the elevator.
Wes dips his head down to my shoulder, nuzzling his nose to my neck as he inhales deeply and I hear the doors close. “God, you always smell so good. I missed you this week.” I feel his lips pucker against the column of my throat, eliciting a shiver to run through me.
“I missed you too.” I turn my face just in time to brace for his lips to hit mine, searing me like a branding iron. He presses his body flush with mine, forcing us against the wall of the elevator as the whir of the belt signals our impending arrival on our floor.
The ding of the doors opening breaks our kiss all too soon, but when Wes pulls back from me, his gaze speaks of continuing our reconciliation inside of our room. I follow Wes down the hall just a few feet before he’s inserting the key card and opening the door for me to enter ahead of him.
“Damn. Morgan Hotels don’t do anything half-ass, do they?” My feet carry me forward to the expanse of windows lining the wall right in front of me. I walk past a kitchen to my right, a living room with leather couches and a massive flat screen tv on my left, and further more until I can press my hands against the glass and survey the entire Las Vegas strip before me.
Lights of every color of the rainbow flash and move across the buildings and structures below. I can see the Eifel Tower of the Paris Hotel, the fountains of the Bellagio cascading toward the sky in time to music, and the beam of light striking the blackness above it from the top of the Luxor Hotel. Red brake lights fill Las Vegas Boulevard as taxis and Ubers rush to deliver people to their night of living in sin.
“Do you ever get this rush when you get here? Like possibilities are endless and Father Time is breathing down your neck, convincing you to live life to the fullest because tomorrow is never guaranteed?” I speak softly, waiting for Wes’s response. But as I turn, I see him staring coldly at the bar positioned tentatively in the living room, just on the other side of the hallway that separates it from the kitchen.
“Wes?”
“Fuck!” he shouts, startling me as I watch him eat up the carpet with punishing steps and arrive at the small table where the hotel phone is located. Snatching the receiver off of the base, he clicks two buttons forcefully and then pauses while he waits for someone to answer on the other end of the line.
I see his face register a voice, and then the one he uses in response has me holding my hand over my racing heart.
“I thought I specifically demanded that there be no alcohol in this room!” he bellows, pulling on his hair as he begins to pace as far as the cord on the phone will allow.
“No! It’s not okay. What kind of establishment are we running here that we can’t ev
en adhere to a simple guideline put in place by a guest, let alone the owner?” More silence and deep breaths fill the silence as I watch Wes visibly crumble before me.
“Send someone up now before I start firing people, starting with you!” He slams the receiver back down, missing the spot where it’s supposed to go, causing him to move it a few times before it clicks in place. His eyes veer back over to the bar and then to me, widening as if he realizes I just saw his meltdown.
“Fuck.” He turns away from me and sprints into the bathroom, slamming the door shut just as a knock appears on the main door to the suite.
Frozen where I’m standing, it takes me a moment to register what’s happening, and then I move for the main door, opening it to see a managerial type employee nearly shaking, his hands clutching the handles of a small roll-away cart.
“I’m here for the alcohol, Miss,” he chokes out, clearing his throat as I move to the side and usher him in.
“Uh, it’s on the bar.”
“Yes, I’m aware.” He reaches for every bottle of vodka, bourbon, and whiskey on the shelf behind the bar, checks the mini fridge below and extracts several bottles of beer, and places it all on his cart. With a smooth turn, he pushes it right back out of the door he came in through. “Have a good night,” he says as he shakily pushes the cart to a service elevator located strategically down the hall.
With the door shut, I turn to see if Wes has left the bathroom yet, but no such luck. Instead of waiting for him to appear, I decide to check on him and make sure that he’s alright. I’m not entirely sure what warranted such a response from him, but that reaction is something that I cannot let go. Something is going on and I deserve to be informed.
“Wes?” I knock on the door, waiting for any sound of movement. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“Okay. You just… you don’t seem fine.” I stand there, chewing on my thumb as I wait for him to come out. I’m not scared of Wes, even though the behavior he just displayed is alarming, but certainly uncharacteristic of the man I’ve been dating.
He opens the door and the man standing before me is not the one that was kissing me breathless in the elevator. No—this man looks haunted, like he saw a ghost and he’s debating whether he’s living in reality or an alternate universe right now.
“Shayla,” he says, and all I hear is the plea in his voice.
“Talk to me, Wes. Why the hell did you just freak out right now? Over alcohol being in the room?”
He looks down, closes his eyes, and shakes his head before stepping around me while loosening the tie around his neck. The guy drove straight from his office to pick up Chloe and I and never bothered to change. I follow him with my eyes but remain planted in my spot outside of the bathroom, waiting for some kind of explanation. Unfortunately, silence is all I get, which only sparks my need for information.
“Is this how it’s going to be? You’re just going to throw a tantrum and then act like nothing happened?”
His icy glare cuts through me as I watch him unbutton his shirt, pulling the fabric from his body as he throws it in a corner on the floor.
“I deserve to know why the hell you were screaming at one of your employees, Wes? Why you flipped a switch in a matter of minutes—”
“I’m a fucking alcoholic, Shayla!” he shouts, paralyzing me with the volume and pain in his voice.
“A… a what?”
“You fucking heard me,” he mutters before turning his back to me. He paces along the edge of the bed and then turns to plop down on the mattress, hanging his head in his hands, shame coating him like a thick blanket. And I’m frozen, waiting for him to elaborate.
“Haven’t you ever wondered why I never drink around you? Why I always come up with some excuse as to why I don’t have a glass of wine or a vodka?” His eyes stay glued to the floor, but the broken sound of his voice has my eyes tearing up.
I take a deep breath while staring at this man that I’ve let into my heart despite not knowing the fibers that make him whole. I knew there was more to him, more than the elusive mask he portrays under watchful eyes, but I honestly never imagined this.
“I mean, kind of, but I know there are some people that just don’t like to drink.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, well, I’m not one of them. In fact, for almost a year, I had a drink every god damn day, Shayla.”
“You obviously don’t still do that. Did you—did you go to rehab then?” I ask, not sure if it’s appropriate to move closer to him yet because the uncertain waves coming off of him feel like flames I’m trying to dodge.
“Yes. I’ve been sober for six years.” He pauses and then glances up at me. “But this is the first time I’ve been to Vegas since I got sober. I thought I could handle it… it’s why I—” he takes a deep breath and then sits up again. “It’s why I wanted you here. To remind me of what I have to lose if I take a drink.”
“Wes.” I move across the room to him, stepping between his widespread legs and running my hands through his hair and down the back of his head as he rests his forehead on my stomach.
“I asked them to remove all of the alcohol before we arrived, even though I know there will be far more temptation once we leave this room. But at least here I would know I was safe.”
I lift his head and plant a gentle kiss on his lips, feeling as if a barrier of trust was just erected around us. “Thank you for telling me.”
He sighs. “Believe me, I didn’t want to. But I wasn’t sure how else to explain my reaction.”
“I always want the truth from you, Wes. You know how I feel about that.”
He peers up at me and then pushes my hair from my face. “I know. But I didn’t want you to think of me as just another billionaire with scars, complaining about how hard my life is. I haven’t had a hard life. I’ve just made shitty decisions, and I’m still owning up to them.”
“You’re human, Wes, rich guy or not. And I don’t want you to feel like you can’t crumble around me. That you can’t tell me everything about your life before I was in it. I want to know you,” I say, placing my hand over his erratically beating heart. “Not the man in front of the cameras and the guy the media claims you to be.”
He sighs and then kisses the top of my hand. “Is it horrible that a part of me feels like I can breathe easier now that you know?”
“No.” I shake my head. “And if it makes you feel better, I won’t drink tonight either.”
He stands and stares down at me, shaking his head now. “No. I’m not going to ask you to sacrifice your fun because of my faults.”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”
“No Shayla.” His voice is stern as he walks away from me, ditching his pants now on his way back to the bathroom.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” I declare as I follow him, watching him bend over in front of me to push his briefs down, showcasing his rock hard ass. And then with a turn of his body, he’s showing me his proud and very hard cock as well.
“I’m not. But I’ll be damned if this changes things between us. I don’t want pity from you. It’s part of the reason why I never told you about my alcoholism.”
“It’s not pity. It’s understanding.”
He closes the distance between us, pressing his toned physique against me. “Please don’t, Shayla. Just live. Be free and have fun. I’ll never forgive myself if I prevent you from doing that.”
I search his eyes and all I can see is his plea. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act now that I know this very personal detail about Wes. But then again, nothing seemed too suspicious before I knew and I was able to enjoy myself around him.
Deflection seems to be the direction my brain wants to go, so I detour to the other thought that’s apparent in my mind. “Why are you hard right now?” I ask, reaching down to stroke him as he towers over me.
“Because even though you infuriate me sometimes, hearing you argue with me about this makes me want to fuck you i
nto submission,” he grates out as my pussy clenches.
“I think that might be the only way you’ll get me to agree with you then,” I challenge, lifting one brow at him.
Before I can blink, he hoists me up by my waist, my legs wrap around his, and he carries me into the bathroom where he makes a very convincing argument and I feel closer to him than ever before.
Chapter 22
Wes
“I’m so hungry I could eat a baby elephant,” Chloe groans as we enter Al Forno, the Italian restaurant on the first floor of the Morgan Hotel, a business that means as much to me as the hotel it resides in. A few people give her disgusted glances as we walk past and up to the hostess station.
The restaurant in front of us bridges old-fashioned Italian hospitality with Las Vegas flair. Gold and red pinstriped booths are situated in rows between two areas of tables with the same pattern on the cushions. Dark wood tables gleam under the low light hanging above in chandeliers and sconces on the walls. Gold accents shine as a reflection of flames comes through the wall of glass that gives guests a view into the kitchen. And the smells of garlic, basil, and pasta are out-of-this-world.
“Mr. Morgan, your table is ready for you,” the hostess says before I even get a chance to say another word.
“Thank you.”
We follow the barely legal hostess to our table in the private room, kiddie-cornered to the kitchen where sizzling food and the clatter of dishes is muted by privacy screens.
“Your server will be with you shortly,” she declares as she hands Waverly, Chloe, Shayla, and myself a menu printed on thick cardstock and a wine menu bound in dark brown leather. A waiter comes by immediately with glasses of water for everyone and sets them down in front of each of us.
“Thank you. And we’re still expecting another person,” I say as the hostess nods and then walks away.
“Who is coming?” Waverly questions as Chloe snatches the wine menu off of the table and starts scouring the list.
“Hayes is meeting us,” I reply, avoiding my sister’s gaze. I knew she’d have something to say so I purposely left this detail about dinner out.
