by Geneva Lee
“Hardly a fair trade,” I hedge, even as my fingers inch toward the hem of my skirt. “I’m only wearing this.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.” A grin splits across his handsome face as my cheeks turn red.
“And underwear!”
“That’s a shame,” he says sadly, unbuckling the button his belt and sliding it through the loops. The sound of the leather vibrating against denim trembles across me. “Allow me to even things out.”
I do my best not to gawk as his jeans hit the ground, but I can’t quite help sneaking a peek at his boxer briefs. He taps his foot impatiently. “Do you need me to unzip you?”
I bite my lip before I nod. I barely trust myself to move at this point, let alone attempt the slightest change in position. Jameson circles around behind me, gathering my hair over my shoulder, he draws the zipper down. His hands slip under the straps of my dress as he pushes them down. The flimsy dress flutters into a pool of fabric at my feet as a fingertip trails down my back, between my shoulder blades, to the band of my bra.
I whip around before he can unsnap it. “It’s going to take a little more than a dare to get me out of my panties.”
He nods in acceptance, but I can see the glimmer in his eyes. I’ve just made this a challenge. The trouble is I’m not certain which one of us I want to win. He doesn’t press it, though. Instead he grabs my hand and tugs me toward the water.
“It’s a little bit chilly up here,” I call right before he grabs me around the waist and hurls us both into the deep end. Instinct kicks in and I struggle back toward the surface, but Jameson doesn’t let go. Instead he smashes his lips to mine, and suddenly I don’t need air. I don’t need to fight. I go limp in his arms, my body molding naturally to his as the kiss deepens. He pushes us up, not breaking the kiss until we sputter apart for air. We suck in deep breaths, staring at one another. Water drips into his eyes from the strands of wet hair that have fallen across his forehead, but he doesn’t blink as if he can’t stand to break contact. Then he’s kissing me again and I never want him to stop.
Chapter Six
Dawn creeps up on me. I blink against the sunlight before I sit bolt upright and stare at the unfamiliar surroundings. Memories from last night swim to the surface. Jameson's body pressed against mine. His hands gripping my wrists over my head while he kissed me until my lips were swollen. My fingers flutter to my mouth as I recall the vivid details of each hungry kiss. The towel draped over me drops to the ground and I scramble to grab it before someone spots my nearly naked ass waking up in the West’s private pool cabana. In the light of day, it looks less glamorous and distinctly less friendly. But more than anything it looks empty.
I’m alone.
I look around for a note even as it sinks in that there won’t be one. Two party crashers don’t equal a relationship, I remind myself as I scrape up what’s left of my pride. No note but my dress is neatly folded and waiting for me on the table next to my phone. It doesn’t score Jameson any brownie points, but it keeps him in the neutral zone which is exactly where he belongs. Time to suck it up and do the walk of shame through enemy territory.
My phone vibrates with an incoming text and I grab it, but it isn’t from Josie.
Mom: See you at 10!
I check the clock. 9:01. The right curse word hasn’t been invented for this scenario, so I blurt all the other ones in existence as I tug my dress on. Gathering my shoes, I tiptoe back inside, praying to every god in history that Monroe isn’t a morning person. I pass the dirty pots from last night on my way out, assuaging my guilt by reminding myself that the West’s have a full hotel staff at their beck and call. The house is deadly silent, but I can almost imagine the orgy of passed out classmates I would find if I dared to return to the scene of the party. I’m smarter than to press my luck. The door to the study is ajar and I pause only long enough to feel stupid. There’s no way Jameson is hanging around here.
“You could have woken me up,” I grumble under my breath, but thinking of him recalls flashes of our night together. I’d almost given in to my desire but somehow I had clung to my integrity. The fact doesn’t really take the sting out of waking up alone though.
Coming around the corner, two groggy faces greet me.
“Morning, sunshine,” Hugo calls. Jonas just looks confused.
Taking a deep breath, I force myself to join them. Unless I want to go to brunch smelling like chlorine with raccoon eyes, I don’t have the luxury of waiting around. Also getting the hell out of here seems like a pretty good idea.
“You are looking ravaged this morning,” Hugo says. “Who’s the lucky man? The bell boy?”
I keep my eyes trained on the glowing, down button. What is the point of having a private elevator if you have to wait?
“Shut up, man,” Jonas mutters. “Hey Em, you need a ride home?”
I glance at the sliver of green left on my cell’s battery status. I can’t call Josie—even if she’d pick up. It will be dead before I can get an Uber. “I can take a cab.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll drive you,” he protests.
“What a gentleman,” Hugo says. “First, you sleep on the couch and now you’re offering rides to the peasants.”
“A cab is not an issue,” I say through gritted teeth. The elevator dings and Jonas holds the door until I wander inside.
“I insist. Hugo’s headed to the airport anyway. I can drop you before I take him.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Hugo butts in.
“Please, I will pay you to stop fighting him on this. I can’t handle all the polite tension.” He steps between us, folding his arms over his chest and watching the floor numbers descending. “So how was your evening?”
“I fell asleep.” I’m not giving him more than that. An inch is more than enough for Hugo Roth to hang me with. “I was waiting for Josie and I got tired.”
None of that is technically a lie, which means neither of them question it. The only way to salvage any of last night is if Hugo Roth never finds out that I nearly hooked up with some random guy in Monroe West’s cabana.
“Josie was here?” Jonas asks slowly. “I didn’t see her.”
“That makes two of us.” When I finally did find my prodigal friend, I was going to put a tracking device on her.
“Who’s Josie?” Hugo asks, looking at both of us.
A sigh in disgust, but Jonas answers him. “She’s in our class, man.”
He shrugs, satisfied by this answer. That’s all he needs to know. If Josie ever did make it onto his radar, he’d be all over her. That’s just how guys are around her. The last thing I need is for her to trade in her daddy fetish for a dickhead phase.
“Why’d you even stay last night?” Hugo asks and I realize he’s not talking to me. “After Monroe went ballistic like that.”
“I wanted to make sure she was okay.” Jonas glances at me. “She just gets anxious sometimes.”
“I’d call that her permanent state of being,” Hugo says flatly.
I barely manage to cover my laughter with a fake cough. For once I agree with Hugo. The elevator delivers us safely to the lobby before I lose my composure. A security guard waiting in front of it steps to the side as we exit, barely acknowledging us. I guess he gets paid enough to look the other way. Then again, everyone knows that Nathaniel West runs this city. No one would dare mess with his daughter’s friends.
There are a sad number of people milling around the casino floor as we make our way to the valet stand. I’m not the only girl who didn’t go home last night from the looks of it. Desperation mars the faces of those we pass as they hold their breaths as the wheel spins and the dice rolls. I can already tell what’s in the cards for them. Being here makes me feel nauseous. I don’t understand this world even though I know exactly how and why it works. But after years of finding dad passed out on the couch and the bank account drained, I’m no closer to comprehending what drives the obsession.
Why would anyone want to los
e over and over again?
Hugo leans over as we wait for the valet to pull the car around. “Pathetic, isn’t it? All that misery for a few minutes of high.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” Contrary to convention, with the amount of money his family has, he can buy happiness. Or at least the equivalent amount of girls, booze, and drugs.
Before we can get into it, Jonas’s silver Mercedes arrives.
“I thought Monroe wanted you to get a new car,” Hugo says, grabbing the passenger handle. Jonas shoots him a meaningful look. “Oh, I see the chivalry continues. Might as well give her a little thrill.”
Hugo opens the door and sweeps his arm out. “Your car.”
They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but what about what you don’t kill? Because right now I need incentive not to lay him out on the pavement. Considering that I probably have about twenty minutes to get home, shower and throw on clothes, I don’t have the time. I take a deep breath and steel myself as I climb into the passenger seat. We pull onto the Strip in silence.
“What’s wrong with your car?” I ask conversationally.
“Nothing,” Jonas says, flipping on the turn signal. “Monroe likes flashier cars.”
Hugo leans forward, poking his head between the seats. “Maybe if she didn’t make him sleep on the couch, he’d trade up.”
“Put your seat belt on,” Jonas barks as a cop car blazes past us, heading in the opposite direction with its sirens blaring. A few more follow.
“Another peaceful morning in Las Vegas,” Hugo says dreamily. “This is God’s country, I tell you.”
For once I’m glad for their noise, anything to drown him out. Turning my attention out the window I stare past the people walking by and past the lights. In the daylight all I see is the trash littering the streets and the homeless man huddled under a collection of blankets.
“What a wonderful world,” Hugo pipes up from the behind me. I twist around to see him studying the same things I’m seeing, but I don’t bother to respond.
The ride home is made all the more excruciating by the fact that Jonas insists on going under the speed limit while Hugo sings loudly to everything that comes over the radio. When I can’t stand it anymore I hit the off button.
“I was listening to that,” he calls.
“You can turn it on in a minute,” I promise as we turn down my street. Dad’s car is in the driveway.
“Are you going to be okay?” Jonas asks he pulls in.
“Yeah, why?” I lie.
“I remember your dad was pretty strict about curfew.”
I don’t like that he remembers things like that. He has no right to hold onto any memories of us. “That was a long time ago.”
“Okay. Have a good summer,” he says as Hugo opens my door.
“Have a fun time at the pawn shop.” He scoots into my seat, slamming the door in my face.
I wait for them to pull away, waving Jonas on when he hesitates. Was he always such a white knight? Hugo’s right. It’s a bit off-putting.
“That’s the second thing you’ve agreed with him on today,” I say aloud. It might be time to get my head checked.
On the off chance Dad is actually awake the last thing I need is for him to spot two boys bringing me home. When I finally get up the nerve to go inside, he’s snoring on the couch with an empty bottle of Jack on the floor.
Saved by the booze.
I don’t have time to feel bad for myself or clean up his mess, so I grab a blanket and toss it over him. Heading to my room, I strip down, trying not to think about last night. But undressing brings visions of Jameson flashing through my mind. I push the thoughts aside, plug in my phone and turn on the shower. There’s no use, I’m going to be late.
The water feels good but it can’t wash away the memory of his hands on me. I turn the faucet off with a groan. My neck is stiff from sleeping awkwardly last night and the last thing I want to do is go to brunch with my mom. But since being dutiful ensures that my tuition gets paid, I rummage through my closet until I find something suitably boring for such an occasion. Stepping into the yellow sundress, my phone begins to vibrate with a series of incoming messages. I grab a few bobby pins from the dresser and twist my wet hair up. It will have to do.
I don’t have time to check the texts before Josie’s ringtone begins to play. I lunge for it, hitting accept as I flop onto my bed.
“Where the hell were you?” I demand. “I looked for you everywhere.”
“Me?” she shrieks. “I heard Monroe kicked you out. I spent half the night wandering through the casino looking for you.”
Two ships passing in the night. Sighing, I cradle my phone to my ear and unscrew my mascara wand. “I texted you. I fell asleep out by the pool.”
Now’s not the time to tell her about Jameson. Not while it’s still raw that he left me there like that.
“My phone died,” she says quickly, “but that’s not what’s important. Turn on the news.”
“The news?” I repeat.
“Emma!” Her tone is rich with warning, so I flip open my laptop.
“I’m online. What am I looking for?” I ask, still trying to do my make-up. Who says girls can’t multi-task?
“Google West Casino,” she demands.
A pit opens in my stomach as I key in the words and click on the streaming news link. Neither of us speaks as a reporter’s voice comes over my speakers.
We’re at the scene of a developing story. Authorities have confirmed the discovery of a body in the penthouse of West Casino and Resort. The penthouse is the private residence of mogul Nathaniel West and his family. There’s been no word yet on the identity of the victim but homicide units are at the scene.
“What the hell is going on?” I whisper.
“Who do you think it is?” Josie asks.
I don’t know and that’s what scares me.
Chapter Seven
One overpriced cab ride later and I’m no closer to processing Josie’s bombshell. Today is not a great day to meet with my mom, but I’ve been summoned and apparently I take my duty as her daughter far more seriously than she takes her maternal obligations to me. Mariano’s is packed with the usual late Saturday morning crowd of affluent 40-somethings. Perched atop one of Vegas’s stodgier five star hotels, the restaurant offers panoramic views of the city. You don’t get to a standing reservation here by playing slots. My guess is Mariano’s clientele prefers to retain their view from the top.
Scanning the French twists and bad toupees I search for the pair that belongs to me, and then I spot her: Vivian Von Essen sipping a mimosa.
She used to be Vivian Southerly, but there’s very few traces of the woman who used to be my mother. My mom didn’t bother doing her hair every morning. She couldn’t afford the expensive dress suit she’s wearing now. Mom didn’t just trade in her husband, she traded in her whole life. Me included. All that’s left of our relationship now is our resemblance. Someone once told me I'd be lucky to look like her when I'm older. Our green eyes are identical and we share the same sandy blonde hair. I’m guessing if I want my skin to stay youthful and radiant, I’ll need more than good genes. Maybe I should get the name of her aesthetician and plastic surgeon now. I hear it’s never too early to start.
I square my shoulders and mutter to myself as I approach her table, “Close your eyes and think of England.”
She doesn’t bother to look up from her phone. I clear my throat. I don’t remember when I began feeling the need to wait for my mother’s attention. I’m sure if Sigmund Freud was alive he’d be taking lots of notes. There’s probably no one else who could sort out how twisted our relationship has become.
When she doesn’t respond I clutch the back of the chair. “Good morning.”
“Only for some it seems.” Mom glances at me. “I’m just catching up on the news. What a nightmare!”
My smile is tight as I lean in to kiss her cheek. She doesn’t know the half of it. As I straighten up
I catch a whiff of Chanel No. 5. At least some things don’t change. That had been a luxury she always found money for. Becca and I would sit at her feet while she applied it. She would place the precious bottle back on the vanity and tell us, “A girl may not have money but she can always have standards.”
A waiter appears, startling me out of the past and into the present.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” I say, nodding to her champagne flute.
She sets her phone down to shoot me a disapproving look. “Emma.”
“An orange juice.” I feign innocence that neither of us buys. If it comes as a cocktail Vivian Von Essen takes it that way. After last night I could've used a drink, but now I’ll settle for shocking my mom into giving me attention. I think Freud had a term for that: desperation. “I didn’t expect you to be in town this weekend.”
Ice broken. Now to sit and endure the chill for an hour. I unfolded my napkin, which makes a shitty blanket, and wait for her to respond. That’s how it is between us now: branches and cheek kisses and awkward small talk.
“You’re starting your senior year. I thought that deserved a celebration.”
At a place for lifestyle retirees. Gee thanks, Mom.
“There is something we could do if you’re interested.” Who knew an olive branch could feel so heavy? Extending it is exhausting, but thankfully she grabs for the metaphorical offering.
“Anything. This day is all about you, honey.” She presses her lips together, no doubt trying to hold in her excitement.
Here goes nothing. “Could go by Becca's grave this afternoon? The headstone is up—”
“Let's not discuss that right now.” She doesn’t just cut me off, she dismisses the idea entirely. The interest she’d shown a few moments ago evaporates instantly replaces by a distant, frosty demeanor.
That's all my sister—her daughter—is to her now: a subject that can be dismissed with one wave of a manicured hand. To my knowledge, Mom hasn't visited Becca's grave since we buried her. Then again given how much Valium she was on at the funeral, she hadn’t really been present and accounted for then either. It hurts that I can’t share my grief with her. Dad drinks, Mom ignores, and I pretend that I’m not walking around with a gaping hole where my family used to be. No one is going to be asking us to write a book on coping with loss anytime soon.
