by Ney, Sara
But I have a feeling that’s all about to change.
His entire posture has changed.
Part of me wants him to reach over and take my hand; it might have been strategically placed on the table, palm resting flat, gold bracelet circling my wrist and winking at us both.
“Alright,” he says at long last.
What does he mean by that?
For the rest of dinner, we cast furtive glances at each other, almost shyly tiptoeing around the sudden shift I caused.
No. Alright.
When the server comes to clear our last remaining dinner plates, I no longer feel like dessert even though it would be included with the meal.
“Do you want to take something to go and we can eat it later in the hotel room?” Ashley asks smartly, savvier than I am at travel, having done it a thousand more times than I have.
“Great idea, yes.” I adjust the napkin on my lap, folding it before finally setting it on the table next to my discarded dessert spoon.
“Cheesecake might sound good in a few hours.”
He orders one slice to go, and another of chocolate cake, both of which appear soon after in pretty gold boxes, placed inside a black bag with utensils and napkins.
Fancy.
It feels decadent.
Too decadent, but something I could get used to if it happened more often. The dessert, I mean—not the way Ashley is watching me from his spot at the table.
When we stand at the end of our meal once the server has brought us our takeaway cheesecake and chocolate cake, Ashley crosses to my side of the table and does that thing where he leads me to the lobby, hand at the small of my back. And who would have guessed that of all the things in the whole wide world I would love the feel of so, so much, it would be a man’s hand in that spot.
It’s all I can do not to shiver.
Once we reach the street, we stand there taking in the lights and the loud sounds of traffic.
Ashley leans over to talk in my ear. “Want to explore?”
Do I? Not really. It was a travel day, and we’re going to spend tomorrow by the pool and walking around (I’m sure) plus trying our hand at a few tables in the casino—then another dinner plus a show?
“I think we should maybe head back, since it’s already ten and we have a long day tomorrow…” I hope he doesn’t think I’m a wet rag for wanting to get a good night’s sleep—in a city that never rests.
“Perfect.”
He has our dessert bag in one hand and grabs my hand with the other, following the neon sign of our hotel, lit high above in the Vegas night. It’s a beacon and we don’t need directions to get back, though we still have to dodge and weave our way through people on the sidewalks, then again past the fountain.
I make a mental note to get a photo tomorrow when the lighting is better.
Unlike earlier when we were headed toward the restaurant for our dinner reservations, Ashley does not keep holding my hand after we make our way through the bustling crowd. He releases it once there are less people and we’re in the turnaround at the hotel.
I’m filled with disappointment and confusion, which seems to be the new theme with me.
We ride the elevator to one of the highest floors, and I haven’t lost the buzz from my one and a half glasses of wine during dinner, smiling like a fool as the elevator car makes its way up.
Smile still when I’m following behind him down the hallway and we enter the room.
Ashley sets the bag on a nearby counter, along with the room key, then begins unbuttoning the cuff of his dress shirt.
“Do you want to use the bathroom first or should I?”
“You go ahead first,” I tell him. “I want to look around outside.”
The view is spectacular—more awe-inspiring than I would have imagined—overlooking the entire strip, so high up in the sky the sounds from below barely carry toward me. The balcony is private, with a chair and table, plus loungers for lying around.
At the far corner there’s a hot tub.
“Ashley, there’s a hot tub out here!” I call out, giddy with glee at my new discovery.
Turning to the distinct sound of a bottle being popped—a cork—I catch sight of the spray of bubbles sloshing to the carpet.
I thought he was going to change?
“Fuck,” he curses, holding two champagne glasses in his other hand.
Laughing, I join him, stepping back inside the room. “There’s a hot tub on the balcony—it’s in the corner. I don’t know how we missed it when we were in here before.”
“We were rushing.”
“Should we put on our suits and go sit in it?”
The idea holds more appeal to me than the dirty, bustling streets and sidewalks below. Even the casino, which we have prize money to spend in.
“Love that idea.” He sets the champagne bottle and the glasses down. “Let’s put suits on and sit outside. I’ll bring the bubbly.”
Perfect.
Nineteen
Ashley
I’m not sure what I expected Georgia to be wearing when she came out onto the balcony, but a string bikini wasn’t it.
And I wasn’t sure what I was expecting her body to look like; I’ve seen enough of it to have a remote idea, but her body in a bikini wasn’t it.
She is all bouncy tits and long legs.
I watch as she struts toward the hot tub, and I’m bloody grateful I’m already sitting in it, bubbles rising around me. There’s a shelf for the champagne and glasses—I’ve poured us each a glass—the lights beneath the water a soft blue.
I turned them down low so it wouldn’t distract from the view, the balcony railing clear plexiglass and unobstructed.
It’s incredible and worth the headache of finagling my schedule to be here with Georgia.
Speaking of Georgia…
She’s mid-straddle, slowing easing into the water, fingers brushing the surface as she lowers her arse in.
Normally I would avert my eyes; instead I watch every inch of her body sink into the water, until she is submerged to her shoulders. Her breasts rise to the surface, wet and glistening, so I distract myself by taking a champagne glass off of the shelf behind me and handing it to her.
Otherwise I’ll stare.
She’s bloody sexy.
Black bikini, wet skin.
“Oh my god, this feels amazing.” Her head tilts as she takes a long sip from the glass in her long fingers. “Look at this view. This is stunning.”
“It is.”
Except I’m not talking about the view. I don’t give a shite about it.
I’m talking about her.
She’s stunning.
I thought so the day we met, and I think so now.
Do you want to pretend for the weekend that I’m not your roommate? Do you want to pretend for the weekend that I’m not just your friend?
Yes.
I hate champagne but drink it anyway in hopes that it calms this fucking nervous shite-storm going on inside my stomach.
I don’t like it—it doesn’t feel natural.
Not to mention, those two questions she asked this evening at dinner keep lingering in my goddamn brain.
Do you want to pretend for the weekend that I’m not just your friend?
What the hell did she mean by that?
Was I supposed to read into it or take it at face value?
Either way, the sentence plays on a loop in my mind.
“Let’s play a game.”
I groan.
“Another one?” I don’t know if I can handle her version of ‘games’—they seem to have me admitting to shite I would rather ignore.
“Yeah, why not? Or do you just want to talk like regular people?”
“You want to play the yes and no game again? Because I’m tapped out on questions.”
Georgia laughs. “No. What if we play truth or drink? You have to answer with the truth or take a drink.”
“That sounds easy enough.” Now I’m gru
mbling like a baby.
“How full is that bottle?” She laughs again, already sounding tipsy.
“Full enough—unless you plan to pass on all the questions, then we’ll have a problem because I didn’t see another bottle lurking anywhere.”
Except the mini bar, and I’m not too keen on pilfering that supply unless it’s an emergency. I’ve seen what liquor from inside those things cost, and I highly doubt Georgia would be cool with paying that. I also doubt it’s complimentary as part of the prize.
“You go first,” she tells me, a little drunk with power.
“No—it was your idea, you go first.”
“Ugh,” she huffs. “Let me think for a second.”
I hope she starts with an easy one, eases into the hard questions I’m certain she’s going to hit me with. She might look innocent and unassuming, but behind those pretty eyes lies a mind I’m realizing is extremely complicated.
There are things on that mind she wants to talk to me about, and these dumb games are the only way she knows how to do it without feeling foolish.
“Okay don’t forget—you have to answer honestly or drink.”
“Yeah, yeah. Quit stalling.”
On the horizon, millions of lights twinkle and glow. The fake Eiffel Tower of a nearby hotel begins to flicker, just like the real one in Paris does every night for an hour.
I’ve seen the real deal with my own eyes—this little one is no comparison.
“Do you ever regret coming to the States for school?”
“No,” I answer without hesitation. “I like it here.”
“Like it, or love it?”
I cock my head. “Don’t be greedy—it’s my turn to ask a question. You’ll have to save that for your next one if you want to know.”
Her mouth drops open at my cheeky retort.
I smirk. “Are we allowed to drink if we’re not drinking to pass on a question?”
She shrugs. “I don’t think so. Wait—is that your question?”
“No, I was just wondering.”
“I think no, or we’ll run out.”
“Maybe, maybe not—I don’t plan to pass. I’m going balls to the walls on this one.”
“Ooo, is that so? Okay tough guy, we’ll see.”
The sound of a helicopter chopping through the air distracts us both for a second, and we watch as one comes around the corner of the hotel, flies toward a different hotel, and hovers near the roof before lowering itself.
“That is so cool,” Georgia says breathlessly, leaning both elbows on the side of the hot tub to watch.
I agree. “I love watching planes land and take off at the runway,” I say. “I wish they’d let people park near the runway—wouldn’t it be neat to lie on top of a car and just stare up and watch them fly over?”
“That would be a fun first date, wouldn’t it? Like, a picnic on top of the car or in the bed of a truck?”
“Are you a romantic, Georgia Parker?”
She looks at me, surprised. “Uh, yeah? Aren’t most girls hopeless romantics?”
My mother’s not.
Caroline, Jack’s girlfriend, isn’t. She will always give him a list of gifts she wants, hates the element of surprise (or maybe doesn’t trust him to buy her what she wants). Either way, she’s a spoiled brat and not at all romantic.
I shake my head. “You don’t seem like the type of bird who’s romantic.”
“I don’t?” Her face scrunches up in confusion. “Maybe that’s just because you don’t see me like that—I’m just your roommate, and in the few weeks I’ve lived with you, I haven’t gone on any dates or anything so you’ve never seen me like…all dolled up and stuff.”
“You were dolled up tonight.”
Her nod is slow. “I was. But it wasn’t a date. I mean—it was, but not a romantic date.”
Her statement is followed by a long, stroppy pause, the night air punctuated by sounds from below and a few shouting voices from people celebrating nearby in another hotel room.
Far be it from me to point out that the date wasn’t romantic because she kept inserting her foot into her mouth by letting everyone who approached our table know we weren’t a couple, it wasn’t a date, it wasn’t a special occasion.
Georgia may be many things, but subtle isn’t one of them.
She’s tripping all over the situation like a bull in a glass shop.
“You keep pointing that out.” I grind my teeth a bit. “For no reason.”
From my vantage point, I can see her lips press into an embarrassed line as she finally clamps her mouth shut.
“Is this part of the game, or should we keep going?” I’m losing my patience with her—this constant reminder that we’re nothing but roommates is all fine and well because it’s true, but it’s also growing tiresome.
“Whose turn is it?” Her voice barely carries across the hot tub.
“Mine.”
She nods quietly, and now I feel like a colossal arsehole.
Dammit!
Best make the question fun.
Okay. Fun question, fun question.
“Uh…do you regret transferring here?” There. That’s decent, and I want to know the answer.
“I used to—not that I’ve been here all that long. I know things take time, but honestly, after that night you and I met, I wanted to leave. I hated it here. Didn’t like those girls, blamed them for what happened even though it was my fault. But…” Her fingers reach for some of the floating bubbles. “Not anymore. I’m happier and it’s getting easier.”
“That’s good. That you don’t hate it anymore, I mean.”
She smiles across the water, the blue glow casting shadows on her skin—probably on mine, too.
Her turn.
“Have you ever been in love?”
Whoa, Nelly—that escalated quickly, but the answer is easy. “No.”
It’s impossible to read her expression from here, but judging from her silence, she was expecting me to elaborate.
Now it’s my turn, so she’ll have to hold her horses. “What’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever done?”
Georgia snorts. “That’s easy—letting Ronnie and the girls haze me.”
Now I’m snorting. “Please, that cannot be the dumbest thing you’ve done. Haven’t you ever…I don’t know. Pranked someone and had it gone wrong? Or slept with someone and felt gross about it afterward?”
“No.” She laughs. “And this isn’t a debate. You asked, I answered, now we move on.”
Fine.
Sullen, I wait for her next question, desperate for a chug of alcohol, wishing we had something stronger than the fizzy gold piss.
“Why are you single?”
Her question is bold and unexpected, and it seems now we’re getting to edgier inquiries that’ll make this evening more interesting.
“I’m single because I don’t do casual.”
“What do you mean, you don’t do casual? Sex? Or just casually dating?”
I don’t answer because she got her one ask. “This isn’t a debate. You asked, I answered—now we move on.”
Her mouth pops open. “Stop throwing the rules back in my face.”
“I don’t make the rules, I only follow them, love.”
Love.
I use the word intentionally and watch her intake of breath—the breath she tries to hide by taking a chug of champagne. I let it pass without mentioning because neither of us have even drunk any of it and it’ll wind up going to waste if we don’t.
Seems this is one game of honesty we’re not backing down from.
Georgia tilts her chin up. “Your question.”
Fine. “When was your first snog?”
“My first what?”
Shite, that’s right—they don’t call it that here. “Kiss. Your first kiss.”
“Oh.” She laughs nervously. “Um, seventeen?”
Seventeen? How had blokes not kissed her sooner—are they mad?
“Is that your final ans
wer?”
Georgia’s laugh sounds bashful and cute. “Final answer.”
I nod.
Wait.
“When was your first snog?” she copycats, giggling because she used British slang.
“Sixteen, I think. Victoria Channing on holiday at her parents’ house party.” It wasn’t any good. I biffed it up, having zero clue what I was going on about. Too much tongue, too much spit. Victoria roasted me to a few mates and I still haven’t lived it down.
Have I gotten better at snogging? Who knows.
It usually only happens when I’m shagging someone random after a long dry spell, too sauced to boot.
Desperate isn’t a word I use, but…
If the shoe fits.
“Do you want to snog me?”
Is she trollied? I thought we were sobering up since we haven’t had a drop since dinner, if you don’t count our tiny, secretive sips.
“You just asked two questions in a row.” I can’t help but blurt out.
“Is this you refusing to answer?” She counters.
Is it? No it’s not me refusing to answer, it’s me trying to play by the rules.
“Now that’s three.” Suddenly cheeky, the minx raises her brow. “Give me an answer or you have to drink.”
Fuck.
She’s a feisty little thing, putting me on the spot like this.
If I say yes, she might think I’m a sodding pervert. If I say no, she’s going to think I don’t want to snog her. If I choose not to answer, she’s going to make up her own assumption and—
I’m overthinking this.
Just answer the bloody question, you twat.
The little savage dares me to puss out and not respond; just look at her over there, smirking at you, so cocksure.
Wipe that smile off her face.
Do it.
“Do I want to snog you?” I repeat to draw it out. “Do I want to kiss you?”
She rolls her eyes, irritated.
“Sure. What warm-blooded bloke wouldn’t want to kiss you?”
There.
Diplomatic without being too candid, without spilling my entire stomach of guts.
I’m not here for a bloodbath; I’m here to go hot-tubbing.
She sits still on the opposite bench, boobs practically floating surface level, glass clasped between a few dainty fingers. Her hair is piled on the top of her head, and if the lights were up, I’d probably see her face flushed a bright red.
