by T. K. Leigh
“We are.” He flashes me a devious grin before returning his attention to the road.
“Where? The Strip is—”
“Do you think all this town has to offer is located on Las Vegas Boulevard?”
I shrug. “Pretty much.”
“Trust me. There are a few hidden gems.”
“Is that where you’re taking me? To a hidden gem?”
“Absolutely. A hidden gem for a hidden gem.”
Chapter Three
“They have red velvet pancakes?” Excitement oozes from my voice as I scan the menu that seems to have everything someone looking for a post-bar snack could ask for.
I’ve been to my fair share of late-night diners. This place is like a late-night diner on steroids. Red velvet pancakes. Amaretto french toast. Hell, if you wanted to go big, you could get a filet mignon. Even the ambience is a far cry from the grungy diners I’m used to. It’s more reminiscent of a trendy supper club from back in the day. In fact, it probably was. Booths line the walls, white cloth-covered tables filling the rest of the open space. The lighting is on the dark side, all the windows tinted, presumably to make everyone forget that dawn is slowly approaching. As would be expected in this town, the bar serves alcohol twenty-four/seven.
Viva Las Vegas.
“And they are delicious,” Asher comments. “In fact, you can’t go wrong here. Everything they serve is incredible.”
“So you come here often?” I ask in a fake seductive voice, grateful we’re back to the way things have always been with us. Light. Fun. Easy. No more talking about Jessie.
“Actually, I do.”
His response piques my interest. “Do you play a lot of gigs out here?”
“You could say that,” he answers after a moment of contemplation.
“How long of a drive is it from LA?”
He brushes his thumb along his chin, looking into the distance before shifting his eyes back to mine. “About four hours. Depending on traffic.”
“Kind of like living in the Tri-state area.”
“It’s even worse in LA. At least in New York, the public transportation system is great. You could just hop on Metro-North.”
“Which is what I do, since it only takes… What? An hour?”
“No such luck in LA. If you want to get anywhere in the area, you’re stuck driving.”
“There’s no subway system at all?”
“There’s the metro, but it’s not convenient and doesn’t go everywhere most people need it to. It’s nowhere near as convenient and widespread as the subway in New York. Or the T up in Boston.” A hint of his accent slips in when his mouth caresses the name of the city he once called home. It was never overpowering or annoying, as was the case with some of the guys I met when I moved to Boston for college. It’s subtle, an acknowledgment of his roots. One I hope he never loses.
“Well…” I lean back into the booth. “At least you have an incredible car to be stuck in traffic in.”
“I can’t complain about that. Actually, I—”
“Here are your drinks,” our petite blonde waitress interrupts, placing a Bloody Mary in front of me and a coffee in front of Asher.
I felt a little guilty ordering an alcoholic drink, since he’s not drinking, but I needed something to take the edge off after the way my body reacted to his arms around me. And the Bloody Marys coming out of the bar looked too good to pass up. Shrimp. Bacon. Blue cheese-stuffed olives. It’s a drink that was made for me.
“Are you ready to place your orders?”
“I am,” Asher replies confidently, without even opening the menu to peruse the options. Then he looks at me. “Do you know what you’d like?”
I close my menu, holding it toward our waitress. “I can’t resist. Red velvet pancakes.”
“Good choice,” she assures me before shifting her attention to Asher. “And for you?” She bats her lashes, her smile turning from polite to coquettish when she steals a glance at his tattoo-covered arms.
I never thought I’d be the type of girl who’d be interested in a guy with tattoos. I certainly shouldn’t be interested in this one. But I can’t dismiss the pang of jealousy rolling through me at the thought of this stranger ogling Asher. I try to tell myself it’s because he’s a friend, that I want what’s best for him and this woman isn’t it. But that didn’t cause me to be jealous of anyone Asher dated while I was with Jessie. I’d even attempted to set him up with one of the girls in my dorm, thinking they’d be perfect for each other. She was a music major with a voice that was a combination of Adele and P!nk. I had listened to her go on about how great of a kisser he was, how much she loved his body. Not one flare of jealousy. But now, the mere idea of someone flirting with Asher has me glowering, judging everything about this complete stranger when I normally don’t judge anyone.
He orders steak and eggs, which includes a filet mignon instead of a skirt steak, as is the case at most diners. The waitress lingers a few extra seconds, smiling coyly at Asher. Then she spins from us, and I can’t help but think she’s swaying her hips a little more than necessary.
“She wants you,” I observe once she’s a safe distance away. I take a much-needed sip of my Bloody Mary, which is as delicious as it looks.
“No, she doesn’t.” He pours a bit of milk into his coffee, skipping the sweetener altogether. Just like I remember. It’s comforting to know some things haven’t changed. “She was just being friendly. Probably hoping for a good tip.”
“Right…,” I say in a drawn-out voice, rolling my eyes. Speaking of things that never change…
It didn’t matter how blatant the girls who fawned all over him were. He always brushed them off. He dated, but he never seemed to have the same passion about any of them as he did his music.
“Your girlfriend must hate going to your gigs, knowing the women in the audience will drool all over you.” I swipe the condensation off the side of my glass.
He rests his forearms on the table between us, leaning toward me. His eyes darken, almost leering. The light, carefree atmosphere we’ve enjoyed since we arrived here vanishes. My gaze locks with his, meeting that same wanton stare he’d regarded me with as he held me in his arms. But this time it’s even more pronounced. More shameless. More devious.
“What makes you say that?” he asks in a low tone, swiping his tongue along his bottom lip.
My core clenches, blood rushing to my cheeks. This reaction is so wrong. On so many levels. But there’s no denying the hunger bubbling within me. The electricity sparking in the air between us. As much as I want to blame it on the lack of male companionship over the past few months, I can’t. I know the truth. That my body has always acted this way around Asher. I just didn’t want to acknowledge it for what it was. What it still is. A connection even the passing of years couldn’t fracture. In fact, it’s only made it stronger.
“I—” I stammer, fumbling for a response that doesn’t give away how out of sorts I am.
“Oh, come now. I’ve never known you to be tongue-tied, Isabella,” he remarks smoothly, a different side of Asher. “Tell me.” His voice turns gruff, causing the hairs on my nape to stand on end. My heart rate increases. My head becomes foggy. The background noise fades away, like this is a dream. Maybe it is.
Maybe I fell asleep after showering and Asher York manifested in my dreams for some reason. Just like Ebenezer Scrooge was convinced his manifestation of Jacob Marley was due to something he ate, perhaps this fantasy of spending a night in Vegas with Asher York is the result of too much liquor and not enough food.
“Why do you think our waitress wants me?” he presses, his eyes focusing more intently on me.
I consider a viable response. I could list the obvious signs that would cause even a blind person to realize they’re getting hit on. Instead, I test my limits. If this is a manifestation, a dream, what do I have to lose?
“Because if our situation were reversed, I’d act the same way,” I admit, the words leaving me before
I have a chance to evaluate the potential ramifications of being so truthful. My statement rings around us as I stare, seconds ticking by in a savage march. I feel like a contestant on one of those talent shows waiting to hear whether they’ll continue on to the following week or be sent home, their dreams of stardom dashed. That’s the power Asher holds over me at this very moment.
Hope seems to build in his gaze, his eye contact strong, his lips parting slightly. He leans closer, the corners of his mouth quirking up, as if struggling to reel it in but can’t. As if he’s waited years for me to say something like this.
Then, just as quickly as his bright expression appears, it fades, gaze distant and even. As stoic as a soldier. “Thankfully, that’s not an issue.”
“You’re right.” I swallow down the pain of disappointment rising through my body, forcing the most fabricated smile of my life. If Asher can tell it’s fake, he doesn’t bring it up. “It’s not.”
With a shaky hand, I grab my Bloody Mary, taking a long sip. The spicy drink tingles as it hits my tongue and throat, but I’ve had spicier food. Hell, my mother jokes she pureed jalapeños and spoon-fed them to me as a baby to toughen me up.
“Not that.” When he grabs my free hand, I fling my eyes to his, loosening the desperate grip my lips have on my straw. I remain silent, awaiting further explanation. “I’m talking about my girlfriend coming to one of my gigs. That’s not an issue.”
I perk up. “Oh?”
A sexy smirk draws on his full mouth and he releases his hold on me, angling away. “No girlfriend.”
I nod, pretending the information is inconsequential. Inwardly, my libido does a little victory dance. I attempt to settle her down, tell her this doesn’t change anything, but the sex-starved nymph refuses to listen.
“And your boyfriend wouldn’t like it if he learned you were here with me at, oh…” He looks at his watch, “three in the morning.”
“That’s not an issue, either.”
He raises a single brow. “Oh?”
“No boyfriend.”
He makes a subtle gesture of acknowledgment by pursing his lips. Otherwise, his expression is unreadable. I peer into his dark orbs, searching for any sort of positive reaction to this news. But there’s nothing, my not having a boyfriend seemingly as mundane a detail as how I take my coffee.
“So…” I tear my eyes away before I do or say something else I’ll regret. Something else to make this awkward. “How’s Grams doing?”
That’s all it takes for a brilliant smile to light up his face, as I knew it would. I always admired the bond Asher had with his grandmother. “Still as headstrong and crazy as ever.” A deep chuckle vibrates through his chest, natural and unforced. “She recently took up kickboxing, a fact I have first-hand knowledge of after witnessing it this past Christmas.”
“You were in Florida?” I ask, recalling how his parents typically spent the colder months down south. His father’s job as a financial planner allowed him to work from wherever he was. And spending November through April in the south allowed him to have clients in multiple parts of the country.
“Boston,” he corrects. “Since Grams is getting older, Mom and Dad have been staying up north. Of course, she tries to insist she’s fine, that age is only a number, and she has no intention of dying anytime soon.”
“That sounds like something Grams would say.” Regret squeezes at my heart, the heaviness settling deep in my chest.
Despite everything that transpired between Jessie and myself, I should have made more of an effort to stay in touch with Grams. She’d reached out to me in the months following the breakup, but I’d made my decision. The only way to repair the splintered fragments of my heart was to walk away from the entire family. It hurt too much otherwise. Which is why I should have walked out of that bar tonight when I had the chance. I fear it will take another eight years to repair my heart again.
“So… Kickboxing?” I press, swallowing back the memories.
“Right.” He brightens his sympathetic gaze. “I’d been home for no more than five minutes when Grams walked in wearing workout clothes. And not, like, old granny workout clothes.”
“Oh god.” I cover my mouth with my hand. “Was she wearing spandex?”
He rubs his eyes. “I still have the image ingrained in my memory. I mean, she’s in great shape for being nearly ninety, but still. After a while, gravity does its thing. Grams has never been one who cares what people think of her, though. Anyway, I’d barely had time to unpack when she came barreling in and said she was dragging me to her kickboxing class. Claimed she’d been telling all the people in her class about my music, that they were all dying to meet me. I thought about blowing her off, but she’s getting older, so I indulged her. I figured we were going to the Y or the senior center. You can imagine my surprise when she directed me to the parking lot of some industrial building. It was an actual MMA gym.”
I burst out laughing. As ridiculous as the picture he’s painted sounds, it’s entirely believable. Grams never adhered to society’s expectations. And she certainly wouldn’t let her age get in the way of doing something she wanted.
“What did you do?” I ask, wiping the corners of my eyes.
“What could I do? I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about the entire scenario. So I went in with her, prepared to defend her against any asshole who tried to tell her she should go somewhere else. But the second she walked through those doors, everyone welcomed her. Hell, Grams even got into all the locker room talk, too. I will admit, she’s got one hell of a round kick.” He winces. “I found that out the hard way.”
“How’s that?”
“Let’s just say I got a little too close and her leg hit me with such force that an ice pack was attached to my balls for the next twenty-four hours.”
My laughter echoes in the restaurant, nostalgia filling me. Of all the people I lost when Jessie and I broke up, Grams was the hardest, more so than Jessie, or even Asher. She had this spirit, this vitality I felt drawn to the second I met her. Like she was a kindred spirit. Like she knew me and I her, even though she was a stranger to me at that point.
“Knowing Grams, she intentionally did that to prove she could take care of herself.”
He lifts his coffee to his lips with a wink. “You’re probably right.”
“Here you go.” Our waitress approaches, carrying two plates. “Red velvet pancakes.” She sets the dish in front of me before turning toward Asher, her smile shifting from cordial to much more flirtatious. “And your steak and eggs.” Her voice grows seductive as she places it in front of him, pushing her arms together to make her cleavage pop.
I take this opportunity to study her. Her appearance is similar to every other woman out here who’s trying to catch their big break in modeling. Waif-thin. Blonde hair that’s most likely not her natural color. Overdone makeup. Nothing about her stands out as remarkable. I’m not saying I’m supermodel material, but I hate the idea of Asher and this cookie-cutter blonde being together, as unlikely as that is. Or maybe it’s the idea they can be together that irritates me. That she can flirt with him, and he her, with no consequences.
“Thank you. This looks delicious.”
“Is there anything else I can get you?” Her voice becomes increasingly breathy. “Ketchup? Tabasco? More coffee? Or maybe something else?”
Asher waggles his brows at me before returning his attention to Waitress Barbie. “I believe I have everything I need right here.” Eyes connecting with mine, he reaches across the table, grabbing my hand in his, gently brushing his thumb across my knuckles.
The subtle sensation causes me to inhale a sharp breath. I don’t move. Don’t blink. It’s not the first time I’ve felt his hand on me. But this seems so much more charged than any of the other times he’s touched me. Then again, that was before. When I was blind to everything and everyone other than Jessie York.
“Oh.” Waitress Barbie straightens, her expression falling, but Asher doesn’t see
m to notice. If he does, he doesn’t care, his stare still trained on me in a way that makes me think he’s peeling back layer after layer, exposing every single one of my vulnerabilities. Or am I just imagining that, too?
One minute, I’m confident it’s all in my head. The next, I feel something I didn’t think possible, confident Asher does, too. This is why I’ve avoided dating for so long. It’s too stressful.
“Well, if you change your mind, give me a shout.”
She shoots her eyes to mine before spinning around. I’m about to pull my hand away, but Asher tightens his grasp.
I try not to read too much into it. We’re just two friends holding hands. Hell, there were quite a few nights I’d dozed off on his shoulder as I listened to him strum his guitar at the lake house.
Each summer, I looked forward to spending time there. After dinner, we’d sit by the lake, a campfire burning, and actually talk to each other. No distractions. Spending time together in a way most people no longer do in this technology-driven society. Jessie would inevitably go inside early, complaining about the mosquitos, despite not having a single bite on his flesh. I should have known then we were incompatible. He hated everything to do with nature, preferring the pace of the city. While I love urban life, I enjoy getting away from it all, too. Something I haven’t had the opportunity to do for too long now.
A squeeze on my hand brings me back from my memories, and I return my eyes to Asher as he releases his hold. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have used you as a barrier, but I don’t think she would have gotten the hint otherwise.”
I smile weakly. “What are friends for?”
Chapter Four
“I can’t remember the last time I stayed out this late,” I remark as Asher and I make our way across the nearly empty parking lot. It’s now that in-between time of night. Most bar and clubgoers are passed out in their beds. The nine-to-fivers haven’t started their day yet. The only people out and about are the insomniacs or the ones who seem to find inspiration in the romantic notion of being awake when the rest of the world sleeps. “Except the nights I work, but I don’t consider that staying out late. It’s not exactly voluntary, but something I do so I can pay my bills.”