McQUEEN: Las Vegas Bad Boys

by Frankie Love

  My eyebrows rise. Holy shit, this isn’t just one of their fights—goodness knows we’ve witnessed plenty. This is a break-up brawl. And this is the end of them.

  I bite my lip, not even thinking about the fact that these two are through. All I can think about is the fact that seeing Jack all fired up gets my panties soaked.

  I know I’ve been crushing hard, but now I’m just horny as hell.

  Chapter Two

  JACK

  So … if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t have broken up with Ashley in front of all my friends. At the time, though, it was the only way I could get the point across to her. She didn’t seem to realize that I was done—beyond done—until we were screaming at one another for the whole gang to see.

  Not my finest moment. I don’t make it a regular occurrence to scream a woman’s name unless we’re both naked and I’m pounding her, nice and hard.

  I have no problem screaming a woman’s name when we’re slick with sex, with her wearing only a satiated smile borne from a life-altering orgasm.

  As opposed to red in the face from a screaming match.

  But Ashley brought out the worst in me. Always had. So when I broke up with her, I knew no amount of groveling on her end would make me change my mind.

  But, damn, is that girl trying.

  After the first night, and about a hundred and three text messages and a dozen voice mails from Ash, I know I need to get the fuck out of Vegas to ride out the storm. Kirby calls, needing me to get a statement to my PR girl, Lola, but I don’t really give a fuck how Ashley wants to spin this whole thing. And I know it mattered a hell of a lot to her.

  Lola grumbles when I tell her to ask Ashley what happened—but the truth is, I have no interest in that sort of forced limelight.

  Who the fuck cares why we broke up? I mean, besides her ten million Twitter followers.

  Since I don’t have a show for three weeks, I pack a bag and head home to Washington to see my parents. I don’t know how long I’ll stay at their place; they’re a long way from everything, on a tiny island in Puget Sound. But Mom wants me to show my face at least once every few months—and, considering I’m her only kid, it’s the least I can do.

  Besides, I may live in Vegas, may be all up in that scene, but I fucking get sick of it. It’s all bullshit. Fake-ass conversations with people trying to get something from you.

  That’s why the KMG contract makes me want to fucking run. I don’t want my life to be only about money or making shitty pop music. I want to live for something bigger. I want to fight for someone, for something.

  Dropping my bags in the foyer of the old farmhouse I grew up in, I kiss Mom’s cheeks.

  “Oh, Jack, it’s so good to see you.” She has on an apron, and a bun in her hair—I’m telling you she’s all prepped to be a grandma. I follow her into the kitchen, where rows of cookies are cooling.

  “What is all this for?” I ask, looking at the tins on the counter, ready to be filled. “There must be ten dozen cookies here. It’s an awful lot of my favorite peanut butter and chocolate chip.”

  Mom smiles, batting away my words. “You know me: love to bake, always have. And besides, you’ve been on my mind all day. What else am I going to do? Your father lives on that boat you got him. You’re too generous with us. Makes us lazy.”

  I open the fridge, grabbing a carton of milk. Mom hands me a glass and tells me to sit.

  “Saw the news,” she says, handing me a cloth napkin then pulling up a seat next to me in the kitchen that has always been my home.

  I left the island when I was eighteen, dreaming of making it as a DJ in LA, and I did. Went to college down there, and played shows everywhere I could. And sure, now I own a loft in Vegas and a condo in Seattle—but this is always where I return when I want to decompress.

  “What news are you watching?” I ask her, knowing there has never been a television in this house. My parents are readers, gardeners—a fisherman and a baker. Not really the kind of folks who keep tabs on current events.

  Mom breaks apart a cookie and smiles. “I have an iPad.”

  I laugh. “Mom, we both know the Wi-Fi here is a joke.”

  “We got it fixed. The internet is everywhere now. Linda down the street says it’s on airplanes now. Airplanes! Can you imagine?”

  I listen to her familiar tone, grateful that I am in this kitchen and not hearing the roar about my break up.

  “Anyways,” Mom says, still talking. “I read about you and Ashley this morning. Maybe that’s what got me in a mood to bake your favorite cookies. Mother’s instinct and all. I think I knew you might be showing up here.”

  “I turned off my phone when I woke up today, not wanting to hear any of the backlash.” I frown, unable to resist asking: “Was it bad? I mean, I know Ashley was a difficult person, but I don’t want her to come across...” I shrug, not knowing how to say it.

  “Bat shit crazy?” Mom asks.

  I snort, horrified. Mom only swears when she really means it. “Something like that.”

  Mom pats my hand. “Sweetie, don’t worry about the news for a few days. Go out back, say hello to your father, and then get in your studio. You’ll feel better once you’ve had a chance to ground yourself a bit.”

  I take the now-empty glass to the sink to rinse it out. Looking out the window, I see Dad carrying in his tackle box, and my studio peeking out from the woods behind him. My fingers itch to play the piano, to sit with a notebook and write lyrics that mean something ... because for so damn long, nothing in my life has meant anything at all.

  TESS

  My shift ends and I drop my empty tray in the kitchen and walk to the women’s changing room, counting my tips as I go. One hundred and twelve bones made in one eight-hour shift.

  Not bad at all, considering I didn’t sleep with anyone. All I had to do was deliver drinks to men who were happy to see me.

  Sure, my feet ache and my heart aches, but that is nothing new. I didn’t have to wait on anyone who hurt me, forced me, or broke me.

  By my calculations, for a girl without a high school diploma and with zero job experience, this gig is a coup. And besides, since I can live on my hourly wage, these tips I make create a nice, cushy savings account.

  When I get enough saved, I’ll leave Vegas and start my life again somewhere where no one will find me—but also in a place where I can be self-sufficient and live off my invested savings for a good, long while. And definitely not get a job where I have to wear fishnets and a bustier.

  Not that I knock it—I’m grateful for it. But I’m not a city girl. Not by a long shot. I grew up off the grid, and I don’t like being back on it.

  Every day, I stash my tip money deep in my closet, and I cash my paychecks at a Money Tree. My ID is fake, my hair is fake, and my story is fake. The only real thing about me are my boobs, which is actually saying something in a place like Las Vegas.

  But tonight has been good. Great even. I have my dignity and whole lot of cash.

  Pulling my TracFone from my purse, I group text Claire and Emmy.

  Me: What are you guys up to? It’s only ten and I just got off work!!!

  Emmy: We’re at the whiskey bar in Spades.

  Claire: COME QUICK. YOUR BOY TOY JUST SHOWED UP.

  I blush, even though no one can read the messages on my screen.

  Me: Shut up. I won’t come unless you swear not to embarrass me.

  Emmy: We swear. BTW Do you like a man with a beard?

  Me: ???

  Claire: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named just got back from his parents and he looks all woodsy.

  Emmy: Wood. Get it?

  I roll my eyes. My friends are so weird.

  Me: Haha. See you soon.

  I slip off my shoes, and into skinny jeans and a top I packed in hopes of meeting up with my friends. It’s a black flowy tank with a cutout back. Sexy, but not trying too hard. I slip on wedge sandals and pull my hair into a messy bun.

  Yes, it is greasy-ish, but I
don’t have time to shower. Not when Jack, who has been gone for two weeks, is back.

  A few co-workers pass me as I’m shutting my locker.

  “See you later, Candy. Bye, Liz,” I tell them.

  Liz turns back to me, smiling. “You look cute. Going out?”

  I shrug, not wanting to sound obnoxious about my A-list besties. A few months ago, Emmy and Claire were both single and working these exact same shifts as us. Life can change so fast, and girls like Candy and Liz—and me—are hoping it changes for us, too.

  “Yeah, just getting some drinks.” I pull my purse onto my shoulder. “Hey, you should hit up section forty-two. Two ladies in pant suits are playing the Bejeweled Machine and have been giving me fives all night.”

  “Thanks for the heads up,” Candy says. She smacks my butt as she heads back to the floor. “Have fun. Don’t do anything too naughty.”

  I wave good-bye, and walk away from my real life, into my fantasy.

  I’d be naughty with Jack if given the chance; it’s just I’ve never been that lucky.

  The whiskey bar is the favorite spot at Spades Royalle for Ace, Landon, McQueen, and Jack. It’s rare these days that all the guys are together, and this will be the first time anyone has seen Jack since his break-up.

  Which, let me tell ya, the tabloids have gone to town with that story. I cringe just thinking about the two-page spread in US Weekly documenting the week leading up to their break-up.

  Which, not to be intense or anything, I know is a lie. Because it said Jack and Ashley had been at a romantic dinner the night before. That isn’t accurate, because the night before, Jack was here with Landon playing blackjack for approximately four hours.

  I know, because I served them rum and Coke that entire night.

  I know it sounds like I’m stalking him or something, but I’m not. It’s just, besides the fact that I work here, Emmy, Claire—and now, apparently, JoJo—talk about their guys all the time.

  And, okay, I totally get it. They’re a bunch of newlyweds or newly engaged and are embarking on some magical love affair that has them riding off into the sunset. It’s romantic and cute … but it also gets kind of old after a while.

  Maybe that’s because I’m not seeing anyone.

  When I join them at the bar, I feel my face redden, because Jack offers me his seat so I can be next to the girls. Which is sweet, but also not significant. So why the hell am I acting like this one simple gesture has importance? Because, hello! It so does not.

  Still, I sit, him on one side of me, JoJo on the other. It’s actually perfect. I’ve been meaning to get to know JoJo more, and now I can.

  I need a reason to ignore Jack and his unshaven face because—not to overshare, but—all I can imagine is his face between my legs, rubbing against me with that scruff.

  I know. TMI, but holy hell, he looks good with a little bit of a beard.

  “Hey, JoJo, got any more fights lined up?” I ask. JoJo is a natural beauty, and her toned legs and sculpted arms make my scrawny everything seem even scrawnier.

  I force a smile on my face, telling myself comparison is ugly. Especially because JoJo is obviously working hard for such a solid body, whereas I mostly eat Doritos and drink Diet Coke. I know that eventually my metabolism is going to stop acting like it’s a teenage boy’s, but until then, I mean, who am I kidding? I’m not going to train for anything unless it rhymes with Reer Bun.

  JoJo’s eyes brighten. “Yeah, actually I do. My dad got me this amazing coach, and I’m going to be fighting here, at the Spades, in four months.”

  “Wow,” I say. “That’s amazing.” I don’t add anything else to my response because, to be honest, I know nothing about MMA except that Rhonda Rousey is my spirit animal and that JoJo is equally as badass.

  “Yeah, I’m pretty pumped.” JoJo gives a little shoulder shrug, then points toward the waiter who’s just arrived to deliver another round. “You want anything?”

  Meeting the eyes of Lara, a waitress I’ve met several times, I give her a little wave. “Hey, Lar, can I have, um, uh. Hmm.”

  I hate this part of ordering. The part where I’m supposed to know what I like. No matter how many times I go out with this crew, I still fumble. I flip the page of the menu trying to remember what I like.

  Cocktail menus are ridiculous in this town, and I’m not just balking about the concept of eighteen-dollar martinis. It’s the fact that the menus are like The Goldfinch. Too long, overwhelming, and only like 7% of the population actually reads it.

  Next to me, Jack notices my hesitation and speaks up. “She’ll have a French 75.”

  Now some girls—ahem, Emmy and Claire—might get all bitchy about a man ordering for them. But for me it’s like a nice, hot bath. Instantly relaxing.

  “Thanks,” I say, once Lara has walked away. “I hate ordering. It’s so stressful.”

  “Eh, no worries.” He smiles effortlessly, and I want to hit my head against the table. Who tells a man who happens to be one of the most famous musicians in the world that ordering is stressful? I mean, could I come across as more lame? As more pathetic? A guy like Jack wants a confident, self-assured, modern woman. Not a girl who has literally never downloaded an app.

  That’s mostly because I use cheap phones purchased at Wal-Mart, but also because the constant pings notifying you about messages and tweets and likes are just a teensy bit overwhelming. I don’t get the appeal. Life is confusing enough as it is, without having to explain everything I’m thinking to the world 24/7.

  Also, the part about not wanting my past to catch up with my present keeps me away from social media. I just feel like Candy Crush is one step away from a LinkedIn Tumblr full of sub-reddits.

  I know what these things are because I keep up to date with this stuff, mostly at the library computers—remember, not wanting to look like I’m out of the loop? But just because I know, doesn’t mean I need to engage.

  “You still there?” Jack asks, looking at me.

  I laugh nervously, remembering that I’m here with Jack, and all my friends, and don’t actually need to be living inside my head.

  “I’m here.”

  “Good,” he says, smiling. “So is your drink.”

  “What?” I shake my head, not following.

  “Your French 75.” Lara hands me a flute with a floating cherry and I take it gingerly. It looks so pretty.

  Emmy leans away from Ace, who she’s been basically lip-locked with since I arrived. Because, even though they live together, apparently they haven’t had enough alone time today.

  She raises her glass. “To love,” she says to our group. We’re gathered around a lounge area, complete with a coffee table, and she stretches her glass across the table and clinks it against mine.

  Next, I clink glasses with Claire, who wiggles her eyebrows toward the hottie on my right. I bug out my eyes willing her to stop. She does, giving me kissy lips as an apology.

  I settle back on the couch, smiling at my friends. JoJo and McQueen are basically making love with their eyes across the room and I feel like I’m interrupting something.

  Claire and Landon look about five minutes from dry humping, and Ace seems to think that, as the owner of this casino, he can grope Emmy wherever he likes. Which, I mean, I guess he can.

  I look away and meet Jack’s gaze. Instantly I drop my chin, but he takes hold of it playfully, raising my face to meet his eyes.

  “I’m offended,” he says. “You’re not gonna toast the night with me?”

  “Oh, sorry,” I say, mumbling. “Of course I will.”

  He holds up a tumbler of whiskey on the rocks. “To—”

  But before he can finish, all eyes in the bar turn, witnessing Ashley Fast, who is now standing two feet away having a complete and utter freak out.

  Chapter Three

  JACK

  I ended up staying at my parents’ place for two entire weeks. Wrote a ton of new shit—which, yeah, will most likely never see the light of day since it�
�s emo as hell, but shit. I needed out of whatever shit storm Ashley wanted to throw my way.

  And looks like my instincts were about right. One day back in Vegas and Ashley is already here, at my feet, ready to beg.

  Or pounce.

  Honestly, I can’t tell, and she’s only a few feet away. Obviously our relationship was doomed.

  What I don’t get is why she wants to make such a spectacle of things. It’s as if she wants the media to rip our relationship apart.

  “Hello, gang,” she says, smiling, but I can tell she’s biting back an awful lot. “Jack, would you mind if I had a word with you?”

  I look around the table. Ace, Landon, and McQueen are already snickering. They probably think this girl still has my balls in her grip, because the truth is I took my damn time breaking up with her.

  They need to know she and I are through.

  And apparently she needs to know it, too. You’d have thought the two weeks of me ignoring her calls and texts would have been clear enough.

  “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen,” I tell her.

  She gives a sharp laugh. Okay, so she wants to pounce. Which means I need out of here stat. Kirby told me in a conference call today that I need to wrap this drama with Ashley up, and fast. Kendrick Music Group isn’t pleased with the press I’ve been getting.

  Neither am I. When I left for my parents, I didn’t expect Ashley to sell our “sex secrets” to a magazine. Even for her, she’s gone overboard.

  “Jacky,” she says, using a pet name I despise. “We need to work things out. Privately.”

  “Nope.” I hold my ground.

  “Why? Do you have plans or something?” She lowers an eyebrow at me. “Looks like another night of BS-ing with the exact same people you hang out with every night. I seriously need to talk.”

  “I honestly have nothing to say to you. And, yeah, I do have plans.”

  “Yeah, right,” she says, scowling. “For someone as high profile as you, you sure like to hang out with some lowlifes.”