by T. K. Leigh
Strobe lights pulse as I maneuver my way through crowds of people congregated around small tables and lush leather couches. The smell of perfume, combined with beer and fruity alcohol mixtures, fills the air. Scantily dressed waitresses pass by carrying trays overflowing with drinks while the vibration of the driving club music seems to make the floor shake.
Despite the temperatures being on the chilly side, considering night’s fallen, the sheer number of people present increases the heat level, causing perspiration to form on my brow. All walks of life are represented here, everyone pretending to be someone they’re not for one weekend of sin.
I don’t need a weekend of sin. I sin on a regular basis.
I squeeze my way up to the bar and catch the bartender’s attention immediately, my gray and lilac-colored ombre hair standing out in a sea of blondes and brunettes.
“What can I get you?”
“Martini. Dirty.”
“You got it.” He turns and grabs the vodka bottle, pouring a heaping amount into the cocktail shaker. “Having a good time?”
“Absolutely.” I grit out a smile.
“Liar,” he responds with a wink.
“That obvious?”
“Maybe I’m just observant. You don’t seem to fit in with your friends over there.” He nods toward the bachelorette party.
I look at him incredulously, wondering how he’d notice me when pouring drinks all night. Then I glance back at the girls, raising my five-foot, two-inch frame onto my tiptoes to peer over the ocean of people, grimacing when I see Bernadette’s shoved a brightly colored shooter between her boobs and one of our new “friends” is taking the shot from her without the use of his hands. We’re definitely hard to miss. Bernadette made sure of that.
“What makes you say that?” I muse when I return my attention to him.
“You don’t exactly scream ‘desperate housewife’.” He grabs a long metal spoon and stirs my martini. If nothing else, he understands a great martini should be stirred, not shaken, as Mr. Bond would have you believe.
“At least I’m doing something right.”
“You certainly are.” He pours the liquid through the strainer and into a chilled glass, then pushes it toward me. “Enjoy.”
With a smile, I place a bill on the counter and turn from him. If I were anywhere else, I might have given him my number with instructions to call when his shift was over. I’d rather not leave any piece of myself in this town.
As I emerge from the mosh of people, I look in the direction of the girls, only to find most of them grinding with complete strangers. Except for Hannah and Izzy. They’re off to the side, distancing themselves from the debauchery currently underway amongst the rest of the women. All I can do is pray this kind of behavior doesn’t rub off on Hannah. Then again, she’s twenty-eight. She had her fun during her younger years, unlike her sister, Bernadette, who got married when she was twenty — a shotgun wedding because she was pregnant.
“How much?” I hear a voice say as I start toward them. It’s so random and out of context I don’t react at first. Then a hand grips my bicep, preventing me from taking another step.
I whirl around, my fierce eyes settling on a man of average height and build. His black shirt is tucked into a pair of dark jeans, a gray blazer finishing the ensemble. “Excuse me?”
“I said…” He loosens his grasp on my arm, licking his lips as he leers at me, wavering slightly. I can smell the alcohol on his breath. Great. Another guy emboldened with the help of Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, or Jose Cuervo. Possibly a combination of all three. “How much?”
“For what?”
He chuckles in feigned amusement. Then his expression falls, his eyes heating as they rake over me.
“I get it. You’re discreet. I can be discreet, too.” Winking, he reaches into his pocket and retrieves his wallet, flashing what I estimate to be several thousand in hundreds. He either got lucky shooting craps or hit up a few ATMs earlier. I’m guessing the latter. “Like I said, how much?”
I shake my head, backing away from him. “I am not a prostitute.” My tone is firm, leaving no room for argument.
He blows out a laugh. “Sure. You’re not a prostitute, just like I’m the fucking Easter Bunny. I can pretend to be someone I’m not, too, sweetheart. Trust me. I have an eye for these things, and any woman who comes into a club wearing a ridiculously tight tank top, a skirt that rides up her ass, and has hair colored like yours just screams whore.”
Fire flames on my face and I ball my free hand into a fist. Before I can reel back and land a blow, he grips my hip, yanking my body against his, causing my martini to splash between us.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, but every second you play hard to get, the amount I pay you will decrease. If I were you, I’d give careful consideration to the next words that come out of your mouth. Ya got me?”
My jaw clenches as my distaste for him grows with each heartbeat. “Like I said…” I place a hand on his chest, glowering, “I am not a prostitute. So I’d suggest taking your disgusting paws off me before I kick my apparent hooker heel into your balls and press so hard they’ll hear them pop all the way in Los Angeles. Ya got me?” I finish, throwing his words back at him.
His composure cracks momentarily, but he’s either too drunk or too dumb to get the hint. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you? I dig it.” He loops his arm around my waist, pulling me even harder against him. “Come on. Tell me your price.”
My heart rate spikes and bile rises in my throat when his erection pushes against my stomach. What the hell is it about men these days who think they can treat women like property? Who think it’s their God-given right to exert dominance over the opposite sex?
“Like I told you. I’m not—”
“Oh, there you are!” a deep voice bellows, cutting through.
I whip my eyes in its direction, disoriented when an arm wraps around me, prying me out of the creep’s grasp. I’m startled at first, taken aback by the strong embrace currently holding me. But unlike before, I don’t feel the overwhelming sense of dread and disgust.
“I can’t leave you alone for a second, can I?”
When he pulls back, I meet brilliant green eyes that seem to penetrate deeper than they should, considering they belong to a stranger. Then again, there’s something oddly familiar about him, making me think I should know him. But I’d remember someone like him. Wouldn’t I?
He towers over me, making me estimate he’s six-three or six-four, since I only come up to his pecs. He has a proud face, chiseled cheekbones, square jaw, masculine nose. His dark hair is a little messy, but in a sexy kind of way. Although he sports a beard and mustache, it’s impeccably groomed. In fact, everything about him is impeccably groomed.
Granted, we’re at a club in Vegas with a rather strict dress code, at least for men. But something about the way he carries himself with a cool confidence makes him stand out amongst a sea of men just looking for a quick piece of ass. The dark jeans and tweed jacket make me think he’d be more comfortable at a cigar bar, sipping scotch, jazz standards playing in the background.
“Can I?” he repeats, giving me a knowing look, encouraging me to play along. So that’s what I do.
“I guess not.” I face the creep, a smug smile on my face as I burrow deeper into my mystery man’s embrace. “Like I said. This…” I gesture down my body, “isn’t for sale. Even if it were, you would never be able to afford it, baby. Not with that wallet you flashed me.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but all my mystery man has to do is puff out his chest and he snaps his jaw shut, turning from me.
“And for future reference,” my mystery man calls out, keeping his arm wrapped around me, despite the threat waning.
The creep looks back at him.
“When a lady says she’s not interested, it’s not an invitation to press the issue. If I find you’ve caused any more problems or offer any other woman money to sleep with you, there are two rathe
r large gentlemen manning the front door who will have no problem helping you learn this lesson differently.” He smiles a fake smile. “Ya got me?”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” He shuffles away.
“What a tool,” my mystery man remarks as he drops his hold, turning to face me, his eyes filled with concern. “Are you all right? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“I’m fine,” I snap. “I can handle myself. But thank you for intervening on my behalf. It wasn’t necessary.”
I begin to retreat from him. If I didn’t hate Vegas before, I do now. With it being the stereotypical destination for a hormonally charged bachelor or bachelorette party, it’s open season to hit on anything with a pulse. I wish people had to take a test before entering the proverbial Vegas wildlife, like hunters have to in order to obtain their license to hunt prey. That’s what this place is like. A jungle. During mating season.
“Got a name?” he calls out before I can take more than a few steps.
“Yup,” I shout over my shoulder with a smirk. “Thanks for checking.”
“You’re not going to tell me?” he yells when I continue to squeeze my way through the hordes of people. “What am I supposed to call you? Dick Girl?”
His words seem to carry over the beat of the music and I stop in my tracks, sensing curious eyes watching our interaction. I spin around, stalking toward him.
“Dick Girl? Why? Because I’m wearing a short skirt and my hair’s a little different so I must really enjoy dick? I’m pretty sure there are lesbians out there who wear short skirts and color their hair differently, too. That doesn’t mean they like the dick, does it? Or is it just because we’re in Vegas?”
He’s about to respond, but I cut him off before he has a chance to utter a single syllable. My presence in my least favorite city for a ritual I find cliché, trivial, and ordinary, all things I try to avoid being, causes the thin filter between my brain and mouth to evaporate.
“I get it. Some guy who probably considers himself a marketing genius concocted a brilliant ad campaign all those years ago when he came up with this city’s tagline. Can you imagine being in the room when the creative team discussed that gem as an option? It’s almost like their mission was to come up with the slogan most likely to result in surprise pregnancies, STDs, and infidelity, all of which do not stay in Vegas.”
He tries to speak again, but I hold up my finger, silencing him.
“So, as tempting as the idea of living out my wildest fantasies is…and truthfully, you’re not so bad to look at, and I do have quite an active imagination…I do not hook up with random strangers, not in this town anyway. But fear not.” I give him a trite smile. “This city is full of bachelorette party attendees who would love to have a piece of you. Hell, you could probably even score a threesome or foursome. Maybe even a fivesome, like a sorority porno gone incredibly wrong. A simple online search will lead you to any number of sex clubs within a short Uber ride from here. But that shit won’t be happening with me.” I gesture to my crotch area. “This pussy is on a much-deserved break.”
I remain in place as my words seem to ring out between us. I expect him to be stunned and unsure how to respond, maybe offer an apology for his assumption about me. Instead, he reaches out. I attempt to step back, but before I can, he toys with the chain dangling from my neck.
Smirking, he says, “I was referring to your necklace. Dick. Girl.”
A tingle sweeps across my cheeks as my shoulders drop. Thankfully, it’s too dark for him or anyone else to see my complexion turn red. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” He chuckles as his full lips curve in the corners. He flashes his white teeth, his smile exuding a confidence I’m not used to seeing. Something about it intrigues me. It’s such a simple thing. The flexing of muscles to turn up your lips, demonstrating happiness, amusement, or any other number of positive emotions. But with that one smile, I feel something I’ve avoided for years now…
Vulnerability.
“Have a nice night… Dick Girl.”
He turns from me, the crowd seeming to part to allow him passage. Then he stops, facing me once more.
“And, for the record, I didn’t ask your name as a preface to sleep with you. I did so because my mother taught me manners, to treat everyone with respect.” He keeps his dark eyes locked with mine, allowing his statement to sink in. “Stay safe tonight. It’s a jungle out there.” He treats me to one last smile, then disappears into the crowd, leaving me bewildered.
Has being single in New York so long jaded me to the point that I assume every straight man only approaches me because they want to get into my pants?
At one point, I dreamed of having the love story I read about in fairy tales…until I realized all fairy tales eventually end. Soon, the Prince will question Snow White’s devotion to him whenever she runs off to the forest to spend time with the dwarfs. Prince Phillip will accuse Aurora of always just lying there, practically asleep, during sex. And poor Aladdin and Jasmine… He’ll never stop feeling emasculated every time they have an argument and she so kindly reminds him that if it weren’t for her, he’d still be a street rat.
If that’s a fairy tale, I want nothing to do with it.
Chapter Two
The spicy, robust flavor of red wine dances on my tongue as I relax into my barstool, savoring these last few moments to myself before embarking on another night of bachelorette party fun. About to flag down the bartender for the check, I stop when my phone pings with an incoming text.
On a scale of one to murder, how’s the bachelorette party?
I laugh at how well Nora knows me. After all, she was my college roommate. Even though I ended up leaving before the end of my second year, we’ve managed to remain friends.
Let’s put it this way… Most would consider Ted Bundy a compassionate serial killer compared to my brutality. However, any murder I commit would probably be excused as justifiable. Or, at least, I could plead not guilty by reason of insanity. I believe the courts recognize the bachelorette party defense in homicide cases.
Her response comes almost instantly.
I’m not so sure that’s a thing.
It should be. And in case I haven’t told you, I’m so glad you don’t want any of this stuff for your wedding. It makes my job as your maid of honor much easier and won’t require me to resort to murder.
Blech. The last thing I want is to make my friends suffer through a night of penis jokes and scavenger hunts that border on sexual harassment. Try to have a little fun while you’re there, although I know how much you despise Vegas. New York misses you. See you in a few days.
I sigh as I lean back in my chair, typing out one last text.
And I sure miss New York. See you soon.
I close out of our message and open my email, scanning my inbox. As a celebrity news columnist for one of the top women’s magazines, I’m required to keep a constant pulse on what’s going on in the world of the rich and famous. But this weekend has been quiet. No big breakups. No pregnant celebrities giving birth. No arrogant has-been who thinks he’s above the law getting arrested for drinking and driving.
“For you, miss.”
I snap my head up just as the bartender places a martini in front of me. “I didn’t order this.” I start to push it across the bar, but he smiles, leaving a cocktail napkin beside the glass. Scribbling in blue ink catches my attention, the pen stroke masculine, but still legible.
Thought I’d make up for the martini you didn’t get to enjoy last night.
There’s only one person who could have sent this. On a sharp inhale, I scan the lounge. It’s on the darker side, the lighting dim, votive candles placed sporadically on the bar and each table to add to the romantic ambience, despite being mere feet from a roulette wheel.
As I search for familiar green eyes, I sense a warmth approach from behind. The hairs on my nape stand on end, and I freeze.
“I wasn’t sure what kind of vodka you preferred, so I had to guess based on what
little I know about you. But something makes me think you’re a Belvedere girl. Smooth. Layered. Sophisticated.”
I take a moment to compose myself before facing him. The instant my gaze floats to his, an involuntary shiver rolls through me. “A rather astute assessment. I prefer Polish vodkas.”
“Smart woman.”
His eyes dance as he gestures to the free chair beside me, silently asking permission to sit. I nod, then turn forward once more, smoothing the lines of my gray silk tank, adjusting my navy blue blazer. I’ll most likely get shit from Bernadette for not wearing my “Bride’s Bitch” shirt tonight, but I need to draw the line somewhere. One night was fine. There’s no way I’m going to wear that sweat-stained, smoke-infested thing again.
As he assumes the chair beside me, his scent filters through my nose, addictive and mouthwatering. It’s a woodsy and manly scent, reminiscent of rain on a hot summer day. He flags down the bartender and orders a few fingers of a top-shelf scotch. My assessment of him last night wasn’t that far off after all. He would have fit in better at a quiet bar sipping scotch instead of a dance club where everyone was just one tequila shot away from alcohol poisoning.
Truth be told, it wasn’t my scene, either. I’m not sure what my scene is.
Once he takes a sip and exhales in satisfaction, he returns his gaze to me. I tap my nails against the counter, the silence painfully loud. I’ve never felt so on edge in the presence of a man, so out of sorts. But I felt it last night. And I feel it now.
This man is different.
Despite him being a stranger.
Despite him barely uttering more than a few sentences to me.
Despite my not knowing anything about him.
When the heat of his stare becomes too much, the connection too palpable, I turn my eyes from his, taking a sip of my martini, the combination of dry vermouth, vodka, and just a hint of olive juice perfect.