Sure Thing

by Jana Aston

  I cannot.

  That’s what I wanted in the first place.

  Except…

  I don’t want that anymore. I gnaw at my bottom lip as I take a seat on the bus. By the time the bus is in drive—less than a minute later—I’m in full-on panic. I did run out that morning—the morning we met. Maybe he’s returning the favor now?

  Holy shit, I’m a nutcase.

  Nut. Case.

  I remind myself that I saw him five hours ago and everything was fine. I remind myself of this all the way to the restaurant. And through dinner. And the return drive to the hotel.

  By the time the last of the guests says goodnight and leaves the lobby I’m not so sure that I’m crazy. By the time my hotel room door shuts behind me my heart is officially beating faster than normal.

  You know that sick feeling you get when you know someone has let you down? You’ve got no proof of it exactly, but your heart knows.

  Then you waste a lot of time waffling. Should you prepare yourself for the inevitable? Or hold out hope until not a moment of hope is left and let the disappointment crush you like a ton of bricks?

  My room is quiet. I can hear the noise of the city just outside but the silence inside my room is deafening.

  Or perhaps that’s the silence in my head.

  Why am I so leaveable? Am I really getting dumped by insinuation—again? We’re not even going to have a conversation? He’s just gone?

  The worst part is this hurts more than when Mark did it. I spent two years with Mark and this hurts more.

  So much more.

  Just once it would be nice to get the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech.

  No. Stop it, I chastise myself. I’ll see Jennings at breakfast tomorrow. This is a misunderstanding. I did not imagine this week. I did not imagine myself in love with him. I did not.

  The knock on the door has me spinning around, relief pouring from me like an open wound. The feeling immediately following relief is remorse—for doubting him. A bit of embarrassment at my runaway thoughts. Of course he came.

  Then I open the door.

  But it’s not Jennings.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Jennings

  The brakes squealed as the car tires skidded across the asphalt. That’s the first sound I noticed, the screams following suit. Odd how memory plays in slow motion when the reality happened so bloody quickly.

  The car was slowed by a lamp post, coming to a stop just over the curb. The lamp post, however, couldn’t withstand the impact. It toppled into scaffolding covering the front of the market, which in turn collapsed.

  One of the metal scaffolding tubes hit Nan in the head when it fell. The rest is a blur of sirens and lights. Nan was loaded into an ambulance, insisting she was fine as blood seeped through the cloth the paramedics pressed to her head. She passed out briefly en route to the hospital—it was the only time she wasn’t insisting she was fine.

  My memento from the incident was eight stitches on my forearm while Nan was getting a CT scan. And now we’re arguing over her staying the night in hospital.

  “We’re keeping you overnight,” the doctor states and Nan tsks.

  “But we have a flight in the morning,” Nan says as the doctor and I both stare at her, unimpressed with her objections.

  “Mrs. Anderson, you’ve had a head bleed and you’re on a prescription blood thinner. You’re staying overnight for observation.”

  “You’re definitely staying,” I tell her. She’s a stubborn lady but she’s not winning this one. It took two staples to close the gash on her head, if the doctor thinks she should stay she’s staying. “I’ll extend our stay at the hotel and cancel our flight. I’ll rent a car and drive you to Connecticut when you’re released. Bethany can’t be much more than three hours from here. It’ll be less taxing on you than a flight.”

  The doctor is on my side so Nan gives up that fight, thankfully. By the time she’s properly admitted and moved to a private room, visiting hours have passed. Once I’m certain she’s settled and in need of nothing I tell her I’ll be back in the morning and take my leave.

  The adrenaline of the past hours allowed me to put Daisy out of my mind for a bit. But now I’m headed back to the hotel and worried what she must think.

  We’ve missed the final group dinner, obviously. I’m sure Daisy is wondering what’s become of me. And I’m still wondering what the everloving fuck to make of her.

  I lost my mobile when the scaffolding came down, which has made the afternoon a royal pain in the arse, but at least I’m unable to torture myself by reading the email from Rhys over and over.

  Doesn’t matter much, as I’m fairly certain I’ve already committed every lie to memory.

  Thankfully I’ve got my laptop back at the hotel. I’ll email my assistant in London and ask her to cancel the flights to Connecticut and rebook my flight back to London. Arrange a car. Message Aunt Poppy and let her know not to meet us at the airport.

  Change of plans.

  But first things first.

  Daisy.

  I’m mad to get back to her. To talk, to make sense of this. The girl I spent the week with is real—I know she’s real. I know the connection we have is real.

  I know I’m falling in love with her.

  With the version of her that I spent the week with, at least.

  Yet I’m conflicted, because it doesn’t look good. The inconsistencies—the lies—don’t make sense. The entire thing leaves me with a sense of unease. A feeling of dread that she won’t be able to explain this.

  But no use putting the cart before the horse, is there? I’ve reached the hotel. I’ll simply talk to her and clear the matter up one way or another. I stop at the front desk to extend the stay on both Nan’s and my rooms, then bypass the elevator for the stairs. Daisy’s on the second floor and the stairs will be quicker.

  A decision I regret moments later. Though perhaps I shouldn’t. Perhaps I should be grateful I caught them as I rounded the corner. Grateful I caught them at all. I was almost too late. Seconds later and I wouldn’t have seen them. I’d have knocked on her door, unsuspecting.

  Would she have answered?

  Stuffed him in a closet perhaps? Swung the door open and smiled in my face? Or simply ignored the knock altogether?

  I’ll never know.

  Just as well.

  Because George has beaten me to Daisy’s room—a handful of daisies in his hand. The door opens and she reaches out, grasping his forearm and yanking him into the room. The lock clicks into place as the door shuts and the echo feels like a bullet to my bloody heart.

  It was too good to be true, wasn’t it? I overreached thinking it was something it wasn’t. Thinking she was someone she wasn’t.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Violet

  I’m positive my expression is one of surprise, which is stupid. I should have expected this. I should have done more to stop this from happening. My shoulders slump and I reach out and yank him inside, shoving the door closed behind him.

  The gig is up. The week is over. I’m going to have to trust George not to report Daisy for this scam, because I can’t not tell him. Not when he’s standing in my doorway with flowers.

  Daisies.

  The door clicks shut behind him and I run through the apology through my head. When I turn to deliver it he’s closer than I expected. Way closer. Attempting to kiss me closer. I shove him off immediately.

  “Hey! I said you could come in, I didn’t say you could kiss me.”

  “Oh.” He looks surprised and holds his hands up in apology as he takes a step back. “Sorry.”

  We stare at each other, the mood tense from the rejected almost-kiss.

  “I’m confused, Daisy. I thought we had fun together.”

  “We did,” I agree, although I’m unsure why the words are coming out of my mouth. I don’t know what went on between George and Daisy, not really. She said it w
asn’t serious, but maybe it was for him?

  But no, he’s not looking at me the way Jennings looks at me. Not even close. They might have fun together and it was sweet of him to bring flowers, but he’s just a guy wondering what happened to his friend with benefits.

  A perfectly nice guy, I’m sure. But that’s it.

  My sister deserves someone who looks at her the way Jennings looks at me, so change of plans. I’m not telling George the truth. I’m breaking up with him. If it pisses Daisy off, too bad—she shouldn’t have sent me in her place this week to begin with.

  Although I wouldn’t have met Jennings if she hadn’t. The thought is like a punch to the gut, as is the one that immediately follows it. The one reminding me I don’t know why he didn’t show up tonight and we might be through.

  “We did have fun, but I’m seeing someone now,” I tell George with what I hope is a compassionate get-the-fuck-out smile. “I should have been more clear about that,” I add and trail off, assuming he can fill in the obvious. I’m seeing someone, so I’m not sleeping with you. Have a nice night.

  “The British guy?”

  I nod.

  “You just met him.” George is unimpressed.

  “When you know, you know,” I quip, but I realize it’s true.

  “I didn’t think you were into that.”

  “Into what? Love?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah.”

  “Thanks.” My tone is sarcastic. “Well, I am. Sorry to put an end to your Historic East Coast tour booty call.” I say it a little sharply because fuck him. Any guilt I felt about interfering is gone. Daisy deserves better.

  “I didn’t think you were a serious kind of girl, that’s all.” He has the decency to look chagrined as he says it.

  It makes me wonder if it’s harder being Daisy. Being the fun twin. I always thought it must be easier, but maybe not. She’s not as cautious as me. She dives into things, into relationships. She takes risks and assumes the best out of everyone. But it doesn’t mean it’s easier for her.

  It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt when she’s not taken seriously. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve something more. Something real.

  I walk George to the door and spend the rest of the night convincing myself that I’m going to see Jennings in the morning.

  I don’t believe it though.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Jennings

  “Thanks for picking me up,” I tell Rhys as I sling my bag into the boot of his Tesla. He slams the lid and wraps his arms around me in his typical American bear hug, slapping me on the back with enthusiasm. I pat his back half-heartedly and glance at his car. “New?”

  “Yeah. Got it when I made the move to Vegas. You want to drive it?”

  “No, Rhys, I’m drunk.”

  “From the plane?” He shakes his head in judgement. “They don’t even have any decent liquor on board.”

  He’s not wrong. But I made do just the same.

  “It’s not yet three o’clock and you’re drunk on cheap liquor,” Rhys summarizes as he looks me over. “And you didn’t bring your new lady friend.”

  “My lady friend?” I glare in his direction but he likely misses it, as I slipped shades over my eyes the moment I cleared the automatic doors and stepped outside. Bloody desert is brighter than the surface of the sun. “You’re a tosser.”

  “Daisy,” Rhys says as if he needs to clarify. As if I have multiple lady friends, Jesus.

  “Do you have any bourbon at your suite? Better yet, have the hotel bars been stocked yet?” I ask as I open the passenger door. The queue of cars picking up passengers at McCarran is three deep and the shrill whistle of security attempting to manage the chaos is not helping my mood.

  “Plenty of liquor, I promise you,” Rhys tells me as he slides behind the wheel. “How’s Nan?”

  “She’s fine.” I slump in the seat and get comfortable, flipping the visor down to block out the sun. “The hospital kept her one night as a precaution but she’s fit as ever. Dropped her off with your mum yesterday. Slept in your old bedroom and your mum made me pancakes for brekkie.”

  “Lucky bastard.”

  “She sent biscuits for you. They’re in my bag.”

  “The shortbread?”

  “The very same. I think she’s worried about you.”

  “Worried? Why?”

  “I believe she’s concerned that you’re living in a casino and hooking up with women of questionable moral character.”

  Rhys laughs. “My mother did not say ‘hooking up.’”

  “Nah, I think she just wants you to call more often. In any case I assured her you’re still a virgin and that you’ll call this weekend.”

  “Thanks. Owe you one.”

  We’re silent as Rhys merges the car into traffic. Once we’re past the airport loop and onto Swenson he asks again about Daisy.

  “You bloody Americans are so nosey.” I groan.

  “I can tell you about the dancer of questionable moral character I fucked last night, if you prefer.”

  “Jesus, Rhys.” I close my eyes behind my sunglasses and rub my temple, a headache already forming.

  “So what happened? Talk it out, buddy. I thought this girl was going to make an honest man out of you.”

  “Honesty wasn’t her strong suit, as it turns out.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah.”

  He’s silent once again and I’m hopeful that’s the end of his inquisition. It’s not, of course. Because hoping has nil to do with reality.

  “So what I’m hearing is that you need more liquor before I get the story.” Rhys taps his fingers against the wheel as we’re stopped at a red light.

  “Where should I start, you nosey fucker?”

  “The beginning. And stop sighing at me like a little bitch.”

  “Fine,” I agree. Then I try to recall where this week went so horribly wrong. “She was hiding something. From the very first night she was hiding something.”

  “As were you,” Rhys points out like an annoying prick.

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “Don’t be such a woman, Jesus. This chick’s really got you wound up tight.”

  “You’re right.” The light turns green and we cross Tropicana Avenue. The Vegas Strip is a few streets to the left but impossible to miss. Daisy was impossible to miss too. “Let’s walk the property so I can see what’s been done since my last visit. I’ll tell you the rest when I’ve had another drink.”

  We spend the better part of two hours walking around the new hotel. Vegas is the complete opposite of everything I’m used to. Massive and gaudy to my eye, but profitable, and that I can appreciate. The Windsor is set to open in just under a month. At just under two thousand rooms it’s considered small by Vegas standards. A boutique behemoth. What a ridiculous oxymoron.

  We picked up the property under two years ago. Another developer had abandoned the project mid-construction, left near completion, but vacant. Viewing the property was eerie. An abandoned ghost town filled with untapped potential. Flash-forward to today and it’s anything but still. Workers everywhere. Casino tables in place. Slot machines being delivered and rolled in as we watch.

  Rhys found the property, convinced me and the board of the potential, and here we are. The original plans were reconfigured to fit our vision and our corporate brand. We were able to turn the property around much quicker by renovating what the previous owner had started as opposed to starting again with new construction.

  “Well done, Rhys,” I tell him as we make our way to the executive apartments. There’s a separate floor with living quarters for the senior staff of the hotel, should they choose to live on site.

  “Thanks.” He runs me through the projected occupancy rate for the remainder of the year. Numbers well within reach. I’ve already run the numbers myself and am projecting this venture will become the highest source of revenue for our company within
eighteen months.

  But I’m not interested in business at the moment. This trip is superfluous business-wise. I came to drown my sorrows, truth be told. “Show me what Vegas has to distract me.”

  Rhys’ eyes light up and he claps me on the back as the lift doors open ahead of us. “I know just the thing.”

  Famous last words.

  Four-ish drinks later I’m telling him everything. He’s taken me to some bar his buddy owns. In Henderson, for fuck’s sake, but at least it’s not a strip club. He offered, of course he did. He offered hookers too after I passed on the strippers and I wondered if possibly his mum wasn’t right to be worried about him.

  “So I go running back to the hotel like a fucking knob,” I tell him. “We missed the farewell dinner due to the accident. It was late by the time Nan was admitted, so I’m rushing back to the hotel. Desperate to see Daisy even though she’s clearly a bit of a nutter.” We’re sitting at the bar and I motion for another drink.

  “Clearly.” Rhys is doing his best to keep up with my drunken ramblings. He’s a brilliant friend.

  “And the wanker of a driver is going into her room.”

  “Ah.” He winces in reaction to my misery.

  “Right! The guy she said she’d nothing going on with. Walking into her room at quarter past ten in the evening.”

  “Lying whore.” Rhys shakes his head in empathy.

  “Don’t call her that.” I scowl at him and pound back the shot in front of me.

  “Sorry.” Rhys holds up a hand in apology. “I thought we hated her. Got it. We’re not there yet.”

  “Maybe it was the driver she was trying to get back at. By picking me up that night. Do you think?”

  “Maybe.” He shrugs, because there’s nothing much else to say, is there?

  “I don’t think it was normal behavior for her though. Picking me up in the bar. She was fairly awkward at it.”

  I sip at the bourbon I’m consuming between shots and try to run through the events in my head again. My memory is cloudy at present.

  “Her pussy was fucking nirvana.” I’m not certain what that has to do with anything but in my drunken state it feels important to mention. “And her mouth, bloody hell.” I drop my head into my hands on the bar top.