She stared hard at Armando. “Are you okay?”
“Wow, you look stunning,” he replied, taking in the incredible difference in her appearance. “You don’t normally dress in low-cut blouses and short skirts and how I’ve missed it, do you?”
He was used to her slightly mousy receptionist outfits, and this was anything but. Her simple black dress embraced her curves, emphasizing a small waist, curvy hips, and normally hidden deep, full cleavage, framed by the stark plunging neckline. He had thought her hair was a mousy gray, but with it down and in full bloom, the curls glowed like a sexy silver halo around her face, tendrils framing her eyes.
“You are one of the keenest observers of people I know, so no, you haven’t had a sudden failure of vision. It’s just that we usually work the opposite shifts, so you never see me when I’m going out for the night. And thank you for the compliment, but are you okay?” Liz was startled and flattered, but more, she was really worried about the amount of blood she could see. Armando still had the curtains clutched in his hands, coyly hiding behind the drapery.
“Yes, just a few scratches. I really need to be careful back here,” he said. “Now, it’s obvious you have a date, so get out of here. I’ll be fine.” He paused, “You didn’t actually dial 911, did you?”
“No, I was about to push the last 1 when you spoke. Nice save.”
“Well, get out of here, and have fun,” he said, reminding her of a parent sending her out for the evening.
Liz’s natural mom-to-the-world instincts kicked in.
“No, I want to make sure you’re okay. Let me get the first aid kit and tend to those scratches. You won’t even know what’s bad until it’s cleaned up,” she said as she made her way back to the desk to return the phone and get the kit.
“No,” he said a bit forcefully, “don’t come back here. I can take care of myself.”
Liz stopped. She didn’t buy it, but she didn’t really have a choice. With Armando watching her every move, she slipped back into her shoes, gathered her tote bag of work clothes, flung the garnet-red Pashmina shawl over her shoulders, and walked to the front door.
Liz was surprised at how awkward she felt to have caught his attention as anything more than a fellow professional. She had that stumbling teenage moment of idiotic blathering.
“Yeah, well, I’ll be in again tomorrow at three. Remember my new schedule keeps me on three to nine for the season. I think the later hour is really bringing in the business,” she replied, mentally kicking herself for the odd response.
She was conscious of his eyes on her every movement as she left. She felt that deep flutter in her center. He had noticed her; that might be enough for now.
* * *
Despite her worry, Liz kept to her original plan for the night and strolled into the lobby of the Bellagio, the piercing, vibrant, dancing colors of the Dale Chihuly glass ceiling somehow soothing in its wild excess of color and light. No matter how many times she walked through, she paid silent homage to the folks willing to spend their money so that she could have this vibrant vision as part of her world.
Tonight she had a strong hunger for a well-made martini and some forks. She’d been saving up her calories all day for the indulgence. And she needed some time to think about Armando’s reaction. She turned right from the lobby and began the sometimes endless stroll towards Fix, her favorite night spot. She paused to salivate over the crystal-encrusted evening purses in the storefront, attracted and repulsed by the truly senseless beauty and expense. The low grumble of her tummy set her back on track. If she ordered carefully, she could sit for a bit and catch the swirl of the night . . . and almost always, someone who would follow her home. At that thought, an unconsciously evil grin flitted over her face, causing the two men who caught the look as they walked by to nearly trip over their own feet. They stared after her, momentarily besotted by the sway of her hips and the bouncy energy of her walk. Liz had only recently come to notice her effect; in this gambler’s world driven by the hunger for money and youth and style, she’d felt invisible for over a decade, since the day she turned forty.
As she walked, she glanced at the various game tables, sometimes startled by the men in such down-and-out clothes; she wondered at their willingness to hand over large amounts of cash for a few hours of entertainment. By living in Vegas for years, she had absorbed the rules of the games in all the casinos, but she had decided a long time ago that when she handed someone cash, she wanted a blouse or better, a pair of shoes, in exchange. The real entertainment value to her was in watching the people. Perhaps on the way out, she would find a table of gamblers to silently giggle over. The intensity and focus some of them brought to the table, she reserved for observing people and taking pictures. But they made a lovely study and she could count on no one noticing her in her pursuit as long as she sat very still.
* * *
“Jill, I’m so glad to see you,” Liz said as she approached the hostess stand at the restaurant, startling the petite redhead into dropping her pen. Although Jill tried to cover her freckles, they gave her a sweet look slightly out of place in Vegas.
“Liz, haven’t seen you in a bit. What’s up?” she asked, recovering nicely.
“Oh, not much. I just had a mad craving for forks and a fine martini. Any chance I can hang out over at the bar?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure. I don’t see a problem tonight, although I expect it will get busy later.” Jill pointed Liz over to the high stool on the long side of the bar.
“Hey, Jasmine, good to see you tonight,” Liz said to the bartender as she settled on her perch and arranged the flippy black skirt to drape over her knees. She took the shawl off her shoulders, wrapped it around the front of her neck, and let the rest hang down her back.
“I know that’s a uniform, but you do look fine,” she said.
Jasmine had on a very short skirt, sheer, glittery black hose, and a complicated shirt combo that suggested either her tits would escape or her straps would slip off at any moment. Liz watched Jasmine and the other bartenders move at a fast, focused, and furious pace, amazed that the uniforms of the all-female team didn’t fall off or expose the women completely.
“What can I get you tonight? I’m guessing a vodka martini?” Jasmine asked, laying a cocktail napkin and utensils on the bar.
“Hmmm, surprise me on the martini, but I want two orders of the forks tonight. I’ve been craving them all week,” she replied.
Liz watched the dance of the bartenders as they made sweet, sour, and colorful concoctions, each tall girl with some magical radar that stopped them from tripping over each other. It reminded her of the same tango she and Sam had in their kitchen as they prepared for parties. She missed that brisk movement combined with mild panic as multiple and varied dishes flew to the table for friends and family. Liz let the pleasant memory wash over her, longing still for the sense of being truly known, truly seen.
As she watched the swirling dance, she considered the tantalizing problem of Armando. She had applied for the receptionist job at the studio for two reasons: his reputation as a world-class photographer, and her need to have access to some heavy-duty photographic processing equipment. She hadn’t counted on him being so mysteriously attractive. She couldn’t nail down his age, his accent, or even his sexual persuasion. But after tonight, it was definitely clear that he was interested in women, well, more specifically, in her.
She hadn’t counted on finding her boss to be so very hot . . . and assuredly too young for her. Would it cost her the job if she pursued him? She was thinking it would be worth finding a new job just to find out what he would be like as a lover.
“Okay, here’s your mystery martini,” Jasmine said. “Let me know what you think and what’s in it, and if you guess right, I’ll spot you the next one,” as she placed the elegant martini glass in front of her. “Your forks should be up soon.”
Liz slyly glanced left and right to see if anyone was watching her, and dipped her tongue into the dr
ink rather than sipping; small flavors need small tastes. She closed her eyes. Vodka, a citrus note, and something way different. She opened her eyes and caught the guy to the left of her staring at her mouth. She stopped licking her lip and boldly returned his gaze.
“So, do you like the drink?” he asked. He studied her, letting his nearly black eyes openly roam over her cleavage.
“Yes, but give me a minute. There’s a sweet, warm flavor that I just can’t figure out. Would you like a sip?” She offered him the stem, savoring his obviously sexual attention.
He surprised her by taking the glass. He appeared a bit younger than the guys she usually attracted here, about thirty-five, his hair still dark with no gray, but that would suit her for tonight.
“I taste Stoli, lime, and the sweet you mention, but there’s also a wood note. How very odd,” he said as he handed back her drink. He made a point of touching her hand in the exchange. “My name’s Bobby.”
Liz swiveled on her stool to face him and arched her brow. “Nice to meet you, Bobby. I’m Liz. I really enjoy the way you’ve been studying me, but I’m wondering why?” she asked directly.
He flustered for a moment and decided to be equally direct.
“I was admiring your work,” he said. She tilted her head in puzzlement.
He grinned wickedly and said, “My interest is purely professional. I’m here for the American Academy of Cosmetic Surgery annual meeting. This city is a total tribute to our skills, maybe even more so than Hollywood. But your look is so very rare . . . and excellently done.”
“Uh, thank you . . . I think?” she said. “I wanted to be true to myself. There were so many possible choices. I didn’t want to conceal my years, but rather look the best for my age. Do you like a dare?”
“What do you mean?”
“Guess what I had done,” she challenged.
“No, no really, not a good idea,” he demurred.
She giggled at him and said, “Chicken.”
Surprising her, he reached out and brushed his fingers over her cleavage. “Breast implants,” he whispered and caressed her cheek, “facial filler, laser resurfacing, and a little Botox,” he said as he touched her lower lip. “And the overall effect is very nice.”
Heated by his hands, she retreated behind a brief verbal wall. “Why thank you, darlin’,” she said, affecting a quick Southern drawl as self-defense against his words and actions, and stared off across the room. “Before my Sam died, he called me his li’l trophy wife, even though we’d been married forever. I wanted to hold him, so I kept myself in good shape. When he died, I went into a bad spiral for a year, turned into a slug, and made friends with Ben and Jerry.”
“So obviously something changed,” he said kindly.
“My kids staged an intervention and dragged me out on one of our traditional family hiking and hunting trips. They forced me to see the error of my ways,” she said, looking back at him.
“Oh, dear, way too serious, right? Anyway, I snapped out of it, worked hard to get back into my fighting shape. Even one year meant some things were beyond self-help. My kids didn’t want me to look like an alien—forgive, please, their opinion of your craft. I did my research, found the best surgeon I could afford, and had all the procedures you mentioned. That meant I spent a long time thinking about what and who I am. I wanted to look good, but I wanted to respect their opinion, too.”
“Well, that explains your moderation, but you have to know: Before I noticed your body, your hair was like a bright beacon. Your choice of what you had done was excellent, but I’m happy to see you left your hair alone. Although our culture doesn’t value such an obvious symbol of aging, your glowing silver hair is sexy as hell,” he said as he reached up to twist a bright shiny curl around his finger. “It’s the perfect choice.”
Jasmine interrupted and placed in front of Liz a small forest of silver forks topped with salmon, crème fraiche, and caviar. “Did you figure out the martini yet?” she asked with a warm smile.
“No, but whatever it is, it’s my new favorite,” Liz replied.
“Wait,” Bobby interrupted. “Could the secret ingredient be sake?”
“Wow, you’re good,” replied Jasmine. She winked at him broadly, wiped the counter, and hustled on.
Liz held in her amusement as he watched Jasmine for a bit. Jasmine was a lovely piece of work, and to Liz’s thinking, much more to Bobby’s style. She lifted one of the forks out of the specially designed tray, closed her eyes, and slid the bite-sized morsel into her mouth, artlessly sighing with the pleasure.
“You had best stop that, or I might be tempted to throw you down right here on the bar,” he said, surprising her. She snapped her eyes open and had to refocus: He was about two inches from her nose.
She leaned back, grinned, and handed him one of the forks. “They’re the second best thing to suck down your throat. You can’t judge until you’ve tried one of these,” she purred in response. She offered to feed him and watched with pleasure as he got it. Sometimes simple foods were just perfect.
Liz shared a few more with him as they ate and chatted. She’d reeled him in; what should she do with him? He’d have a room, and he’d be fun. The more she pushed her horny self in that direction, though, the more the lingering look Armando gave her kept popping up.
Sighing, she abandoned the idea of rolling around hot and sweaty with doctor-boy. She would just be thinking of Armando.
She needed to clear her head. She needed to get out into the night.
* * *
She‘d rediscovered her love of the night as she’d recovered from Sam’s death. Even in this crazy nightlife town, she had no fear of being in the dark. She often felt like she had a guardian angel watching over her. No one ever bothered her or harassed her. Unlike feeling invisible in any upscale department store, this was a welcome gift, letting her roam with her cameras, catching the calling power of the moon.
Liz did a quick change in the back seat of her car behind the studio, ditching the heels, dress, and shawl for her emergency night clothes: black cargo pants, gray T-shirt, and running shoes. Reminding herself about the recent articles about strange animals in the city, she put her pistol and permit in her right thigh pocket. She slung her camera pack onto her shoulders and plopped a knit cap over her evening curls. She’d thought about going into the studio to change, but she didn’t want to run into Armando, not until she’d figured out her response to him.
She sighed and stared up at the bright Klieg lights of the new construction across the back parking lot from the studio. She’d come to accept the constant reconstruction of the Strip, thankful at least that they rebuilt on the same land here instead of destroying new acreage. She did love the geometry of construction, the complex angles, the smoky dust, and the contrast of soft human shapes against the rigid lines of steel and concrete. After working on a series of conventional shots, she had recently added thermographic images to the collection. The camera had set her back a bit, but she relished her new tool. That’s why she needed access to the studio for the special processing the images required.
She found the mark she’d left in the parking lot last week, set up the tripod on the same spot, and tried to keep the sequence of shots all from the same angle, hoping to capture the process of change over time. She pondered Armando as her hands automatically followed the nearly ritualistic habits of setting up her gear. She loved the hunter’s thrill of capturing the attention of a new guy, but she had limits, ones she consciously chose when she decided to be alive and have fun again. Armando looked way too young for her. She felt a certain wild power knowing she’d reeled in Bobby tonight; she didn’t usually want anyone that young. It was such a bother to explain stuff to the younger ones. But she gave herself a pat on the back: She could have had him, no doubt.
Did that apply to Armando, too? She wasn’t sure. The way he’d looked at her tonight made her juicy and jumpy, ready to run, but in which direction? If she pursued him, wouldn’t she have to lea
ve her job? Sam’s will and investments had left her with enough money to be basically comfortable, so she didn’t need the income, but she did want access to all that photo-processing gear and large-format printers.
Her hormones gave her ever-practical mind a slap-down. Her lust for him was more powerful than her usual attractions, as if some extra sexual gear was engaged in her juicy bits. Shivers raced up and down her arms.
She sighed and swatted the idea away, bringing herself and the image back into focus.
She took long, steady breaths as she lined up her shots. Although the digital SLR meant she had to use the viewfinder, she had practiced stepping back to get the steadiest image. In a point-and shoot world, she’d had to develop the discipline of slow, steady shutter pressure to get the exposures she wanted. The thermal camera was more subject to shake than her others, so she’d learned to be still and silent. It paid off in sharply focused weird colors. She gently released the shutter and studied the image.
She turned at the voices far behind her and was startled that anyone had gotten within fifty feet of her without her noticing them sooner. Maybe she’d better pay more heed to the recent chatter about desert animals coming into town.
Two guys were squaring off in the alley near the studio. She couldn’t see their faces. By instinct, she grabbed the long zoom lens and camera from her bag and quickly changed the lens on the thermal camera, swiveling it towards the two. She recognized Armando, but who was this other guy?
“I told you I would handle this,” Armando said, his voice a harsh growl. “I’m the law for this region. You will wait for me to finish.”
Liz pressed the extended trigger from the tripod.
“The new guys are literally pissing all over our turf,” the other man said, “leaving their mark to shake us up. They need to go away or get with the program.” Only a bit shorter than Armando, he had a bulldog build, thick around the neck and shoulders, bringing to mind a wrestler or body builder, muscles used to weight and action. Even his hair reminded Liz of a pit bull, trimmed almost to nothing on the sides, fading up to a slight thatch of silvery white over the top. He chested into Armando’s space.
The Wild Side: Urban Fantasy with an Erotic Edge Page 4