by S. E. Hall
“These suites are five hundred dollars a night. JC should’ve given you a third-floor room or something.” He rolls those eyes I no longer think are striking as one corner of his mouth coils in disgust. “Great.” He runs a hand backward through his short, raven-colored hair. “Thatch’ll love this.”
I would normally crumble into a blubbery mess once the door was closed behind me, but not tonight. No, tonight, my defenses are beyond up, and I’m committed to the verbal spar; no backing down now. I’ve endured being abandoned in an unfamiliar city by my best friend, made to suffer through the acoustic play-by-play of his tactless sexcapades, and apparently been offered a room too good for me. Not to mention I’d not only had a few drinks downstairs, but since helped myself to some of the champagne in said room—shit, remind me to make Landry pay for that too—so I’ve got liquid courage flowing through my bloodstream.
Indignation blooms fast and furious in my chest, and my mouth once again runs amuck. “Ya know what, Don Juan? I appreciate the room, but having said that…” I gulp, searching my non-existent reservoir of scathing words, having already spewed more than I knew I knew. “Well, fuck you very much! My boobs are as real as my brain and my morals. A real man would know that makes me seventh-floor worthy! I belong on the low-rent third floor with the blue light specials about as much as you belong in, in a fairytale!” My chest heaves up and down when I fall silent, at a loss. I’ve never given a staggeringly handsome man a tongue lashing before. Do I storm away? Say more? I’m unsure of the protocol.
“And then there’s that.” He laughs softly, his bemused stare transfixed on what I’m sure is my enflamed face.
“There’s what?” I ask, baffled. One second we’re dancing, then holding what I thought was an amicable conversation, next we’re screaming and insulting each other for reasons unknown, and for the grand finale, he’s back to flirting! I don’t pretend to know the ins and outs of courtship, but I’d venture to say… this isn’t how it’s done.
“Intelligible wit and substance, two things I haven’t encountered in way too long. You’re this big.” He squints one eye and holds up a small gap with his thumb and index finger. “Very deceiving wrapping for so much content.”
I shrug, unsure if he’s speaking rhetorically… or what the appropriate response is if he’s not.
“Then again”—his head tilts, as though he’s deliberating—“few things have the insides to justify their shiny outsides, so add ‘standing corrected’ to the list.”
Not the worst thing he’s said...
“So, um”—I fidget, subtly backing through my open door—“can I stay here, or do I need to move to the third floor?” I hold up a hand when his mouth opens. “I’m extremely grateful for any room you can spare, and I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I’m sure there’re some very lovely women down there. Not what I meant at all.”
“Not what I meant at all either. Nor would I be apologizing to people who didn’t even hear me.” He smirks then takes me completely aback—to the point I flinch—by tapping the end of my nose. “Stay true to yourself, and quit judging me, spouting off things you don’t mean and will berate yourself for saying later.” Eyes back to their stunning shade of blue with an extra twinkle thrown in, he leans farther into me. “And in the interest of staying true, admit it—you listened the whole time, wondering how I’d feel on you, in you, what dirty things I’d make you do.” With one cocked brow, he goads me to argue or deny it, as sure of my inner thoughts as he is accurate. “I’d be grumpy too. Enjoy the room, Teaspoon.”
Just like that, he turns and leaves, mumbling what I think sounded like, “Maybe I should quit fucking them.” I shake off my wonderment and retreat into my free garden. As I lie in the wasted, beautifully provocative bed and stare at the ceiling, I think of anything and everything I can…besides this weird-as-hell night.
I guess what they say about Vegas is more than some catchy slogan—anything can happen.
When the scalding shower’s all but burned off my top layer of skin and doused any remnants of inane, desolate sex off me, I collapse on my bed and will my brain to turn off long enough to allow my body some rest. Any time I try to sleep, no matter how physically exhausted I am, my mind insists on reeling and fighting against me.
I detest “victims” who hobble around on mental crutches their whole life, yet here I lay, haunted and bitter. Every single reason I have to be a cynical asshole, I wear like my very own heavy wooden cross to bear.
I’m a replica of that which I loathe.
And I’ve never been good at alone. Leads to thinking. Which is exactly why, when Reece made it clear I’d be spending the night without her, I ensured that didn’t equate to alone.
The minute Reece turned her back to make a phone call and what’s-her-name sidled by, I knew I’d make the wrong decision, the “Rhett” decision—pussy over propriety. I might’ve stood a chance if she’d been anyone else, but I’d had my eye on that particular prize for the last few weeks, ever since she started coming around, shooting a… I don’t care—in Vegas. A centerfold three times running, her pictures keep boys and grown men alike, the world over, from being able to sleep on their stomachs. And the guy most often at her side—young, single and a renowned “Most Eligible Bachelor”—turned the real challenge into theft, which appealed to my baser competitiveness even more than simply getting my dick in her.
“You as bored as I am?” she asks in throaty, feminine invitation.
“I could get that way. Why do you ask?” I shoot her a look of interest from the corner of my eye.
“You’ve had more than one eye on me for a while now. Wanna find out?” Her hand brushes my ass while her saucy eyes reel me in.
“And your bachelor?” I ask, purely for vexing foreplay. I’m unconcerned with the answer.
She holds up her pinkie finger and wiggles it, a faux pout on her lips. “Not even worth slipping off both pant legs. But you—”
“Give me fifteen minutes.” I slide the card from my pocket and slip it into her hand while making a show of an obligatory hug and kiss to each cheek for a high-profile patron. “Hawaiian Delight Suite, sixth floor.”
“I don’t get kept waiting.” She walks backward. “I’m going now, and if I turn around and you’re not right behind me, don’t ever bothering looking again.”
You know what I chose, portraying the role of vapid puppet impeccably.
What it all boils down to is bitterness. Envy is a silent, cold-blooded killer, extinguishing a little more life from me every day. I envy Liz, my once best friend and only girl I’ve ever paid prose to. We grew up as neighbors, inseparable, and not too long ago, I thought we were each other’s everything. Both from affluent families with money to blow and the mutual burning desire to flee our town of misery as fast as possible, we spent years on the road together in our semi-serious band, See You Next Tuesday. But one new male guitarist later, she finally found her “where I’m supposed to be,” and well… I’m not on the road in a band anymore, now am I?
I’m jealous as hell of my brother, Jarrett. Also while in the band, he met Vanessa—and immediately took to walking on air. Even now, with that seemingly serious romance burnt to ashes, he’s already giving off vibes of an expeditious comeback. A perpetual “happy-go-lucky fucker,” the cruel wrath of what our father “knew best” never quite penetrated or tainted Jarrett’s internal makeup. As it did mine.
I’m resentful of every band and its every member booked at the casino; they’re on stage, doing what they love. Hell, even on the nights I too take the stage, they’re happier—trust me. Life is making a fool of me, and one thing I’d like to think I’m not, is a fool.
Yet before the thought’s complete, foolishly, I cave, roll to my side, and open the nightstand drawer. Letting the sleeping pill dissolve under my tongue, immune now to the metallic taste (much like sucking on pennies), I close my eyes and try to erase the many different images of Reece that play on the backs of my lids. The sultry version,
her complete abandon as she submitted, mind and body, to our dance; her playful smile when we talked; the look of fear and disappointment as I “offloaded” her onto JC to pursue a meaningless fuck, and my personal favorite—her sassy mouth and jealous-as-all-hell scowl in the hall.
Which reminds me—JC thinks he’s a funny man, putting Reece in the room right beside the one he knew damn good and well I’d be using. Or perhaps that was his clever way of earning her favor? He’d best think the fuck again; Reece isn’t an option for him. She apparently isn’t an option for me either. Fine, but that means we’re all a no.
I’m backpedaling, getting myself worked up over a chick? One I barely know and whose tricks aren’t that original—be the girl who stands out among the masses by shooting me down, making me chase it—but they worked, didn’t they? I’m lying here thinking about her instead of the one I just banged. Obviously I need rest, so I try to dismiss all thoughts and regrets and conjure up some new song lyrics until sleep takes mercy upon me.
In what I’d swear is only minutes after I’d finally fallen asleep, the repetitive trill of my phone—more specifically the annoying “Your brother’s calling” ringtone Jarrett found and programmed in—wakes me. Groggier than normal, I grapple around blindly and hear the damn thing hit the floor.
“Fuck!” I sit up, scrubbing my hands over my face in hopes of moderate coherency, and stretch to reach the—once more for shits and giggles—ringing phone.
“What?” I yell in his ear, falling back on my pillow. Wasted movement, because there’s not a doubt in my mind that this call, no matter how it begins, will end with me leaving my apartment.
“Bro, I’ve had enough screaming for, well, ever. Listen, I need your help.”
“With what? Shit, what time is it? Where are you?”
“Quit yelling. My head’s about to split open, okay?”
“Okay, buttercup,” I reply in sarcastic, but hushed, mockery. “Can you please enlighten me as to your location?”
“I’m outside the police station, in Landry’s car.”
Well, I’m up now. I have a newfound clarity in spite of the sleeping aid. “Explain to me your route from Point A to Point Pokey. What the hell, Jarrett?”
“Vanessa called the cops, said she felt threatened while she was at my place packing her shit. I was buzzing, and a picture of us may have flown across the room and accidentally hit the wall.” He heaves out a sigh, more dejection than anger. “So they hauled me in. Landry posted bail and talked to her dickhead. He’s gonna make himself scarce for a while, let Landry get her stuff out of their place in peace. I mean, he got Ness, so of course he’s happy and cooperative.”
“Hey!” Landry protests in the background, accompanied by what I’m pretty sure is a slap on his arm.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he coddles her in some voice I don’t ever want to hear again.
“So, go get her stuff. Why am I awake?”
“She’s got big furniture. She can’t lift it, and I’m pretty sure Dickwrinkle won’t help me. Come on, Rhett. If it was pussy, you’d already be there. Oh, and Landry wants you to bring the smokin’ hot midget with you. By the way, I get the whole spinner thing, but no way you’ll be able to sixty—ow! The fuck, woman?” He got slapped again.
“Bring Reece!” Landry yells and Jarrett winces, shushing her volume. “I need her!”
“Don’t say shit like that about her again, or you’ll wish it was Landry hitting you, yes?”
“My bad, I meant little person.”
“Yeah, ‘cause that’s the part I was worried about.” I shake my head.
“Sorry, geez, you could probably make sixty-nine work,” he grumbles.
“Just stop, you’re gonna sprain something. And watch it, I’m not kidding.”
He doesn’t need to respond further; he already knows.
“And Reece isn’t with me. She’s in a suite at Goldsbury and I’m at home,” I grit through a clenched jaw, especially aggravated because… you tell me, and we’ll both know.
“She’s what?” The struggle for the phone’s audible, then Landry’s squawking in my ear. “I trusted you with her and you left her alone in a hotel in Vegas? What the fuck is wrong with you? Reece’s not, she doesn’t—”
“Me? You don’t even know me, and I was trusted? Last time I checked, Reece is a grown woman who not once asked for a sitter.” Quite the opposite in fact. She made it amply clear that her night with me ended… right when it ended. “Just calm down. I’ll go get her and we’ll meet you there. Text me the address. And maybe look around for a mirror there, best friend. She trusted you not to leave her at all!”
“Who is it?” her sleepy voice finally calls out after I’ve been lightly knocking for at least five minutes.
“It’s Rhett,” I whisper into the door seam. I don’t need all of floor six to wake up and witness this.
“Are you high or lost?” she asks haughtily. “No way am I opening this door to you.”
I turn my head at the chuckle behind me. There’s Thatcher in his black boss suit, looking sharp, unlike me, and making his way over with a patronizing grin. “Problem? Saw ya on the monitor. You know, if we need to revisit what DL means, I can make time for that.” He claps me on the shoulder with one hand, straightening his tie with the other.
“Who’s out there with you?” Reece hisses. “A gang bang is more likely to be had next door, if you can wrangle up another supermodel.”
Thatcher’s eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead as he bites in his laugh. “You need help?”
“No.” I bang my head against the door and leave it there. “Tea, open up. The boss is out here and I can’t have this scene in the hallway. Landry needs you. She sent me to come get you.”
“She knows my number. Why didn’t she call me herself?”
“I. Don’t. Know. Now open the door, or I’m coming in my own way.” Which would definitely ruin the “no scene” plan.
I hear the chain drop, the lock turn over, then two green eyes and a button nose peek through a miniscule crack. “Is she all right?” Her small voice trembles.
“Yeah.” I nod and exhale. “Please let us in.”
She backs up, allowing a wide berth between herself and our entry. She clutches the front of her robe in a white-knuckle grip, her huge, trepid eyes glued on Thatcher.
He notices and steps forward with his hand extended. “Thatcher King. Nice to meet you…”
“Reece Kelly.” She juts her chin up proudly and shakes his hand with gusto. “And to what do I owe your visit, may I ask?” she requests with calm warrant, no bite.
His shoulders bounce with his silent laughter. “You may. I’m the boss here and saw Rhett’s little dilemma on the monitors. Thought I’d come see if I could be of assistance. JC might have also mentioned a problem in the club last night and that he comp’d a lovely lady a room on six. My job is to make sure all is well and to your satisfaction.” He lifts her hand and kisses her knuckles. “Do I know you?”
A sweet flush, the likes of which I’ve caused before, warms the apples of her cheeks. “No!” she answers too quickly, too defensively. “I mean, no, not that I’m aware of.”
“Hmmm…” He considers her.
“No way, man. So far from your type it isn’t even funny.” I step between them, dislodging her hand from his claws, and turn her by the shoulders. “Get dressed and let’s go help your friend. I’m tired, and we only have a little time that her ex is gonna cooperate.”
“Fine. Should I wear the robe for extra warmth?”
“What?”
She swivels back to me and reaches up to tug on my beanie. “I just thought maybe I missed a cold snap in the zany, unpredictable weather of Las Vegas. I don’t have anything with me besides the robe to protect me from the harsh elements.” She wraps her arms around herself and shivers like a lil’ smartass.
“Why, thank you Tea.” I wink at her.
Her little face twists in confusion. “For?”
“No, not what I said and not what’s happening.”
“You noticed enough to mention it. You sure ‘bout that?” I slant a brow in taunting question.
“Positive.” She rolls her eyes and turns to walk away, glancing over her shoulder to give Thatch a finger wave and gorgeous smile—a.k.a. fucking with me. “Nice to meet you, Thatcher King, boss man.” Then she closes the door to the bathroom.
“Don’t ask,” I warn him, walking to the door and opening it in unsubtle invitation to leave.
“I’ll go, but you had Penny Parsons last night if rumor serves me right?”
“Doesn’t matter. This girl’s never even heard of the shit you’re into, trust me. And she lives halfway across the country, only here for a visit. So get it out of your head, now.”
“Methinks thou doth protest too much.” He chuckles.
“You’re right, I do. Now go. I’m in a hurry to help out Jarrett.”
“You’re also a chump.” He bro-slaps my face twice with a tsk. “Later.”
“Reece, let’s roll!” I urge her just as she emerges from the bathroom, back in last night’s outfit, her shiny blond hair pulled up.
She smirks infectiously, brushing by me. “Lead the way.”
I take her out the back way, avoiding another run-in with Thatcher, JC or any other hard-on who wants a turn at the “Reece Welcome Committee.” Barely out the door, I stay well in her peripheral as I cautiously approach her. Always advance on the tiny creature in an unaggressive and calming manner, or they’ll dart off. Remember, they’re more scared of you than you are of them.
“That one.” I touch her elbow and steer her left, pointing at the cherry red ‘69 Shelby Mustang I splurged on. My baby.
I open her door and help her in, then round the hood. As I do, her immediate movement catches my eye and sparks a fond memory that plays so vividly; I swear if I reopened my eyes, the brilliant, eccentric old fart would be standing right in front of me. My late grandfather, my favorite person in the world, just crept his way into my morning.