Submitting in Vegas

by Sam Mariano

  Now she pales. I flash her a cold smile. I’m bluffing, but she nearly fucked a gangster who just let me kick her out of his house, so she can’t know that. I could be a psycho bitch for all she knows.

  “Bye, Jessica,” I tell her.

  “That’s not my name,” she says, confused.

  I close the door in her face.

  Now that I’ve disposed of his drugged up whore, Rafe folds his hands on his stomach, still looking blissfully out of it. “Why are you at my house?”

  “I was bringing you the weekly reports. You didn’t come to the restaurant to get them last week, so I wasn’t sure if you were okay.”

  “I’m great,” he informs me.

  “Yes, I can see that,” I say, squatting down to pick up their gross drug mirror and razor blade. “Can I give you advice? Don’t let sketchy hoes around you with razor blades.”

  “That’s pretty good advice,” he admits.

  I nod my head, glancing back at him. “Drugs, Rafe? Really? Did you watch Goodfellas and think, ‘Hey, I need to be more like Henry Hill?’”

  Lifting his eyebrows, he says, “Hey, that’s a great movie.”

  “It is a great movie. Drugs are stupid.” Holding up the mirror, I tell him, “This is stupid. You are better than this.”

  “Juanita would kick my ass,” he informs me.

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “Hey, you kicked out my date,” he suddenly realizes, looking at the closed door.

  “I did. I don’t think you should see her again. She’s terrible.”

  “Why is she terrible?” he inquires. “Did you see her ass? Not terrible.”

  I groan, rolling my eyes at him and standing. “You’re high. A nice ass is no reason to go home with a crackwhore. Come on, stand up. Where’s your bedroom?”

  “I’m just saying, she had a nice ass,” he mutters, pushing up off the ground.

  “Yes, it was amazing. I’m going to write poetry about it as soon as I get home.”

  “I need a drink,” he tells me. “This is going to wear off soon.”

  I shake my head. “You’ve altered your mind enough for one night. How about a shower?” I suggest, seeing as he smells like a brothel.

  “You coming in with me?” he teases.

  My face flushes. “Certainly not. I have to dispose of your drug paraphernalia.”

  “This is a step above your pay grade,” he informs me, nonetheless following me out of the sex room and into the hallway.

  “Did you drive yourself here like this?” I ask him, visualizing the parking job that first set me to worrying.

  He doesn’t answer me.

  I look back over my shoulder, one expectant eyebrow already raised.

  He shoots me the most lethal puppy dog face anyone has ever delivered. My heart explodes in a puff of dust and my knees legitimately weaken. Good god, this man. It shouldn’t be possible to be so sexy and endearing when you’re such a hot mess. He’s high on cocaine, and I’m wondering what he does with that sex furniture.

  I can look it up later.

  “Come on, you rogue,” I mutter, leading him down the hall. “Promise me you will never get behind the wheel like this again. In fact, promise me you’ll never do something this stupid again, period, because this is so fucking stupid, it makes me angry.”

  “Oh no, I don’t want to make you angry,” he teases.

  “You don’t,” I tell him, with far more bravado than I actually warrant. “I’ll kick your ass if I ever find out you’ve done anything like this again.”

  “I’d like to see that,” he tells me, his voice laced heavily with amusement. “I’ll overpower you and tie your little ass up, but feel free to try.”

  My face is already hot with a combination of anger, concern, and embarrassment, but since he’s given me the opening, I go ahead and explore my own curiosity. “So… what was that room, exactly?”

  “My play room.”

  My face grows even hotter. “Play room, huh?” I hesitate, wondering if I should ask more. Will he remember this tomorrow? I’ve never done drugs, so I have no idea how this works. “What do you like to play?”

  “Want a demonstration?” he asks.

  Oh, God. Yes, I sort of do, but no way, not like this. I shake my head, not asking any further questions.

  My stomach is a knotted mess by the time I get him to his bedroom. I’m still carrying this damn mirror and razor blade, and I don’t really know what to do with them. My other hand is full of cheesecake, and the folder is tucked under my arm.

  I feel a little out of my league when I consider my weapon of choice to ease his heartache was cheesecake, while Jessica Rabbit (who is probably more on his level) offered cocaine.

  Ugh, Rafe.

  “Do you remember what you told me?” I ask him, as I put the cheesecake container down on his dresser, then the folder.

  “You’re going to have to be more specific, sweetheart,” he tells me.

  My stomach falters again, hearing an endearment slip from his lips. I turn to steal a glimpse of him and he’s still so beautiful, his eyes twinkling with amusement. I know he’s easygoing, but dammit, I need him to have enough sense not to do shit that could get him killed.

  “The relationship is over, not your life,” I tell him.

  His amusement fades fast.

  “But doing crazy shit like this because you’re hurting?” I hold up the mirror to make my point. “This could end your life. This is not the right way to exorcise your pain.”

  His dark eyes narrow with something like malice. My heart flips over in my chest, the first wave of trepidation I’ve ever experienced around him. Despite knowing his line of work, Rafe has never felt dangerous to me. Sure, he punched my dumb ex in the face once, but that’s not scary. It was awesome.

  Right now he moves closer, and his gait is predatory. I’ve never seen it before. Despite myself, despite trusting him, I find myself backing up until my ass hits the dresser.

  I can’t breathe properly as he closes in on me. Too much Rafe, too close to me. My heart races so fast, it falls into my stomach, but I refuse to break his gaze.

  “Then how should I exorcise my pain, Virginia?” he murmurs, slowly reaching toward my hair. My breath catches as he takes a dark lock between his fingers, rubbing the pad of his thumb over it, as if testing its texture.

  Clearing my throat, I debate how best to get out of this moment. Not because I’m afraid of him—I’m not. Sure, the drugs may have lowered his inhibitions, but Rafe wouldn’t hurt me. I believe that with a bone-deep certainty. My faith in him is unwavering, I just don’t want him to do something half-cocked that I’m going to have to remember long after his high wears off.

  “Want me to punch her in the face?” I offer.

  Surprise registers in his eyes, then he smiles, his predatory look melting into something more like tenderness. “I don’t think you can take her,” he tells me, warmly.

  “You might be surprised,” I tell him. Struck by an idea, I hold up a finger. “Wait, I know what will make you feel better.”

  He takes a tiny step back, just enough so I can turn and put the mirror down next to the cheesecake. I almost laugh again at the ridiculous difference in our offerings. Stupid crackwhore. If he ever brings her into the restaurant, I’m going to uncap the salt and dump it in her food. She’ll take one bite and want to throw up.

  Drawing my phone out of my pocket, I pull up a music app, type in a selection, and a moment later Rafe’s bedroom is filled with the sounds of Christina Aguilera telling us and everyone else in the early 2000’s how to get her genie out of the bottle.

  I flash Rafe a teasing smile, shimmying my hips to the beat of the music. “Come on, I know this is your jam.”

  His eyes trail down my body and back up to my face, part heart-stopping interest, part amusement. “You’re wearing too many clothes and you don’t have a protein shake.”

  I grin. “You remember that?”

  “It was
memorable. Not many women mock my masculinity.”

  Since this distraction is working, I go ahead and lip sync to the song, playfully trailing a finger down his chest. “Come on, dance with me.”

  I don’t expect him to take me up on the offer, and I’m not ready for it when his hands dart out and grab my hips. He yanks my hips against his, slowing down my movements, but sending my heart racing.

  My chest tightens as he gazes down at me, suddenly in control. I don’t know how it happened. I could have sworn I had the reins, but right now he places a hand at the small of my back, keeping my body pressed to his, and he makes me dance for him. It definitely didn’t feel sexy when I started playfully dancing around to distract him, but now I’m pressed tightly against his hips, and he is moving with me, and it’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced. Maybe it’s just because he’s him. Maybe it’s because I adore him so much. Then again, he has never lacked female adoration, so it’s probably just him.

  As the music plays, he pins me with his gaze, holds me captive with little more than a firm hand pressed to the small of my back and the intensity of his will. I know he wants me to keep moving, so I do. Even if the music stops, I don’t know if I will.

  I need to. If the difficulty I’m having simply breathing isn’t warning enough, the reminder that I sent his booty call home is. As it is, I’m never going to be able to turn on this song and not replay this moment. I turned it on as a joke, but it is now the sexiest song I have ever heard in my life because it is attached to this moment. It’s attached to him. Next time I bring him food and drink, it’s going to be so weird. Oh, God, I’m ruining everything. I need to get out of this moment. I don’t want to be the disposable body he buries his pain inside. I want to be around once he recovers and he’s himself again. I’ll never be able to if I let this go any further.

  My chest feels thick with dread. I don’t want to leave this moment. I want to stay here in it forever. If I have to listen to Christina Aguilera for the rest of my life, so be it.

  Can’t breathe, can’t breathe.

  I finally look away from his face, turn my head, submit for the moment. I can’t play with him. I can’t help him feel better that way. It will ruin everything forever, and it isn’t worth it.

  Clearing my throat, I search for a joke to tell to break the tension.

  Before I can come up with one, the song ends. His hand is still on the small of my back, but his body shifts. I start to panic, trying to figure out how to explain to him—without explaining anything—that I cannot sleep with him to make him feel better, but he doesn’t try to escalate things. Instead, he tugs me into his chest and wraps his arms around me like the warmest, safest shelter in the whole world.

  My whole being softens. My heart fills up, then overflows. I never really expected to know the feeling of being held in Rafe’s arms, and my brain is struggling to catch up with the fact that it’s actually happening.

  He’s hugging me.

  I’m too afraid to move, so I keep my arms awkwardly cradled in the shelter of his chest.

  “Everything hurts,” he tells me, quietly.

  Instantly, tears burn behind my eyes. They shouldn’t. No one hurt me this time, but his ache hurts my heart. I know he must be in immense pain, because I know Rafe, and this shit tonight is not him. He must really be hurting to fall down like this. I’m so angry at Cassandra, and I don’t even know if she did anything wrong. I don’t even care; she made him feel like this, and that’s enough to earn her a permanent spot on my shit list.

  Tugging my arms away from his chest, I secure them around his body so there’s nothing between us, so I can hug him back. “I know, Rafe. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’ve never felt this way before,” he states.

  I squeeze a little tighter, burying my face in his chest. I don’t know what to say. As many things as I have stored away in my head, I don’t have anything for that. “What happened?” I ask instead.

  “She left me for someone else.”

  “What could he possibly have that you don’t? A unicorn?”

  His chest shakes with light laughter, then settles. He’s quiet for a moment, then he says, “More power. He has more power.”

  That’s it? Power? Who gives a fuck about that? I exist on the outskirts of his world, so I don’t know what to say. I realize power does matter in his world, but it shouldn’t—not to his woman, anyway. His woman should love him for who he is, not for what he has. Who gives a damn how much power anyone else has if you can have Rafe? I wouldn’t leave Rafe for total world domination, so what could this other chump have that would make it worth it to her?

  God, what a dolt. Cassandra is the worst.

  “I know this probably doesn’t help right now, but she is the queen of idiots. All other idiots bow to her enormous idiocy. There should be an idiot parade, and she could be on the featured float. We could wave and laugh at how dim-witted she is. Schadenfreude, plain and simple.”

  He rubs my back a little absently, sighing. “Doesn’t really help. Thanks for trying, though.”

  “Well, you know what? I’m going to tell you something a wise man once told me. You’ve been hurt before, and you survived. You’ll be sad for a while, then you’ll be okay, and eventually you’ll be with someone a hell of a lot better than her. Eventually, you’ll be glad she weeded herself out of your life.”

  “Sounds like he was talking out of his ass,” he says lightly.

  “Nope, he was right. I’m living proof. He found me sobbing in the corner over some loser, and look at me now, no fucks to give about whatever-his-name-was. That’ll be you someday. Cassandra who?”

  “What’s in your box?” he asks.

  I blink at his swift change of subject. “Excuse me?”

  “You brought the paperwork folder, but you also brought a to-go box,” he says.

  “Oh.” I pull out of his embrace, turning and grabbing the box off the dresser. Popping it open, I announce, “Cheesecake.”

  His perfect lips curve up in amusement. “Cheesecake?”

  I nod. “I figured you might need cheesecake.”

  “That’s so wholesome,” he states. “Why didn’t you just bring me a pan of brownies you made for your church bake sale?”

  Ignoring his ribbing, I state primly, “You prefer cheesecake to brownies. Next time I’ll make you a whole cheesecake, how’s that? Just no cocaine. Chumps who do drugs don’t get comfort cheesecake. It’s one or the other, you can’t have both.”

  “What if I want both?” he teases. “I’m greedy.”

  I shake my head firmly. “Nope. I’ll throw every last bit of cheesecake in the trash.”

  “I’ll buy more,” he tells me.

  “I’ll throw all that away, too. All the cheesecake in the world, I’ll throw it all away. No one else will ever have cheesecake again, and it will be all your fault. Can you live with that on your conscience?”

  Cocking his head from left to right, he says, “Gee, I don’t know. My conscience is so clear now… robbing the world of cheesecake, that might be too far.”

  “Just promise,” I tell him, poking him in the chest.

  He grabs my finger and my gaze jumps to his. “I promise,” he tells me. “It was an impulse thing. I wasn’t planning to make a habit of it.”

  “No more recreational drug use ever,” I stipulate.

  “Done. I think you’re out of wishes now.”

  I smile, biting back the instinct to ask if I could get a wish refill for rubbing him again. He smells like a lot of things, but alcohol is certainly in there, so he’s probably drunk and high, and I did send his ho home. Instead of making the joke, I nod my head toward his master bath. “How about that shower?”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “If that’s your last wish, I’ll give you one more. Never let it be said I am not a benevolent genie.”

  A helpless smile steals across my face and I shake my head. “Not together. Just you.”

  “That’s less fun,” he
states.

  “Clearly you can’t smell yourself, or you would feel differently,” I inform him.

  “I might need help,” he tells me innocently. “What if I fall and hit my head on the shower wall? You’ll feel so guilty.”

  “I cannot help you shower. I do not have the mental or emotional capacity for that task. If you die, you die.”

  Rafe laughs, letting me shove him toward the bathroom. “Wow, you’re merciless.”

  “I cleaned up your drugs, kicked out your crackwhore, brought you cheesecake, and made sure you survived this stupid night. I’ve done my part here.”

  “Remind me to give you a good tip next time I see you,” he tells me, flipping on the bathroom light. He slows down and leans his back against the wall. His head hits with a dull thud, and I grimace, even though it probably didn’t hurt.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, watching his face. “Are you coming down? I know next to nothing about drugs. Strangely, this is not something I thought to research.”

  “Never dated anyone fun, have you?”

  “We might have different ideas of fun. Jessica Rabbit is not my idea of fun.”

  Blinking in confusion, he says, “Jessica Rabbit?”

  “The busty redhead in the red dress? Come on. Jessica Rabbit.”

  Now he nods his head. “Okay, I can see it.” He’s quiet for a long moment. I keep watch, because if he is coming down, I don’t know what that entails. Will he get ill? Sleepy? He should probably hurry up and get in the shower so he doesn’t pass out and wake up smelling like Jessica Rabbit.

  Clearing my throat, I tell him, “I’m gonna step outside, but I’ll leave the door open so I can hear in case you need me, okay? Take a shower real quick and we’ll get you to bed. I’ll go get you some water. You probably need water.”

  Smiling faintly, he says, “Look at you, taking care of me.”

  “And you don’t even have to tip me tonight,” I say lightly.

  “That makes you sound like a hooker,” he informs me.

  “Hookers probably make better money for less work,” I point out. Trying to keep him focused, I point toward the shower. “Get clean. I’m going to try to find the kitchen. Your house is ridiculous, by the way. Unless you have Snow White and the Seven Dwarves living here with you, I don’t know why you need this much space.”