P.I.T.A. (L.A. Liaisons Book 3)

by Brooke Blaine

  I pursed my lips, tossing that backup plan around as a just-in-case. Dawson and his parents co-owned Dawson Global Entertainment, which owned some of the biggest sports and concert venues in the world. As much as I joked that Dawson didn’t do a damn thing, he was, in fact, the schmoozer who got the deals made. Sort of impressive. Maybe. A little.

  “That’s not a terrible offer,” I said. “I suppose the perks of meeting Madonna or the LA Galaxy on a regular basis is a pretty good perk. I mean, it doesn’t really compare to chasing down drunken bridesmaids, but…”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You could already have those perks whenever you want them.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, waving him off. I wasn’t about to call in any favors with Richard Dawson; he might ask for something I wasn’t willing to give in return.

  As if he could read my thoughts, he shook his head and tossed back the remainder of his drink. “My parents would be just as accommodating, Pita.” He caught the bartender’s eye and indicated another round.

  “I know they would,” I said, and then followed Dawson’s lead by draining the rest of my glass. “What the hell did you do so right in this life that you ended up with kickass parents? They would never run off and leave you. I bet they think the sun shines out of your ass.”

  “They think it shines out of yours too, though I’m baffled as to why at this moment.” As the refreshed drinks were set in front of us, Dawson said, “Could we also get two rounds of Goldschläger? Thanks.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. No. Absolutely not.”

  Dawson swiveled on the chair to face me. “What exactly are you objecting to?”

  “Gee, where do I start. First, you can’t sit here anymore. We’ve had our nice-nice catchup chat, but you’re a cockblock and you know it.”

  “I see. Yes, you seem to be fighting so many options…” he said, looking around the room, where it seemed everyone was involved in conversation, no perusing to be had. His lips twisted like he was trying to fight back a smile. “And the second?”

  “You know what happens when I drink Goldschläger. So, no. I’m absolutely not doing a shot. Not with you, not by myself, and not with the sex machine that will be sitting in that seat when you move your ass.”

  When the bartender came back with the order, Dawson picked up one of the squat glasses filled with flecks of gold in a clear liquid and leaned in toward me, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Who said these were for you, love?” Then he threw back the first shot, the strong cords in his throat taut, and—

  Wait, ew, stop. That I even noticed had a shudder racking through me. At least that was what I was telling myself had caused the shiver.

  “All right,” I said, and even to my ears, my voice sounded huskier than usual. I cleared my throat. “You’re good and liquored up. You can move on now.”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” he said, pushing the shot of cinnamon schnapps in my direction.

  “Absolutely not.” I pushed the shot back toward him.

  “Yes, ma’am. Get to it.”

  “You’re off your ass if you think I’m gonna drink that shit.”

  “Humor me.”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m gonna wear you down.”

  I laughed. “You can try, but you’ll get tired of waiting, and then that brunette over there will swing her hips in your direction and you’ll be powerless to resist. She’ll do these shots, you’ll get your fill, and all will be right in the world.”

  When Dawson gave a listless shrug and said, “Eh,” I narrowed my eyes.

  “What?” I said. “Don’t tell me you’re getting bored with the game.”

  “Are you finally admitting there is a game?” His eyes gleamed with challenge, like he’d been waiting for me to confess to a crime and the moment of truth had finally come. The intensity of his gaze unnerved me, and I looked away.

  “If I do this stupid shot, will you leave me alone?” I asked.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Only one way to find out.”

  “Dawson—”

  “You seem to be holding back from me for some reason,” he said, his head angled to the side and his gaze roving over my face. “Not sure what I did to deserve the caution, but let’s remember we used to be friends.”

  “Friends shmends,” I mumbled, rubbing my forehead. When a couple of tendrils escaped my ever-loosening updo, I sighed. Great. Hot mess alert.

  “Come on, Paige,” Dawson said, and reached out to finger one of the loose curls before tucking it behind my ear. “Don’t be scared. For one night, let loose with me.”

  Did he say scared? Me? Scared? Of Dawson? Absofuckinlutely not. No, I wasn’t about to let him win whatever mind game this was, so I did what any woman in my position that wanted to prove a man wrong would do.

  I took the goddamn shot.

  And the heat that flowed through my veins and had my body relaxing was so welcome that, five minutes later, I took another.

  A half-hour later, I was facing Dawson with his legs on either side of mine to keep me steady on my barstool, and I had to admit, I was feeling juuuuuust fiiiine.

  Slapping my hand on the bar, I continued raving about how amazing I’d be at marriage should I choose to do something that stupid. Which I wouldn’t. Ever. But it still had to be said. “I mean, come on. I’d be the best wife eveeerrrr. I’d let him have time with his buddies and go golfing or play polo or whatever it is rich husbands do in their spare time. There’d be mouthwatering food on the table because I’m basically Martha fucking Stewart, and I would always make sure his…needs were met.”

  Dawson’s lips curved. “Oh, would you? You’d attend to his needs every day?”

  “Every day?” I snorted. “More like at least three times a day.”

  “Really.”

  “At a minimum. Extra time for good behavior.” When Dawson arched an eyebrow, I put my drink down. “What? I’m a giving kind of person. I do for others. And…well, maybe I’m a hungry girl.”

  “You’re something, all right.”

  “Something good?” I teased.

  Dawson chewed the inside of his lip as his eyes wandered over my face, and didn’t answer right away. But whatever he found must not have been too bad, because a slow smile crept across his face. “Yeah, Pita. Something real good.”

  Stomach. Fucking. Flip.

  Another shot later, and we’d taken to getting better acquainted with our “now” selves with rapid-fire Q&As.

  “Hottest one-night stand you’ve ever had?”

  “A lady never spills her secrets,” I said, and simulated zipping my lips shut and tossing away the key.

  Dawson’s gaze swept around the room, and then his lips twitched. “I don’t recall seeing a lady at this bar.”

  That was worthy of a knee punch. “Ass. Least favorite foreplay dessert?”

  “Honey, hands down. That stuff should be used to wax the body, not be eaten off the body.”

  My head fell back as I laughed, and I didn’t realize the rest of me was also falling backward until Dawson’s strong arm wrapped around my waist. And for that moment, with me helpless in his grasp and almost nose to nose, I realized how potent his charm could be. Funny, it’d been so long since we’d hung out that I’d forgotten.

  “Careful there, Pita,” he said, chuckling as he pulled me back up onto my stool, though I knew he wasn’t any better off than I was. He’d gotten the hiccups twice already.

  “Thanks,” I breathed out, waiting for my head to stop swimming.

  “How long’s it been since we’ve done this?” he asked, his forehead scrunching as he seemed to search his brain archives. “Junior year of college, right?”

  “Kami’s Halloween party, sophomore year,” I replied without hesitation, and when it registered five seconds later what I’d said, my smile fell.

  Dawson’s eyes shot to mine. “That’s…specific.”

  “Good memory, I guess.” It took me three tri
es to get the straw between my lips so I could suck some more of the sweet liquor out of my glass, which turned out to be a good thing, because it helped me completely avoid looking at him. I had no idea where that bit of info had come from and why I’d said it out loud, but I wasn’t about to bring up why that night was so ingrained in my head and why he wouldn’t remember. Everything between us had changed in the span of those few hours, and the fact that he hadn’t ever wondered why stung a little.

  Come on, I’m only human, and I said a little, not a lot, so don’t go accusing me of someone who wears all her emotions on her sleeve like some sentimental sap. Because I’m not. At all. Even if those memories had my chest starting to ache in a way that wasn’t familiar.

  I rubbed my breastbone, as if that would ease the pang. Where had those thoughts come from?

  That strange flippy thing went off in my stomach again.

  Lucky timing had the bartender setting another round of shots in front of us, and as I picked mine up, a bit of the liquor spilled over the lip of the full glass onto my fingers.

  “What should we cheers to this time?” I asked, switching my glass to my other hand so I could lick off the excess. Dawson’s eyes followed the movement, and I felt the heat of his gaze everywhere. And I do mean fucking everywhere.

  You’re treading on dangerous territory, Paige, the small voice in my head warned, but I didn’t need my conscience telling me what I already knew. Hell, I’d known walking out of the Bellagio earlier that going anywhere with the man opposite me was going to lead me to places I knew better than to venture to, but I’d done it anyway. Couldn’t blame the alcohol for that—I never did anything I didn’t want to, even inebriated. Which meant…

  Dawson lifted his glass. “To a night of pleasant surprises.”

  “To pleasant surprises,” I agreed, and then drained my shot.

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  12 a.m.…

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  2 a.m.…

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  4 a.m.…

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  Zzz.

  CHAPTER THREE

  That’s What You Get

  (For Waking Up in Vegas)

  THE FIRST THING I noticed when I woke up the next morning—was it morning?—was the pounding in my head. Wait, was that in my head or was someone at the door? I tried to lift my neck, but it felt like someone was pushing it back down. Yep, the hammering was definitely inside my brain.

  But there was another muffled noise that sounded faintly like my ringtone. I reached out and patted down the sheets next to me, searching for the source. Nope, it was coming from somewhere else. Peeling my eyes open, I groaned, and then squinted in the darkened room. It was empty other than myself, thank God, and the tiniest sliver of golden light peeking through the curtains told me it was later than I’d originally thought.

  The ringing stopped and I waited for it to start back up again, but it stayed silent. Where the hell had I put that blasted thing, and why couldn’t I remember?

  Crawling over to the edge of the bed, I peered down and frowned. With the way my whole body ached like I’d been in a high-speed collision, I’d fully expected to see my hotel room in complete disarray, which would be normal for what my housekeeper referred to as “Hurricane Paige after a night out.” But everything looked in order—eerily so. Clothes usually landed wherever I stripped them off, but the dress I’d worn last night was laid neatly over the back of a corner chair, and on the floor beside it, my heels waited expectantly for me to slip them back on. My suitcase wasn’t sprawled open like I’d left it, but neatly zipped and pushed against the closet door.

  Um…was I in the right room?

  I sat up in the bed and took a better look around. Plush drapes in alternating shades of red and grey. The picture of a seriously short miniskirt across from the wall-size window that, if the curtains were open, would look out over Las Vegas. The shower wasn’t running, so no one in a towel would be popping out to surprise me, which was a good thing, because I was very naked between these sheets. Yeah, it looked like the suite I’d checked into two days ago, all right, but I couldn’t have told you how I’d gotten there. The last thing I remembered was…making a scene at my parents’ anniversary party. Dawson carrying me out like some sort of fireman hero. What else? Chandelier bar and shots with—

  Shit. Oh shit shit motherfucking shit.

  Shots. With Dawson. Goldschläger bombs of hell, which never failed to wipe my memory of anything that happened while that poison was still in my body.

  But…we didn’t…there was no way we…

  I jerked my head toward the other side of the bed for the evidence that he’d been here, but the sheets were tucked in neatly on that side, there was nothing on the nightstand, no wayward men’s shoes or socks or clothes or anything to indicate I hadn’t been alone since I got here.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I kicked the covers off and went to stand up, but the movement sent a wave of dizziness crashing over me, and I had to reach for the nightstand to help me plop my ass back down on the mattress. I kicked against something pushed up against the nightstand, and when I looked down, I saw that someone had set my purse there.

  I say someone because I would never put my purse on the ground; a purse on the floor is money out the door, as the saying goes. And, being a fan of money, I’d go out of my way to make sure it was on high ground.

  My phone went off again, and this time I could tell exactly where the sound was coming from. I tossed the Hermès on the bed and rifled through it until I found my cell. A picture of Ryleigh lit up the screen, and as I hit the answer button, I grabbed the pillows next to me, piling them against the headboard so I could lean against them. When I collapsed onto the fluffy cushions, a familiar puff of men’s cologne filled my nose, and my body seized.

  “About time you answered, you slutbagging whore,” Ryleigh said when the line connected, but I couldn’t seem to force sound out of my mouth.

  No. No, please tell me I didn’t…

  Turning my head toward the pillow, I took in a deep breath, because surely I’d just imagined what I—

  Oh holy fuck. Uh, I hadn’t imagined it. The scent was strong—and there was no mistaking L’Homme YSL…all the fuck over my bed.

  “Paige? You there?”

  A flash of a memory hit me like I’d been Tasered, an image of legs tangled, rolling in white sheets…these sheets… I sprang up and sucked in a breath.

  Oh my God. What happened last night?

  “Are you there? Are you okay?”

  “No,” I said, covering my eyes as if that would block out what was in my head. No such luck. “I mean, yes, I’m okay.”

  “There you are,” she said, sounding relieved. “For a hot minute I thought you’d been abducted and were trying to give me a sign of where to send the police.”

  “No, it must be a…bad connection or something.” Another memory—the feel of threading my fingers through his long hair… I squeezed my eyes shut in an attempt to block out what I knew to be impossible. There was no way I’d done that, and definitely not with him. I was hallucinating. Someone slipped something in my drink. Or I’d had too much Goldschläger, and—

  Oh dammit. I’d had Goldschläger. The bowels of hell itself couldn’t have been more horrifying.

  “…and I wanted to run it by you,” Ryleigh finished, but I couldn’t have guessed at what she’d been saying.

  “Uh, sorry, could you repeat that?”

  There was a pause. “You sure you’re all right? If this is a bad time, I can call back.”

  “No, it’s fine, really. I just had a late night. What’s up?” Other than the fact that I might’ve slept with enemy number one.

  “Oh, that’s right, you’re working. I’ll call when you get back to L.A.—”

  “Ryleigh. Spit it out.”

  “Okay, okay,” she said, over the sound of chat
tering in the background and fifties music, which meant she was at Licked. I made myself focus on what she was saying and not the…other distractions. I’d think about that later.

  “I got a call this morning that Heather broke her leg skiing at Keystone over the weekend, which means I’m down a server for the next few weeks. I’ve already scheduled time off for the rest of the girls, and I hate to backtrack on that, so I thought I’d see— Shit, hang on.” She pulled the phone away. “No, we can’t serve the Blue Balls sundae today,” I heard her say. “Why not? Because Amber accidentally added red food coloring and now they’re purple, that’s why. So unless we want to do a one-day special and call it Kicked in the Groin…hold up. That’s not a bad idea. A pretty damn good one, actually… Go add it to the board and tell the others.” Then she came back on the line. “Sorry, Paige, I— Wait, hang on again. Hey—don’t forget the brown sprinkles,” she called out. “All right, I’m back.”

  “Brown sprinkles on bruised balls for dessert? Classy, Ry.” I chuckled, and then winced when the movement sent a shot of pain through my skull.

  “Don’t pretend like you wouldn’t be all over that if you were here. If anyone appreciates a good groin kick, it’s you.”

  I smiled at her words and thought of the time just last week when I’d had to pull that move out after an ass-groping while I’d been walking into the Roosevelt. My friends knew me well. “True. So, what is it you need my help with?”

  Ryleigh blew out a breath. “You mentioned the other day that you knew of a couple girls looking for internships.”

  “Yeah…”

  “Well, I need them. Pretty please. If they’re still free.”

  “Of course. I’ll touch base with them and—”

  The sound of a keycard beeping cut my words off, and then my hotel room door opened. I watched, stunned, as Dawson came striding inside with a large brown bag on his arm and a full coffee carrier. He smiled when he saw me, although he didn’t look surprised to see me still in bed, mouth hanging wide open.

  “Good morning, love,” he said, setting the bag labeled Fuel Cafe on the desk. As he began to unload the contents, he winked at me over his shoulder. “I thought you could use some caffeine after last night.”