Lust (Vegas Nights #2)

by Emma Hart

  “Your sister died?”

  “Uh, yeah.” She bit her lower lip and dragged it between her teeth. “About eight years ago now. Can I carry on?”

  “Sure.”

  “He’s always had people of interest be known to all the security. They have to literally memorize the faces of most of the police force on a semi-regular basis. Sam is never gonna get in there—neither are you.”

  I rubbed my hand down my face. “You’re sure about this?”

  “Sure as I can be.” She smirked. “I’m the one who used to print the info for the security team.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “If you really want to get into Goldies, you need to send a new officer in. A total rookie who’s been on the force less than three months.”

  I blinked at her. That was a terrible idea. “Can you get in there?”

  “With a good enough disguise,” she admitted slowly. Very. Slowly. “But that doesn’t mean I want to. In fact, I can’t think of a worse idea than that one right there.”

  Our drinks were put in front of us, and I handed the tender a bill with a, “Keep the change,” then turned back to Perrie. “If it really makes you that uncomfortable…But I don’t want to exactly send a rookie in there, either. We don’t have them on our team for this. They’re not skilled enough.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Isn’t that why I’m here? Because you’re all useless?”

  Goddamn it. Her being right was becoming an annoying regularity.

  “All right, all right. I’ll consider it.”

  She smiled serenely, her eyes twinkling. “I need the bathroom again.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  She slid off her chair gracefully and placed a hand on my shoulder. Leaning into me so that her hair brushed my cheek, she whispered, “The blond in black, ten o’clock by the slot machines. Send someone over there. She looks lonely.”

  I spun on the stool to face her, but all I got was the faint whiff of her perfume and a view of her ass as she sauntered away to the bathroom.

  It could have been worse.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Perrie

  There were some things I didn’t do.

  I didn’t sleep a lot. I didn’t pair socks before I put them back in the drawer. I didn’t dust as often as I probably should.

  I didn’t visit the graves of my mother and sister.

  In fact, I blocked them out completely. Those few years of my life where Penelope had overdosed and my mom had hung herself were little more than a blur to me. Their actions had set the course for my own, but to an extent, it felt like my destiny to be left alone was always written in the stars.

  I was an accident, after all. The product of a risky affair that was never meant to be serious.

  My biological father had been the first person to leave me, happily signing over all parental rights if my mom paid his legal bills.

  She did.

  Penelope was next. My perfect baby sister let the drugs take over, and eventually, they took her.

  Then Mom. The only reason I was even a part of that rich, obnoxious family took her life because she couldn’t bear to live in a world that Penelope wasn’t a part of.

  Then it was Dennis. Two weeks after I said the two magic words to him—“I’m pregnant”—he decided it was a good idea to get in his car when he was drunk as all get out and wrapped the shitty little Honda around a tree.

  Right about the time my father and brother told me I should abort my baby because I couldn’t do it alone.

  There was a strange sense of pride and self-righteousness about the fact I’d proved them wrong. Lola was the only person I had in this world, and it’d always been that way. Just the two of us, always.

  Now, sitting in front of the headstones that marked the final resting places of my mom and sister, I understood something.

  I hadn’t tried to find a real job as hard as I should have. I’d been abandoned by everyone in my life I’d ever loved. Pushed aside and forgotten or doubted. How was I supposed to get a real job when I knew I’d eventually be fired because I wasn’t good enough?

  I couldn’t live easily because the money that was mine, that Mom had left me as my share of the business, was inaccessible.

  Selling myself was the only job that made me worthless, that fit into the way I viewed myself every time I looked in the mirror. I was used and discarded like the shit I’d always thought myself to be, with nobody to lean on except my precious girl who I never wanted to be subjected to that side of her mom.

  I took a deep breath and perched on the edge of the wall. There were footprints in the dusty area before me, and two small bouquets of flowers brightened their graves. My gut told me my brother was the person responsible for those, and although I’d wanted to bring some, I was glad I hadn’t.

  He might know I was here if I had.

  Wrapping my arms around my stomach, my gaze flitted from stone to stone. It’d been years, literally, since I’d dragged myself to this side of town and made any form of connection with my family.

  Granted, making a connection with a living member was probably a smarter idea, but not everything I did was smart. As evidenced by my current work situation.

  Adrian seemed surprised when I’d mentioned that I had a dead sister. In turn, that had surprised me. I’d assumed he’d looked up everything he could find about the Fox family in the police archives. He wouldn’t have to look far. The fight my parents had put up for the coroner to label Penny’s death a homicide or accidental homicide was well-documented.

  It was probably used in crime classes. How to deal with parents who won’t let go, or something like that.

  I slowly exhaled. Their names were etched so perfectly in the stones, and I traced the letters over and over and over with my eyes. Every time, the memory of them cut a little deeper. The pain of losing them sliced a little harder.

  The way I missed them twisted a little more violently.

  Tears burned, but there was no way I was letting them go. I’d cried enough when they’d died.

  The flowers on their graves were bright and colorful.

  The tears stung at the sight of those.

  If I’d have come before, would I have met my brother in passing? Would I have stayed or ran? Would I have wanted to?

  My conversation with Dahlia swirled around and around in my mind.

  Why had she contacted me? Had he really told her everything? The idea that this stranger knew more about me than I did about her threw me. Why had he told her, if he had? Who was she to him? She was in love with him, but was he with her?

  I’d thought he loved me, once. He was my big brother. My protector. My confidante. The person I’d shared everyone with—my safe space, my best friend. There was nothing I couldn’t tell him.

  Losing Damien hurt almost more than my mom and sister. We’d gotten each other through it. He’d covered for me more times than I cared to count.

  The last time I’d seen his face was in the middle of a grocery store a few weeks after Lola was born. We’d stared at each other, then he’d asked me how I was. Asked me about her. Held her for mere seconds before she’d cried.

  I’d missed him ever since.

  I was staring the stones with the names of my mom and sister on, but I only could think of the very alive brother I’d lost right along with them.

  Death.

  Lies.

  Pain.

  Life.

  I slid down the wall, the scraping of it against my back less painful than the ache that coursed through my veins, and cried.

  On the dirty, dry ground of the cemetery with my back grazed thanks to the stone, I cried harder than I had in years.

  ***

  “Mommy.” Lola crept into my bedroom with the skill and silence of a hunting lioness. Her fluffy socks masked her usual loudness, and it was obvious my child didn’t feel the heat at all. At least, not at home.

  “Yes?” I released my hair from the curler and turned to
her.

  “I have a question.”

  “Okay.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed next to me and looked over at me. “Why can’t penguins fly?”

  I blinked at my reflection in the mirror. “I, er, I’m not sure. Did you try to Google it?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t spell penguin. How do you spell it?”

  “P-e-n-g-u-i-n.”

  “P-e-n-g-u-i-n,” she repeated. “Thanks, Mommy.”

  “You’re welcome.” Honestly, you’d think it’d be on their suggested searches at this point.

  Why couldn’t penguins fly?

  That was serious business. Why didn’t I know the answer?

  Because I was too damn busy doing laundry and spotting hookers for a living, that was why.

  She got up and disappeared quicker than I could say a word to her.

  I went back to curling my hair. She got more random as time went on, and I was at a point where going along with whatever she had to ask was the smarter option.

  Also: I wanted to know if penguins could fly. This one benefitted us both.

  I released the final lock of my hair from curling iron and turned it off. It beeped right before I did, and I set it on the heatproof mat that conveniently covered up the burn mark from the time I didn’t use the mat.

  I loosened the curls with my fingers, pausing at the sound of several knocks on the door.

  Who was that? If it was a solicitor, I was going to move my robe to the side and show them my stocking, because no doubt, they were a religious nut. Nobody else came into this neighborhood—just the ones who thought Jesus would save us.

  Sadly for them, Satan already claimed me. I didn’t know exactly how Jesus felt about prostitutes.

  “Mommy, it’s Zac! Zac’s here!”

  What the—

  “Lola! Do not answer the door!” I tripped over the curling iron cord on my way out of my room, grabbing the door handle. My arm grazed the edge of the door, but I could barely feel the sting, because my heart was pounding.

  Why was Zac here?

  More to the point—if Zac was here, so was Adrian. And why?

  “Zac! Hi!”

  The door creaked open.

  “Lola!” My voice was hard. “What did I just tell you?”

  From my position on the stairs, I could see her. She froze, hand still on the doorknob. I tugged my robe around me and tightened the belt before I was fully in view.

  “Get back inside. Now.”

  “But—” she started, turning.

  I hit her with a look that asked, “Do you think I care about your “but?”” and she did as I’d told her. Not without dipping her head and shuffling off with a sniff or three. All in the hopes of making me feel bad, of course.

  Unfortunately for her, it didn’t work.

  Conscious of the fact my robe wasn’t the most modest, I clutched it at my chest as I approached the front door. As I’d assumed, Zac was standing there, Adrian right behind him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  Zac wore shorts and a Marvel t-shirt, and Adrian was dressed for work. White shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbow, showing his dark ink off, and smart, black pants with shiny shoes.

  I looked at them both before meeting Adrian’s eyes. “Uh, hello?”

  “Hey.” He grimaced, almost looking sheepish as he returned my gaze. “Sorry—I tried to call. Could we talk?”

  I paused, the urge to be snarky rising inside me, but then I remembered…Zac. “Sure.” I stepped aside, gripping my robe a little tighter. “Zac, you wanna go through to the front room? Lola’s in there watching TV. Just down there.” I pointed in the direction of the room and with a nod, he walked off to find her.

  After a mutual moment of silence while he left, I motioned for Adrian to come inside and walked into the kitchen.

  He pushed the door closed, wringing his hands together before he turned. His hesitant gaze met mine, and I bit the inside of my cheek at his expression.

  “I have a problem.” He paused. “My sitter got called into work, my parents are out of town, and my sister’s sitter refuses to have Zac.”

  I blinked several times before going to the easiest point for me to respond to. “Why won’t your sister’s sitter have Zac?”

  “Well.” He shuffled side to side, looking more like an awkward teen than a muscular, tattooed cop for a moment. “Last time she watched him, he kinda stripped down naked aside from a hand towel around his waist—”

  “Oh god,” I whispered.

  “—Then jumped on the coffee table with a foam sword yelling, “I am Sparta!” She was sitting on the floor, and, yeah…He wasn’t wearing underpants.”

  “Oh god,” I repeated, this time with a groan. “That makes perfect sense. I wouldn’t watch him after.”

  “He was six.” Adrian rubbed his jaw, his lips twitching. “That’s two long years.”

  “I can imagine. So, what are you asking? If my sitter can return the favor yours gave?”

  “Yeah…” More pausing. “Normally, my parents would have him and I wouldn’t dream of asking, but they’re somewhere in Montana right now.”

  I wanted to be in Montana right now. Or, you know. On Mars.

  I didn’t want our kids together anymore. Not because I was a horrible person or that I begrudged them the friendship forged on the connection they clearly had, but because it was one more connection between me and the godly man in front of me.

  I was already having issues forgetting that kiss. The way his lips had swept mine, how his tongue had teased across my own, the way his fingers had wound into my hair and he’d held me close until I was drowning in him.

  Yeah.

  This was a bad, bad idea.

  “I can text her,” I said after a moment of his intense scrutiny. “It’ll probably cost you, though, and I’m not as nice a person as you were.”

  The grin that stretched across his face was heart-stopping. “Baby, I’ll pay her fee for Lola, too.”

  Snatching up my phone, I shot him a dark look as I passed him and said six words.

  “Don’t call me fucking baby, asshole.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Perrie

  Four hours of being inside clubs and bars and casinos and I felt grimier and dirtier than usual for some reason. I wanted three hot showers in a row, and that was just to wash the sensation of Adrian’s hands off me.

  Not because he was dirty, but because he’d touched me so many times that I needed to wash away the lingering sensation of him.

  Sitting in my drive, I pulled the wig off my head and systemically pulled out every single bobby pin holding my hair against my scalp. I’d spent thirty minutes curling my hair only to be told it was time for a disguise and forced to hide it under a dark brown wig.

  My eyebrows matched, and as my light blond curls tumbled away from my head, I looked more and more stupid.

  Granted, I was looking in a one-by-three-inch mirror on the eye shade in my car, but still. The eyebrows currently framing my eyes were way too dark for me with my natural hair color. I didn’t even own an eyebrow pencil or powder this dark—I’d had to borrow a young rookie’s kit just so my brows matched the wig.

  For future reference, I’d demanded to be informed ahead of time if I needed to be in disguise with a wig. Only a man wouldn’t appreciate the arm-ache that thirty-plus minutes of curling iron usage would bring. Next time, I wouldn’t bother washing my hair, never mind doing anything else with it.

  “Ugh.” The word was no more than muttered to myself as I got out of the car, leaving the cause of my itchy scalp sitting on the passenger seat.

  All right, it was on the floor. It didn’t deserve the seat.

  I scratched my nails hard against my scalp. Dear god, it was like I was in fucking elementary school with a breakout of headlice all over again. Not only did I now need prior warning before I’d wear a wig—I’d be informing them the itchiness would have to be tested first, or Adrian could dress up.

&
nbsp; The only good that had come out of tonight was locating the first male prostitute. We—and by ‘we,’ I mean Adrian and his team—hadn’t been able to arrest him, but the bartender had given us a positive ID and a rundown of his personality.

  He was the only one I didn’t mind snaring.

  That thought lingered on my mind as I headed inside. I batted it away just long enough to pay Alison and see her drive off down the street. It came back full force as I made my way upstairs to check on the kids.

  Zac coughed and rolled over at me pushing the door open, but he was still sound asleep on the blow-up mattress on the floor, curled up right under his covers. Lola was totally crashed, too, one leg thrown out of her pink covers, arm over her head, and mouth open like she was catching flies.

  I stifled a giggle at their polar opposite sleeping positions and quietly closed the door. Certain they were both still sleeping—the tiny snore from one of them clued me in—I headed for the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  Within seconds, the small room filled with steam. I stripped and jumped into the shower, make-up still on, and instantly regretted it. Mascara stung my eyes, and it was a blind scramble toward the sink to reach my wipes to clean it off.

  I scrubbed at my eyes, still standing in the shower with the curtain pulled back. The mirror was steaming up a little more with each wipe at my face, but inch by inch, I stared at my reflection as the make-up disappeared from my skin and my eyelashes. Harder and harder I pressed, getting rougher with each rub of the wipe across my face.

  Soon enough, the make-up was gone, and I looked like myself again. Light lashes and brows, a lightly freckled nose and pale pink lips. The skin around my eyebrows was red where I’d wiped so hard, but I threw the final wet wipe into the sink to trash later and stepped back fully into the flow of water.

  The water washed over me as my thoughts returned.

  The gigolo. We’d named him. Confirmed it through the police record. Had a pin on his whereabouts for tomorrow night.

  Taking him down was my job. It would be the first arrest I would be completely responsible for, and after seeing him tonight, I was strangely okay with it. Whether it was because he was the biggest asshole I’d ever seen pick up women—and that was saying something—or because I was becoming desensitized to this whole thing, I didn’t know, but I wanted to put my money on the first option.