“Thanks,” you say glancing around the room. It doesn’t take long to locate the little brown bottle of pills tucked behind the noise machine. You shake a single pill into your hand and quietly leave the room.
Out in the kitchen, you examine the pill to make sure it looks the same as the one you took the other night. It does, and it works almost instantly. Your head barely hits the pillow before you’re carried off into a dreamless sleep that lasts until morning.
* * *
The next day you feel refreshed once again, and like before, your hand feels much improved. You bounce into the kitchen to grab a glass of orange juice. Freddie is seated at the breakfast bar sipping a green smoothie.
“Well good morning, sunshine,” Freddie smiles at you around a mouthful of smoothie. Even with emerald teeth, Freddie manages to look dashing first thing in the morning. “How was your night?”
“I slept like a baby. Thank you so much!”
Freddie’s smile falls from his lips and he almost drops his smoothie. “What exactly are we talking about?”
Does he really not remember? “I kind of wondered whether you were actually awake.” You dip your finger into the bit of residual smoothie still in the blender and grimace as the flavor registers. “You were talking—I thought you were at least a little bit awake.”
Freddie sets his glass squarely on the counter and looks at you. “What are you saying? That you were in my room?” he asks carefully.
“You really don’t remember, do you?” You rinse your fingers in the sink. “I was having trouble sleeping so I peeked in to see whether you could help. You were pretty out of it but you said I could take another one of those pills. So I took one. And I slept like a baby.”
“Oh thank god!” Freddie sighs with immense relief. He picks up the smoothie and takes another sip. “You know those commercials tell you about all kinds of crazy side effects, like talking in your sleep, having no memory of things you did the night before, I was worried for a minute!”
“Now Freddie”—you walk up and playfully ruffle his thick hair—“you know I would never take advantage of you when you were defenseless, or even asleep. Aside from stealing your sleeping pills, I mean.”
“Very funny, Honey,” he tells you. His tone becomes serious once again. “But you should not take any more of those pills. They are only good for once in a while. It is not healthy to take them too often.”
“Don’t worry, Dad,” you tell him. “I won’t.”
Freddie pats the barstool beside him, inviting you to sit. “Everything okay with you?” he asks.
“Yeah. I just had a really hard time sleeping last night. I kept thinking about everything. Crispin and all that. I couldn’t shake it.”
“This too shall pass,” he says sagely.
“I know it. It just sucks until it does.”
“Indeed,” says Freddie. “Eloquently put. But, the good news is”—he rises to rinse the blender and his empty smoothie glass—“you’re not going to have time to think about anything today. You’ve got a full schedule.”
“That’s right,” you remember the call you have in a few hours, a video shoot for a possible documentary about your rise to fame. Now that you’ve scored the cover of Rock ’N’ Roll, “M,” the Music Entertainment Network, has asked to put together a Rock Doc about you. Their signature documentaries have featured every massive music success, and you’re honored to have been asked.
“I’m going to go jump in the shower before team M & M arrives. Enjoy your healthy breakfast.”
“It grows on you,” Freddie tells you, raising his glass as you walk out of the room.
Three hours later, you’re back in the venue, sitting in your dressing room and in full hair and makeup. You step out of your robe so Sasha can help you into your first costume.
Freddie escorts you down the hall to the stage. “Pretend it’s a real show,” he tells you, “but just lip synch. You want your voice rested for tonight.”
“Okay,” you answer.
“And don’t exert yourself too much,” he tells you, “You need your energy for the show.”
“So just like a real show but don’t sing and don’t put too much energy into it?”
“Right.”
“And no audience.”
“Right.” Freddie gives you a thumbs-up. “But I’ll be cheering for you!”
“Thanks” You smile, and head for the staircase that will take you up to the catwalk.
As usual before the show, your dancers ascend the stairs behind you. Still it feels more like a rehearsal, and everyone is more chatty and casual.
Serge seems more attentive onstage than usual, even spinning you in an unchoreographed dance step at the end of one song. Is it your imagination, or is he making more eye contact and holding your hand a little longer than usual during the routines?
The cameras roll for almost two solid hours as you walk through your performance. Finally, the director yells, “That’s a wrap!” He calls for a few still shots and dismisses the dancers. Finally, you walk offstage and make your way to the dressing room area.
That night’s show runs perfectly once again. You’re constantly impressed by the seamless professionalism of the Vegas venue and its staff.
After the show, you have a scheduled meet-and-greet with a group of VIP fans. They crowd into the Hive outside of your dressing room and pose for photos. You sign autographs and gamely smile for a constant stream of selfies. More than an hour later, you are released to head back to the dressing room.
You’re exhausted by the time Jett saunters in. “Hi there,” he says.
“Hi yourself,” you answer, wiping some residual makeup from your neck and chest.
“You have plans?” he asks.
“I’m probably just going to bed,” you tell him. “It feels like I did two shows today. I’m really tired.” No matter how much fun you’ve had hanging out with Jett, the truth is that you’ll be on the road in two days and your chances of ever seeing him again are slim. You don’t want to lead him on—nor do you want to set yourself up for more heartache.
Jett looks crestfallen. “Oh, okay,” he says. “I was just thinking you could maybe join me in the booth for a bit. Then we could go back to the casino, if you’d like, or grab a drink . . . or go back to my place,” he arches an eyebrow and smirks suggestively.
You don’t know what to say. You are tired, but then again you only have a couple of days left in Vegas. And you can always rest tomorrow, you think. Or did Freddie say you have an interview tomorrow? You really cannot remember.
Taking Jett’s hand and looking into his eyes, you feel the immediate and undeniable chemistry. Still, you owe it to yourself to tell him how you are feeling.
“Jett, I’ve had so much fun with you. I think you are amazing.”
“Oh God, here it comes.” He swallows and takes a small step back.
“No,” you tell him, “it’s just, I know you know this but I’m only here for two more days. After that I tour for a solid three months. And that could be extended. I don’t know where I’ll be after that. I just don’t want either of us to get hurt.”
Jett squeezes your hand gently and smiles. “I know that, Honey.” He looks down at you, an incredible tenderness in his eyes. “It’s just that I don’t often find a connection with people here. It’s rare. And I’ve connected with you. I’m not kidding myself. I know it will hurt when you leave, but I’m prepared for that. I just want to enjoy the time we have together.” He pauses to give you a single, gentle kiss on the lips. “No strings, no expectations. Just this amazing connection for as long as it lasts.”
He leans back and strokes your cheek then wraps his arms around the small of your back to pull you to him. You melt immediately and press into his solid chest, running your hand along his strong biceps.
You feel like you could stay like this forever, lost in his embrace. You can’t remember ever feeling so immediately connected to someone. What could it hurt to enjoy your
time with him while you’re here? Still, what is the point of getting in even deeper when you’ll be leaving so soon? The more time you spend together, the more difficult it will be to say goodbye, and more heartbreak is the last thing you need right now. You also know that if it’s really meant to be, that someday, somehow, fate will put you together again. What should you do?
To end your fling with Jett, turn to page 134.
To stay with Jett, keep reading.
“Okay,” you relent. “I’m in.”
“You sure about that?” Jett leans in for another kiss, this one long and lingering.
“I’m not sure about anything”—you laugh, then kiss him again—“except for this minute, right now.”
“Then let’s enjoy it,” Jett smiles and leads you out the door into the Vegas night.
The crowd in the club is a throbbing mass of energy, chanting, “Jett, Jett, Jett, Jett!” They go wild as you step up into the DJ booth. Jett puts you in charge this time. When he sees you need help, he reaches around you for the turntable, and his hand brushes your arm, your hand, your bare shoulder as he sets a record spinning or adjusts the mixer. You press back against him, daring him to get closer.
The tension is almost too much to bear as Jett ends the night and puts the music on autoplay.
“Well? What next?” He loads the last of his records and equipment into the crate and hoists it off the ground. “I need to take my stuff upstairs but after that I’m all yours.”
Though part of you wants to follow Jett up to his room and hang the DO NOT DISTURB sign, another part of you is enjoying the delicious build of tension. Plus, you’d love to try your luck at the casino one last time. “Let’s hit the casino, just for a little while,” you tell him. “I’m feeling lucky.”
“Alright, then. Okay if I run upstairs to dump this stuff and take a quick shower?”
“Sure, I’ll meet you at the roulette table.”
“Why don’t you come up with me, it will only take a minute.”
You know what a trip to Jett’s room will probably lead to, and you want to get a visit to the casino in first.
“I’ll be fine. I know my way around the casino now. Plus I can always find one of those big, burly secret service guys if I run into any trouble.”
“You sure this is a good idea?”
“Trust me, I’ll be fine. And you’ll be down in a minute. I’ll see you down there.”
“Okay, I guess,” Jett says uncertainly. “I’ll probably be down before you can even place your first bet. But if not, don’t put it all on red,” he teases.
“Don’t worry about me, mister. I know what I’m doing. Kind of. See you soon.” You smile as you watch Jett, admiring the view of his firm backside and strong thighs as he walks away.
Feeling like a bit of a pro, you take your marker to the roulette table and exchange it for a massive stack of chips. Your luck isn’t any better than last night’s and immediately the stack begins to dissipate. Much too soon, you’re down to just a few chips. Your gut tells you that a change of luck is just around the corner.
As if he’s read your mind, the dark-suited guard you recognize from your winning streak appears at your side. “Would you like to continue to play?”
“Actually, I think I’m going to call it a night,” you tell him, gathering the chips into a neat stack. “I’m just going to wait here. For my friend.”
“Well, while you wait, the house would like to extend you an open line,” says the man in a confidential tone.
“Um, thank you.” You aren’t sure exactly what that means, but he reaches into his breast pocket and slides out a thin, leather folder that looks like a waiter’s cheque. “Please sign here,” placing a pen in your hand.
You sign as instructed and the croupier immediately slides another stack of chips equally as large as the first across the table.
“Thank you.”
The croupier nods solemnly, “My pleasure.”
Despite your gut prediction of a forthcoming win, the wheel stubbornly lands against your bets repeatedly. No matter the strategy or betting combinations, nothing seems to work. At last, your red bet lands and you collect a small pile of chips. Encouraged, you decide to keep going. Besides, Jett still hasn’t made an appearance and you have time to kill.
Before you know it, your stack has dwindled once again.
“Would you like to continue playing?” asks the croupier.
“Yes,” you tell him, “just a few more games.”
“You’d like more chips, then?”
“Yes—the same amount as before I guess.”
“Very good,” he says, sliding you another stack of chips.
One of the other players at the table is on a winning streak similar to the one you experienced your first night. A small crowd begins to gather to watch her as she excitedly rakes in stack after stack of chips—many of them yours. You notice a few members of the assembled crowd of spectators whisper to each other and glance at your diminishing pile of chips. Soon, you’re down to almost none again.
“Will you continue?” the croupier asks.
You have no idea how much time has passed but Jett still hasn’t appeared. “Yes, please,” you answer. You’re sure your luck is about to turn—after all, luck has always been on your side.
The first roll of the roulette wheel brings you a win and so does the second.
Finally, you see Jett weave his way through the crowd to join you.
“Not doing too badly, huh?” he asks, taking note of the tall stack of chips in front of you.
“My luck is finally turning around,” you tell him, confident that your comeback can only continue and you’ll soon win back the money you’ve lost.
“Funny!” he laughs. You’re not sure what he thinks is funny, but things quickly begin to turn again as the bejeweled woman across the table revives her winning streak and jumps gleefully up and down, her ample cleavage surging with each leap. You give her a strained smile of congratulations.
“Maybe you should quit while you’re still ahead?” Jett asks.
“I’m definitely not ahead,” you tell him. “I’m trying to win back what I’ve lost.”
“Wait.” Jett’s expression becomes deadly serious as he turns to look at you. “You were serious about your luck turning around?”
“Yeah. Did you think I was joking?”
“I did think you were joking,” he swipes his hand across his chin. “I wasn’t gone that long.” He looks around the casino. “How much have you lost?”
“This was my third stack of chips.”
Jett’s face pales. “Your third stack? Do you know how much you started with?”
“Don’t worry—I can win it back in a few rounds,” you answer.
More color drains from Jett’s face.
“What?” you ask.
“No, nothing. Just a little déjà vu,” he tells you. “Believe me, it’s not a good idea to keep playing.”
“What do you mean? My luck is about to change. I can feel it.”
“If nothing else, let’s take a break and assess the damage.”
Back at the booth, you hand the cashier a receipt and the small stack of chips you have left. She looks down at the receipt and then up at you briefly. “Give me a moment please.”
She returns with another dark-suited man, but this one isn’t as tall, he’s a little on the rounder side, and lacks the sunglasses. “Ms. Noble,” he bobs up and down on his heels as he speaks, “I’m Martin Connetti, casino manager. We are honored to have you with us.” His smile is wide and sympathetic. “Looks like you had bit of a rough night.” He folds his hands and tilts his head. “Why don’t you come back to my office?”
Your stomach clenches as he pushes open the door to the booth and escorts you back to his office. A sea of screens monitoring the gambling floor from every possible angle fills one wall, while framed photos of Mr. Connetti with an arm around an array of celebrities fills another.
He gestu
res for you to sit. Jett takes a seat beside you.
“So, it appears you had a bit of a losing streak,” he begins.
You feel like you’re in an elementary school principal’s office about to get slapped on the wrist for pulling someone’s hair on the playground. A trickle of sweat makes its way down your back.
The little man teepees his hands below his chin. “Do you have an idea of how much you lost tonight?”
You think for a minute, trying to calculate, and realize you can’t begin to figure out what the total might be. “I wasn’t finished playing. My luck was just turning. I can win it back, no problem.”
“I’m afraid we cannot extend you further credit,” Connetti tells you.
“You don’t have to. I still have chips left.”
“Ms. Noble, it would be nearly impossible for you to win back what you’ve lost. We can credit you what you have left, but we need to settle the debt.”
“Okay, I’m sure that’s no problem. How much do I owe you?”
Connetti places his hands palms-down on his desk. “The balance is $712,500.”
“What?” You are shocked and baffled. “You mean that’s the amount of the credit you gave me?”
“No,” he clarifies. “That’s the amount you lost tonight.”
“That can’t possibly be.”
“I can do the math for you, I assure you, but take my word for it. I thought it might be something of a shock, which is why I thought it best to bring you back here. Behind the scenes. To avoid any undue embarrassment.”
Jett swallows loudly as the casino manager continues.
“I’m sure you understand that we do need to settle the debt, before you leave tonight.”
You begin to speak, but your words come out in a stutter and you realize your hands are shaking. You look over at Jett. “I need to call Freddie,” you tell him. “And Sasha.”
“Okay, no worries.” Jett tries to sound calm but his voice sounds strangled.
“Take your time to call whomever you need,” Mr. Connetti says.
A half hour later Freddie has joined you in the office and Sasha saunters in sleepily a few minutes later. Both wear identical expressions of shock and drop their heads into their hands as you explain the situation.
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