“No, no,” He dips his head, causing that handsome lock of jet-black hair to fall across his brow. “My problem is, I have another passion.”
“You do?” you ask cautiously.
“I do. I would like to share it with you, if you will allow me.” You have no idea what to think and even though his words are starting to make you a little uncomfortable, the look in his eyes when he glances up from under his thick lashes is one of pure sincerity. “You can tell me.”
He looks down at his hands and then back up into your eyes. “I would like to show you. When we are in Vegas. Would you allow me to do that?”
“Um, sure,” you tell him.
“That is good.” He breathes a sigh of relief. “I will let you know when it is time. Thank you. You are very good to me.” He rises and places the hat back atop his head, then turns for a moment and takes your hand. His large hand is warm, the fingertips noticeably thick and solid. A slight tingle rises up your wrist as he rests his other hand atop yours and locks eyes with you. “Goodnight.”
With that, he opens the door and is gone. You are both unsettled and intrigued. You momentarily consider opening the door and calling after Serge but the thought of the early morning ahead stops you. It’s a long drive to Vegas tomorrow, and you’ll have plenty of time there to find out what Serge wants to show you.
Turn to page 85.
From page 36 . . .
You arrive in Vegas early the next evening after a long day en route. Your hand feels a little better but still throbs off and on, and the Tylenol isn’t helping at all. You haven’t been very good company for Sasha; and Crispin still hasn’t returned your texts or calls. He was well aware you were leaving for your next stop, and the fact that he hasn’t even bothered to check in has turned your anxiety into irritation.
“I am so ready to get off this bus,” Sasha sighs as he exits the highway. Sasha’s high-school classmate, Carlie, has become a well-known Vegas showgirl, and Sasha has already prepared you that he is planning to spend every moment he’s not working exploring Vegas with her. You’re still not entirely clear whether Carlie is a man or a woman—not that it matters. “Carlie’s kind of a big deal in Vegas,” Sasha tells you. “You’ve heard of her show—Carlie’s Angels?”
“I don’t think I have,”
“What? Have you been living under a rock?” Sasha gives you a scolding look. “Carlie’s only the headliner. I personally cannot wait to see it.”
“Wish I could come along,” you say, only half-joking. “My agenda’s pretty packed though. Two shows, two appearances, some DJ gig, and a book signing I think.”
“Sucks to be you,” says Sasha.
Sasha expertly pulls the bus into the huge parking lot of The Maxamillion Resort and Casino. Huge palm trees sway at the hotel’s entrance and jets of neon-lit water ring an enormous fountain, dancing to the pulse of the music blasting from hidden speakers. You debark and flip up the hood of your jacket, hoping to navigate the hotel lobby incognito.
As you enter the hotel, you see you have no reason to worry—even Elvis himself would go unnoticed in the mass of blinged-out humanity crisscrossing the lobby in every direction. In the distance, you can hear the clicks, clangs, and chirps of what must be the casino. The air smells of an intoxicating mix of perfume, cigarette smoke, alcohol, and money.
A bellhop captaining a huge rolling luggage cart appears at your side. Sasha elbows you lightly and tilts his head in the direction of the bellhop’s uniformed behind. “Cute right?” he whispers as you step onto the elevator.
“Behave yourself,” you whisper back.
Your suite is expansive and glamorous, decorated in gleaming black marble and white leather. The bar is fully stocked and there’s even a lit makeup counter in one corner. “Perfect,” you exhale, taking it in.
Sasha heads for a bedroom and immediately throws himself atop a downy bed, “Ahhhhh,” he sighs.
“Will that be all?” asks the bellhop.
Sasha leaps from the bed and walks casually toward the waiting man.
“I don’t know,” Sasha arches an eyebrow, “do you offer any other services?”
“The concierge is excellent and can help you with anything else you may need,” the bellhop answers, not missing a beat.
“Well, that’s no fun,” Sasha takes a step toward the bellhop, who holds his ground. “I was hoping you might be able to assist me.”
A rosy blush rushes to the bellhop’s cherubic cheeks. He bows quickly, and nods as he backs toward the door. “Sir, ma’am. Enjoy your evening.”
“Oh hold on,” Sasha sighs, pulling a twenty dollar bill from his wallet and handing it to the bellhop.
“Thank you very much, sir,” he says, smiling.
“Please, call me Sasha.”
The bellhop turns for a moment, the smallest of smiles on his face. “I’m Gavin,” he says, looking Sasha in the eye playfully. “Do feel free to ask for me . . . if there’s anything else you need.” He winks, tips his hat, and is out the door.
“I knew it!” cries Sasha the minute Gavin closes the door. “My gaydar is totally on fleek. If I don’t answer my cell, just ask for Gavin. I do love a man in uniform.”
“Down, boy. I thought you were all about spending every free moment with Carlie.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about my schedule. I can manage my time.” Sasha disappears into his room.
Your cell buzzes from your pocket. You pull it out and are enormously relieved to see a text from Crispin:
What’s the room number?
Are you here?
Just got here.
Where were you?
What do you mean?
I texted and called. You left me stranded at the ER
Didn’t Sasha tell you?
Tell me what?
About Trixie?
What about Trixie?
I had to do two rescues that night
?
She fell spectacularly off the wagon. Ended up with a broken nose. It wasn’t pretty. She’s back in rehab
Sorry to hear that
No you’re not
OK not really
Good news is, I’m off the hook as her R.A. Looks like my ties to Trixie are severed for good
But why didn’t you return my texts?
As I said, I thought Sasha told you. He made me promise not to call or text you after I left that night. Said he would take care of you, you needed rest, etc. Plus, my mobile has been on the blink for some reason . . .
Sorry. Are you still upset about that?
There’s a brief pause before Crispin replies.
I’ll admit I was. But it seems to be working now. And I’m sure you’ll make it up to me. Room number?
Penthouse A.
Be right up
From page 82, from page 109 (and continued from above) . . .
You gaze out the huge picture window down onto the Vegas strip and drink in the glittering scene that unfolds as far as you can see as you wait for Crispin to arrive. The sky glows a smoky orange, the setting sun now just below the ridge of mountains in the distance. In moments like this, you still can’t believe this is your life.
Crispin gives his signature three-rap door knock.
“Coming!” you call.
Crispin breezes into the room and wraps his arms around your waist, in a better mood than you’ve ever seen him.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he greets you, giving you a long kiss.
“What has gotten into you?” you ask him.
“You know, moonlight, Vegas, sobriety”—he kisses you again—“and you, of course.”
Sasha emerges and greets Crispin as warmly as ever. “Ugh. Here for two minutes and you two are at it already. Please. Get a room.”
Crispin glances around the suite. “Looks like we have one. Or several.” He runs his hand over the marble expanse of the bar. “Not too shabby.”
“Well, steer clear of my room,” Sasha says. He hangs a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the handl
e. “I don’t want any of your cooties on my down comforter.”
Crispin walks up to Sasha and runs a finger jokingly up Sasha’s chest. “You haven’t experienced cooties,” he says, “until you’ve experienced my cooties.”
Sasha looks at you in horror.
“It’s true,” you tell him.
“That’s disgusting,” he says, easing past Crispin and toward the door. “I will be out. On the town. Please respect my privacy. And try to have a little respect for yourselves.”
“Have fun.” You laugh as Sasha exits the suite.
Crispin walks over to the window to take in the view. “This is pretty amazing,” he says.
“Yeah.” You stand behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist and leaning your head against his shoulder blade. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Crispin turns to you and rests his arms on your shoulders, looking down into your eyes, “Me too.”
Everything feels so right. You’re glad you trusted your instincts. It feels like Crispin has turned a corner, like something is different, back on track. You’d be happy just to stay here and enjoy a quiet night in the room, but Crispin has other ideas.
“Your first time in Vegas. And my first at The Max. Let’s go check it out.”
You change into a pair of sleek, leather pants and a glittery gold bustier. Your makeup isn’t perfect but you add a coat of glossy red lip color and pair of sunglasses to hide your barely made-up eyes.
You decide to explore the casino first. Crispin grabs your hand and leads you onto the casino floor.
“Slow down,” you tell him. “I can only walk so fast in these shoes.”
He immediately slows his pace. “Sorry, just want to get through this crowd.”
“Too late,” you tell him. “Two o’clock.”
A tiny blonde in a low-cut minidress eagerly approaches, pen and cocktail napkin in hand. Her Southern drawl is so thick it’s almost impossible to decipher. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I just couldn’t help myself!” Her extreme level of inebriation is clear. “Can I just get a quick autograph? I just adore your music!”
Neither of you answers, as you wait to see which one of you the enthusiastic fan will give the pen to. It’s a little game you and Crispin play when you’re together: one point for each autograph, as long as neither of you encourages the request. So far you’re winning. Fifty-seven to twenty-three.
“Well, can I?” She holds the napkin up, then thrusts the pen toward Crispin.
Darn! You think to yourself.
“With pleasure.” Crispin grins smugly and takes the napkin and pen. He signs with a flourish and hands the napkin back to the woman.
She squints hard at the autograph. “You sure you’re not a doctor? I can barely read this!” she snorts with laughter. “My girlfriends will never believe this says Justin Timberlake.”
Crispin reels as if slapped, and you clap you hand over your mouth to stifle your laugh.
“I’m not . . .” Crispin begins, but you grab his arm and pull him away.
“Come on, Justin,” you say loudly. “We don’t want to keep Lance and JC waiting.”
He shoots you a look that could kill.
“Are y’all performing here?” the woman asks, still clearly oblivious.
“It’s just me performing, actually,” you answer. “Justin and the boys are here for a conference. Kind of like Comic-Con. For boy banders.”
“Oh,” says the woman, eyes wide. “I had no idea.” She looks momentarily perplexed then seems to work through the confusion. “My kids just love you, Honey Noble!” she enthuses. “I didn’t even know y’all were friends!” Then she reaches into her brassiere and pulls out her cell phone. “Can I just snap one quick selfie?”
“Of course!” You lean in graciously as she snaps the photo.
She looks at the display and breaks into a wide smile, clearly pleased with the result. “Thank y’all so much! Have a great show!” She waggles her fingers and totters off with her trophies.
“That counts,” you tell Crispin. “For me.”
“Does not,” he retorts. Twenty-four to fifty-seven.”
“You do not get a point for that!”
“I should get three for that. Justin Timberlake! I’m horrified.”
“I wouldn’t be,” you tell him. “He’s done alright for himself.”
“Oh, well if you’d prefer JT to me, I’m sure I can arrange an introduction,” he pouts.
“Not a chance.” You plant a glossy kiss on his lips. “Where should we start?” The casino floor is a maze of slot machines and gaming tables. You’re glad Crispin is with you because he knows his way around.
“Come with me,” Crispin leads you to the booth and quickly purchases a tray of chips. “Is Mr. Connetti available please?” he asks the cashier.
She looks up at him, recognition registering on her face. “Of course, sir,” she answers.
A moment later, a short, older man in a dark suit rounds the corner. He smiles hugely and claps Crispin on the back, shaking his hand. “Mr. Hershey! And Ms. Noble! Welcome to the Max! Please, follow me.”
He slides an electronic key into a slot in an inconspicuous door marked “Employees Only” at the back of the casino and leads you into a private gambling room. Ornate chandeliers cast a glimmering, golden light over an array of low tables. A dark-suited waiter approaches you with two flutes filled with champagne. Mr. Connetti asks for a photo with Crispin and one with you before he leaves, standing as tall as he can to pose for the shots.
You take a seat at one of the tables, joining an aging television star whose name you can’t quite remember and a trio of younger players. “Who are they?” you whisper to Crispin as he sits beside you.
“YouTube stars.”
“Right.”
Crispin is a whiz at blackjack. You’re hardly following the game, but you enjoy watching Crispin rake in chips. Somehow your glass seems never to be empty though the fuzziness in your head tells you you’ve drunk more than you probably should have already. You cheer Crispin on as he wins more than he loses. At last, he lets out a huge sigh and collects the sizeable stack of chips.
“Think I’ve done enough damage for one night,” he announces. Then he leans down and whispers into your ear, “Let’s get out of here.”
His breath against your ear makes you shiver.
“Sasha says the Max has an amazing lounge,” you suggest. “Want to check it out?”
“Why not?” he answers. “When in Vegas . . .”
The doorkeeper escorts you to another discreetly concealed entrance, opening onto a single service elevator. The elevator whisks you up to the VIP entrance, which leads to a dim room with an empty dance floor bordered by low booths upholstered in rich midnight-blue velvet and scattered with pillows and furry throws, and screened by heavy curtains.
“Booths are bottle service only,” says the host, a hipster with a pompadour and skinny pants.
“That works,” answers Crispin, sliding into a cushy seat.
“This is nice,” you say, taking in the surroundings. You’re glad for the privacy and for the time alone with Crispin.
A blond bottle service girl who looks like she just stepped of the Victoria’s Secret runway appears to take your order.
“Cristal,” says Crispin. “And a bottle of Bling.”
“Coming right up.” She smiles, and saunters away on four-inch stilettos.
“What’s the occasion?” you ask.
“I know it’s your favorite.” Crispin shrugs and takes your hand. “Besides, we’re celebrating.”
The waitress returns with the champagne and the bejeweled bottle of sparkling water. She pours you each a glass of the Cristal and leaves the water unopened on the table. As soon as she walks away, Crispin slides his champagne flute over to you.
“I’m impressed,” you tell him.
“I am serious about my sobriety,” he fills his water glass and traces the rim with one finger. “And also about y
ou, in case there was any question.”
You smile as he scoots closer to you on the bench and wraps his arm around your waist.
“How is it?” you ask as he sips the pricey water.
“Worth every penny.”
You smile. “Crispin,” you tell him, “I’m really glad you’re here.”
“You keep telling me that. Where else would I be?”
You pause for a moment, and Crispin dips his head to look into your eyes. “What’s bothering you, Honey?”
“Nothing now,” you answer. “Just—it’s silly I guess but the whole thing with Trixie had me worried.”
“What whole thing?”
You take a sip of your champagne. “You know, the rehab partner thing or whatever. It just seems like one thing after another with her. I trust you, you know that. But I don’t trust her.”
Crispin’s lifts the glass of water and watches the bubbles float to the top for a moment before replying. “It’s been a bit of a mess with Trixie,” he admits. He rubs the back of his neck. “There are some things I haven’t told you.”
It takes every bit of strength not to visibly recoil. I knew it, you think to yourself. You steel yourself for what you are about to hear and take another long sip of champagne, letting the silence spin out until Crispin decides to continue.
“So,” Crispin begins, “you know Trixie and I have some, uh, past history.”
“Yes, I’m aware.”
“Well, there’s a little more to it than that.”
You place the champagne flute down on the table, clear your throat, and look Crispin squarely in the eye. “Just say it,” you tell him.
He breathes in and lays both palms down on the table, never breaking eye contact. “She was my dealer.”
“What?”
Crispin flips his palms up but says nothing.
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
You pause for a moment, with no idea what to say, then drink the rest of your champagne in a single gulp and set the glass down. “Okay then.” You think for a minute. “But if she knows you’re clean why was she still hanging around?”
Crispin shakes his head. “She’d been acting strangely ever since we got out of rehab. To be honest, I think she may have been dealing even from there. There was this one tech who had a thing for her—I don’t know—anyway, she was definitely up to something. Being assigned as her Rehab Advocate, it was pretty much a joke. No way I could succeed in giving her support when I don’t think her intent was ever actually to recover. But what was I going to do? Rat her out? I never had any real evidence she was back at it until just recently. I thought I could possibly help her, but now I honestly believe all she’s been trying to do is reel me back in. At the same time I think she was worried, since I have a bit of dirt on her, don’t I? You know what they say, Keep your friends, close, keep your enemies closer. But believe me, I have been crystal clear that I have no interest. I feel better than I ever have. There’s no way I would go back to that life.”
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