That was how Ben wound up riding behind an enormous tattooed man down Las Vegas Boulevard, joining the hordes of individuals travel guides described as “colorful.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Megan was a little buzzed by the time her parents swooped into the bar and convinced her to leave with them, so she thought they were taking her to her apartment and didn’t really register that they were at another casino until she was being tugged out of the back seat by her mother at the valet station of the MGM Grand.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “What are we doing here?”
“I told Quinn we’d come,” Mom said.
“But the custom bike awards aren’t until later,” Megan said, checking her phone for the time. As a matter of fact, the wardrobe and accessory show would be starting in a few minutes.
“I don’t want to be here,” she told her mother, even as she followed her through the casino toward the grand ballroom.
“Well, I do,” Mom said. “I want to see this fashion show.”
Megan was suddenly stone-cold sober and majorly depressed.
She didn’t want to be here, because she hadn’t followed through and brought her jacket and jumpsuit. She was a big coward. She’d promised Ben she’d do it, and he’d been so great about encouraging her, it felt like she was betraying him. Betraying his absent, never-to-be-seen-again self.
And yet she followed her mother, wound her way through the tables toward the front of the room, and took a seat next to Quinn’s fiancée, Kellie, because a sick, damaged part of her wanted to see if any of the other entries were way better than hers or if they sucked.
“Here,” Kellie said, shoving a cup of coffee toward Megan.
“How did you know I needed this?” she asked, taking a grateful sip.
Kellie shot Mom a look Megan didn’t understand, but she was distracted from questioning them by the appearance of the emcee, who said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to welcome you to the Bike Nationals Fashion Contest Extravaganza, where designers from across the country have brought their best and most interesting Las Vegas–themed creations.”
After a few minutes of thank-yous to sponsors, the first group was announced—footwear.
There were tall boots, short boots, and medium boots. Buckles, snaps, laces, zippers, and even a few buttons. Most were black leather, but a few were brown, and there was one red pair, and another in silver. Many were adorned with metal studs and chains. Nearly all were decorated with a diamond, heart, spade, or club, though one resembled a pair of dice.
Most of the boot models wore simple black leather pants or jeans, in order to accentuate the boot.
Megan wasn’t as impressed as she’d expected to be, though she managed to stop worrying about whether or not she should have entered long enough to sketch some ideas in the notebook she kept in her bag.
And then it was time for helmets. There were helmets shaped like fire-breathing dragons, gladiators, a pointy mushroom-looking thing with a letter on the side that was supposed to be an ace of spades.
Lots of silver and gold. One was Benjamin Franklin’s one-hundred-dollar-bill portrait.
These models were a little more colorful in their clothing choices, which were designed to go with the helmets.
Then it was time for the jacket competition.
She felt sick when the first contestant was announced, and she saw an elaborate brown leather jacket with three-dimensional eagle’s wings protruding from the back. Suede feathers fluttered as the model, who was also the designer, walked. His description said that he’d been inspired by the Native American tribes of Nevada. It was gorgeous, and about the only item she’d seen so far that wasn’t about money and gambling. Leather Eagle guy, like the other contestants, wore understated pants and a shirt with his jacket.
Once again, she questioned her decision not to participate. She was proud of her design, and thought that since her inspiration wasn’t casino-related, it might have stood out in a good way. Or it might be ridiculous. Especially since she’d included a jumpsuit to wear under the jacket. No one else was doing anything like that, and she’d have felt stupid.
Well, no matter. She hadn’t brought it, and she should simply sit back and soak up new ideas for her next pointless project.
…
Quinn dropped Ben at the back door before parking his bike, but Ben got lost on his way to the dressing room. Once he found that, he couldn’t get into his jumpsuit on his own and had to get help. He finally got backstage just as the jacket segment was beginning.
“Sorry, man, we’ve already got the teleprompter set up. We can’t add you at the last minute. Should have been here on time.”
“It’s an emergency,” Ben explained. “We registered weeks ago. We had a last-minute change of models, and—”
“I’m sure you did, but if you weren’t here to check in on time, I can’t add you.”
“Listen,” Ben started.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the worker said.
“But—”
The worker held up his phone; the don’t make me call security was implied.
Damn. What now? He couldn’t very well find a back way and crash the stage like some crazed groupie at a Rolling Stones concert. Not only would Megan be horrified, but he’d wind up in jail, and that probably wouldn’t go over well with the brass back at work.
Love letters from the brig weren’t really his style.
What now?
He supposed he could go out and wander through the audience until he found her, get Quinn to point out Mr. Harley and Mr. Davidson, go introduce themselves, convince them that Megan was worth taking a chance on…
He’d turned to trudge back out to the hallway when someone grabbed his arm. “Hey, are you here for the Whole Kit and Kaboodle category?” The woman looked him up and down, and said, “This is incredible. Are you on my list?”
A frisson of hope skittered over his scalp. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I was supposed to be here for the jacket segment, but I’m too late.”
She shook her head. “This is amazing,” she repeated.
“Listen,” he told the woman, who seemed much more sympathetic than the guy in charge of jackets only. “My wi—girlfr—I’m trying to help someone. She made this and didn’t think it was good enough, so she didn’t make arrangements to get it here. I want to—”
“Say no more,” the woman told him. “We’ll add you to the next part. Do you have a name and description?”
He pulled an index card from his pocket. “The designer’s Megan Shuttlekr—Megan Rutledge. This was in the bag.” He started to hand her the card, then hesitated and asked to borrow her pen. He added to the information on the card and handed it to the woman.
“Hey, Trixie!” she called over her shoulder, and when a young woman dressed in black appeared, she handed her the card and said, “Enter this at the end of Kit and Kaboodle, would you?”
The girl nodded and faded back.
The worker pointed over his shoulder. “You line up over there. All you have to do is watch the person in front of you and walk out there when they call her name. You’ve got the whole outfit…where’s your headgear?”
Ben cringed. “I don’t have a helmet, this was kind of last-minute—”
“You have to have a hat or a helmet or something.”
He thought about calling Quinn to see if he was still near his bike, but the sleek black helmets he had wouldn’t go with this explosion of color and form.
Asking for help wasn’t Ben’s strong point—asking for anything had always been hard for him, but this was clearly a day for breaking his own rules.
“I have an idea,” said a young man who’d just come off the stage in a jacket with jagged leather wings. Like actual wings, not embroidered, extending from a harness attached to the back. The kid bit into a pretzel that he took from a giant bowl on a table of snacks next to the dressing area.
“Great,” Ben said. “What’s
your idea?”
The kid smiled, wiping pretzel crumbs from his chest. “I’m Sean,” he said. “And you’ll have to trust me.”
Fifteen minutes later, Ben was lined up behind a couple dozen men and women in leather, lace, and chains.
He couldn’t see much of what was going on out on stage and wasn’t sure what kind of small talk would be appropriate with the woman in front of him, who was completely encased in zipper-jointed rubber, except for her eyes, which were covered with giant fly-like goggles.
Of course, his own getup was a conversation stopper, especially when he pushed the remote control button in his left glove. A bystander had suggested he might want to save that for when he got on stage, before someone had an accident because they were watching him and not their own feet.
He hoped like hell Megan was out there somewhere, that her family had managed to find her and convince her to come.
He wouldn’t do this for anyone else in the world.
But crap—he was supposed to be in the jacket only competition—what if Quinn thought Ben had bailed?
He tugged his phone from his pocket just as a message came in.
“Everyone, listen up!” the woman with the clipboard called. “It’s showtime!”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
This fashion show was becoming painful. Torn between jealousy and I could totally do that better-itis, Megan was still not certain why her mother had insisted she attend.
No one in the family had ever shown an interest in motorcycles, except to congratulate Quinn on his success. As far as fashion went, they only ever seemed to care about their own costumes—not how they were made, as long as they didn’t bust a seam during a gig.
She picked up the glass of water a waiter had just refilled, her ring clinking against it. Stopping with her hand in midair, she stared at the simple gold band, with its trio of tiny diamonds. She didn’t even know if they were real diamonds—or if the ring was real gold.
Why was she still wearing it? Her marriage hadn’t even been real. Talk about pointless endeavors.
Her mother chose that moment to look at her and smile. That was what she needed. Her family. Her job. Quinn showed up and sat down next to Kellie, nodding at Megan and her mother in greeting. She didn’t need anything else.
Especially not a guy who would, like all the exes who came before, be up in her business and jealous of her family, guys she’d have to break up with so they couldn’t break up with her. And she certainly didn’t need a guy like Ben, who would make her fall in love and then leave her.
Okay, if she was perfectly honest, she’d told him not to come back, but that was just because he was going to leave. She had to finish the job.
She put down the glass and tugged at the ring. And tugged. It move a few millimeters but then stopped, blocked by a swollen knuckle. She was puffed up from all the water she’d retained during her recent self-pity-induced feeding frenzy.
The ring wouldn’t come off. Like the tattoo on her right shoulder, Ben was still with her.
As the familiar sting of tears began to invade her eyes, Megan was grateful for the dim lighting in the ballroom. Even so, as the jacket competition came to an end, she noticed her mother shooting Quinn a questioning look. Kellie whispered something to him, and he shrugged, pulling his phone out of his pocket.
Megan fought for control and finally managed to dry up enough to whisper to Kellie, “I need to get out of here.”
Quinn’s phone buzzed. He showed it to Kellie, who whispered back to Megan, “Hang on for another minute, then I’ll go with you.”
Megan sighed in frustration and sat back in her chair, trying not to squirm as the emcee announced the final group of competitors, the Whole Kit and Kaboodle.
Her attention was immediately drawn to the concept. Design an entire outfit, helmet to boots, inspired by Las Vegas. Megan had taken the forms Ben had printed out for her, with the specifications for the jacket competition, but hadn’t looked at the other categories.
“Our first design is by Danny Firestone and modeled by his wife, Lola.”
The model strode out onto the stage, and the crowd murmured appreciatively. Megan missed most of the description, because she was trying to figure out the physics of the outfit.
Lola Firestone was dressed head to toe in black leather and lace—the pants had leather over the parts that would come in contact with the bike seat, and the insides of the legs, but the sides were lace from the tops of her boots to her waist. Likewise, the jacket had a traditional leather snap front. As a nod to the gambling theme, there were cut-out diamonds, spades, hearts, and clubs. The jacket came off to reveal what appeared to be leather bra cups barely supporting enormous breasts in a solid lace top.
“Well, that’s certainly well ventilated,” Kellie murmured to Megan.
The helmet was more of a padded cage than a helmet. It was made of crisscrossing metal bars, hinged in the back, and joined at the front with a padlock. Sections of the model’s hair had been pulled through the spaces in the back and braided together.
As the model finished her turn around the stage, the emcee said, “Thank you, Danny and Lola Firestone.”
The crowd applauded politely, and the emcee said, “Next up is an entry designed and modeled by Ricky Lucille, called Ode to Elvis.”
This outfit somehow managed to merge the many faces of the late great King of Rock and Roll into one very glittery costume. Blue suede boots anchored a pair of white rhinestone-studded bell bottoms, topped with an Elvis “Comeback Special” type black leather jacket covered with black rhinestones.
“That helmet’s from Spinout, and that wasn’t a biker movie,” her brother muttered as he pulled a seat up next to Megan.
“How do you know that?” she asked, although what she really wanted to know was why her brother had shown up.
“I know everything,” he told her. “Watch the show.”
Megan began to turn back around, but then caught her sister tiptoeing up next to Craig.
“Why are you all here?”
“Shhh…”
The next outfit was another suit of cards–themed project, though the actual clothing part had more fabric than the first.
Then there was a solid gold contestant. Even the model’s face was painted metallic gold.
“That’s not good for the complexion,” her sister said.
“What the heck—” Megan looked around. Her whole family, all of her siblings, had gathered at the table.
Megan had spent part of the afternoon day-drinking, and she was still very busy feeling sorry for herself, so she forgave herself for how long it took, but suspicion finally began to trickle in.
“What did you guys do?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Dad said, all innocence Megan didn’t buy for a moment.
How did they know the outfit she’d made was for this event? She hadn’t told a soul. No one except Ben.
“Thank you,” the emcee was saying. “Last but not least, we have an entry from Las Vegas’s own Megan Rutledge, titled Sunset to Sunset.”
Megan Rutledge. Not Wallace. Not Shuttlekrump. Rutledge.
She barely heard the gasps and murmurs from the audience as Ben strode onto the stage, tall and handsome and confident, dressed head to toe in her creation.
The crowd oohed and aahed appropriately as he moved to the center of the stage, colors glowing and shining from every surface of his body.
How on earth could this be happening? She took a sniff of the glass of water she’d been drinking, but it didn’t smell like anything other than water.
“Sunset to Sunset was conceived as an attempt to portray Las Vegas in all of her many costumes. The jumpsuit is designed to reflect the Mojave Desert at sunset.”
Ben took the jacket off and walked to the front of the stage, executing a perfect runway pose that emphasized how well the fabric clung to his entire body.
“Oh my God,” Beth said, “I’ve never seen that in the desert.”
&nb
sp; The jumpsuit was pieced in waving gradations of every color. Starting at the boots, which were of deepest, darkest blue, the suit took over and shifted from purple on his legs, then to red over his torso, then lightening further to orange and yellow. The colors probably weren’t what Beth was talking about, though.
“Maybe a codpiece for the next version?” Paul asked, a little too loudly. “That one doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”
Ben must have heard, though the spotlights had to be too bright for him to see, because he turned toward the Shuttlekrump entourage and slid down the mirrored sunglasses he wore, winked, and then turned to show off the back of the suit. The stretchy fabric made it very clear the man did some glute work at the gym.
Megan couldn’t believe he was here at all, much less wearing her creation as an announcer read the words she’d written on the index card.
“Damn,” said a woman at the table next to theirs.
“The jacket,” continued the emcee, “highlights the main attractions here at the entertainment capital of the world.”
Ben slipped into the sleeves and stood with outstretched arms while he turned to let everyone admire the hand-stitched images of various casinos. From Caesars to Circus Circus, all the big names were represented somewhere on the jacket.
“You can see anything, day or night, here in Las Vegas,” the emcee said, “but when the sun goes down, look out.”
Megan watched for it and saw Ben make a subtle motion with his hand just as the lights on the stage were dimmed. The colored LED lights she’d installed in the jacket came on, and the crowd cheered as the Welcome to Las Vegas sign lit up on Ben’s back. He turned, and just as she’d hoped, all the smaller LED-neon signs she’d added glowed, a rainbow of all that was pretty and shiny and tacky in Las Vegas.
The lights came back up, and Ben moved to the front edge of the stage, took off his sunglasses, and looked right at Megan.
“Las Vegas is known for one other thing,” the announcer said, which wasn’t part of Megan’s description. “We have the highest concentration of wedding chapels in the United States.”
Accidentally in Love with the Pilot Page 18