Vegas Baby

by Winter Renshaw

  Noelle looks to her, then to us.

  “Well, come on.” Mom stomps her foot and clucks her tongue. “Let them leave, Noelle.”

  “They’re never going to change,” Noelle says to me, under her breath.

  “Nope,” I say.

  “Noelle,” Mom calls out to her again.

  “I don’t want to leave Dad.” Noelle’s bottom lip trembles, her chin wrinkling. “What if something happens?”

  “Noelle.” Mom stomps her foot, her voice overriding Noelle’s soft words. “Get inside. Now.”

  “You stay or you go,” I say, “that’s up to you. You’ll have us either way. I would never turn my back on you, Noelle.”

  “Stop talking to Crew. Come inside and help me fix dinner.” Mom jiggles the door handle to get her attention. “Let them leave. They’re not a part of this family.”

  Noelle’s eyes glass over, but she doesn’t fully cry. It’s not her style.

  “Then I can’t turn my back on you either.” She ignores my mom. “You have room for one more?”

  “Hell yeah,” I say.

  She doesn’t say goodbye to my parents. Instead, she follows us to the truck. Mom goes inside, slamming the door behind her. After I buckle Emme in the back and climb up front, I glance back at our family’s vacation home like it’s the last time I’ll ever see it.

  The shadowy outline of Mom’s figure hiding behind the front window curtain tells me she’s watching us leave.

  I can only hope she’s learned as much from this moment as I have.

  You fight for the ones you love.

  Always.

  Even if they’re not perfect.

  Even if it scares you.

  “Ready?” I take Calypso’s hand and interlace our fingers. The click of Noelle’s seatbelt comes from the backseat.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Noelle says.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Calypso

  “So that was an interesting day.” I climb into bed with Crew, patting organic moisturizer over my face. On the way back from Lake Tahoe, we stopped at some roadside beauty shop Noelle raved about. Everything was homemade, right there in the shop, right before our eyes.

  I think everyone agreed that pulling to the side of the road to pop in there was the highlight of our day. No one was insulted. No one cried.

  “Yeah.” He’s been quiet since we left. I haven’t pried much. I figure he’ll talk when he’s ready.

  I click off the lamp on my side of the bed and scoot down. His warmth beckons me, and I slide right into his arms. The TV’s on in the background. He stares at it, but I don’t think he’s paying much attention.

  Crew’s hand slides down my belly and stops.

  “You think it’s possible to love something you’ve never met?” he asks.

  “Absolutely.”

  “I love this baby,” he says. “It’s part of me, you know? Part of you. I want to protect it, help it grow. Do everything better than my parents did.”

  “Our parents were great teachers, weren’t they?” I say. “Teaching us everything we shouldn’t do.”

  “Emme loves you,” he says.

  I love her too.

  I’ve just been scared to admit it. She’s not mine. Not legally. Not genetically. It’s dangerous to love a child you have no right to love.

  “Emme doesn’t know what love is,” I say.

  “I see it when she looks at you. Her face lights up.”

  “She gets the same way about pureed mango.”

  He laughs. “I mean it. Don’t discredit it. I can tell. She loves you.”

  I place my cheek on his chest.

  “Do you love her?” he asks.

  Of course I do.

  “Yes,” I say a half-minute later. “I love Emme.”

  “You want to be her mom?”

  His question comes out of left field. A rush of cool shock floods my veins.

  “Legally,” he adds. “You’d be her legal mom. I want Emme to have a mom. She deserves one. She deserves a mom like you.”

  I’m honored.

  And terrified.

  “I meant what I said today,” he says. “To my father.”

  “The part about being a family?” Yeah. I know.

  “No,” he says. “When I said I was going to marry you someday.”

  My body freezes, and my heart gallops.

  “I thought you didn’t think about the future?” I deflect. “I thought you took things one day at a time.”

  “I do,” he says. “But sometimes you have to break your own rules if you want to win.”

  “What are you winning?”

  “A smoking hot wife, a mom for Emme.” Crew rolls me on top of him, threading his hands into mine. “A fucking amazing life.”

  “What if I’m not the marrying kind?”

  “I’m not either,” he says. “But I want to marry you, Calypso. Maybe it’s crazy. Maybe we should take some time, get to know each other better. But where’s the fun in that? Neither one of us have ever lived by the rules anyway.”

  His hands leave mine. He cradles my hips in his hands, and I lean forward to kiss his perfect lips.

  “I want to give you my last name,” he says. “You need roots, Calypso. Everyone does.”

  This man barely knows me, and yet he always seems to know exactly what I need. For a moment, I wonder if there’s anyone else out there better suited for me than Crew. My gut gives me a resounding “no.” Magic 8 Ball would probably say, “Very doubtful.”

  “We can do this the easy way,” he says. “I can marry you barefoot and pregnant on the Vegas strip, with Elvis at the helm. Or we can hop in the truck, drive the country and find a pretty mountain. Say our vows. You can wear flowers in your hair. Either way, I want you barefoot and pregnant because fuck tradition.”

  Yes. Fuck tradition.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’ll marry you, Crew Forrester.”

  I kiss Crew. I kiss my future husband, the father of the miracle growing inside me, and for the first time in my life, I’m drowning in love and peace.

  Genuine love and peace.

  EPILOGUE

  Crew

  One year later…

  Emme toddles by and squats down beside her brother, Noah, who lies on a blanket in the grass, happily gnawing on his fist as Calypso rifles through a diaper bag. Emme gives Noah a slobbery kiss and then turns to us. We smile and clap and make a big deal of her being nice to her little brother, because that’s what all the books say to do. She’s too young to understand, but we know it’s hard for her to share the spotlight sometimes.

  “Can you grab a diaper from inside the RV?” Calypso asks me. “There are no more left in here.”

  I head inside our temporary home. We’re on the road for four weeks. Our first stop is Colorado Springs. We found a little campsite south of town and parked for the day. It’s spring, but it’s warm enough to enjoy some sunshine. We all needed the fresh air.

  A wrinkled picture of Calypso and me with “Elvis” is taped next to the speedometer. Makes me smile every time I see it.

  I return with a diaper and Calypso changes our son. I watch from my folding chair as she runs her fingers through the sandy blond wisps of baby hair on top of his head when she’s done. She brushes her nose against his, smiles, and then kisses the little dimple on his chin that mirrors mine.

  Life is good.

  No.

  Scratch that.

  Life is fucking amazing.

  “You can go write if you’d like,” I say. “I’ll sit with the kids.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  Calypso scoops Noah and places him in my arms. Emme toddles around, picking up random sticks and pinecones and throwing them.

  My wife disappears into the RV and comes out with a laptop, notebook, and cup of coffee, and sets up camp at a picnic table under a nearby shade tree. She’s working on her novel. On a whim, she submitted a manuscript to an agent, w
ho found her a publisher, and they wanted more. Turns out you don’t need a bona fide high school diploma to cash in on your dreams after all.

  She’s officially under contract for a three-book series, and she hasn’t once mentioned Havenhurst. If she did, I’d tell her everything happens for a reason. But I think she already knows that.

  “Emme, don’t put that in your mouth.” I rise from the chair and swat a chipped pinecone from her slimy hand.

  Calypso looks up from her laptop and laughs.

  Tomorrow we hit the road again. No destination in mind. We’re just driving wherever the wind blows us.

  The day we said our vows, we made a promise to each other.

  We’re taking things one day at a time, and we’re never looking back.

  So far, so good.

  I don’t think about the future much. I try to be here, to be present for my wife and kids. But every once in a while, I try to picture Calypso with gray hair. Emme in college. Noah behind the wheel of a car.

  It makes me smile because I see it so clearly.

  And I can’t fucking wait.

  But right now, I could live in this moment for the rest of my life and die the happiest man who ever lived.

  I slink back in my seat with Noah sleeping on my chest. A clean breeze kisses my face. The gentle clicking of my wife’s fingers on a keyboard mix with the chirping of birds above the trees, and Emme giggles.

  I finally won the ultimate jackpot.

  The End

  For a limited time, I’ve included a bonus copy of DARK PARADISE in your eBook copy of VEGAS BABY.

  Page ahead to start reading DARK PARADISE, or click here to be taken to a preview of my upcoming romance, ROYAL.

  Dark Paradise

  WINTER RENSHAW

  COPYRIGHT 2015 WINTER RENSHAW

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  COVER DESIGN: Louisa Maggio, LM Creations

  EDITING: Valorie Clifton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  DESCRIPTION

  There’s a name for girls like me: Sugar Baby. I’m used to being passed around the sexually depraved, middle-aged senators of Washington D.C. like candy, but when I meet him - the mysterious man who buys my exclusivity for three months for price that should frighten me more than his demands - everything changes.

  He's younger than the others. His touch is softer. His lips sweeter. His need fiercer. He has only one requirement...

  A blindfold to protect his identity...and to protect me from the danger I'd face if our affair leaked to the world.

  No phones. No light. No real names. He says I'm his dark paradise, and we have to keep it that way. He promises I'll thank him someday.

  But what is he really hiding? And what happens if I find out?

  DEDICATION

  This one’s for my readers! I promised you this book earlier in the year, and then it kept getting pushed back due to other projects. For that, I’m sincerely sorry, but here it is!

  You’re patient little lambs, and I heart you all. xoxo

  PROLOGUE

  Camille

  {Present Day}

  Today’s the day I sell my soul.

  “I believe I speak for an entire nation, Ms. Buchanan, when I say we’re on pins and needles as we wait for the release of your memoir. What made you decide to write this tell-all?” The woman interviewing me cocks her head and offers a look that makes me want to open up to her, but the concern in her eyes is for the viewers at home.

  And she should be concerned. This book is going to change everything for a lot of people.

  I never wanted to write it.

  But what choice did I have?

  “Well, Denise, I believe it’s important to know what goes on in our nation’s capital when no one’s looking.” I keep a light cadence in my words just like I practiced all afternoon. My PR team says to keep my interviews spry to counteract the bomb I’m about to drop. It’s not every day that the carefully crafted images of an American blue-blooded family are shattered.

  This is my big moment. I’m experiencing a historical moment in real-time. Clips of this interview will play out on countless documentaries someday, and my name will forever be linked to his. For better or for worse, I’ll be unforgettable.

  Just like I always wanted.

  “I’ve had the privilege of reading a few excerpts from your book, and I must say to the viewers at home, there are some extremely heavy allegations.” She repositions herself before resting her chin across the top of her hand. We’re just a couple of girls having a conversation. Denise Stone makes it easy to forget we’re being filmed for a nationally televised special, but I suppose that’s why she’s paid the big bucks. “What would you say to the naysayers who might accuse you of looking for a big payday?”

  “We’re fortunate enough to live in a free country.” I deliver my lines like I rehearsed and ignore the fact that I’m melting under these hot lights. “No one has to read anything or believe anything they don’t want to. The only thing I’d like everyone to know is that my book, my memoir, is one hundred percent factual. Every word of it is true.”

  ONE

  Camille

  {One year ago}

  I look like Jackie. I make love like Marilyn. It’s a dangerous combination in a city of power-hungry, sex-starved politicians.

  “Don’t take another step.” His voice is low and void of inflection. The heavy hotel suite door slams behind me. My crystal-encrusted heels anchor into the dense carpet, my body paralyzed by the assertion in his command. The room is pitch black save for the sliver of streetlight breaking through the heavy drapes. In the corner stands a man, or rather, the outline of a man. I can’t see his face. “There’s a blindfold on the table to your left. Put it on.”

  “Why? Are you some kind of monster?” I intend to sound lighthearted, but the second my voice breaks I show my cards. My stomach flips as I take the blindfold from the table and place it over my eyes. Satin. Maybe silk. Blackest black. “Where do you want me?”

  The air conditioning kicks on, bringing a quick chill to my mostly bare skin. The left strap of the little black number I’m wearing falls down my shoulder.

  “Leave it,” he says. “It’ll be off soon enough.”

  His voice is closer than it was before. Licking my lips, I force a smile and ignore the warning sirens going off in my head. Three deep breaths and I’m saturated in his old-money scent: vetiver and leather with a hint of cigar smoke.

  The John’s arm grips the crook of my elbow as he leads me over to the bed.

  “Bronwyn,” he says. “Couldn’t think of a better hooker name?”

  “I am not a hooker.” I huff. There’s a difference between what I do and what they do. “And it’s my middle name.”

  “Is it safe for you to be giving out your real name to strange men?”

  “If it makes you feel better, you can call me any name you want.” The corner of my lip curls into a teasing half-smirk, though I doubt he sees it in the dark. My first name is Camille, but he doesn’t need to know that. “My name isn’t all that important, and I’d hardly call you a strange man. I’m selective with my clients. I chose you.”

  Or, rather, I allowed him to choose me. Same difference.

  My best friend and roommate, Araminta, set this u
p, and she’s the only person on this godforsaken planet I trust.

  Which is why I’m here . . .

  at the Melrose Hotel in Georgetown . . .

  minutes from having blindfolded sex with a complete stranger . . .

  while simultaneously second-guessing my decision to come here tonight and reminding myself of all those zeroes.

  “Names are everything.” His breath warms the back of my neck, his fingertips trailing down my spine until they reach my zipper. The John’s voice is younger than I anticipated. He doesn’t sound like a balding, pot-bellied senator or a silver-haired, meaty-knuckled chairperson.

  “Is that why you won’t tell me yours?” I smile, finding this entire situation amusing the second I strip away my fear.

  “Yes.” He sighs. “All of this should’ve been explained to you. Was it not?”

  “I was told you were high profile.”

  Araminta couldn’t tell me his name as she didn’t know it, but for seven figures, I’d sleep with almost anyone. And that’s what this mystery man offered. One million dollars for twelve short weeks, a miniscule blip on the timeline of my life.

  Deep inside, beyond my shiny chestnut hair, deep-set gaze, and bee-stung pout, is a girl dreaming of getting out of here. Moving west. Making a name for herself.

  The only thing I’ve ever wanted in my entire life is to be unforgettable.

  If you take away the elegant wardrobe, the fancy dinners, the upscale apartment, and the ridiculously expensive hotel rendezvous, I’m nothing more than a hustler with a dream. An actress inflicted with merciless ambition. A highly skilled professional.

  “And I was told you were the best at keeping secrets,” he says. A quick pull on my zipper loosens my dress before he tugs it farther, letting it fall to a soft heap at my feet.