Vegas Baby

by Winter Renshaw

  “Really? You want to talk about the way things ended?” In my mind, I’m standing right now, yanking that pretentious, hundred-dollar glass of red wine from his hand and dousing his pristine white shirt in it. “How’s your wife, Trey? And the kids? How’s the baby, Trey? Is she walking yet?”

  His face reddens as his eyes scan our surroundings for any prying patrons.

  “Keep your voice down!” Trey’s whisper borders along the lines of a shout.

  “Why’s that? Wouldn’t want your dirty little secret getting out?”

  We both lean back in our chairs, refusing to make eye contact for a moment. He seethes from his side. I huff from mine.

  Clearly, coming here tonight was a bad idea, but I had to ask. And I wanted to personally remind him to leave me the hell alone. I figured coming to a very busy restaurant in a very public place would keep the meeting from feeling intimate.

  “If I go down, I’m taking you right along with me, sweetheart.” He cocks a smile that makes me want to punch him.

  I’d met Trey just before last Christmas. He’d heard about me through another senator, as they all seemed to do, and I accepted him as a client after learning of his emotionally abusive, alcoholic wife and how she’d abandoned their marriage yet refused to initiate a divorce. He claimed to be fresh off of filing a legal separation when we had our first date, and the first week into our arrangement, this handsome senator cried in my arms about how much he missed the tender touch of a lover. He claimed to be a man simply in search of a woman who enjoyed physical intimacy as much as he did. Months passed, and I found myself breaking all of my own rules. He swept me up with the sweet nothings he’d whisper into my ear when he’d stay the night, and he sealed the deal with sweeping romantic gestures that made me forget I was just somebody’s prized whore.

  No one had ever done those things for me. And none of these men had ever taken the time to get to know me the way Trey did. He knew my favorite music, my favorite stores and restaurants. He was the first man I’d ever so much as mentioned to my mother.

  We were planning a trip to Tennessee last summer when the letter arrived in the mail.

  It was postmarked in DC and the return address was blank. I’d almost thrown it away because it looked like disguised junk mail, the kind with no identifying information so that you’re forced to open it to see what’s inside.

  Only when I opened this letter, I saw a family photo. Trey Bancroft sat next to his beautiful, smiling wife, Tippy, who cradled a pudgy-faced baby. A black lab and two blonde girls in pigtails and matching rompers sat in front.

  My heart knocked erratically in my chest as I studied that photo, searching for some kind of clue. It could’ve been taken a year or two ago for all I knew.

  And then I saw it. The pink and yellow paisley tie around his neck. The one I bought for him during a weekend getaway in Cape May not two months prior. He jokingly said it was the most ugly thing he’d ever seen, and I told him if he loved me, he’d wear it sometime.

  I dropped the photo in that moment, my hands flying to my mouth in case the stir of bile in my stomach decided to rise. The picture fluttered to the ground, landing upside down when it hit the floor.

  And that’s when I saw the writing on the back.

  END IT OR EVERYONE WILL KNOW.

  “This was a mistake.” I rise from the table. I should’ve known better than to expect a liar to give me a straight answer.

  “Where are you going? We haven’t even ordered yet.”

  My jaw slacks. “This wasn’t a date, Trey.”

  He stares ahead, his expression hardening. If it weren’t for whoever the hell was stalking us back then, I’d probably be staring across the table into his eyes right now like some idiotic escort who fell in love with her client.

  “And stop following me. Do we really need to go down that road again?” I say to him. “I know you followed me the other day.”

  His handsome face wrinkles, and his head shakes. “No idea what you’re talking about, Camille.”

  “The Melrose, Trey. Someone saw you there.”

  He leans in, his eyes lifting to mine. “I have just as much skin in the game as you do, sweetheart. The last thing I want is to be seen in a hotel with my ex whore.”

  His words sting worse than I expected them to, but I hold my head high. I may be a whore, but I’m the classiest whore this city has ever seen. And besides, it’s just his bruised ego talking. Deep down, that man is still head over heels in love with his whore.

  “Now,” he says. “Tell me, why would I have followed you to a hotel?”

  “Because you still want to be with me,” I say in a rushed whisper, annoyed to have to state the obvious. Why else would he have dropped everything to meet me tonight?

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” He scoffs, but he has to be lying. I can hear the uncertainty in his voice disguised as arrogance. “Don’t think for one moment that you’re not disposable to any of the men who pay for your . . . services.”

  “You loved me, Trey.” I keep my voice down. “And for a tiny sliver of this past year, I almost thought I loved you too.”

  His eyes roll and his square jaw relaxes as he smirks. “I could never love someone like you, Camille. I thought it was all part of the game. We were just a couple of professionals doing what we do best: pretending to be people we’re not.”

  I blink away tears that threaten to blur my vision. It’s been years since anyone’s made me cry, and here I am, letting an asshole like Senator Bancroft get right beneath my skin and vaporize every ounce of strength I have.

  “Nobody who hires you is ever going to love you,” he adds. “It’s like leasing a car. It’s yours for a while, and it’s shiny and new and fun, and then you give it back as soon as you’re done with it.”

  “Beautiful analogy. Wow. Lovely. Thank you.”

  I don’t know this man, the one who cried in my arms and sent me flowers every single week for months, the one who placed his hand on my belly not six months ago and asked if I’d ever consider having a baby with him someday, the one who said he couldn’t imagine his future without me in it.

  Whether he lied then or he’s lying now, it all hurts the same.

  A crushing, suffocating sensation fills my chest. His words make me nauseous. I’ve spent the better part of the last five years learning to read people, and you spend enough time around politicians that you tend to grow desensitized to their bullshit.

  But I thought it was different with Trey.

  I pull in a breath and refuse to let myself sink any deeper. I’m more upset with myself for believing him. It’s not his fault. It’s mine. I knew better. There’s a reason Araminta and I have rules, and I threw them all out the window after a few sweet words and tender nights with this con artist.

  Never again.

  “Thank you, Trey.” I hook the strap of my bag around my shoulder.

  “For what?”

  “For a most enlightening evening. Now go home to your wife and kids.”

  EIGHTEEN

  “John”

  “You’re only a prisoner in your own mind.” My brother sprays his signature cologne under his clean-shaven jaw before recapping it.

  I’m slouched in a leather armchair in the oversized master suite of his apartment, a half-empty bourbon in my left hand.

  “Easy for you to say.” I take a sip, then another to finish.

  “Come out with us just once. You can’t spend the rest of your life locked up like some prince in an ivory tower.” He turns to face me, slicking his palm down the lapel of his suit jacket. “One time. Come with us. Find a hot piece of ass. Take her home. Fuck the living shit out of her. And deal with the consequences later.”

  “This is coming from the man who’s never met a consequence he couldn’t pay to go away.”

  “Everyone has a price.”

  I’m well aware.

  “Come on,” he says. “You look like you could use a drink and a fuck. I swear to God, it fixes al
l of life’s ailments. And I don’t mean for you to call up Camille.”

  I spent months trying to find out who Camille was, and then after a single conversation with my brother, he tracked her down with a single phone call to a friend of his who happened to know her roommate.

  “Go find some shit-faced coed in a pushup bra with fuck-me heels and give her a night she’ll never forget,” he says. “Unless she’s too hung over to remember the next day, which is usually the case, but that’s her problem.”

  The idea of fucking anyone who isn’t Camille doesn’t appeal to me.

  “What? Why the face?” he stares down his nose at me. “No one else is good enough for you?”

  “Not really,” I say, “if I’m being honest.”

  “Oh, God. Please tell me you’re not in love with someone.”

  “Absolutely not.” I don’t know her yet, and it’s not my intention to fall in love. This isn’t about love. This is about everything but love—the sweet intoxication, the physical intimacy, the give and take. What I have with Camille is supposed to extract all the good things that come from loving someone and leave the bad. When it’s all said and done, neither one of us should be walking away with battle wounds. “Love is for the weak.”

  I remind myself of that each and every day, and especially after spying on her little dinner with Bancroft. I saw red. Then everything went black. I spent the rest of that evening ruminating until I remembered what this was about: nothing more than an opulent fantasy.

  I haven’t called her in days. Every so often a burning, jealous sensation creeps into my veins. A few more days, and I’ll have given myself more than enough time to cool down. I’ll meet with Camille, and I’ll remind her that her body and her time belong to me. And then I’ll ask her point blank if she’s still fucking the senator.

  “Smart man.” He adjusts his tie in his mirror before checking his face from every angle. “Are you coming out with us tonight or not? My car’s downstairs, and I’m leaving, so . . .”

  I rise, undecided. Glancing at my watch, I realize I have no commitments tonight.

  “Just come for one drink. Maybe two,” he says. “We’re going all over tonight, so if at any point you want to bail, I promise I won’t try to stop you.”

  It’s been years since I truly enjoyed myself, and if I weren’t still livid with Camille, I’d be with her tonight, enjoying myself the best way I know how.

  “I’m telling you, once you stop caring what everyone else thinks, your entire life changes.” He peers at his reflection yet another time, finger combing some hair into place. “Let me get you drunk so that you can make some bad decisions tonight.”

  I groan. “Fine, I’ll come. But only for a little while.”

  NINETEEN

  Camille

  “Do you think he dumped me?” I slick a coat of ballet slipper pink across the nail of my ring finger before blowing on it. I’m seated on the edge of the bathtub in Araminta’s suite.

  “What, like you two were dating?”

  “You know what I mean. I’ve never been dropped cold before. Not a single phone call or goodbye. Maybe he’s regretting letting me take off the blindfold, but I swear, Minty, I still couldn’t see anything.”

  “He’s paranoid. Forget about him.”

  “Easy for you to say. I’m not exaggerating when I say it was the best sex I’ve had in my life.” I clasp my hands together in prayer. “Is it selfish of me to want to keep him a bit longer? I even prayed about it last night.”

  Araminta makes the sign of the cross. “Lord, hear her prayer.”

  I laugh, fully owning how ridiculously absurd I sound. I’m sure God, if there is one, has more important things to do with His time. The last thing He needs to worry about is some sex-worker sending up requests like He’s some wish-granting genie in a bottle.

  “I prayed for a gold Tiffany locket when I was twelve. Got one for Christmas that year.” She shrugs. “I also prayed that God would let me marry my high school boyfriend, and let me just take a moment to thank the man upstairs for unanswered prayers. I looked my ex up on Facebook the other day, and time has not been kind to him. And I heard he cheats on his wife. With men. So . . .”

  “I keep checking my phone for missed calls. My ringer’s at full volume. Nothing’s coming through.”

  “If he calls you, he calls you. It’s out of your control.” Araminta slicks a tube of red Chanel lipstick across her pout, then makes a kissy face in the mirror. Her blonde hair is unapologetically voluminous, and her dress dips down in the front and back. She doesn’t even have a date tonight—she just likes the attention. It’s a game to her. She sits at a bar, by herself, and tries to see how long it takes before someone offers to buy her a drink. Her record, so far, is a mere ninety-four seconds.

  “So am I a free agent now?” I don’t want to move on from John, but I’ve got a waiting list of potential clients and a savings account to fill.

  “I’d say so.” She clicks her blush compact and gives the apples of her cheeks a good pinch. “Shall we celebrate the fact that your beautifully cared-for and meticulously groomed lady parts officially belong to their rightful owner again?”

  I laugh, grabbing her eye shadow palette and swiping my fingertip along a shimmery taupe. “You find the oddest things to celebrate.”

  “Everything is worth celebrating, my friend. Life can be one big party if you want it to be.” She twirls in front of the mirror, peering over her shoulder to check out her backside. “All right. I’m good. Go get ready, you’re coming with me.”

  ***

  This is the cleanest men’s room I’ve ever seen in my life.

  Not that I’ve seen many.

  The line for the ladies’ room was way too long, and my bladder was two seconds from exploding, so I did what I had to do.

  The man standing behind me in line promised to guard the door so I could have it all to myself. Funny what all a sweet smile and a wink can get a girl in this city.

  I wash my hands and pat them dry with a paper towel as someone pounds on the door.

  “Hold on,” I yell, though I’m sure they don’t hear me. This bar is insanely loud, and it’s not from the music. Everyone is chatting, their voices all layered on top of one another. Everyone loves to hear themselves talk around here, but no one ever wants to shut up and listen. The pounding continues, and I yell, “Almost done.”

  Crinkling the paper towel and dropping it in the trash, I check my reflection one last time before heading back out. I pull the handle and swing the door my way, taking a step and bumping right into a man dressed in a black suit and speaking into his sleeve.

  “Oh. Hello,” I say.

  He wears no expression and his gaze is hidden behind dark glasses. The man turns behind him and motions for someone to come closer. I squeeze between what is clearly a Secret Service agent and the doorway and prepare for a long and arduous search for Araminta. That woman never stays in the same place for long.

  A second agent marches toward the men’s room, creating a parted-sea effect. I step aside and attempt to see over his shoulders, but the man’s broad shoulders block my view for a moment.

  Once they get closer, I catch a glimpse of a man several yards back in a three-piece suit with his head tucked and his eyes down. Women around me gasp and nudge each other. Some of them point. Another agent walking behind the man sweeps his arms wide, as if to create some kind of shield to keep people from sneaking up from behind.

  The crowd around me grows louder, more excited. Women push between other women to catch a closer glimpse. I just want to get out of this area and find Araminta, but I’m stuck in the middle of it all.

  I tuck my clutch under my arm and wait for the storm to pass. The second whoever that is is in the restroom, I can push through all these crazy ladies and order another drink. Unsnapping my clutch, I decide to text Minty to find out where she is. I swear this place doubled in patrons in the last ten minutes.

  When I’m halfway finish
ed typing a quick text, I hear a woman behind me shout, “Keir!”

  Naturally, I glance up.

  But before I realize what’s going on, I’ve been shoved by the rowdy batch of ladies behind me, and I’m diving headfirst into the Secret Service sandwich containing one Mr. Keir Montgomery. My arms fly forward to brace myself so that I don’t hit the ground like some kind of clueless klutz, only my palms land on the front of Keir’s suit coat.

  I suck in a startled breath. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.”

  His hands take mine, and I fully expect him to push me off of him like I’m some sort of groupie who flew into him intentionally. Only he doesn’t move. Our eyes lock, and the first thing I notice is that his sapphire blue eyes are every bit as intense in person as they are on TV. His lips spread into a charmed smile, and the second thing I notice are his dimples.

  My heart flutters, and heat spreads across my cheeks. This so isn’t me. I’m not a girl who gets star struck or smitten at first sight, but something’s happening to me and I kind of like it.

  The agent behind him taps his shoulder, and he turns to mutter something. I can’t hear him. It’s too loud in here. But I think he told him it was okay. The agent backs off, cupping his hands at his hips and scanning the perimeter. Everyone around us stares and smiles, and I’m certain all these ladies are living this moment vicariously through me.

  “So sorry about that.” I apologize for what I’m sure is the second time, but I’m not entirely sure I said it the first time. It all could’ve been in my head for all I know. This man’s aura is intensely commanding. “Those women got a little excited and pushed me into your path.”

  “I know,” he says. “I saw. You were texting on your phone, not paying attention.”

  My cheeks burn hotter than before. Was he checking me out? Was Keir Montgomery checking me out? I fight a smile. Araminta would be green with envy right now. He’s just as handsome in person than I’ve ever imagined him to be.