Touching Sin (Vegas Sin Book 1)

by J. Saman

  Breathe.

  Compartmentalize.

  Breathe.

  Push everything down.

  Breathe.

  Formulate a plan.

  Sitting up in my lounger, I wipe the residual sweat from my nightmare off my brow. My heartbeat finally normalizes as I take stock of my life and my options. No. I can’t focus on my life. I have to focus on getting through this. Right. Focus.

  I bite on the inside of my cheek as I regard my suitcases. I can’t carry them around. My mother would roll over in her grave if she knew I was about to trash them and most of their contents. Or sell them. Maybe I can sell them? They have to be worth something. The suitcases and everything inside them are designer.

  Unzipping the first suitcase, I flip the lid back, followed by the second. Then I take out the large rucksack I threw in at the last minute and begin to fill it with the clothes I’ll need. Shoes. Shirts. Shorts. Blouses. Nice pants. Underwear. I keep going until the rucksack is filled. When I’m done, I close my suitcases and lean back against the wall on the other side of the recliner, mentally making a list.

  I need a fake ID. Probably a fake social security card. I need a job or two or three. I need to accrue as much money as I can short of robbing a bank. A fake passport that would clear customs seems impossible.

  I’ll have to start small and work my way up.

  But hell. This is Las Vegas. If ever there were a town to hide out, get a fake life, and earn quick cash, this is the place. Like touching sin, only easier. I laugh. Loud. It’s humorless and maybe a bit psychotic and when a hiccupped sob finally escapes, I break down. Tears fall from my eyes and roll down my cheeks like a Texas rainstorm. This is my life now. Mia…Jones? Sure. That works. “This is your life now, Mia Jones,” I say aloud to myself. It’s a pep talk. A way to bolster myself up. A way to keep the wrecked devastation at bay.

  One thing is for sure, I cannot go home.

  Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  Another thing is for sure, I’m leaving my old self there.

  I need to start over. Reinvent myself. Become the woman I always dreamed of being. The self-assured, smart, in control one. The one with all the answers and none of the fear.

  The one who could hit back.

  “You don’t belong here.” A deep male voice comes out of nowhere, and I jump so high off the lounger that I fall to the ground, a startled scream escaping my lips.

  “Sorry. Shit. You okay?” A large man bathed in dark shadows reaches out for me, trying to help me up.

  I shoot back, slamming into the metal of the lounger, holding my arm to my chest like he just tried to rub my skin with the plague.

  “Okay.” He draws his hand back, standing up straight and tall. “No touching. What the hell is a girl like you doing out here?”

  I look up, brushing my hair back and off my face, but I still can’t see much. The lighting is limited in this part of the pool area. But I can tell from his silhouette that this man is huge. I can’t determine exactly what he’s wearing, but it doesn’t appear to be a uniform. Mostly because I catch the skin of his massive arms and what appears to be jeans on his legs. “I, um…” And then I break down again. I just can’t do this. I feel like a cry baby and a girl who is losing instead of winning and it’s all just catching up to me. Lack of sleep and my life generally sucking in all the ways that matter and too many men tonight who may or may not be trying to help me out. “I’m sorry,” I say, wiping at my face and grasping my handbag and rucksack. “I’ll go.”

  “Oh honey,” he drawls, and that southern accent makes me smile. Why? Fuck if I know. But when you’re at the bottom, you cling to the smallest shred of what feels good, and a southern accent is evidently just the thing I needed. “I’m not kicking you out. I’m just wondering why a pretty thing like yourself is hiding out back here.”

  “Are you going to hurt me?”

  I have no idea why I just asked that question so bluntly. Maybe I’ve officially lost my mind or I’m at the end of my tolerance. Picking myself up, I slide back onto the lounger, because if he is going to hurt me, I’d rather not be on the hard ground when he does it.

  “Hurt you?” he challenges, his voice rising an octave, his tone a mixture of shock and incredulity. “I love women.” And then he chuckles lightly. “Maybe a bit too much, according to some. But hurting them, the way you’re asking, has never happened and never will. Is that why you’re here? Some guy rough you up?”

  I laugh. Again, my laughter sounds slightly crazed. Some guy? Rough me up? Yeah, that’s hilarious. If only because it’s the story of my life. If only because the way he says it makes it sound so painfully inadequate. Like he’s unintentionally trivializing something that doesn’t feel trivial.

  “Do I need to leave?” I go with instead, because evading direct questions seems to be what I’m all about tonight.

  “No,” he says slowly, carefully taking a seat next to me on the lounger, even though I didn’t invite him into my crisis bubble. Into my world that’s melting faster than ice cream in the Las Vegas sun. “You can stay here. And if you need help, well, I can be your guy for that.”

  I shake my head, staring down at the large hands in his lap with his fingers casually intertwined. No balled-up fists. No rigid posture. The sincerity in his tone is weakening me. Is jumbling up my already overworked brain. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because you’re alone. Because you’re sitting on a goddamn lounge chair, hiding in the darkness of a pool in Las Vegas, surrounded by suitcases. Because you’re crying and scared and asked if I was going to hurt you and I’m a man who does not tolerate any of those things for women.”

  “You’re the second man I’ve met tonight who tried to help me. Is this a Las Vegas thing or have I just been hanging out with the wrong crowd?”

  He laughs, running a hand through his hair before propping his elbows on his knees and staring off at nothing in the distance. “Couldn’t say. But maybe the latter from the sound of it.”

  “I’m running away,” I announce, wondering why I’m telling him anything when I wouldn’t tell Jake. Maybe it’s the darkness that’s making me brave. Maybe it’s because I was attracted to Jake and didn’t want him to know just how pathetic I truly am. Or maybe it’s because Jake started this fire in me and now I want to talk, before my truth burns me alive from the inside out. And actually, I sort of wish it were Jake here next to me instead of this guy.

  “I’m Maddox Sinclair, Running Away. Nice to meet you.” Oh Lord. I laugh. I laugh so freaking hard and it’s the first genuine laugh I think I’ve ever had. Like ever. “What can I do to help you out?”

  I shrug. Might as well give up and go for broke. I literally have nothing left to lose. And whatever this guy does with me, well, I’m not sure I care anymore. I can’t tell if this rock bottom stuff is demoralizing or empowering. “I need a fake ID. I need a fake social security number. I need a job and a new life. And I need to learn how to kick some serious butt.”

  “Hmmm…” he hums, his tone contemplative, his gaze bouncing over to mine. “Are you a cop?”

  Another laugh bursts out. “Seriously?”

  He shrugs, shifting to face me fully, trying to read me in the dark. “I have to ask.”

  “No. I am most certainly not a cop.”

  “Then I can help you. With all of that, actually.”

  I stare at him. His dark eyes sparkle against the paltry light of the pool area. He stares back, unwavering and lacking any sympathy or pity. He’s serious. “What do you expect in exchange?” It’s almost the same question I asked Jake. With the exact same meaning.

  “I like that question about as much as I like you sleeping out here. Can we find you a real place to stay?”

  I shrug. “Maybe. But for now, this is my new home. I like it here. I feel safe here. There are no outside people wandering around. Well, except you.”

  “I work here.”

  “See,” I point at him. “Exactly my point. It’s private
. There are no sketchy neighborhoods or dangerous people. It’s quiet and it’s dark. I like both of those things.”

  “I’m going to think on that one, because you sleeping outside is really not cool with me.”

  “What if I promise to find other accommodations?”

  “Then I’ll help you, Running Away. I’ll teach you how to fight, and I’ll get you hooked up with some fake-ass shit, and I’ll land you some good jobs that pay well if you don’t mind wearing something sexy.”

  “Sexy doesn’t mean selling sex, right?”

  He sighs, like I just offended him again. “No. Sexy means Las Vegas club or restaurant uniforms.”

  “I’m in,” I promise, because like I said, what do I have to lose? “But if you’re playing me, if this is a ploy to hurt me, then you should know I’m a girl with zero fucks left to give. And I never cuss. At least not outwardly, so this should demonstrate my sincerity on this.”

  “Since we’re bonding here, you should know, I cuss a lot outwardly and I’m a guy with a lot of fucks to give.”

  I smile. I think I like Maddox Sinclair.

  “Another cool fact about me? I was raised by a single mother. Never had a father. I have so much respect for women it’s not even funny. I love women. Especially ones who need my help. And you, Running Away, you need my help.”

  “So, you’re going to help me?”

  “I am. I’m going to get you exactly where you need to be.”

  Only Maddox Sinclair has no idea just how impossible that is.

  Chapter Four

  “You’re new here,” a girl says as I stash my large backpack under a shelf and behind a stack of crates. I stand up quickly, hoping she didn’t catch exactly what I was up to and spin around, morphing my expression from nervous to bright and cheery.

  “Yes.” I beam with a big smile. It’s fake. Everything about me pretty much is, but this girl with the bright red lips that match mine and the long, stick-straight black hair to match her skin doesn’t know that.

  Two weeks. I’ve been in this town two weeks and the jobs that Maddox helped me obtain feel like all I have. No, scratch that. They are all I have. “First night.”

  “Great. Welcome, I’m Millie.” She steps forward and extends her hand to me. No one has bothered to shake my hand in such a long time that for a moment, the gesture makes me freeze up. But I recover quickly, extending my hand back. “You’ll love it here. The other staff are all really super friendly and the bosses are great.”

  “Mia,” I say, though I almost cringe doing it. “Do you work in the bar, too?” I take stock of her outfit. She might have the same red lips, but she most certainly does not have the same outfit on, and that makes me want to frown. She’s wearing a mid-thigh white button-up shirt-dress with a thick red belt, whereas I’m wearing a skintight black dress that is so short if I bend over—just a little, not even a lot—my ass shows. As if that weren’t bad enough, the dip in the front is low to the point of showing off cleavage without even having to try.

  “No,” she says like it should be obvious, which probably should be given the outfit difference. “I’m a hostess.” Her eyes bounce over to the exit of the backroom before coming back to me. “I gotta get out there and I bet you do, too. Hope you have a good shift. Maybe we’ll catch up later.”

  And with that, she’s gone. I don’t even get a chance to say, yeah, you too or I’d like that, which I really wouldn’t, but again, she doesn’t need to know that. Glancing quickly over my shoulder to make sure my bag is well hidden, I leave the back room, coasting through the crowded restaurant. It’s one of those Las Vegas trendy hotspots, complete with lounge areas as well as indoor and outdoor dining. It also has a huge bar that takes up an entire wall set against red, glass subway tiles.

  Red. This place is all about the red. At least with the décor because the walls are dark, and the floors are distressed oak. When I was first hired, Cal promised that someone would train me. He never mentioned who though, so as I approach the entrance to the back of the bar where the staff come and go, I hesitate, searching around like someone is just going to materialize and tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do.

  Waiters and waitresses are hustling and bustling, filing their trays with drinks and adding garnishes as required. They ignore me as I scoot past them and maneuver around a small corner that leads to the long strip where I’ll be working. The floor is rubber over here, to prevent slipping, and it’s narrower than I would have expected given the overall size of the place.

  “You must be Mia,” a girl with short, unnaturally platinum blonde hair, dark eyes and a septum ring says to me.

  “That’s me,” I reply, hoping my voice sounds more confident than I feel at the moment. Really, I’m shitting my pants. I’ve never had a job before. I’ve never done anything of value. Never earned a dollar of my own money. It’s a night of firsts. While I should be brimming with excitement, I can’t seem to locate any sensation other than nausea. But money equals freedom, and right now, that’s no joke.

  “Perfect,” she puffs out like I just made her night. “I’m Diamond. I hope you know what you’re doing, because Cal said you’ve tended bar before, and I can’t train you.”

  “Oh.” I blink at her. “Well, yes, I have tended bar before, but no one has trained me on the drinks you have here or the register.”

  Diamond practically growls out her frustration at that. “Kippa no-showed and she was supposed to train you. It’s just you and me tonight because the bitch bailed, again,” she emphasizes like it’s my fault this Kippa girl left us in the lurch, “so I can’t help you. You’re gonna have to learn how to swim on your own.”

  And with that, she spins on her five-inch platform boots and gets back to work, effectively dismissing me. Swim on my own? I guess I don’t have a choice, even though I have absolutely no clue what I’m doing.

  “Excuse me, miss?” a man barks, snapping his fingers at me with an air of annoyance as he tries to get my attention. “Are you going to help me or what?”

  “Of course,” I say with that manufactured smile on my face. My heart ping-pongs around my chest with deafening force, reminding me I’m about to screw this up to epic proportions. “What can I get you?”

  “Grey Goose dirty martini on the rocks with three blue-cheese-stuffed olives.”

  “Coming right up.” I offer a closed mouth grin to his pissed off scowl. I have no idea where anything is. When I was hired, it was very early in the morning and Cal did not feel the need to give me a tour. I haven’t studied the bar menu. I don’t know how much the drinks cost. I have no idea how to work their fancy tablet register system, and even if I did, I’m not sure I have a code to access it. Diamond hasn’t so much as glanced in my direction, and as I find a glass and fill it with ice, I’m starting to panic.

  Rocks means ice. Dirty means olives…I think. At least he helped me out with the type of vodka he wants.

  I lied when I said I have tended bar before. Maddox told me I needed to or no one would hire me. But I have made drinks for people. That was part of my hostess duties because my father always felt it was a more personal touch if I did it instead of having the staff do it. Cal never checked anything out about me. Not my fake ID or the social security card I bought or my bogus work experience. Nothing. This is a very legitimate restaurant in a very high-end hotel on the Las Vegas strip, so the fact that Cal called me and hired me, despite the level of bullshit I tried to pass off as truth, astounds me. I practically passed out from dread as I handed my fakes over to him to scrutinize. The only thing I can come up with is Maddox. He sorta, kinda knows my situation and he must have told him some of it. I honestly don’t know.

  But it’s got nothing on the fears that plague me on a daily basis.

  So this panic? This panic feels more manageable to me. Even if it still sucks.

  I fill up a shaker, mix this asshole of a man his cocktail and hope to God he pays me in cash and tells me to keep the change. I figure I can always ring
the order up later if anyone ever comes to my rescue or decides to help me out. I finish off his drink, drop a napkin onto the polished wood bar and slide the man his drink. He’s still scowling at me. Did I get it wrong?

  “I’d like to open a tab,” he bites out.

  Now I’m good and screwed.

  “I can help you with that,” a male voice says beside me and the relief I feel nearly has me sagging in place. I glance up and catch my savior’s profile. He’s tall, which is saying something coming from me because I’m five-nine plus an extra few in my stupid heels. He’s well over six feet. His hair is a medium-chestnut brown and a light layer of stubble in the same warm color lines his angled jaw. I can’t make out much else, but when he smiles at the asshole customer, I suck in a rush of air.

  Holy Jesus. It’s him. Jake. The guy who picked me up on the side of the road after my car died and then I ran out on him first chance I got, like a one-night stand. A bubble of nervous energy fills me from head to toe, stealing my breath and coloring my cheeks with a rush of warm heat.

  He’s wearing a white button-down shirt and black slacks, the same as all the waiters and waitresses, so I can’t figure out what he’s doing back here. The light over his head casts a shadow, burnishing his dark hair and white shirt with a fiery red glow. A dark devil, I think. Only instead of damning lost souls, he’s saving them. The asshole customer nods at him, but doesn’t say anything else, like thank you, as he accepts his drink and hands Jake his credit card.

  Jake pivots to me, catching my eye and giving me a once over. His expression darkens, hardening to steel. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so embarrassed and small in my life.

  “Thank you,” I whisper meekly, my voice suddenly caught in my throat as I follow him over to the tablet at the back of the bar like the lost puppy I am. He peeks in my direction and I feel my cheeks growing warmer, my gaze desperate to lower to the ground—my natural inclination when being observed like this. I force them to stay up, force myself to stay strong.