by Kim Loraine
“Toxic” by Britney Spears starts blaring from my phone, filling the stairwell and echoing off the cement walls. "Shit, that’s my alarm," I say, wiggling until he sets me back on my feet.
He watches as I pull my phone from my pocket. "Where did you hide that?"
"Pockets. Give me a dress with pockets and I'll give you all my money. Every time." I silence the alarm and push him away. "I have to get back."
The look on his face is priceless. Like I just held out the most delicious dessert he's ever seen and let him take a tiny taste before throwing it all in the garbage. I suppose that's exactly what I did, but to be fair, he took too long and I'll be suffering too. That's on him.
"How long are you here?" I ask, even though I shouldn't. I want him to say he'll be here longer than just the one night.
"Two weeks."
Excitement builds in my chest. That's an eternity for Vegas. "Wow, why?"
He runs his hands through his hair, trying to put himself back together. "Work."
"Well, you know where to find me. Thanks for the make-out session." I work to keep my words confident and composed. But inside, I'm a mess. I don't think anyone's ever kissed me like that before.
"We'll definitely be doing that again, Ireland."
I leave the stairwell and he follows, my shoes echoing in sharp clicks on the cement. We're nearing the entrance to LBD when he grabs my hand, spins me into his arms, and kisses the life out of me one more time. I'm trembling in his hold and I don't know if I'll be able to walk on these damn shoes until I pull myself together.
"You...you can go out that door, then come back in the main entrance so no one sees us."
He grins. "You might want to fix your hair before you go back inside."
I hold up my phone and flip the camera to selfie mode. He's right. My long tresses are tangled and tousled, but not in an artful way. Also, my lip gloss is smeared, the shine gone and my lips are puffy from his kisses. Cheeks burning, I can't stop my laugh. "Go on or I'll pour your next drink in your lap."
"As long as you clean it up."
Oh, he's so sexy. He leaves, the noise of the casino filling the hallway as he opens the door.
I quickly finger comb my hair and wipe at my lips before striding back into the bar. No one really notices me, except for one of the line cooks, but he's not going to give me shit for this. I've caught him fucking around back here more than a few times.
Harrison is on his same barstool when I come out of the kitchen. His smirk says it all. He wants more, and I want to give it to him. I have to force myself not to smile when his eyes lock on mine. It's weird, watching him without interacting, but I have a job to do, and business is picking up as people leave the slots and tables in favor of the bar.
There's a pull between us even though we haven't spoken since my break. I can still taste his kisses, smell him, feel the rough brush of stubble, his strong hands roaming my--I run into Summer while she's carrying a tray filled with drinks. She only loses one, but it was a close call.
"Ireland, what is going on with you?" Summer asks, her words an annoyed whisper as I pick up the broken glass and call a bus boy to come clean up the rest.
"Sorry, I was distracted."
"That's an understatement." She flips her hair and turns on her heel, heading toward the table with five guys in their late twenties. I've got my money on them being a bachelor party.
God, I need to focus, but my gaze keeps drifting to Harrison. He's talking to some guy who came up and sat next to him, the dude beaming at him like they're old friends. He did say he was here for work. Maybe this is a co-worker. Then they take a selfie and the man shakes Harrison's hand before leaving. What?
"You're a popular guy." My teasing tone has him grinning, but he's not as flirtatious as he was before. He twirls a black guitar pick between his fingers and glances around the bar. He's a musician? Apprehension grips me. I want to ask him what kind of work he does, but he stands.
"I've gotta head out."
Disappointment takes hold in my belly. I'd been hoping for a repeat of my break after I got off work. In fact, I was this close to asking him to take me to his room. I know I'm a hypocrite. But after the way he kissed me in the stairwell, I need to experience the rest of him.
He stands and brushes a lock of hair away from my face, letting his fingers trail down the exposed skin of my back. It's intimate and turning me on like nobody's business, but I'm at work right now, not on a break. I step back and force down my need for him. "See you around?" I ask, trying to keep my voice from being overly breathy, but his touch does something to me.
With a wink, he leaves a twenty on the bar and nods. "Absolutely."
Then he's gone, and I'm fighting the urge to swoon. People around me are laughing and taking pictures, celebrating one thing or another. All I can focus on is keeping him in my sight for as long as possible. Until I head to the bar and see the black guitar pick and cocktail napkin sitting on the polished wood. Lyrics are scrawled across the napkin.
Fire in her eyes, candy on her lips.
She's a whiskey sour,
I'm ready for a sip.
Oh, shit. He's definitely a musician.
3
Ireland
"So, do you want to talk about the whiskey sour guy?" Summer asks as I unlock the door to our duplex.
"There's nothing to talk about." I kick off my heels as soon as we walk through the door and let out a sigh of relief. If I have my way, one day we'll be allowed to wear flats at the bar.
"You aren’t a bartender, but you made him a cocktail.” She cocks a blond eyebrow and waits for my response, but all I offer is a shrug. “You stole his drink, gave him sass, and wouldn't stop looking at him. And I'm pretty sure you two got it on during your break. You looked well taken care of when you got back." She nudges me with her elbow on her way to the kitchen where she fills our electric kettle with water. "I think the last time you treated a guy that way you almost married him."
There are times I love living and working with my cousin. This isn’t one of them. I've tried hard over the last two years to move past my break up, my near marriage to a cheating bastard. Out here, no one knows the details of my broken engagement. They don't know I found him face first up my maid-of-honor's dress. But Summer knows.
"I'm not marrying this guy." My mind latches on to his guitar pick. "He's a musician." I have to shout the words over the screeching kettle.
She laughs and pours us both a mug of hot water before plopping a tea bag in each. "Did he tell you that?"
"No."
"Then how in the world could you know?"
"He had calluses on the fingers of his left hand."
She raises a hand to her throat in mock terror. "Oh no, not calluses." Then she rolls her eyes. "There are a thousand things that could give a man callused hands."
"And he left this on the bar." I hold up a black guitar pick.
"Maybe he's a collector?"
I shake my head. "I don't date and I certainly don't date musicians. Not after Nick."
She plops down on the couch and rests her feet on the rickety coffee table. "Fine. I get it. But, you know, not every musician is like Nick."
I don't want to talk this through. "I'm going to shower and then head to bed. I'm working day shift tomorrow for Tempest. She's got" —I use air quotes— "the flu."
Summer waves me off with a, "'Night."
I keep my water cool to distract me from thoughts of him. It doesn't work. I keep seeing the intricate sleeves of tattoos on his arms, his rugged five o'clock shadow and the unchecked desire in his eyes when he first saw me. I admit, I teased. But the look on his face was worth the ogling. I get checked out nightly, it comes with the job, but there was something beyond him assessing whether I'm fuckable or not. That's what makes him different.
I fall asleep with him in my head. His rough voice, the scent of leather and something spicy. My dreams were filled with Han Solo and Princess Leia, but in my subconscious, the
y didn't wait until the end to admit their feelings. They got down to business at the end of their first scene. And if I'm honest, my princess looked a lot like me, and my Han... well, let's just say, he had a lot of tattoos.
There's some serious buzz going around the hotel when I arrive in the morning. My dress today is a little longer, less revealing in the back, but still sexy. It's the day shift after all, tips are lousy and people are usually hungover. I head inside LBD and make a bee-line for the break room.
Mia and Kitty are giggling at something on Mia's phone. "What's so funny?" I ask, getting closer.
They both look guilty, Mia hiding her cell behind her back. "Nothing," she says.
"Come on, seriously?"
Kitty elbows Mia and says, "Show her."
With a roll of her eyes, Mia hands me the phone where I see she was on Instagram searching the hashtag #EastonHarrison. "What the fuck?" I mutter as I look through the pictures. Every one has the guy--Harrison--from last night. Harrison. Easton Harrison. I was right. He's an asshole musician. He just so happens to be an award-winning, super famous musician. And now that I see the name attached to his picture, I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him.
"Did you see it?" Kitty asks.
"See what?"
"You."
A knot of dread forms in the pit of my stomach. Me? I keep scrolling until I see a picture of Easton sitting at the bar and me leaning close, suggestively, and staring into his soulful dark eyes. Then another of him with his hand on my exposed back right before we parted ways. Oh, shit.
"Does he at least tip well?" Mia asks as I hand the phone back to her.
I shrug. "Not sure. I took back his drink."
"Ireland, I can't believe you didn't tell us about this as soon as you got here. I mean... actually, you should have texted me last night."
"Why? We get celebrities in here all the time. Granted, they usually go to the VIP room, but still. Why is this a big deal?"
"Because he's looking at you like you're going to be the next woman to break his heart and inspire an award-winning album." She sighs. "I'd pay good money to be that woman."
I ignore her. He's a liar. "It's not a big deal. He flirted, I teased. It's what I always do." Not really. I flirt a little, but not like that. I just really liked the look in his eyes every time I sassed him.
Glancing in the mirror, I fluff my hair and check my makeup one last time before heading onto the floor. I'm not tending bar today. Today, according to our manager Maximo's crack of dawn text, I get to be bored off my ass in the VIP room. We never get VIPs during the day.
As soon as I part the curtain and step inside the exclusive area, I see I couldn't have been more wrong. Harrison... no, wait, Easton, is sitting in a corner booth, a spiral bound notebook on the table and with an untouched plate of breakfast next to it. He's writing furiously and hasn't looked up to see me yet. Good. Maybe he'll spend the day engrossed in what he's doing and I won't have to talk to him. Better yet, maybe I can get Mia to switch with me. She loves him.
I turn on my heel to ask her to do just that, but instead of finding the exit, I collide with Maximo. "Where do you think you're going, Andi?"
I grimace at the nickname. "It's Ireland. No one calls me Andi."
"You're on the schedule to work VIP."
"I know. I was going to see if Mia would switch. She's real—"
"No, no, no. You were specially requested this morning. Mr. Harrison reserved the room for the entire day."
"He what?" I can't help it, my voice squeaks.
"Apparently you left quite the impression." He leans in. "Whatever you did last night, do it again. I switched off the security cameras."
Ugh. A shudder runs through me. What a skeeze. "I didn't—"
"Ah, ah, ah, don't tell me. I can't get in trouble for what I don't know."
He leaves and I'm alone with Easton, who has finally looked up from his writing.
"Harrison, huh?" I say, hand on my hip.
He shrugs. "It's my last name. Lots of people go by their last names."
"Maybe if you're on a professional sports team."
"Fine, you got me. I was just enjoying you not knowing who I was. It's... I don't know... being normal was nice for a change."
His big hands clench into fists and I can tell he's uncomfortable, as though he's searching for something to occupy his fingers. "Lose something?" I ask.
He takes a long breath and flips his notebook closed. "A guitar pick. I always have it on me, but I must've lost it on the plane."
My heart melts a little. "Don't you have more? You are a guitar player."
"It's a superstition thing. My brother gave me his guitar pick when I got my first Strat. I was thirteen." His brow furrows. "He died a few years back. Since then, I've held tight to that stupid piece of plastic."
And now I'm a puddle. Reaching into the pocket of my dress, I pull out his pick, thankful I'd decided to bring it with me. "Is this it?"
I hold it between my thumb and forefinger and the relief on his face is palpable. "Where was it?"
"You left it on the bar." I don't tell him I've still got the cocktail napkin tucked into my purse.
He takes the black plastic triangle from my hand and sparks rush along my skin where our fingers touch. Oh no. He's bad news. I haven't felt that... spark, in a long time. "Thank you, Ireland."
I shrug, trying to play down the attraction building with every word we exchange. "No big deal. Do you need anything else?"
"Now that you mention it," he says, standing and coming close. "I need you."
My breath hitches. He's right there. Mere inches from me. I can smell him, clean and crisp. I have to clear my throat before I can speak. "What can I do for you?"
"Spend the next week with me. I'll pay you double what you make here."
I laugh. "I don't know you."
"Please? I need you close. You're like... you're a breath of fresh air after being trapped in the same room for months."
"Are you sure you don't drink? You sound insane."
I turn to leave, but he grabs my hand, that single touch making my knees tremble. "Ireland, wait. Don't you want to know why I'm in here alone? Why I requested you?"
"This isn't Pretty Woman. I'm not a whore you can pay to keep."
He shakes his head, those lips of his turning up in a smile. "No, it's not. I'll keep my hands to myself. And, for the record, Julia Roberts has nothing on you."
I roll my eyes. "Flattery is a cheap trick."
"But is it working?"
"A little."
He releases my hand and walks back to his table, grabbing the notebook and opening to the first page. Pointing at the ink scrawled across the page, he says, "See that?"
"Words. So? You're a songwriter, that's not too far out of your wheelhouse."
"I haven't been able to write for close to six months. Not since my last album." He turns the pages and shows me four more songs. "Not until last night after I met you."
My belly flips. "So naturally, you think you have to be near me to write?"
"You're my muse."
I shake my head. "This is ridiculous. I'm not your muse. I'm a cocktail waitress in Vegas. There's nothing muse-like about me."
"Give me a chance, show me the sights. I just need you here to help inspire me."
"Let me get this straight. You want me to drop everything... work, my life, everything, to be with you so you can write songs?"
"Exactly."
Memories of his kisses assault me, making my brain forget that he's offering to pay me like an escort. A high-class escort, but still. Can I really accept money from this guy to just... be there? My mind goes straight to the crushing debt from my non-wedding that is racking up interest on my credit cards. It had been too late to cancel anything, the photographer, the venue, not to mention, our honeymoon. All Nick had left me with was an engagement ring I couldn't sell because it ended up being a cubic zirconia rather than a diamond. Double my pay for an entire we
ek would help make a dent in what I owe. "Okay."
He nods, a grin lighting up his face, and returns to his table. "I'll make it worth your while, Ireland."
"You'd better."
4
Easton
Ireland's boss wasn't too happy when I told him she'd need a week off. In fact, he threatened to fire her until I called my new best friend Hannah. She tore him a new one right in front of me. Well done, Hannah.
Now, a day later, I'm standing in the living room of Ireland's tiny duplex, watching as she flits from the bathroom to the bedroom, gathering her toiletries and packing clothes for our week together.
"I didn't realize you meant I literally had to stay with you," she complains. "I don't like sleeping in a bed that isn't mine."
"I'm paying you to stay with me. That means the whole time."
Her brows rise. "But we're sleeping in separate rooms right?"
Oh, the look on her face. I can't tell if she wants me to say yes or no. If I'm being honest, I want her in my bed wrapped up in me. But I'll let her choose. "That's up to you."
"Separate rooms." Her brow furrows as she assesses me. "I'm not sure why you want me, but we'll need somewhere to get away from each other." She runs a hand through her dark hair, the movement making her shirt pull tight around her breasts. "Summer can tell you, I'm not exactly the perfect roommate. But she’s my cousin, she has to love me."
I don't believe that. Everything about her is perfect, from the fire in her eyes to the candy sweetness of her lips. This woman doesn't know it yet, but she's mine. I catch sight of a framed picture of Ireland and the blonde waitress from the other night. That must be Summer. "I've spent months on a tour bus with three other guys. I promise, there's nothing worse than that."
A full-bodied laugh falls from her lips and her genuine smile lights up her face. Fuck. How can I even think about letting her go in a week?