I’m barely inside when a cute brunette comes up and touches my arm. Her uniform is practically lingerie, and she bats her lashes at me.
“Hi there,” she drawls. “What are you interested in today? Slot? Blackjack?”
Me, her tone seems to imply, and while I’m not, I throw her a huge smile anyway.
“How about some Blackjack?” I suggest, raising an eyebrow.
“Of course,” she says sweetly. “And what can I get you to drink?”
Five minutes later, I’m out five hundred dollars and there’s an empty glass in my hand. The brunette fake pouts at me, and I fold a twenty into a small wad and hand it to her.
“I gotta be honest,” I say, leaning in like I’m about to share a deep secret. “I’m actually looking for a friend of mine. Gorgeous blonde, big blue eyes. I think she might work here.”
The brunette giggles – clearly, she likes the role of co-conspirator.
“What’s her name?”
“Uh,” I falter. “That’s the thing ... we met last night, at the Egyptian Splendor Halloween party. You know of any coworkers who went there?”
The brunette raises an eyebrow. “She does ... know you, right?”
“Oh, very well,” I say suavely. “But she was so stunning, I forgot to ask for her name.”
The brunette purses her lips and I fold another twenty into a small square before handing it over.
“Sorry,” she says, pocketing my cash as a Cheshire smile comes over her face. “My manager would kill us before letting us go to the Egyptian. Good luck finding your friend.”
I stifle a groan – I feel like such a sucker. What the hell is wrong with me?
Then I think about the blonde, and I feel weak in the knees. Maybe it was because she was a total stranger, or maybe it was because she’s the first woman in years I fucked who wasn’t procured for me by Peter. But there’s no doubt about it, I can’t get her out of my mind.
Fuck, I’m in trouble.
I walk out of the casino and stand on the Strip with my hands shoved in my pockets. The fountains at the Bellagio are going off and a huge clump of tourists is standing nearby, oohing and aahing and taking pictures and videos for Instagram.
I’m not sure that I like Vegas, I think to myself as I start wandering from one casino to the next. Being in a such a weird, surreal place makes me think that I’m doing nothing but wasting my time. It’s useless to keep looking for the blonde: there are so many hundreds of thousands of people here that I’ll never find her.
It sticks with me for hours. When I get back to my hotel, Peter is white in the face and he looks pissed.
“Logan!” Peter hisses. “Where the hell have you been?”
I stare at him. “I told you, I was going for a walk,” I say. “And I did. And now I’m back.”
“We’re going to be late,” Peter quips under his breath. “And you’re wearing that? Really?”
I glance down at my white button-up shirt and black pants.
“Yeah,” I say. “Why?”
Peter groans. “Logan, Logan, Logan,” he says, shaking his head. “These girls don’t want to see Mr. Next Door! They want Mr. Quarterback,” he says. He rummages through his leather suitcase and pulls out an Indiana Bandits jersey.
On the back, instead of my last name, it just says Bachelor.
“I’m not wearing that,” I say, shaking my head. “There’s no way.”
But as always, Peter has the upper hand and he shoves the jersey into my hands before practically marching me into the bathroom and shutting the door behind me. For a moment, I feel like I’ve died and gone to Hell: somewhere out there, the blonde is walking around, and I don’t even have the option of going to find her. Instead, I have to make nice with a couple dozen dead-eyed women who care more about becoming America’s next D-list celebrity than they do about me.
Fuck, I think as I pull the jersey over my head. It’s a lot tighter than my real jersey is, presumably to show off my muscular body without the bulk of pads, and I look like I’m about to walk on-set into a porn by the time I finish rolling the material down my chest.
“Perfect,” Peter croons when I emerge from the bathroom. “Are you ready to go meet Miss Perfect?”
I already met her, I think, shaking my head.
“Sure,” I mutter. “Yeah, whatever.”
Peter and I take a limo down the Strip until we’re just past all of the tourist attractions, past the High Roller Ferris wheel, past several casinos and amusement parks. We pull into the driveway of a large, privately-owned home with a gated entrance and pink stucco walls.
“This isn’t going to take long, is it?” I ask as I run a hand through my hair.
“It’ll take as long as it needs to,” Peter chirps. “Look sharp, Logan. This is your chance!”
I paste a smile on my face as I climb out of the limo. Immediately, I hear several shrieks and cries, like seagulls. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I tilt my face up and look to the roof of the building just in time to see a cluster of women screeching at me and waving their arms. One of them lifts her shirt up over her huge tits, exposing round implants and stiff nipples.
“You’re going to have so much fun, Logan!” Peter says. He elbows me and winks. “Every guy would kill for this, am I right?”
As I follow him into the house loaded with women, it’s all I can do not to groan.
Chapter 5
Alyssa
“Are you ready?” Caro asks. We’re sitting in my living room, staring down at a table full of notes. Caro’s meticulous handwriting is all over the papers, and she’s even got color-coordinated Post-it notes stuck here and there to remind us of our talking points.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply.
Caro raises an eyebrow at me.
“What?” I ask her.
“Lyss, you’re not really here right now, you know that?” Caro asks.
I frown at her.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say.
Caro presses her lips together and gives a brief shake of her head. “Look, ever since that night at the party ...” She trails off and I feel my stomach begin to churn. “It’s like your mind hasn’t really been involved,” she adds.
A pang of guilt hits me in the chest: as much as I don’t want to admit it, she’s absolutely right. Ever since I hooked up with that guy, he’s all I’ve been able to think about. Every time I close my eyes, I think about his body against mine, his commanding words in my ear. Just imagining him is enough to make my pussy wet and my clit throb with lust – how the hell am I supposed to ignore that? Part of me wishes that I’d never met him, because at least then I wouldn’t be so damned distracted.
This is a crucial time for me, too. Caro and I have a meeting scheduled with a potential investor at Tony’s, a steakhouse and Italian place on the Strip where it’s impossible to get an entrée for less than forty bucks. AngelDate could be huge – but we have to move fast and get people with money interested.
The problem is, I haven’t even been all that interested in my own work since meeting that guy. I’ve been mooning and moping around like a teenager with a crush. It’s really despicable – it’s the kind of behavior I’d see my friends do and then secretly judge them for it.
But who among us hasn’t been ... well, distracted at times?
“Alyssa,” Caro says, reaching out in front of me and snapping her fingers. “Where are you right now?” She’s clearly pissed, and rightfully so.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her soberly. “Really. I am. I don’t know where my head is.”
Caro sighs. “No, I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m probably not being very fair to you. I’m just really worried, Alyssa. This is the first meeting we’ve gotten with such a big potential investor, and I don’t want either one of us to be distracted.”
I bite my lip. My friend is, clearly, being too kind to me when I don’t deserve it. I can read between the lines of her words: that she’s so worried about me being
distracted that it’s distracting her.
And she doesn’t want me to show up and act like some brainless ditz because I have a guy – and his dick – on my brain.
“Right,” I say. “Okay. Focused now, I promise.”
Caro and I spend a few more hours going over all of the material we’ve prepared. By the time the sky is getting dark and the sun is sinking low in the sky, I feel pretty confident.
“I just hope this guy is legit,” Caro says. We’re getting dressed in my bedroom – I’ve pulled on a black dress that’s more understated than sexy, and she’s wearing linen pants with a breezy top.
“What makes you think he won’t be?” I meet Caro’s eyes in the mirror.
“Nothing,” Caro says. After a beat, she adds: “Mostly just because it’s Vegas, I guess. Like, does he think that we’re two idiots? Or, does he think that we’re not serious about this because we don’t have a man involved?”
I blink at her. “You’re being paranoid because you’re nervous,” I say finally. It occurs to me, for what feels like the first time, that this could be a total disaster.
“Maybe,” Caro says. She pauses and puts her hands on her hips. “How do I look? Professional?”
“Perfect,” I tell her.
At Tony’s, the maitre d leads Caro and me to a private booth in the back. We put in an order for a bottle of the house red and clink our glasses nervously as we wait for the man who could make or break AngelDate.
“I think this will go well,” Caro says. She swallows stiffly. “At least, I want it to.”
“You have to relax,” I say. “You know that even if this does go well, we’re going to have to have meetings like this all the time.”
“God, don’t remind me,” Caro mutters. Just as she’s lifting her wine glass to her mouth, I see two men in suits approaching. They’re both tanned, with silver hair and friendly smiles.
“You must be Caroline and Alyssa,” one of them says. He smiles at both of us, displaying a mouth full of bright white teeth.
And you put sharks to shame, I think, pasting a smile on my own face as I get to my feet.
“Of course,” I say, offering my hand. “Thank you so much for meeting us.”
The first man chuckles. “Ned,” he says. “Ned Warren.”
“And I’m Jeff Ranger,” the second man says.
“Wow,” Caro says. She utters a nervous giggle. “I thought the two of you were brothers for sure!”
Ned and Jeff exchange a look, then laugh.
“We get that a lot,” Ned says. He gestures for us to sit, then he and Jeff take their seats on the other side of the table.
“So,” Caro says. Her leg is shaking nervously under the table and it’s all I can do not to reach down and force her to stop bouncing up and down. “Why are you interested in AngelDate?”
Fuck, stop, I think. I shoot her a look – we had an entire presentation planned, and it did not begin opening with questions that could take the conversation in a meandering direction away from giving us funds.
To my relief, though, Ned laughs. “It’s because of my daughter,” he says.
“Because you always want to make sure that she’s safe?” I ask.
Ned nods slowly. “Well, yes,” he says. “That and the fact that she’s the one who learned about your potential service and she thought it would be a good idea for college kids.”
I nod. “Yes, that demographic is exactly what we had in mind for first-time users,” I say. I close my eyes briefly, picturing Caro’s notes floating in front of my face. The words start to come back, and I can feel myself slipping into a professional patter. When I open my eyes, I make eye contact with both Ned and Jeff, smiling in what I hope is a friendly way.
“College students will no doubt get a lot of use out of AngelDate,” I say smoothly. “But we’re also hoping to connect with a slightly older audience. Studies show that Millennials are getting married later and later than previous generations, and—”
“Hard to catch a man, huh?” Ned teases, and I clench my teeth, irritated that he interrupted me.
“I think it’s because we’re all under so much pressure,” I continue. “Pressure to live up to what our parents want for us, pressure to conform, pressure to make good on those student loans we all took out just to get an education. Dating seems ... almost like a quaint notion of the past when you consider how busy everyone in my generation is.”
Jeff and Ned are nodding along – I can tell that I’ve really got them, and I’m so excited that I keep going. Beside me, Caro nods and interjects little comments: the two of us are really on fire. Just as I’m about to pull out the binder Caro made me with statistics, I freeze in my tracks.
The guy, the gorgeous guy from the other night, walks into the restaurant wearing a dark suit. His blonde hair is brushed back from his face and gleams in the dim light of Tony’s, and his powerful swagger makes me weak in the knees.
Immediately, I forget everything that I was talking about and my mouth clamps shut.
“Alyssa?” Ned asks. “Are you okay?”
“Got a little stage fright,” Jeff teases me. “It’s okay, darlin’ – I won’t tell anyone.”
I swallow hard, fumbling for the words that had been coming so easily before. Turning to Caro in a blind panic, I see the alarm on her face.
“Alyssa, why not go into the statistics of women who meet men at bars, compared to previous generations?” Caro asks. Her voice is rising higher by the second and there’s a clear look in her eyes that asks, What is wrong with you?!
“Um, excuse me for a moment,” I mumble. Stepping out of the booth, I race through the restaurant, chasing after the guy. I know that I shouldn’t be doing this, abandoning my friend and partner at a crucial moment, but that barely even registers with me. All I can think about is him: what it would be like to touch him again, what it would be like to be his, sweaty and panting and moaning and giving myself over completely.
I know it’s wrong.
But I can’t help myself.
Chapter 6
Logan
After the disastrous “photo call” at the mansion just outside of Vegas, I’m exhausted. I want nothing more than to order room service and collapse into bed, but Peter talks me out of it.
“You’ve got to be a little more visible, Logan,” Peter says in the limo on the way back to the hotel. I’ve been drinking champagne for the last several hours and my head is swimming and buzzy to the point where his words barely register in my brain.
“Why?” I’m aware that I sound like a whiny asshole, a loser, basically the complete opposite of Mr. America.
“Because, we want people to see you out and about, alone,” Peter continues, sighing as if his answer is the most obvious thing on the planet. “We want to make you a household name before we even start filming. Understand?”
I nod.
“So, you’re going to take yourself out to a big fancy solo dinner tonight,” Peter continues, like it’s the greatest idea that he’s ever had.
“That sounds boring as hell.”
“It might be, but we don’t want the press to know that. Logan, you have to be oh-so-tortured and alone.”
“Women don’t want a sad and pathetic man,” I snap back. “They’re not going to think it’s sexy if I spend the whole time pretending to cry in my beer. “
Peter raises an eyebrow. “I know a little something about this, so just trust me, okay?”
I sigh.
After all, what choice do I have?
I rest briefly and take a shower, then get dressed in a black suit that Peter’s picked out for me.
“I made you a reservation at Tony’s,” Peter says triumphantly. “You’re going to have a nice meal of expensive steak and wine – you can even make a crack or two to the waiter about how you were ditched.”
This all seems like a terrible idea to me, but Peter won’t budge. And at seven-thirty on the dot, I stride into Tony’s.
“Logan H
art,” I say to the hostess. “I had a reservation for two, but my girl canceled.”
The hostess, a young brunette, blinks widely at me. She starts to smile, then flushes.
“I see,” she says. “That’s terrible, sir. I’m so sorry.”
“I was really craving a steak,” I lie. “You know how it is – food always hits the spot when you’re down, right?”
She laughs politely, then shows me to a table in the middle of the restaurant. The entire place is filled with groups and couples, laughing and talking, and I roll my eyes inwardly when I think about the time I’m about to waste, sitting by myself and pretending to enjoy my steak.
God, why does this have to be so hard? I know it’s wrong – and I know that I sound ungrateful – but the truth is, I’m already starting to look forward to the day when I can retire and disappear from the public eye. This is exhausting, and sometimes I wish that I had been born in the days without the internet, without social media, without the constant posturing that comes from trying to be famous.
Fuck.
Spoiled little rich kid, I think, rolling my eyes and taking a sip of wine.
“This is complimentary, sir,” the sommelier tells me. He leans down and smiles. “I heard a sad tale about a girl leaving you, eh? The hostess decided to send you a bottle of our best red, on the house.”
“Thank you,” I say. It kills me to say it, but maybe Peter was right.
Maybe this won’t be as difficult as I thought.
Just as the waiter appears to take my order, I see her.
The blonde, from the party at the Egyptian. She’s spotted me, too, and our eyes lock from across the room.
“Sir?” The waiter asks with just a touch of impatience. “Have you decided?”
“Uh ... I have to use the bathroom,” I lie quickly, getting to my feet and walking to the back of the restaurant. The blonde follows me, past table after table, and I can practically smell the eagerness on her. All thoughts of Peter and the things that I should be doing have completely faded from my mind: now, I’m like a wolf tracking a kill as I make my way down a back hall.
Mister X Page 4