Fifteen minutes later I’m tossing some cash to the cab driver outside Caesars Palace. I move from the taxi and through the glass doors into the casino where I’m hit with the sensory overload that comes along with Vegas casinos: the pinging and trilling music of the slot machines, the occasional cloud of pungent cigarette smoke, and then the subdued high-rollers section, tense with concentration, sanctioned off to the side.
I follow the signs that point me to the Nobu Hotel inside Caesars until I find the check-in and elevators. My damn dress shoes echo against the marble flooring, and I regret not dropping by my pad for a change of clothes before coming. I pull out my phone to text Birdman and ask for a floor and room number.
I notice a sign indicating the restrooms and figure while I’m waiting for the return text I’ll take a leak. As I move around the elevator bank, my phone pings in my hand.
Tenth floor #1098
Something slams into my shoulder.
“Shit!” My phone skids across the marble floor. “Watch it, asshole!” I bark at the offender who just crashed into me from out of nowhere.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry.”
With my glare stuck on my pinwheeling phone, I hear her voice before I see her, and when I see her, it’s from behind and only because she’s scurrying after the palm-sized wireless device.
Her tiny frame hunches over, arms outstretched to the ground, as she click-clacks in heels that look way too tall for any human being to negotiate on the slick floor. She’s dipped in a skin-tight, long-sleeved black dress, which covers every inch of her skin to her ass then cuts off to expose a pair of very bare and toned legs.
The phone stops its slip-n-slide when it hits the wall and she scoops it up. “Aw, crap.” She’s facing away from me, her head down. “I’m so sorry.” Shaking her head, she turns.
I didn’t notice from behind, but now I can see her long platinum blond hair has a few bright purple panels that streak through at random. The loose waves that hang over her breasts create purple candy-cane-like swirls through her mane. She closes the space between us and finally looks up at me.
Whoa . . . her eyes, they’re blue, but not like any blue I’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s the purple in her hair that’s setting them off, but they appear lavender.
“Look. I’m really sorry about your phone. I just stepped out of the ladies’ room and crashed right into you.” She hands me the device.
The screen is shattered. “Damn.”
“Yeah, bummer.” She chews her bottom lip.
The sweetness in her voice and sincerity in her expression stoke a fire of irritation I can’t name.
“I feel like shit about—”
“You need to watch where you’re going.” I spit the words like throwing stars and almost grin at the shock that registers on her face. Yeah, I’m a dick. Sue me.
Her eyes narrow. “I said I’m sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t going to fix my phone.” I thrust it, cracked screen forward, toward her face, just in case she forgot the shit she caused.
She recoils, her eyes pulling into tight slits. “It was an accident!”
“Accident?” She’s right, I wasn’t paying attention either, but I’m so sick of women fucking with me. Tired of being a doormat and feeling like a beaten dog. “Typical chick. Movin’ through life worrying only about yourself.” I step into her space and lean forward, intimidating her with my size, or at least trying to.
She doesn’t budge.
“Newsflash, sweetheart . . . it’s not all about you.”
And then she shocks the shit out of me and smiles. Smiles!
Her shoulders relax and she lifts one eyebrow. “Huh . . .” She taps her chin with one white-tipped, manicured finger. “You know what? You’re wrong. It is all about me.” She rips the phone from my hand and flings it back across the floor so it skids and lands just like the first time, but this time with a crack.
My jaw clenches. “What the hell is—?”
“I was sorry the first time; I’m not sorry the second.” She flips the long waves of her bi-colored hair and struts away like a black panther on heels.
I watch her go, drawn to the feminine sway of her hips and fixed on the perfect curves of her tight little ass. A tight little ass that deserves a series of firm swats.
“Bitch.” The word falls from my lips on a whisper before I move to retrieve my phone that, upon further inspection, is now in three distinct pieces.
Doesn’t matter if I’m the nice guy or the asshole; I’m always going to be an easy target for strong-willed women.
Well . . . not anymore.
Two
Mason
“Fuckin’ A, Mayhem! You made it!” Charlie wraps two beefy arms around me, pounding me on the back in a bro-hug.