“So you get drugged, dragged, and bagged, and it’s their fault?” She can’t be that stupid. We’re in Vegas. This kind of shit is on the news every day. She’s not answering my question, but nothing about her silence says she’s conceding. “You’re smart; you buy your own drinks from now on.”
Her glare gets impossibly tighter. “I am smart.” She pushes the words through clenched teeth.
“Accepting a drink from a stranger then leaving it lying around? Smart is debatable.” I take a swig of my beer and realize on some level that I’m a fucking asshole. People skills aren’t my thing, and my inability to think before I speak ticks people off more often than not. Especially women.
I expect to look down at the fragile little doll to find her tearing up, lip quivering, the usual shit I see on a woman’s face after they’ve ventured into a conversation with me, but when I drop my chin to look, I find something entirely different. Sure, her expression is still tight with a fuck-off-and-die scowl, but there’s something else there that stirs my blood. A longing behind her glare that makes my chest thump and my fingertips itch to get at her.
“As pleasant as it was to meet you, I’m in need of a drink.” She throws a heavy section of her long blond hair over her shoulder and stomps off toward the bar. With her distance, I’m able to shake the fog that had my slacks growing tight. “Interesting girl.”
“Don’t be too hard on her, Cam.” Blake grins and leans against a barstool. “She’s in an . . . experimental phase.”
Everyone shares a small laugh and secret looks. What am I missing?
“I don’t get it.”
“To put it bluntly?” Blake shrugs. “She thinks she’s gay.”
“Huh.” No fucking way.
Three
Eve
This is exactly why I hate men. They breeze in all blah, blah, blah, throwing out compliments like hot chick, all brooding glare and crazy hot body.
So what’s a girl to do? She falls all over herself in an effort to get close. Close enough to touch him, to feel the heat of his body against hers, the weight of him on top of her. She says and does all the right things, hoping that he’ll just hold her while she sleeps, whisper that he loves her, and promise never to leave. And she’s so buzzed off all he’s offering that she actually believes for once—for once in a fucking lifetime of promises—this one’ll keep his word.
What a crock of shit!
I slide through the crowd and redirect my path from the bar to the dance floor, determined to regain my good mood. The DJ spins some sick remix of Wiz Khalifa’s “Work Hard, Play Hard.” It hits hard and the bass causes the air in the room to vibrate, exactly what I need. I move to the music, faking it at first until I really start to feel it. Bodies bump and glide against mine until I’m hypersensitive to every touch and my blood drums through my veins as if to the beat. The friction of bodies against my skin bathes my arms in goose bumps and unleashes a sensual heat throughout my torso. I’d blame it on the alcohol, but I know better.
My libido has been hibernating since Vince, but it’s wide freakin’ awake now thanks to the pushy and condescending UFL boss-dude. My mind conjures up his image against my will: the way his huge body towers over mine while he’s telling me what I can and can’t do. A shiver of excitement races up my spine for no good reason at all. And so it begins . . .
Fucking hell! It’s hot in here. Having totally lost my mojo on the dance floor, I push through dancing bodies to the bar. Snagging an empty barstool, I grab a cocktail napkin and dab the sweat from my chest and neck.
“What do you need?” The bartender leans over the bar, ear aimed at me.
“Something strong and icy.” I fan myself with the soggy napkin.
He nods and gets busy making me a drink. I scan my surroundings to make sure Cameron—ugh, even his name is hot—doesn’t catch me buying my own drink. I know men like him. They thrive on power, and seeing me do exactly what he suggested I do would be like bowing down and admitting failure. Ain’t happenin’.
“That’ll be eighteen.” The bartender drops a huge pint glass filled with what looks like iced tea in front of me. Wait, eighteen dollars?
“There better be gold flakes in that ice, compadre.” This is another reason I never buy my own drinks. They’re flippin’ expensive.
He rolls his eyes. “You said strong, sweetheart. Long Island ain’t cheap.” He offers his hand, palm up.
I hand over a good quarter of my grocery money and glare at the bartender who, by the look of his grin, finds this mildly entertaining. Whatever.
Hoping the food-for-a-day priced cocktail is worth it, I take a sip of my fancy tea. My throat flames and my stomach warms. “Holy shit!” How could something that looks so innocent be so damn dangerous? It tastes like gasoline. I mix it up and try again. It’s a little better. A few more sips into my drink my lips go numb. Mission accomplished. Hopefully my head will be next.
Someone from behind presses in to get to the bar. “Negra Modelo. No lime.”
That voice. My head whips to the side, my back goes ramrod straight, and I glare. “You.”
He frowns back. “Don’t you mean thank you.”