Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(36)

I’m quickly introduced to “Trevor” and I slide into the car, which is blissfully cool.

Jason talks to Trevor outside for a few moments before he joins me, the space between us feeling like miles as we each claim a window. I feel the absence of his touch, but then, when was the last time I was even with a man? One year ago? No. More like two. I’m just . . . better on my own. Which makes Jason’s womanizing acceptable, while his hands-off idea is not. I can’t be here, and dare this, and go home aching.

Trevor climbs into the driver’s seat, then puts us in motion. “How long is the drive?” I ask him.

“Ten minutes at this time of day,” he informs me.

“I can’t wait to see the Strip,” I say. “Seeing it on TV and in movies just isn’t the same as finally seeing it in person.”

“Wait,” Jason says. “Is this your first time in Vegas?”

“Yes, and now that we’re here I’m kind of excited to see it.”

“Then we have to stay,” Jason insists. “I’ll be at the table all night and I have a charity press op tomorrow. So you’ll have to let me show you around the rest of this weekend.”

“I can’t stay. I have to work Sunday afternoon and Monday morning.”

“Call in sick.”

Oh, how I wish. “I can’t do that.”

Jason’s jaw and tone sets hard. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“And I’ll still say no later,” I assure him, as talk doesn’t pay my bills. I turn away from him to eye the highway, in an effort to close the topic.

A moment later, the distance I’d disliked between us is gone, his hand on my knee, our hips brushing each other. “That’s the Rio,” he says, indicating the tall blue and red building set apart from much of anything else. “It’s off the Strip by a few miles, but still a popular location. So is the downtown area, but the Strip is the main hot spot.”

“Is the MGM hotel we’re staying at on the Strip?” I ask.

“Yes,” he confirms.

“Is that where all the tournaments are held?”

“It’s a popular host location, but it varies by event.”

“Are all the tournaments in Vegas?”

“There are many locations. Los Angeles. Jersey. Florida. I’ve also done a European tour each of the past three years.”

“Europe? That’s amazing. I had no idea poker had that reach.”

“The World Championship had nearly ninety thousand players enter this year.”

“And you made the top nine three years in a row?”

His lips quirk. “Yes. Some say Lady Luck was on my side.”

“But you don’t believe in luck.”

“I believe in actions creating reactions.” Trevor exits the highway and Jason lifts his chin at the window.

Rows of amazing hotels surround us. “Wow,” I murmur, taking in a pyramid-shaped hotel and another resembling a medieval castle, both of which I’ve seen on TV and in pictures. “Movies don’t do it justice.”

“Vegas is an orgasm of the senses. The food. The gambling. The attractions.”

“The food is really good,” Trevor says.

“Which is why I’m taking you out to dinner tonight,” Jason says.

“That’s not necessary. You have your midnight pizza ritual—”

“It’s necessary: you’ve never been to Vegas,” he says. “The question is, do we fine dine or gorge ourselves at a buffet? You almost have to do a buffet to truly experience Vegas. What do you think, Trevor?”

“First-timers have to hit the buffets,” Trevor agrees.

“We can do pizza,” I argue, the word we so unfamiliar to me in my life, it catches in my throat. I bite my lip and quickly turn back to the window, feigning interest in the sidewalks that are so deep in bodies they remind me of Manhattan.

“No,” Jason says, leaning in close, his breath warm on my ear. “We can’t.” And the way he says we tells me he noticed the way that word affected me, but thankfully we pull into the hotel drive and my awe over the giant lion in front of the building defeats my embarrassment.

Trevor parks near the entrance and one of the hotel employees opens my door. “Welcome to the MGM,” he says.

I step outside, and Jason follows. “Red Bull!” a man in a suit calls out, coming toward us. “Welcome.” He shakes Jason’s hand and I have a fleeting memory of the tattoo on his palm, and I think of how certain Jason is of who he is and where he fits into this world. I admire that in him. I want to admire that in me. “Your registration packet is waiting at the bell desk,” the man continues, and I realize he hasn’t even looked at me.

“Thanks,” Jason says. “If anyone is looking for me, I’ll be down to registration in half an hour.”

“I’ll pass it along.” The man still ignores me, giving me the uncomfortable feeling I’m one of many women who’ve been on Jason’s arm.

Then Jason surprises me by saying, “This is Skye. She’s my guest, so please ensure she has anything she needs if I’m not available.”

“Of course.” Now the man offers me his hand. “I’m Landon Mitchell. Please find me if you need anything. They can page me at any of the service desks.”