Good Girl(26)

Because weeks ago I hadn't kissed a girl in a bar.

A girl who looks at me with her innocent wide eyes and face full of hope. A girl who thinks I'd call, remember her birthday and what her favorite flavor of ice cream is, or that she prefers milk chocolate over dark. Things I wouldn't remember, things I never remember. A girl who has no idea what a dirty pervert I am, or how many women have come before her. How many relationships I've fucked up, how many women I've paid to make me feel good when I couldn't even be bothered to fake my way through dating a woman—or even taking one to dinner—long enough to get to the transaction of orgasms.

I tap open a new report on my laptop and try to focus.

"Do you ever worry that all we do is work and fuck?" I ask the question out loud, not really sure who I'm directing it at or expecting an answer. They've been with me since the beginning of this journey. They were among the first people I brought on board after I located this property four years ago, a half-finished resort that had been abandoned when the previous investment group ran out of funding midway through construction.

We managed the initial phases of the project remotely, flying in and out of Vegas as the need arose. Just under a year ago we made the official move to Vegas, moving in to our executive suites on the thirty-fourth floor as the remainder of the hotel was still undergoing final construction. We've been living like perverted bachelors in a whorehouse ever since.

"Not really, no," Canon replies, tapping on his phone. "You coming with us to the club tonight?"

"Yeah, maybe," I say mostly so he'll stop asking. Maybe I will, I don't know. I can't think straight. The opening is so close. So goddamned close. Years of work about to come to fruition and it needs to be perfect. If this venture fails the damage it will do to the company would be colossal. My family's company. It's messing with my head. This hotel, this resort, it's my moment. Mine. My cousin Jennings has already taken over as CEO of the family company. My mother has been head of the North American division of the company since I was in junior high, with no signs of stepping aside.

Truth be told, I didn't want either of those jobs. I never did. I wanted something of my own. Something virgin and uncharted that I could build from the ground up. Or mid-construction-up, as it were. Something new, that would add to the company legacy, a project that would grow the family empire instead of simply contributing to it.

"Vince has something going on tonight in the back room," Canon cajoles. The back fucking room. Officially, it's the equivalent of a high-roller room. Pricey lap dances.

Unofficially, you're not paying for the lap dance. You're paying for the extras. Hand jobs, blow jobs, sex. You're paying to take the party off-site. An hour, a night, a weekend. Unofficially, of course.

How many times have I been to the back room? Asked for something more than a lap dance? Chosen from a selection of willing women as if I was selecting a value meal from a fast-food drive-thru?

I'm not good enough for her. I'd ruin her. Break her heart, crush that wide-eyed optimism that radiates from her, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. I'd fuck her like a whore and forget to call because that's what I do. That's who I am.

She thinks I'm a good man. I can see it on her face when she thinks I'm not looking. I can see it on her face when she knows I am. When she rocked her warm pussy against my thigh. When she bit her lip and spread her hands across my chest. When she watches me make an espresso with the industrial coffee machine. I think she almost came last week when I put my own cup in the break room dishwasher.

Too easy. Too easy to impress, too easy to ruin.

Too fucking optimistic when what I like is the satisfied look on a woman's face after I've made her come, followed by the look of her ass walking out the door with a handful of cash tucked into her bag that guarantees me she understands what it was. That there was no miscommunication about my interest in her beyond getting off.

Besides which, even if I wanted something different, I don't have the time. Two weeks until opening. Two. Weeks. My entire family will be in for the grand opening. My parents. My cousin Jennings and his new fiancée. My grandmother. My aunts and uncles and a smattering of cousins.

I want them to be proud of what my team and I have accomplished here in Vegas and no, it doesn't escape my attention that personally they have nothing to be proud of me for.

"How do you know what Vince has planned for tonight? Did you golf with him again today?"

"No. Got an email."

"You're on a mailing list for Double Diamonds?" I ask slowly, not sure this is real. "What the hell do they need to send emails for? To give customers a heads-up when they're running low on singles?"

"Everyone has a newsletter, Rhys. Don't be a dick. Besides, this is just for the back room customers, not for everyone."

"To notify us of what? Half-priced lap dances?"

"Auctions."

"Same thing."

"It's not an auction for reduced-price lap dances, Rhys. It's a virgin auction."

"Jesus Christ, Canon." I shake my head.

"No shit, really?" Lawson looks up from the game with interest and begins thumbing through his phone. "I didn't get that email," he mutters.

"It probably went to spam," Canon tells him this as if this is a normal conversation. "Check your junk mail. So you in?" Canon looks at me expectantly, unfazed by the concept, and I can't fault him. I can't say the idea doesn't make me a little hard.