Good Time(18)

“A fast pass?” Vince is laughing now, and he’s not even attempting to honor my request to stop looking at me. Nope. Instead he’s looking directly at me, his grin fading into a lazy smirk before he drags his eyes over me from head to toe and back again. Slowly. Deliberately. Infuriatingly.

“Stop looking at me!”

He won’t. He’s looking at me like he like I’m fascinating, which is my kryptonite. Wait, did I ever figure out if I was using that word correctly? I don’t think I did. In any case, I like it, the way he looks at me. I don’t think the way he looks at me is going to cause me a slow and painful death. Definitely not.

Maybe.

Okay, it might.

“Everyone focus,” I announce. “Back to your choices. Option A: we can skydive off the side of the Stratosphere, or Option B: ride the roller coaster at New York, New York.”

“What’s option C?” Canon asks, brows drawn together. I think he’s unimpressed with my idea.

“There is no option C.” I glare at Canon. “A or B. Firm and final.”





Chapter Ten





Option C, as it turns out, is Fremont Street. “Old-school Vegas,” Canon called it.

Whatever, it’ll still be fun. Thrill rides and alcohol don’t really mix anyway. We take a town car from the club. Apparently they’ve got them on standby because providing customers with a free ride is a thing. I told Vince if his customers didn’t have the money for a cab they surely didn’t have the money to pay for lap dances. He didn’t think that was funny. He’s wrong, but it’s okay because I’m not a grudge-holder.

It’s not far to Fremont, but it’s Saturday night in Vegas so it takes twenty minutes to go three miles. Twenty minutes in which I’m pressed against Vince in the back seat of the town car. Twenty long, hard minutes.

For me. Who the hell knows what Vince is feeling.

I love being pressed against him. There’s more than enough room in the back seat of this car for me not to be near sitting on Vince’s lap, but seize the day, am I right? He’s warm and soft and hard and delicious. I know that’s an oxymoron, soft and hard. But he’s so perfectly male. Big and firm, yet his shoulder makes such a nice place for me to rest my head.

“Are you comfortable?”

So my cuddling hasn’t gone unnoticed.

“Not as comfortable as I would have been on your desk,” I reply.

Beside me he snorts in response. I wonder if he’s on a sex cleanse, like when people give up sugar or gluten, but a hundred times worse.

On the other side of me Canon is thumbing through his phone, ignoring us. Lawson is in the front, embroiled in a conversation about hockey with the driver. At least I think it’s hockey. Irrelevant to me, that’s all I know.

We stop in front of the Golden Nugget and pile out of the car. The curb is on Canon’s side of the car, so I take my time, knowing Vince will have to look at my ass as I bend just so to exit. Then I pause on the pavement, smug in my seduction techniques, and give my behind a little shake as I smooth my hair over my shoulders before moving out of the way.

Except.

Except he got out on the other side and walked around and missed my entire performance. I sigh audibly as Canon turns to face me.

“Relax,” he tells me. “This is better than SkyJumping, trust me.”

“It’s great.” I force a smile because he’s right. I didn’t even want to SkyJump, not really. I don’t want to beat a dead horse about my hair, but pretty sure jumping off the side of a building would have rendered my blowout useless.

We go inside and Canon turns to me with a grin. “A or B,” he says and I smile. Then he winks and I laugh. “A, we play craps. B, we play baccarat.”

“I don’t know what either of those games are so let’s go with A.” I shrug.

It turns out that I’m pretty good at craps. Technically I understand that you can’t be good at something that involves nothing but random luck, but I like to take my wins where I can and it turns out I’ve got a real flair for throwing sevens.

I’ve got a flair for having a good time too.



One tequila…

“To tigers!” I raise my glass to toast. “Bottoms up!”

Fucking tigers.

I blame the tigers for everything that happens next.

Blaming tequila would be more logical, but nothing that happens next is logical, so tigers might as well take the responsibility.



Two tequila…

“What is it you want, Payton?”

“Fun. I want to have fun.”

“Maybe I’m not interested in fun.” He’s standing so close to me, his eyes steady on mine and his expression hard to read.

“You legiterally run a strip club. Fun is your middle name.”

“Legiterally?” The corner of Vince’s mouth pulls upwards and his eyes flash in amusement. Dark chocolatey brown eyes with specks of amber and honey and lust. Lust is a color, trust me.

“Yeah, it’s when something is too legit to quit.”

“It’s not.” Vince shakes his head in response, the smirk transformed into a wide smile now.

“I’m pretty sure it is,” I argue, but I’m cut off because his lips are on mine. He tastes like expensive alcohol and great ideas.