Full Tilt (Full Tilt #1)(7)

I leaned against the limo and looked up. No stars could conquer the lights of Vegas. I’d have to wait until my best friend’s Great Basin camping trip in a few weeks to see actual stars. But the Strip was its own kind of constellation. A riot of garish neon color and glittering lights. It was beautiful in its own way, as long as you didn’t look down.

At my feet, in the gutter running between the street and sidewalk were cigarette butts, a crushed soft drink cup from Dairy Queen, and a flyer for a nudie show off the Strip. Shattered glass glittered green under a streetlamp.

One of the other limo drivers approached me. “Got a smoke?”

This guy was young. Younger than my twenty-six years, anyway. Sweat beaded his brow as he looked at me hopefully. Even in this summer heat, he was still wearing his service’s livery, a maroon polyester jacket with gold piping. Newbie. My black jacket was on the front seat and had been since the band and their manager exited my limo nearly eight hours ago.

“I don’t smoke, man,” I told him. “Sorry.”

The sorry was code for conversation over, but this guy didn’t catch on.

“Shit, I ran out an hour ago,” he muttered. His nametag read Trevor. “Hey, who you driving for? I got a bunch of sweet-sixteen richies seeing the Rapid Confession show.” He barked a laugh. “Spoiled rich brats. I mean, what’s worse than that?”

“I can’t imagine,” I muttered.

My phone vibrated with a text. Probably my brother Theo, with the hourly check-in. I pulled the phone from my pants pocket. Yep.

What’s up? You good?

Rolling my eyes, I took a screen shot of the midnight check-in: the exact same message and my reply that I was fine. I hit ‘send.’

He texted back. Dick.

I smirked, typing. You make it so easy. Go to sleep, Teddy. I’ll call you in the morning.

“I wonder who has the band,” Trevor said, glancing down the line of limos. “If I had those bitches, it would be epic. Night made.”

Another photo text came in, this one of Theo’s middle finger. He hated when I called him Teddy. Almost as much as I hated it when guys called women bitches.

I turned to Trevor to tell him to get lost when the Pony Club’s back door banged open and the sound of raucous laughter, shouts, and shattered glass spilled onto the street. A huge bodyguard hurried out carrying the limp body of a woman, her leather skirt hiked up her thighs and her head hanging so that her blonde hair spilled over the bodyguard’s arm.

I gave Trevor a little shove out of the way and opened the limo’s passenger door. The bodyguard never broke stride but bent his hulking form over to lay the girl inside, on the long leather seat that ran opposite the door.

Trevor sucked in a breath. “That’s her! The blonde… The guitar-player for RC.” He looked at me like I was his hero. “You have them?”

The bodyguard reemerged from the limo and towered over Trevor, his hands balling into fists. “Is this your business?”

Trevor cringed and backed off. “N-no, sir.”

“Are you going to tell anyone what you saw here?”

“No. I sure won’t.”

“Good answer.” He turned back to me. “Take her home. Quick. Before the paparazzi show up. It’s a f*cking riot in there.” He jerked his head toward the venue where the shouts were louder, punctuated by shrill cursing and more breaking glass. “I gotta get back.” He jabbed a finger into my chest. “You make sure she gets home safe.”

I saw the concern bright in the guy’s dark eyes boring into mine, then he was loping back to the venue. Sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer.

With the huge bodyguard gone, Trevor crept forward, peering into the limo. “Dude. Dude, she is smokin’ hot.”

I had to agree with Trevor’s assessment, but she was also passed out drunk. Women needed to be coherent and conscious for me to entertain even fleeting sexual thoughts. Trevor’s tongue was lolling out of his mouth, and I slammed the door shut, disgusted, cutting off his view.

“What are you going to do with her?” Trevor asked.

I paused at the driver’s side door to stare. “I’m going to take her home, *.”

Trevor held up his hands. “Jeez, chill out. I didn’t mean…”

I didn’t hear the rest as I climbed into the car and shut my door.

Trevor wasn’t going to keep his promise to the bodyguard about the girl in the backseat. No chance. And the news of whatever happened in the Pony Club was going to hit the streets anyway—the sirens were guarantee of that.

Just get her home, finish the job, keep to your routine.

I pulled the limo away from the curb. I hit traffic on the Strip and lowered the partition to check on the girl. Her skirt was still hiked up, showing a fishnet-clad thigh and part of a tattoo. More inked patterns snaked up the pale skin of her forearms, and a larger one covered her right shoulder. The rounded tops of her breasts were pushing out of the bustier-thing she wore. But I was looking for her chest to move, to show me she was breathing.

I wondered if I should veer to the Sunrise Hospital when the girl gave a groan and rolled to her side. I watched the streets in front of me while listening to her heave what sounded like a barrel’s worth of booze onto the limo floor. The smell of regurgitated liquor filled the confined space.