Tied (Tangled, #4)(43)

“What? No—I know my rights! Don’t touch me!”

When more security comes on the scene, she screeches again, like a charging boar. Before they drag her out, she spits one final threat my way. “This isn’t over, *!”

So much for friendly skies.

Then she’s gone. But the fun’s not over yet. This—right here—is my favorite part.

Because Warren says, “You should’ve decked the bitch, Katie. I haven’t seen you throw down in years.”

His blonde companion may not have two brain cells to rub together, but she’s loyal. “Hey—that’s my friend! Bastard.”

And then—

Slap.

She gets him dead in the face. Hard enough to leave an instant crimson handprint.

Blondie stomps off dramatically. While holding his flaming cheek, Warren looks at me and says, “Ugly girls don’t hit so f**king hard.”

Once the excitement dies down, everyone pairs off to talk and continue gambling. Leaving Kate and me relatively alone. “What was Billy saying about ugly girls?” she asks.

I wave my hand. “Irrelevant. Let’s go back to the part where my di**ck is a compass and you’re due north.”

She covers her eyes. “I can’t believe I said that.”

I take her hands away. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’m very proud. Just out of curiosity—we’re talking about a monstrously huge compass, right?”

Kate pushes me on the shoulder. “Stop fishing for compliments. Let’s talk about the stewardess who followed you here—am I going to have to get you a bodyguard?”

Only then do I notice her outfit. Black miniskirt, black, high-heeled boots that end just below her knee, and a sparkly pink top that leaves nothing to the imagination.

Stunning.

I walk around her like a predator circling a tasty morsel. “No, but if that’s what you’re wearing, I’m thinking about hiring a whole team of bodyguards for you.” I finger the pink, sequined crown on her head. It says BRIDE-TO-BE. “That’s a keeper.”

She touches it too. “Like that, do you?”

I imagine turning it into a game. Seeing how long Kate can keep the crown balanced on her head while I do unspeakable things to her. “Very much.”

“Dee-Dee got it for me.”

I shrug. “Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

The broken clock herself yells, “All right, ladies—our chariot has arrived!”

Matthew cashes out our winnings. I hold Kate’s hand as we all walk through the casino together. Matthew and Delores bicker playfully as we approach the lobby.

“I’m not apologizing,” he tells her in a teasing voice.

“Good for you. Remember that the next time you’re in the mood to play lecherous photographer and nude model—and I tell you to go screw your camera lens.”

“I’m . . . I’m still not apologizing.”

Do I know what they’re arguing about? No. Do I care enough to ask? Not really.

We make it outside to the front entrance of the hotel. Parked at the curb is the biggest, pinkest limo I’ve ever freaking seen. It’s like a bottle of Pepto-Bismol on wheels. Neon lights pulse on the inside, and flashing strobes spin from the roof.

I look at Dee-Dee. “A pink limo? That’s not too gaudy.”

She smiles proudly. “This is Vegas, baby—gaudy is king. We should retire here.”

With that, she kisses Matthew and starts to walk away. Before she can take two steps, he grabs her, pulls her back, and kisses her longer and more roughly. When she’s slightly dazed, Matthew grins and sends her off toward the limo. Erin waves and follows her.

I put my hands on Kate’s shoulders to make sure she’s paying attention. “Don’t let anyone buy you a drink. And with the way you’re dressed, they’re definitely gonna try.”

She smiles indulgently. “Okay.”

“And don’t put your drink down after you have it. Someone could slip something in there when you’re not looking.”

Yes—shit like that does happen. When you’ve been on the bar scene long enough, you get a clear-cut picture of just how f**ked-up the world—and the people in it—are.

“Yes, Dad.”

I grimace. “Don’t call me that.” When it comes to screwing, there’s nothing I’m not into. Except that. The whole “Who’s your daddy?” thing is a buzzkill. It’s weird—it makes me think of James, or my father, and in either case . . . no f**king thanks.

“I’m not some twenty-one-year-old on her first trek to the bars, Drew. I can handle myself.”

My sister joins the conversation. “And just in case she can’t—that’s what I’m here for.” Alexandra pulls various weapons out of her large leather bag. “I’ve got my Mace, pepper spray, highly illegal Taser gun, and if all else fails . . .” She whips out a four-inch metal rod that, with a flick of her wrist, expands to the size of a police-issue nightstick—with pointy barbs on the end. “I call it the nut scrambler. Feel better now?”

I nod. “A lot better, yeah.”

“Good.”

She speaks quietly to Steven, then Alexandra climbs into the limo too. I wrap my arms around Kate, trying to cop one last feel. With her head on my chest, she promises, “I’ll see you in a few hours.”