McQUEEN: Las Vegas Bad Boys (20 page)

Why would they? Like I said, I do my very best to fit in seamlessly, and make as many culturally relevant references as possible. Yep, I’m constantly looking at magazines, but it’s not for the celebrity gossip. I’m trying to figure out how to dress, how to joke. How to
be.

But right now, sitting here on this plush velvet couch, with all my previously mentioned friends, I’ve apparently forgotten my mantra. Because Emmy and Claire are cracking up, watching me watch Jack. I bristle, knowing I’m the center of whatever they are laughing about.

“What?” I ask, looking around. The club is so loud I doubt they even hear me.

“You’re gawking, Tess,” Claire says, leaning over and speaking directly into my ear so I don’t miss her four-syllable observation.

“Oh,” I say, clamping my mouth shut, momentarily mortified.

Ever since we got back from London six weeks ago, Emmy and Claire have been teasing me about my crush on Jack. But they’ve been discreet about it, knowing I’d be embarrassed as all get out if he knew.

Like I said, I won the friend-lottery with those two.

“I wish you and Jack were together,” Emmy shouts. “Ashley is seriously a hyena.”

“A gorgeous hyena,” I add, cocking an eyebrow over at Ashley, who has been sitting a table away all evening with Jack’s agent and the fancy music producer that’s apparently been wooing him.

It’s crazy talk to call Ashley a hyena, even though her laugh does grate on me. Everyone knows Jack’s on-again, off-again superstar girlfriend is hotter than hell. And even if they weren’t together, I’m no competition.

I’m Tess ... a girl from Arkansas who likes BBQ and sweet tea. Not, you know, a Grammy award-winning diva.

On that note, the club goes nuts as Jack ramps up the tempo for what I’m assuming is the final encore of the night. There’s already been one. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Ashley and Kirby leave the club.

A twinge of envy passes through my belly, knowing she’s headed backstage to her boyfriend. A boyfriend who probably bends her over backward to blow her mind.

Not that I’m thinking about sex with Jack ... I mean, not this minute.

Whew—is it just me, or is it hot in here?

Gah
. Okay, of course I’m thinking about sleeping with Jack. I always am. His body is perfection: ripped, but not with meaty muscle like the boys I grew up with. Tattoos cover his arms—but, again, they’re soulful artwork. Quotes and thick black lines, hinting at a softer side to the man who always looks so secure, so damn in control.

His body is nothing like the inked-up flesh of the men back home. They all had full-color images covering their backs and chests, as if proving something with their tattoos. The bigger the better, maybe? I saw enough of them naked to know that wasn’t the case.

But, as confetti falls from the club’s ceiling, coating us all in tissue paper perfection, I’m brought back to the present. Can’t dwell in the past when the present is a dream. A fantasy. A life that really feels too good to be true, even if I don’t have a man like Jack by my side.

The strobe lights are cracking out, blinding us. We stand, laughing, dancing. Having the time of our lives.

McQueen hands me a flute of champagne, and I toast JoJo, who smiles widely, as brightly as the brand-spanking-new engagement ring on her finger. We stand on the couches in our tiny dresses as the night closes.

One of Jack’s greatest hits blares through the massive nightclub and I take a sip of the bubbly.

The song ends and the lights come on. It’s crazy late, the wee hours of the morning, but I don’t have to work tomorrow, so I don’t care. In Vegas two a.m. means the night is just ramping up, and I’m game for anything.

Emmy and Claire debate what we should do next, but I really have no agenda. I’m always the girl who goes with the flow.

We exit the club through a pair of private doors—exclusive access for Ace and his crew. I’m included in that. We stand in the back entrance to the club, a more private space to make a game plan. I slip off my four-inch Jimmy Choos, still amazed that they were on my feet tonight. I used to feel shabby when we went out, but Emmy and Claire have no qualms with sharing their closets with me.

Just as we decide to head to Hearts Royalle, the new club the guys own, Jack storms out of the back entrance.

His eyes are blazing, his head shaking. He’s pissed, and this usually calm and collected hottie is clearly trying to get the hell away from something.

Make that
away from someone
.

Ashley Fast is on his tail, screaming at him. “You can’t walk away from me, Jack. We’ve been building a life together.”

Jack turns on his heels, inches from Ashley’s face. “Whatever we’ve built, I’m tearing it down. We’re done.”

My eyebrows rise. Holy shit, this isn’t just one of their fights—goodness knows we’ve witnessed plenty. This is a break-up brawl. And this is the end of them.

I bite my lip, not even thinking about the fact that these two are through. All I can think about is the fact that seeing Jack all fired up gets my panties soaked.

I know I’ve been crushing hard, but now I’m just horny as hell.

S
o
… if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t have broken up with Ashley in front of all my friends. At the time, though, it was the only way I could get the point across to her. She didn’t seem to realize that I was done—beyond done—until we were screaming at one another for the whole gang to see.

Not my finest moment. I don’t make it a regular occurrence to scream a woman’s name unless we’re both naked and I’m pounding her, nice and hard.

I have no problem screaming a woman’s name when we’re slick with sex, with her wearing only a satiated smile borne from a life-altering orgasm.

As opposed to red in the face from a screaming match.

But Ashley brought out the worst in me. Always had. So when I broke up with her, I knew no amount of groveling on her end would make me change my mind.

But, damn, is that girl trying.

After the first night, and about a hundred and three text messages and a dozen voice mails from Ash, I know I need to get the fuck out of Vegas to ride out the storm. Kirby calls, needing me to get a statement to my PR girl, Lola, but I don’t really give a fuck how Ashley wants to spin this whole thing. And I know it mattered a hell of a lot to her.

Lola grumbles when I tell her to ask Ashley what happened—but the truth is, I have no interest in that sort of forced limelight.

Who the fuck cares why we broke up? I mean, besides her ten million Twitter followers.

Since I don’t have a show for three weeks, I pack a bag and head home to Washington to see my parents. I don’t know how long I’ll stay at their place; they’re a long way from everything, on a tiny island in Puget Sound. But Mom wants me to show my face at least once every few months—and, considering I’m her only kid, it’s the least I can do.

Besides, I may live in Vegas, may be all up in that scene, but I fucking get sick of it. It’s all bullshit. Fake-ass conversations with people trying to get something from you.

That’s why the KMG contract makes me want to fucking run. I don’t want my life to be only about money or making shitty pop music. I want to live for something bigger. I want to fight for someone, for something.

* * *

D
ropping
my bags in the foyer of the old farmhouse I grew up in, I kiss Mom’s cheeks.

“Oh, Jack, it’s so good to see you.” She has on an apron, and a bun in her hair—I’m telling you she’s all prepped to be a grandma. I follow her into the kitchen, where rows of cookies are cooling.

“What is all this for?” I ask, looking at the tins on the counter, ready to be filled. “There must be ten dozen cookies here. It’s an awful lot of my favorite peanut butter and chocolate chip.”

Mom smiles, batting away my words. “You know me: love to bake, always have. And besides, you’ve been on my mind all day. What else am I going to do? Your father lives on that boat you got him. You’re too generous with us. Makes us lazy.”

I open the fridge, grabbing a carton of milk. Mom hands me a glass and tells me to sit.

“Saw the news,” she says, handing me a cloth napkin then pulling up a seat next to me in the kitchen that has always been my home.

I left the island when I was eighteen, dreaming of making it as a DJ in LA, and I did. Went to college down there, and played shows everywhere I could. And sure, now I own a loft in Vegas and a condo in Seattle—but this is always where I return when I want to decompress.

“What news are you watching?” I ask her, knowing there has never been a television in this house. My parents are readers, gardeners—a fisherman and a baker. Not really the kind of folks who keep tabs on current events.

Mom breaks apart a cookie and smiles. “I have an iPad.”

I laugh. “Mom, we both know the Wi-Fi here is a joke.”

“We got it fixed. The internet is everywhere now. Linda down the street says it’s on airplanes now. Airplanes! Can you imagine?”

I listen to her familiar tone, grateful that I am in this kitchen and not hearing the roar about my break up.

“Anyways,” Mom says, still talking. “I read about you and Ashley this morning. Maybe that’s what got me in a mood to bake your favorite cookies. Mother’s instinct and all. I think I knew you might be showing up here.”

“I turned off my phone when I woke up today, not wanting to hear any of the backlash.” I frown, unable to resist asking: “Was it bad? I mean, I know Ashley was a difficult person, but I don’t want her to come across...” I shrug, not knowing how to say it.

“Bat shit crazy?” Mom asks.

I snort, horrified. Mom only swears when she really means it. “Something like that.”

Mom pats my hand. “Sweetie, don’t worry about the news for a few days. Go out back, say hello to your father, and then get in your studio. You’ll feel better once you’ve had a chance to ground yourself a bit.”

I take the now-empty glass to the sink to rinse it out. Looking out the window, I see Dad carrying in his tackle box, and my studio peeking out from the woods behind him. My fingers itch to play the piano, to sit with a notebook and write lyrics that mean something ... because for so damn long, nothing in my life has meant anything at all.

* * *

My shift ends and I drop my empty tray in the kitchen and walk to the women’s changing room, counting my tips as I go. One hundred and twelve bones made in one eight-hour shift.

Not bad at all, considering I didn’t sleep with anyone. All I had to do was deliver drinks to men who were happy to see me.

Sure, my feet ache and my heart aches, but that is nothing new. I didn’t have to wait on anyone who hurt me, forced me, or broke me.

By my calculations, for a girl without a high school diploma and with zero job experience, this gig is a coup. And besides, since I can live on my hourly wage, these tips I make create a nice, cushy savings account.

When I get enough saved, I’ll leave Vegas and start my life again somewhere where no one will find me—but also in a place where I can be self-sufficient and live off my invested savings for a good, long while. And definitely not get a job where I have to wear fishnets and a bustier.

Not that I knock it—I’m grateful for it. But I’m not a city girl. Not by a long shot. I grew up off the grid, and I don’t like being back on it.

Every day, I stash my tip money deep in my closet, and I cash my paychecks at a Money Tree. My ID is fake, my hair is fake, and my story is fake. The only real thing about me are my boobs, which is actually saying something in a place like Las Vegas.

But tonight has been good. Great even. I have my dignity and whole lot of cash.

Pulling my TracFone from my purse, I group text Claire and Emmy.

Me:
What are you guys up to? It’s only ten and I just got off work!!!

Emmy:
We’re at the whiskey bar in Spades.

Claire:
COME QUICK. YOUR BOY TOY JUST SHOWED UP.

I blush, even though no one can read the messages on my screen.

Me:
Shut up. I won’t come unless you swear not to embarrass me.

Emmy:
We swear. BTW Do you like a man with a beard?

Me:
???

Claire:
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named just got back from his parents and he looks all woodsy.

Emmy:
Wood. Get it?

I roll my eyes. My friends are so weird.

Me:
Haha. See you soon.

I slip off my shoes, and into skinny jeans and a top I packed in hopes of meeting up with my friends. It’s a black flowy tank with a cutout back. Sexy, but not trying too hard. I slip on wedge sandals and pull my hair into a messy bun.

Yes, it is greasy-ish, but I don’t have time to shower. Not when Jack, who has been gone for two weeks, is back.

A few co-workers pass me as I’m shutting my locker.

“See you later, Candy. Bye, Liz,” I tell them.

Liz turns back to me, smiling. “You look cute. Going out?”

I shrug, not wanting to sound obnoxious about my A-list besties. A few months ago, Emmy and Claire were both single and working these exact same shifts as us. Life can change so fast, and girls like Candy and Liz—and me—are hoping it changes for us, too.

“Yeah, just getting some drinks.” I pull my purse onto my shoulder. “Hey, you should hit up section forty-two. Two ladies in pant suits are playing the Bejeweled Machine and have been giving me fives all night.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” Candy says. She smacks my butt as she heads back to the floor. “Have fun. Don’t do anything too naughty.”

I wave good-bye, and walk away from my real life, into my fantasy.

I’d be naughty with Jack if given the chance; it’s just I’ve never been that lucky.

* * *

T
he whiskey bar
is the favorite spot at Spades Royalle for Ace, Landon, McQueen, and Jack. It’s rare these days that all the guys are together, and this will be the first time anyone has seen Jack since his break-up.

Which, let me tell ya, the tabloids have gone to town with that story. I cringe just thinking about the two-page spread in US Weekly documenting the week leading up to their break-up.

Which, not to be intense or anything, I know is a lie. Because it said Jack and Ashley had been at a romantic dinner the night before. That isn’t accurate, because the night before, Jack was here with Landon playing blackjack for approximately four hours.

I know, because I served them rum and Coke that entire night.

I know it sounds like I’m stalking him or something, but I’m not. It’s just, besides the fact that I work here, Emmy, Claire—and now, apparently, JoJo—talk about their guys all the time.

And, okay, I totally get it. They’re a bunch of newlyweds or newly engaged and are embarking on some magical love affair that has them riding off into the sunset. It’s romantic and cute … but it also gets kind of old after a while.

Maybe that’s because I’m not seeing anyone.

When I join them at the bar, I feel my face redden, because Jack offers me his seat so I can be next to the girls. Which is sweet, but also not significant. So why the hell am I acting like this one simple gesture has importance? Because, hello! It so does not.

Still, I sit, him on one side of me, JoJo on the other. It’s actually perfect. I’ve been meaning to get to know JoJo more, and now I can.

I need a reason to ignore Jack and his unshaven face because—not to overshare, but—all I can imagine is his face between my legs, rubbing against me with that scruff.

I know. TMI, but holy hell, he looks good with a little bit of a beard.

“Hey, JoJo, got any more fights lined up?” I ask. JoJo is a natural beauty, and her toned legs and sculpted arms make my scrawny everything seem even scrawnier.

I force a smile on my face, telling myself comparison is ugly. Especially because JoJo is obviously working hard for such a solid body, whereas I mostly eat Doritos and drink Diet Coke. I know that eventually my metabolism is going to stop acting like it’s a teenage boy’s, but until then, I mean, who am I kidding? I’m not going to train for anything unless it rhymes with Reer Bun.

JoJo’s eyes brighten. “Yeah, actually I do. My dad got me this amazing coach, and I’m going to be fighting here, at the Spades, in four months.”