Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Nova relaxes a fraction. “Okay, good. I’ll text you when you can leave.”
“Perfect.” I lean on the bathroom sink. “See you later, big brother.”
He shoots me a look like I’m insane. Henry could’ve heard me, but I wasn’t even that loud. “Be careful,” he whisper-growls, and then he’s gone.
I’m stuck in the bathroom.
Sitting on the toilet lid, I scroll on my phone and try not to picture Nova and Henry. Or worse, Rocky.
What I know is happening: Nova will return with another bill after already charging the fifty thousand. He’ll ask for a wire transfer or more credit cards. The bill will be heavily inflated for bottle service, gratuity, and every service charge under the sun.
Henry will balk and ask where I went. Nova will tell him that I’m coming back and to wait for me. After some coaxing, Henry will pay the extra bill and he’ll wait in the room until his suspicion grows. Then he’ll return to the club to try and track down Nova or me. He won’t find either of us. If he tries to ask where we went, everyone will say we already left.
What I know won’t happen: he won’t report us—not when he paid for sex. He won’t tell his friends because that would mean facing the embarrassment of being duped. And no one likes to be made a fool of.
In the end, he’ll slump on home and convince himself that this night was just one of misfortune. A wave of bad luck.
Once Nova’s text pings my phone, I leave for the club’s private dressing room. I try to keep my head down, but like a cosmic slap in the face, I lift my gaze and I see Rocky in a darkened corner. He’s lip-locked with the redhead who’d been dancing on the pole.
Muscles twitch around my mouth. Am I trying to smile or not vomit? I let out the longest sigh of my life, and I work my jaw to force out these feelings. But they still tumble strangely in my stomach. My eyes burn, even after I’ve reached the dressing room, pulled on a sweatshirt and jeans, and left the club.
I take a cab to the heart of the Vegas strip. I’m lost among the lights, street performers, and bachelor parties.
Yet, he still finds me, even without modern novelties like sharing my location on a phone or a text to say I’m right here.
I’m standing on the sidewalk in front of the Bellagio fountains, but my back is to the water that arches and dives in mesmeric patterns. I’m just staring out at a fake Eiffel Tower. It glitters in the night.
Rocky slides beside me, close enough that we could either be friends or sudden acquaintances. I wonder if other people constantly analyze their body language and question how others are perceiving them. I wonder if this is just something con artists have to be paranoid about.
“Am I that predictable?” I ask him under my breath.
“To me. Yeah.” He still wears the same expensive suit, but his commanding smile and eyes are gone. “I didn’t think you’d be anywhere else.”
This isn’t our first time in Vegas. Or my first time viewing the Eiffel Tower light show. It’s my favorite part of Sin City, and not because I’ve never been to Paris and it’s the closest I’ll ever come. But because it’s Fake Paris.
A replica of the real thing. I guess I appreciate the façade.
Rocky loves the Masquerade Hotel & Casino more, but I can’t help but get stuck here.
“You all right?” he suddenly asks in a deep, husky breath. It sounds like a whisper only meant for my ears.
“Are you all right?” I volley back, finally looking into his eyes. “Your tongue disappeared back there. Thought maybe we opened a magic club instead of a nightclub.”
His lips twitch into a smile. “Funny.”
“Funny like ha-ha or funny like go fuck yourself?” I ask.
“Definitely like go fuck yourself.”
I laugh under my breath, and it feels like a truly genuine emotion tonight. Except it wheezes out like a dying hyena as I remember his lips and her lips. I’m cringing. “Did you get her number? Going on a fun date tomorrow?” I try not to appear desperate for the answer, but I’m standing on the very edge of the question, prepared to free-fall.
“No and no.” He checks over his shoulder. “You know I don’t date anyone I meet on jobs. Not for real, anyway.”
Dating is a hot-button topic among the Tinrocks and Graves. Unless it’s a relationship for a con, most of us rarely get past the third-date stage.
After the third date, everything gets more serious. More personal and risky. And there’s only so much of our true selves we’re allowed to share.
Sex is easier for all of us. Sex barely has any strings. Sex can even have no names. I wonder if our moms ever considered that they’d end up raising promiscuous, relationship-phobic kids.