I frowned. “Thought you worked with him more than once.”
Billy shrugged at this. “He used to be decent, I guess. Now he’s a has-been, lurking around clubs like this trying to drum up business.”
I took a long swig of beer and swallowed back the comment my mind supplied:Sort of like you?
It had started to bug the hell out of me, how underhanded Billy could be—he talked more shit than anyone I’d ever met, but never had a bad word to say to anyone’s face.
Being my mentor, Billy had introduced me to countless people. Many of whom he genuinely liked and respected—he’d helped me make some really incredible connections when I was starting out. He’d always been pathologically complimentary about me, seemingly unable to resist singing my praises or calling out a recent accomplishment, to the point it was sometimes embarrassing. But looking across the crowd at Rob, I grew uneasy for an entirely different reason. I couldn’t help but wonder what happened when I was the one to walk away first. Whether Billy had ever turned to his contact and immediately started backpedaling about me, telling them I was Atlas Shaw’s kid, that he’d taken me under his wing out of pity, that truth be told he didn’treallyrecommend working with me.
I went home after the show and couldn’t wind down, kept replaying past encounters from events I’d attended with Billy, looking for some clue I might’ve missed that he wasn’t always on my side. I hated that I was even questioning it, but once the seed was planted, I couldn’t get it out of my head. By morning I’d made a decision. I needed to take a step back from Billy—stop attending anything industry-related withhim, at the very least. Just until I felt more established in my own career. Until I’d solidified my own reputation. I hoped it could be a subtle shift in our relationship, because frankly I had no idea how I’d ever tell him.
Then the accident happened. And clients and friends started dropping him in droves, and I couldn’t pile on, I couldn’t abandon him like everyone else. And I knew that no matter how gently I tried to distance myself, even if it was only on a professional level, he’d take it that way.
He’s been better, since then. Sober, and generally less two-faced and prickly as a result. So I’ve continued to push it to the back of my mind. But I know it’s probably still in my best interest to establish some boundaries between our personal and professional lives.
“Okay,” I tell Eleanor. “Yeah, we can try the casino. I won’t call Billy.”
I glance at my watch. One hour until I’m meant to be at the brewery, and I still have to pick up my ID. Whatever is going on between Eleanor and me, eventually we’re going to have to deal with the actual reason we both came to Vegas. I should be focused on work.Sheshould be focused on work. Running around a casino and losing more money is not going to help anyone.
But it’s what Eleanor wants to do. And somewhere along the line, giving her what she wants became irresistible to me.
CHAPTER THIRTEENELEANOR
Walking onto the casino floor feels like entering a labyrinth. Not only is the floor a literal maze of card tables and banks of slot machines and electronic games, but it’s evident how easy it would be to lose sense of time and space in here. There are no windows, no way to track the sun. No clocks either. The music playing overhead is nondescript—no lyrics to sing along to and no breaks between tracks.
Plus, smoking is permitted, so it feels weirdly like entering a time warp. I literally cannot remember the last time I was inside a nonresidential building where cigarettes were allowed, prior to this weekend. My clothes and hair are going to reek, which should probably be the least of my concerns right now, but I’m fixated on it because I don’t know if I’ll have time to shower before the show.
I follow Adam past a poker table where the dealer is the only one who appears sober. One of the gruff-looking men seated in front of him drains a whiskey glass as I watch. Hehas a five-o’clock shadow and deep purple bruises under his eyes. I get the distinct impression he’s been here all night. And from the modest stack of chips in front of him, I don’t think he stayed all that time because he’s on a winning streak. The pit in my stomach deepens. Adam is right—this is going to go poorly. And then we’ll be back where we started, and I won’t be able to stop him from involving Billy Draper.
Today’s events aside, I don’t think about Griffin anymore. Hardly ever. I don’t care how he’s doing, or what he’s doing, or whether he ever thinks about me. But I can’t be blamed for wanting to keep this escapade off his radar. I’d be embarrassed for any ex to hear about it, never mind one with as many industry contacts as Griffin.
As much as I detest reminding anyone how close Griffin and I once were, it was worthwhile if it reinforced Adam’s resolve to keep me out of the story, if and when he does talk to Billy.
Now Adam stands beside me, shoulder to shoulder, his gaze warming the side of my face.
“Let’s hit the blackjack tables first,” I say, “then poker. If neither of those work, we can loop back to the slots.”
Adam remains silent, and when I cave and side-eye him, I find him frowning. “No judgment… but is this the real reason you’re at your credit limit? Do you have a gambling problem?” I can tell by his tone he’s dead serious, trying his best to ask delicately. “Because you’re not alone. My neighbor struggled with a gambling addiction a while back. There are hotlines you can call—”
“Oh my god.” I close my eyes and try not to fixate on what it is about me that made Adam jump so quickly togambling addict. I take a long breath before looking at him head-on.“No, Adam. While I very much appreciate your concern, I do not have a gambling problem.”
He purses his lips. “That’s exactly what someone with a gambling problem would say,” he mutters. “Well, should we try different tables?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. Splitting up is definitely a good idea. Not only because both of us sitting at the same table would mean we were playing against each other, but also because Adam is giving me whiplash.
First he accuses me of wanting him, and then he admits to wanting me back, and now it’s like he’s forgotten about the teasing and the kiss and all of it. Meanwhile, ever since we left that stage I’ve felt like I’m trying to inhale underwater. I need space. Need to catch my breath and figure out how I lost the upper hand here, and how thehellAdam could tell I’d thought about kissing him.
A seat opens up at the blackjack table Adam’s been eyeing, and I hand over half the chips. “We’ll meet back here in half an hour.”
Adam gives me one last lingering look before he steps away. Mercifully, he does not glance back to catch me watching until he takes a seat. I really wish it were clearer whether he was flirting because he genuinely wants to continue what we started, or if it was just another way for him to get a rise out of me. I sigh and snap myself out of it, turning to weave through the tables and banks of slot machines, scoping out my prospects.
I hadn’t noticed until now how loud it is in here. All these people, all the electronics, the sound effects. It’s like being stuck inside a dozen different video games at once, and I can’t think over all the noise. Interrupting someone sitting at atable seems like a bad idea. But people at slot machines aren’t typically betting big money, so I suspect they’d be less likely to make a trade.
My first thought, possibly fueled by the last remaining threads of denial over my feelings for Adam, is to approach one of the single men I see throwing their money around. I could flirt my way into their good graces, maybe have a drink with them and then play the damsel-in-distress card. Men eat that shit up, especially if they suspect they’ll get a reward for being the Good Guy who helps you out.
But I’ve dealt with enough skeevy, ego-tripping men to last a lifetime. Sometimes it feels like they find me, no matter how hard I’m trying to put out an unapproachable vibe. I certainly don’t need to go initiating conversations, making them feel like I owe them.
Just—no.
