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Chapter One
Sebastian
Aria left me. Or I drove her away. I don’t know which one is the most accurate descriptor, but either way the result is the same. It’s been three days since Aria walked out of my suite, three days since she’s answered the phone or a text or even shown up to work. She called in sick yesterday and the day before, which gives me something else to worry about. Something else to feel guilty about. The fact that she’s skipping shifts when she so obviously needs the money…that says everything that can be said about how she feels about seeing me right now.
Part of me wants to text her not to worry, that I won’t bother her when she comes to work. But it’s a lie and I think we’re both smart enough to know it. The second she walks through the casino door, I’m going to be right there waiting. Right there demanding that she talk to me.
I hurt her. I fucking hurt her and I don’t even know how it happened. How I got so out of control. I think back on those moments, on the whole interlude, and all I can remember is how much I wanted her. How I wanted her to want me the same way. And how out of control I felt because of that want. That need.
So I took it out on her. I pushed her and pushed her and pushed her, not to punish her as she believes, but because I couldn’t be alone in all that want. All that need. I had to know that she felt the same way about me. That her mind and body and soul cried out for mine the same way mine do for her.
Instead, I took it too far. Pushed her too hard. Hurt her when that was the last thing I ever wanted to do. And I don’t have a clue how I’m supposed to fix it. Especially when she won’t even step foot in my damn casino.
I even went to her apartment last night like some kind of stalker. She wasn’t there. Or, if she was, she wouldn’t open the door to me. Either way, I’m totally screwed. I can’t see her, can’t talk to her, can’t apologize.
Then again, even if I could…what then? Do I tell her how out of control I felt? How vulnerable? Just the thought makes me queasy. I’m okay with admitting I was wrong, with apologizing for hurting her—but explaining? Telling her what motivated the things I did? I don’t know if I’m ready for that—or even if I’m capable of it.
I just know that I’d like the chance to try.
But until she comes back to work—if she comes back to work—I won’t be able to do anything. The lack of control grates on me.
Rubbing a hand over my face, I try to clear my mind. To concentrate on the two million and one things I need to do today. Things that include setting into motion the plans Ethan and I made to solve the problems of his brother, Brandon, and Nico Valducci in one fell swoop. It won’t be easy and it’s going to take time to get everything lined up the way we want it, but if we do everything exactly right, Brandon and Valducci will be in prison, awaiting trial, before the end of the year.
The work is slow going—especially when I get an email from a board member of the charity I used to work for, asking when I’m going to be back. For long seconds, I just stare at the computer screen, trying to decide how I want to answer him.
Technically, I’m on a leave of absence. When I got the phone call about my father and decided that I needed to come back here, to help out with the Atlantis and all his other business dealings, I hadn’t been prepared to resign yet. Not when I didn’t know what was going to be waiting for me here, or how I was going to react to it. And not when I had less than forty-eight hours to wrap my head around the fact that I was going to have to return to Vegas after I’d sworn never to set foot in this city again.
I’ve been here two weeks now. Two measly weeks. And while there’s a huge part of me that misses the work I used to do—work that mattered, work that let me make a real difference to underprivileged children all over the world—I’m smart enough to know that I’m never going back. Not when the Atlantis and a number of my father’s other holdings are in such a precarious financial state. I can’t walk away from that.
And I can’t walk away from Aria.
The thought comes out of nowhere, steals my breath and tightens my gut. Because it isn’t supposed to be like that. It isn’t supposed to be so serious, so all-consuming, that I’m willing to stay in a city I despise just to be close to her.
Not when I’ve only known her a week.
Not when I messed up so fucking badly.
And not when I don’t have a clue how to fix it—or even if I’ll be able to fix it.
Fuck. The not knowing is killing me. The inability to control how this is going to turn out.
I don’t even know why I care so much. I mean, yeah, Aria’s amazing and I care about her. And I enjoy fucking her more than I’ve ever enjoyed anything in my life. But still, I’ve enjoyed fucking a lot of women and never have I been this…obsessed. Or this worried about getting them back if we had a fight. For most of my adult life, my philosophy has pretty much been treat them well, enjoy them while you’ve got them, move on before things get sticky.
So why, when things are stickier than they’ve ever been, when I have so many things on my plate that need my attention, am I throwing that philosophy away? Why am I obsessing over Aria instead of just waiting to see how things play out? Or just moving on, like I usually do.
Because she matters.
The thought sends a skitter of panic down my spine. Because I know it’s true. And worse, because I wouldn’t change it if I could.
I shove back from my desk, walk over to the picture window where I first fucked Aria and stare out at the city far below. It’s morning now—and early to boot—so the lights aren’t as bright, the glitter not so apparent. Even from all the way up here, you can see the sex pamphlets on the sidewalks, the leftover remnants of another debauched night, the grime just below the glamour.
Most people don’t like Vegas in that first hour after dawn, when the Strip is as quiet as it ever gets and everything looks just a little too fake, a little too garish, a little too dissolute. But it’s always been my favorite time of the day here.
Partly because my best memories of Dylan all took place in the early morning hours, when he was coming down from whatever drunk or high he’d been on and he was just the guy I used to know. The friend who punched a rich kid in the nose for me when we were seven because he stole my Batman action figure and broke it just to be mean. The guy who listened and philosophized and talked the weirdest, most interesting shit just because his brain worked that way.
And partly because I’ve always thought it was beautiful. The way the sun rises over the desert. The way the lights burn through the early morning dusk. The way the decadent turns so easily to the debauched. It’s a weird thing to love, but I’ve always found beauty in the unmasking. In the complete and utter honesty.
Suddenly, I can’t stand the idea of being cooped up in this goddamn office one more minute. One more second. Though it’s only a little after five a.m., I’ve been working most of the night and I’m beginning to feel like the walls are closing in on me. Like this goddamn job is closing in on me.
Fuck it. Grabbing my wallet and my keys from the top drawer of my desk, I head out. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m going to do when I get there, but I know I can’t stay here. Not for one more minute, not for one more second. At least not if I don’t want to go stark raving mad.
But I don’t even make it to the front doors before someone calls my name. For a second, I think about ignoring it. About just walking out the doors and saying to hell with my responsibilities. To hell with everything.
But in the end I turn around—of course I do. And stare for long seconds at my father’s nurse—and my father. Nancy has him in a wheelchair and is pushing him toward the same doors I’m aiming for.
“Do you need help?” I ask, closing the distance between us at a quick jog.
“No, we’re good. He just wanted to say hello before we go out for our morning walk.”
