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—the Irish boy isn’t good enough for you
I ignored the barb and settled back against the cushion, thinking of my promise to the boys, to stay away from Dario. I typed out a response.
please don’t contact me again
I reread the text before sending it. Moved my thumb over the Send button and paused. It was short and sweet, with no room for confusion or misinterpretation. Polite yet firm. I sent the text before I had a chance to change my mind.
Twelve
For the entire shift, the text followed me, taunting me, and I was almost sick with nerves by the time I watched the last customer stumble out. I should have felt resolution. Peace. Instead, it felt like a mistake. A mistake I couldn’t talk to anyone about. A mistake that had Dario’s voice whispering in my ear, the phantom brush of his fingertips on my shoulder, his kiss on my neck. A kiss I’d never feel again.
I had lost control with him, my stability seeming to dissolve the longer I’d stayed in his presence. It was all just as confusing as the conflict I’d seen in his eyes.
I carried empty glasses and wiped down the bar, thinking of his hand closing around my waist, drawing me against his body, the soft give and dominance of his mouth against mine. The look of torture in his eyes when he’d stepped away from me.
“The women don’t mean anything to me. Maybe I’m ready for someone who does.”
Had it all been bullshit, lines of seduction that a dozen Vegas brunettes had heard? I stacked my tips, then handed them through the cage. Maurice spread the chips, then counted out my bills, passing them over with a smile.
“Thanks.”
He nodded, then locked the drawers. On any given night, there was a few million in the cage. I’ve watched them count out the stacks, had seen the nights when the armored truck had to deliver extra, and nights when they carted away the profits. It was a good business to be in. I tucked my cash into my pocket and moved to the control room. Grabbing my phone, I held my breath as I unlocked it and opened my texts.
Nothing. No text and no missed call. I’d sent out a grenade, and he hadn’t responded at all. I should be thankful.
I moved past everyone and out to the parking lot. I unlocked my car, got inside, and swore, hitting the steering wheel with enough force to hurt my palm.
I told him I didn’t want him to contact me again. He hadn’t, and the result was one that made me want to tear out my hair and scream.
I knew what I liked. What I wanted. Emotion-free, orgasm-filled sex.
While Dario Capece might be looking for the same thing in a side piece, I could already tell that—with him—my emotions wouldn’t behave. A physical relationship between us might take my cold and lifeless heart and actually cause it to beat. To hum. To swell with blood and emotion. To hurt.
* * *
It was Sunday afternoon and I was in full pity-party mood. In bed at three o’clock. Class assignments finished, I was bingeing on reality TV with impressive dedication.
If I hadn’t sent the Worst Text Ever, I’d be prepping for tonight’s date with Dario. Instead, I was elbow-deep in some housewives show where everyone seemed to be broke and bitchy.
It was ridiculous. Ian asked me on a date, and I blew him off without a second thought. I did the same thing to Dario Capece, and I was chewing through my fingernails like a meth addict in rehab.
My phone buzzed and I catapulted over the covers, frantically tossing aside pillows until I pulled it out. Ugh. A text from Ian. I closed it without reading it and settled back against the headboard and pulled my bag of Doritos closer. I was being pathetic. I hardly knew the man. I shouldn’t think twice about turning down his dinner invitation or never speaking to him again.
I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t.
My mom hadn’t raised a starry-eyed weakling. I reached for the remote and clicked on the next episode.
* * *
A few minutes before eleven, there was a soft knock, and I turned my head as the bedroom door creaked open. Meredith stuck her head in.
“Oh good, you’re awake.”
I paused the show and lifted my soda to my mouth, waiting to see what she wanted.
“There’s some old guy here to see you.”
She couldn’t mean Dario. While he was in his mid-to-late thirties… “old guy” wouldn’t be the terminology she’d use. Not for him, and not by her—a girl who’d recently dated a forty-two-year-old surgeon and didn’t take any of our shit about it. I pulled back the covers and stood, her eyebrows raising at my messy hair, hot pink leggings, and Save the MF Whales shirt.
