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He laughs when she cracks horrible jokes, and halfway through her story about a bar mitzvah gone wrong, his strong, warm hand lands on my bare leg. Goosebumps pebble my skin as he runs the tips of his fingers along the inside of my thigh.
“How long are you going to need in the kitchen tomorrow?” she asks me.
I swallow down the piece of garlic bread I’m chewing, nearly choking on it as another stroke of Ringer’s hand on my thigh takes me off guard. “Probably three to four hours.”
“Perfect!”
Our meals are delivered, and we eat in comfortable silence until Sparrow’s phone rings.
Ringer and I listen to the one sided conversation as she talks in hushed, annoyed whispers to the person on the other line. She hangs up, and pastes a smile back on her face.
“Everything okay?” Ringer asks.
“Fine!” she chirps a little too quickly.
“You sure?” I ask.
“Mhm.” She returns to slurping her noodles.
Her attitude seems a little off after her phone call, but we finish dinner, and before either one of us can pay, Ringer slips money in the waitress’s billfold.
As we’re walking back to the parking lot, Sparrow turns to us. “Thanks for dinner! Ringer, am I going to see you tomorrow?”
Ringer turns his gaze on me and shrugs, so I answer for him. “Yes he will be there. I need the muscle.”
“And tomorrow night?” Sparrow fishes.
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Sparrow, we will come to the club with you.”
She lets out a squeal and opens her car door. “Yes, bitch! It’s been too long since we’ve been dancing.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you!” I call out to her as she climbs into her car.
At Ringer's curious glint, I laugh. “Sparrow’s favorite thing to do is to take me to a club and get me shit faced so I will dance with her.”
“That should be a sight to see. Two hangovers in one week?” Ringer winces with a chuckle.
“Eh. It’ll be fine.”
“Maybe for you. You know how shitty it was watching you like that?”
“You weren’t even there for all of it! I made you go home.”
“Even worse,” he adds with a grunt. “Get in the van. I’m tired of driving.”
“We’re right around the corner you big baby.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m pushing the key card into the door of the hotel room. Ringer drops his bags on the king size bed and heads over to the window. I watch in amusement as he pushes the curtains open and gawks at the bright lights of the strip.
“Have you ever been to Vegas before?” I ask from my spot on the edge of the bed as I unlace my boots.
“I came on a run a few months before I got arrested, but we never made it to the strip.”
I move over to stand next to him, perusing the city from up here with him. “So you’ve never gambled in Vegas before?”
“Nope,” he admits, turning to look down at me.
“Hmm.”
