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Safe to say, I hadn’t gotten off in a long time. I might be traumatized.
“You know just a dinner with you would’ve been perfect, right?” I wanted to make sure he knew that, despite his haunting me in the shower. “We could find a poker table and get drunk on watered-down cocktails.”
He chuckled with a shake of his head and withdrew his arm again. “And sometimes, you say shit like that.” He flashed me a smirk. “It’s gonna be one hell of a party. We’ll leave it at that.”
All right. I’d said my piece. I’d given him more than one out.
The party was evidently happening, and the only information I had was the dress code. Word for word, “Justin Timberlake Brings Sexy Back,” which I’d had to look up online. Nikki had ended up helping me get a suit tailored, and it was apparently very important to leave the jacket and bring the vest.
Roughly an hour later, we landed in Las Vegas, and Roe couldn’t really conceal just how much money he’d spent when we emerged from the airport to find a personal driver with a big-ass SUV about to take us to the Cosmopolitan. We’d been there a few times before, though always on our way back to LA when we were dirty and hadn’t shaved in a while after a Nomads episode. Las Vegas was the natural pit stop if you’d road-tripped in Arizona, Colorado, and Utah. And we’d stayed at that hotel every time because I loved the view. My camera loved the view too.
“Should we get some lunch on the way?” I asked. “We didn’t eat breakfast.”
“You just sit there and look pretty. I’ve got it all covered.”
I let out a laugh. Okay, then. I was just gonna sit here and look pretty.
Las Vegas was always a fascinating phenomenon to return to. The glittering hotels shot up from the desert, and suddenly the world was anything but nature. This was humankind’s work. Marble, shiny metal, fountains, glossy black, swimming pools big enough to get lost in, gold, cabanas, flashing lights, and extravagance. Even I could appreciate a bit of that.
It was like stepping into a fantasy.
Once we arrived at the hotel, it seemed everything had been taken care of already. Roe was greeted by a concierge and an assistant of some sort who handed him the keycards—and some information on the down-low. Not for my ears, got it.
I had to say, I felt special.
The Cosmopolitan was still the new kid on the block, consisting of two black towers with a thousand rooms in each, and the balcony view was…chef’s kiss. Perfect view of the Bellagio fountain and beyond.
We took the elevator up—way up—and Roe sent me furtive smirks along the way.
“Do I wanna know how much money you’ve spent?”
“Hey, I gotta treat my work-husband right.” He brushed invisible lint off my shoulder, and I shook my head in amusement. He was in a better mood now. I liked that.
At our floor, I followed him down a long, winding corridor until we reached our room.
It was a familiar sight, and yet not. This room was larger than what we usually reserved. Aside from the usual—the big bedroom with two beds, bathroom with a hot tub, and a generously sized balcony—we had a bigger seating area and bar.
Why couldn’t we just stay here?
“I know it’s early, but I’m givin’ you an A+, buddy. This is fantastic.” I gave his shoulder a light squeeze as I passed him to go out on the balcony.
“Hey, none of that—” He halted me with a grip on my arm. “You’re marching straight into the bathroom to take a shower, and you’ll stay in there for—” He checked his watch, ignoring my surprised face. “Twenty-seven minutes. That oughta get the airplane smell out.”
What the fuck? It’d been a one-hour plane ride, and I’d showered a few hours ago.
He smiled sheepishly and let go of my arm. “I need privacy. Don’t ask.”
I narrowed my eyes. Privacy for what? Would the room be invaded by people when I came out?
“Do I gotta dress up right away?” I pressed.
“Nope. The theme for this next part is comfort.”
Well, I liked that…
Fine.
“A ridiculously long shower, it is.” I nodded firmly and then dug out my toiletry kit from my duffel.
*
I peered over at my phone on the sink and saw Ma’s name on the display again. Not a fucking chance. I’d spoken to her four days ago. I was good for at least a few weeks. Fuck, all this was her fault. She was to blame for my issues with affection and sexuality. She was the reason I overanalyzed a goddamn hug. It was her fault I, for some bizarre reason, forced mental images upon myself when I was just trying to get off like a normal man.
Tightening the towel around my hips, I inspected my jaw in the mirror and decided I didn’t need to shave. I’d done that yesterday, and a bit of stubble was a good look on me.
