He has a friend with him, too, another man I’ve never met before. When I peer over Rev’s shoulders a little myopically (the best princesses don’t pair glasses with fairy wings and this particular princess has run out of disposable contacts), the guy offers me a slow grin and a little waggle of his fingers. He certainly makes pretty eye candy, but I prefer Mr. Tall, Dark and Grumpy.
I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s the dress, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. “You think I’ve got a thing for sparkly shit?”
There isn’t a man alive who looks rougher and fiercer than Rev. I’m trying to figure out a polite way to tell him so when he tucks the phone back inside my dress before I can so much as squeak out a protest. The backs of his fingers brush against the top of my boobs, issuing an invitation of their own.
I have to be more cautious. From the rising volume of the squeals emanating from the backyard, cake consumption has concluded and the party will be wrapping up as the sugar highs hit, the early departers fleeing past my RV parked out front. Spotting the princess in an R-rated embrace with a biker would be bad for my business. You can’t be a dirty girl and host children’s birthday parties for a living. The moms will kill you. Fortunately, the moms aren’t mind readers. I’m only a party-perfect princess on the outside. Riding anywhere with Rev would be career suicide.
My bad voice promptly weighs in. But only if you get caught.
“I don’t do bikers.”
Something flashes across Rev’s face. “You don’t get hurt on my watch. I promise.”
“You’re not an ax murderer?”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the wallet attached to his belt by a silver chain. Silently, he flips it open and holds it out so I can read his driver’s license. There’s a military ID underneath it, too, the kind of card that gets you into Nellis Air Force Base.
“Your name isn’t Rev.” According to the State of Nevada’s laminated plastic, he’s one Jaxon Brady.
“Road name,” he says tersely.
I examine the license again. He’s also turning thirty-three in four weeks. I bet he won’t be booking a celebratory princess party.
“Wow.” I hand back his wallet. “Former navy?”
He nods, as if it’s no big deal. “SEAL. You’d be safe with me.”
He’s not big on talking. Or negotiating, asking, or sweet-talking. I’ve always trusted my instincts, though, and right now they’re on board with Rev Brady. Completely, totally, 100 percent in favor of getting on this man’s bike and riding off with him. Somewhere. Wherever he wants to go. He’s big and strong and tempting. He’s fought for our country and kept everyone safe.
How bad can he be?
The little voice in my head pipes right up. How bad do you want him to be?
That voice needs a gag.
“Think about it,” he says and then he turns and saunters toward his bike. I stand there, watching his ass the whole way, and wondering why I don’t mind his attitude. He’s scary as shit. He’s not Mr. White Picket Fence and he’s not promising happily ever after, but the man has a fantastic butt and I’m lonely. That’s all it is. I need to get out more, need to make a point of seeing someone.
Someone else.
Anyone else.
There are absolutely, positively no bikers anywhere in my future.
Eve
THE CARNIVAL MUSIC vibrates through every inch of my body, and I lose myself in the beat. I love everything about hitting the Strip, from getting dolled up to the pulse-pounding, searing rhythm of the clubs. Everybody’s equal on the dance floor, all part of the same moving, gyrating body. On the Strip, you end up packed too close to even tell who can dance and who’s merely enthusiastic. It’s exactly what I need, my happy place where I can let go and all that matters is finding my next breath and the rhythm.
Unlike my day-job wear, my dress tonight barely skims my butt. Sequins cover the short pink tank dress and whenever the lights hit me, I light the place up. Over the top? Check. Girly as hell? Check, check. The first stop on tonight’s girls’ night out is Circus Circus and Samantha and I have already hit the Midway and gone two rounds on the roller coaster. I’m barefoot because I kicked off my shoes as soon as we scored a table, and right now it’s officially fun time. And while I usually keep busy, busy, busy, it feels good to have some time off. Tonight I can let go and enjoy life. Tomorrow is soon enough to worry about the bills, the taxes and the fourteen hundred other items on my to-do list.
I could start with that man headed toward our table. He’s good-looking, he’s definitely friendly and he’s managed to hunt down a cocktail waitress with a tray of drinks.
Jack. His name is Jack. I’m too old or too tired—too something—because I have to fight the urge to write his name on my hand lest I forget it. I’d been hoping he’d rate higher on the droolworthy factor.
“I told you he was even cuter in person,” Samantha crows as she catches me watching Jack. Unlike so many dating app pictures, he actually looks like the picture I picked out on my phone at the lake. Turns out, the six intervening days have not been enough time to rediscover my libido. I’ve done some solo workouts in bed, but a few self-induced orgasms haven’t made me hungrier for one-on-one action. Guess it was like hoping running a mile would prepare me for the marathon—so I shouldn’t feel so disappointed.
Jack is a good-looking guy and he has lovely manners as promised. He looks really nice in his jeans and a blue button-up shirt, too. He’s a vice president of something at one of the casinos, which means that not only is he pretty on the outside, but he’s gainfully employed and scores frequent free drinks. The man is total keeper material, which is exactly what I told Samantha I wanted.
This is torture.
I don’t care if Jack never finds our table again, and that’s just not right. He’s so perfect on paper, and yet there’s not a single spark of chemistry between us. There’s nothing horribly, wonderfully electric, no sparks. I should try harder. Hell, the sparks between that biker and me were enough to start a forest fire or some other kind of world-ending conflagration and my libido needs a good talking-to. No bikers.
“Wasn’t sure what you’d like,” Mr. I’m Perfect On Paper says, tipping the waitress generously after she sets the drinks down on the table. “So I got a bunch of stuff. You can try it all or go for the fallback beer.”
God. Could he be more thoughtful?
He gestures toward the row of drinks and I grab the first drink I touch. The crap in the glass is frozen and sweet, some kind of adult slushie. Okay. That’s a departure from my usual beer, but I definitely want to try new things. I want to dance, to grind against Jack and to discover he’s my Mr. Right. I’m so ready to get right on that happily ever after. Get married, start a family, do things right. Jack ticks all the boxes. He’s absolutely perfect. I knock back the first inch of my drink, trying to ignore the way it suddenly tastes too sweet.
Jack slides an arm around my shoulders, tucking me against his side. He goes for the beer, and we stand there all couple-like for a long moment, watching Samantha bob and weave across the casino floor to greet someone she knows. It feels as if we’ve been married for ten years already and not in a good way.
Run away, my bad voice whispers.
Not listening.
“Let’s dance.” I slip out of his hold. The bar and burger joint has live music tonight, and a group of people are already dancing. I grab his hand, threading my fingers through