Chapter 7
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, STAYS IN VEGAS
DAVINA
The neon lights of Las Vegas pulsed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the bar. Thirty-two floors up, the Strip sprawled beneath us in a glittering river of bad decisions.
Kali and James had tapped out after dinner.
Brooke and Matt lasted until bar number two before Matt started doing that thing where he kept checking his watch, and Brooke kept yawning like she was trying to swallow her own face.
But me? I wasn't ready to go back to our shared hotel room.
Wasn't ready to navigate the awkwardness of getting undressed with Dallas in the same room as me.
I'd assumed Dallas would leave with Matt and Brooke.
Nope.
“It's not safe for a woman to party alone in Vegas,” he’d announced, like he was narrating a true crime documentary about my future disappearance.
“I'll take my chances with the serial killers, thanks,” I’d replied.
He’d stayed anyway.
Now I wove back to our high-top table from the dance floor, my feet screaming in my heels, to find Dallas treating the bar menu like a whiskey tasting flight. He threw back a shot of amber colored liquid and grimaced.
“You're going to end up with alcohol poisoning,” I said, leaning against the table. The wood was sticky with spilled cocktails. “Normally, I wouldn't care, but unfortunately, that would absolutely ruin my night.”
Dallas set down the shot glass and smirked at me. His eyes were unfocused but still sharp enough to be dangerous. “Careful, Davidson. Someone might think you care about me.”
I opened my mouth to deliver a comeback so devastating it would require medical attention, but a high-pitched squeal cut through the bass-heavy music like a fork on a plate.
“Oh my God.” A blonde woman in a hot pink cocktail dress was bouncing on stilettos that could double as murder weapons. Her eyes were fixed on Dallas. “You're The Dominator!”
Dallas's entire demeanor shifted, and his smile widened. “That's me.”
“I'm like, your biggest fan. Like, biggest. I have a poster of you…” She giggled. “Well, it's in my bedroom.”
I took a long sip of my whiskey sour.
“How about a picture and an autograph?” Dallas offered, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a Sharpie.
“Yes, thank you.” More bouncing.
Dallas posed for the selfie, chin down, eyes up, and that perfect smile. Then, he uncapped the Sharpie and signed his name directly across her cleavage.
She bounced off excitedly to show her friends.
“Women love me, Davidson.” Dallas settled back onto his barstool, radiating smugness.
“Isn't she a little old for your taste?”
Dallas's smile didn't waver as he picked up his beer, condensation dripping down the bottle, and set it down. “Can I tell you a secret?”
I narrowed my eyes. Nothing good ever started with those words. “Do I have a choice?”
“I didn't ghost Mia James because of her age.” He leaned forward. “She ghosted me because of it.”
I narrowed my eyes, my face twisting with confusion. “I'm not following.”
“I mean that I don't have a problem with age. They do.” He traced a finger around the rim of his beer bottle. “Women my age want marriage, kids, the whole white picket fence fantasy. When I tell them that's not happening, they're out. Usually with some choice words about my maturity level.”
“Shocking,” I muttered.
He ignored me. “Women between eighteen and twenty-three think they can change me. They stick around until about twenty-two, twenty-three, when they realize…”
“...that you're a lost cause?”
“...that I'm serious about not wanting to get married. Then they leave. Which has earned me a reputation as a player who only dates young women.” He shrugged. “And trust me, I hate it.”
I processed this, studying his face for signs of bullshit. I found none. “So why not set the record straight? Tell people the truth?”
“Because I'd rather have people talk shit about me than about any woman I've dated.” He said it simply, like it was obvious. “Their reputations matter more than mine.”
I took another sip of my drink to drown it. “That's... surprisingly decent of you.”
“Don't sound so shocked. I'm not a complete asshole.”
“The jury's still out.” But I smiled, and he smiled back.
The whiskey in my system made an executive decision. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
I hesitated, wondering if arming my enemy with personal ammunition was the worst idea I'd had tonight, and decided it probably wasn't even in the top five. “What's wrong with me?”
His head jerked back. “My turn to not follow.”
“I mean… In the last few months, I've been ghosted dozens of times, and when they do show up, there's never a second date. So what's wrong with me?”
“Dav…”
“Is it my weight?” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. “Be honest. I have real pictures on my dating profiles. Current pictures. No Snapchat filters or strategic lighting. Just tell me the truth. Please.”
Dallas stared at me for a long moment. “You want to know the truth?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes. That's why I very specifically said tell me the truth.”
He leaned forward, close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath.
“It's not your curves.” His gaze dragged over me, starting at my face and traveling down with an intensity that made my skin prickle with heat.
When his eyes met mine again, his tongue swept out to wet his bottom lip. “Your curves are perfect.”
“You're bullshitting me.”
“I promise it's not that.” He said it with such certainty that I almost believed him.
I sat back in the chair and crossed my arms over my chest. “Then what?”
“It's your big dick energy.”
I choked on air. “I'm sorry, my what?”
“You have big dick energy, and it scares little boys away.” He said it completely seriously.
My brows furrowed. “Are you being serious right now?”
“Think about it, Davidson.” He ticked off points on his fingers. “You're smart. You're beautiful…” My heart did a little flip. “...you're confident. You have your own very successful career. You don't take shit from anyone.” He leaned back, spreading his hands. “It's intimidating as fuck.”
“So you're saying...”
“I'm saying you're not the problem. They are. You just haven't found someone man enough to handle your big dick energy.”
I laughed. I wasn't sure if he was right, but I liked his train of thought.
“What do you say, Davidson?” He raised his beer bottle in a toast. “Truce for tonight?”
My gaze met his across the table, and I was struck by the sudden, dangerous realization that Dallas Dodger was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen.
This was bad. This was very bad.
“Only if you stop calling me Davidson.”
He tilted his head, considering. “Deal... Davina.”
“Wow. You do know my name.”
His laugh rumbled up from somewhere in his chest. “I know a lot of things about you... Davina.”
The DJ switched tracks, and a pulsing dance remix filled the bar. Several people migrated to the small dance floor in the center.
“I need another drink.” I slid off my barstool. I needed space to interrupt whatever gravitational pull Dallas seemed to be exerting on my common sense.
“Let me…” he started, but I shook my head.
“I think I'm going to hit the dance floor instead.” I adjusted my dress. “Need to work off some of this big dick energy you mentioned.”
Dallas's eyes went dark, his gaze dropping to where my hands smoothed over my hips before snapping back to my face. “By all means.”
I wove through the crowd to the dance floor; the bass vibrated through my bones. The lights strobed overhead, and I closed my eyes as I let the music wash over me.
My eyes flashed open as a warm presence surrounded me from behind.
Strong hands settled lightly on my waist, tentatively asking permission without words. Heat bloomed under his fingertips, spreading through the thin fabric of my dress like wildfire.
“Mind if I join you?” Dallas's breath ghosted across my ear, his lips close enough that I could feel the warmth of them against my skin.
I should step away. Should laugh it off. Instead, I leaned back into him and felt him exhale. The solid wall of his chest pressed against my back, and I could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
“Just don't step on my feet,” I said, trying to sound normal while my pulse hammered.
His laugh vibrated against my back as his body moved with mine, our hips finding the same rhythm.
“No promises, Davina.”
His hands slid from my waist to my hips, fingers splaying wider, more possessive with each beat of the music. I let my head fall back against his shoulder, exposing my neck to the heat of his breath.
The crowd pressed in around us, forcing us closer together until I couldn't tell where my movements ended, and his began. Every brush of his thighs behind mine, every flex of his fingers against the curve of my hip, every exhale against my ear was tearing down my walls brick by brick.
“You're good at this,” I murmured, instantly regretting giving him the satisfaction.
His lips curved into a smile against my temple. “You have no idea what I'm good at, Davina.”
He spun me around to face him, his hands never leaving my body, and suddenly we were chest to chest, his eyes on mine. One of his legs slid between mine as we moved, creating a friction that sent sparks shooting through my veins.
My hands found their way to his shoulders, fingers curling into the solid muscle. His skin burned through the thin fabric of his shirt.
“What happened to hating me?” he asked, his voice barely audible over the music.
I tilted my chin up, our faces now inches apart. “I'm reserving judgment. Temporary insanity due to the Vegas heat.”
His eyes dropped to my lips, lingered there for one heart-stopping moment before meeting mine again. “The Vegas heat has that effect.”
His hand slid up my back, pressing me even closer until I could feel every hard plane of his body against the soft curves of mine.
“Just for tonight,” he said.
And there, thirty-two floors above the glittering city of Las Vegas, with the bass pounding, the lights spinning, and Dallas’s body moving against mine, I realized I was in so much trouble.