24. All In
ALL IN
CHELSEA
“Oooh, you’re screwed now, man. You just got the clipboard of death.” Kane laughs, and the sound of it makes my teeth grind. I wanted to look competent, not like the Destroyer of Fun.
Brett smiles as he extricates himself from the sea of boobs.
“Excuse me, ladies. Duty calls.”
“Awww, ignore her, Brett. What’s she got that I can’t give you?” The girl in pink sequins pouts prettily. “Besides, who’s gonna blow on these for luck if you leave?” She waits a long moment before she holds the dice in her hand in front of her double Ds.
Okay, maybe I’m a little jealous.
But it helps that Brett doesn’t spare Pink Sequins another glance.
“I’m more than happy to stand in for Sillinger,” Kane offers as Brett and I walk away.
“Your event’s a big hit. Everyone’s having a good time.”
I’m not.
“Follow me,” I order, striding as briskly toward the Employees Only door as I can in three-inch heels.
I can’t talk to him yet. Not here.
I’m too bothered. By my fight with Shanna. By my dad’s insinuation. By having to work instead of being the one blowing on Brett’s dice. By this sudden and desperate need to remind him how good things are between us.
When we’re off the casino floor and away from the team, I take a sharp left, our dress shoes echoing as we transition from the garish carpet to tiled floor.
“Where’s the fire? Or are we pulling some kind of heist? I always wanted to drive a getaway car, but a heads-up would have been appreciated, because Nik and I shared a cab here and—”
I push through the emergency exit that leads to a dingy stairwell. Perfect. The musty scent of concrete and the buzzing yellow lighting lend the scene the right level of seedy for what I have in mind. The door bangs shut behind us, reverberating through the space, and reinforcing my courage.
“I don’t want to quarterback your operation or anything, but I don’t think this is where they keep the money.”
“Brett?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up.” I shove him up against the wall, catching his grunt of surprise with my mouth as I press against him, but the hard, sexy kiss I mean to execute is a little off target, and our teeth bang together, hard enough that it stings a bit.
My confidence takes a hit, but I’m determined to persevere.
I reach for his belt buckle as I kneel in front of him. My heel slips on the polished concrete, and I land harder than expected. Gritting my teeth at the pain that shoots through my kneecap, I focus on the mission.
My hands are clumsy in my haste, and it takes me two tries to undo his belt. I do better with his button, but when I reach for the zipper, his big hand covers my busy fingers, stalling my progress.
“Hey,” he says softly.
I take a deep breath, scared to look up at him. He’s supposed to be moaning with passion by this point, but he doesn’t sound carried away by lust. When I finally sneak a peek, it’s worse than I feared.
His face is the perfect picture of confusion, and my shoulders slump a little.
“What are you doing?”
I want to die. What are you doing? Is he kidding right now?
The memory of Dustin flits through my brain unbidden—stopping me, telling me not to bother. The beginning of the end.
I yank my hands back from Brett’s fly and get inelegantly to my feet, the task made difficult by anger and high heels. “Did you seriously just ask me that? I’m trying to shove you up against the wall and give you a blowjob.”
“Well, yeah. But why?”
My left knee is throbbing. I’ll probably have a bruise, the perfect souvenir of my spectacular crash and burn. The realization lends heat to my voice. “Because it’s daring and sexy and I want to.”
He nods slowly, but it’s not so much permission granted as dawning understanding. There’s a flatness in his gray-blue stare that lets me know he’s pieced together my motivation. And he’s not impressed.
The telltale prick of tears make me bite my lip, hard enough to distract myself. No. Not happening. This is mortifying enough without crying.
“For real?” he asks, sounding exasperated.
I square my shoulders, fighting the waver.
He drags a weary hand down his face and sighs.
“You want to suck me off? That’s what my dreams are made of, Chels. But I don’t want you on your knees in a dirty stairwell because you’re trying to passive-aggressively prove something to your dad.”
“This isn’t about him.” It’s not a total lie. My father is only a fraction of the laundry list of issues that has my heart beating fast and my world view in tatters.
Inadequacies swamp me. What am I even doing?
Brett is used to being hit on by hot women in short skirts who can probably tie knots in cherry stems with their talented tongues.
Pink Sequins is undoubtedly the tame end of the spectrum, what with it being a team-sanctioned, season ticket holder event where the guys are expected to be on their best behavior.
I can’t even imagine what sorts of things happen when Brett’s just out in the world on his own time.
Our first meeting flashes through my head.
Or maybe I can…
“Then what’s it about?”
“This is about me.” I want to be different. I want to be more. “I want to be bad, Brett. You make me want to be bad. But you just want me to be good.”
“Is that what you want? Or do you think that’s how I want you to be?”
The question guts me. Suddenly, I’m not sure.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
He’s a couple of feet away from me, but it might as well be a chasm.
I want him to grab my shoulders and tell me he needs me. That he’s not going to let me run away. That he wants me—messy, reckless, desperate, all of it.
I don’t know how to explain it to him, the way he’s completely rocked my world, tipped it off its axis.
Dustin and I never made it much past missionary, so I can't even reciprocate like I want to. Shame washes through me. Hell, I can’t even execute on a basic blow job.
And if he thinks I want to talk about that, well…
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Let’s just get out of here.” I stride toward the exit, but my attempt to save what’s left of my tattered pride is foiled when I push on the door and nothing happens.
It doesn’t budge.
I shove the door again, harder this time. Still nothing. Just a dull metallic echo and my own ragged breath.
Figures. Can’t get out. Can’t move forward. Just trapped between the past and something I’m too scared to name.
Well, great.
“We’re stuck.”
Brett steps behind me, reaches past me to place his palm on the door, but he doesn't push. He just stands there, not touching me, but crowding me between two immovable objects nonetheless. I drop my chin to my chest.
“Turn around,” he orders softly.
I don’t want to, but there’s something in his voice that makes it impossible to resist.
A promise. Temptation.
I keep my head down as I obey, staring at his brown leather wingtips, trying not to notice how my body vibrates at a different frequency whenever he's close. He says nothing, doesn’t move.
I hold out for about four shaky breaths before I raise my face, desperate to know what the point of all this is.
His stormy eyes are more gray than blue as he searches my face. I don’t like the furrow in his brow, more like intense concentration than a frown. It makes me worry that he can see too much. And then my worst fears come true, spoken into existence in his beautiful, deep voice.
“You think I don’t want you?”