Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
HOLLIS
“So you never explained to me how you became a manager of a nightclub,” Pres says next to me as we wait for the waitress to come with our drink refills.
We’ve had the best day. We ate breakfast at the Paris Hotel, took cheesy photos in front of the Fountains of Bellagio, and even did the zipline on Fremont Street.
Spending time with her like this again? It feels just as natural and easy as our phone conversations.
We’ve talked about everything, from reminiscing about high school to the many years that followed.
She told me about her early days at Creeds and the roommate struggles she faced in her early twenties.
One subject that doesn’t come up is Jace.
I try not to dwell on what that means.
After a quick trip back to the hotel to change our clothes, we’re starting the night off at a trendy bar down the street from our hotel.
“I was a bartender,” I confess, trying to keep my eyes from wandering south. Having her in front of me in that sequined gold dress with the plunging neckline is proving to be a huge distraction.
Her jaw drops. “You? A bartender?”
“Is that so hard to believe?” I smile. “You’re a bartender!”
“Yeah, but I’m a hell of a lot nicer than you are.”
I scoff, pretending to be offended. “I’m nice.”
She leans forward, and I try not to groan when the familiar scent of vanilla hits my nostrils. Fucking hell. “You’re nice to the people you like. You’re just standoffish with everyone else. It’s why we would always end up hanging out at parties while Hendrix talked to literally everyone.”
It’s one of the reasons why we became so close in the first place. Pres had a calmness to her that I gravitated toward. The teenage boy in me craved the normalcy that Hendrix’s friendship gave, but I think I formed a deeper connection to Pres in those quiet hours on the beach.
“I’m nice to you,” I counter.
Her eyes sparkle with amusement. “That’s because you like me.”
“Yeah.” I smirk, watching her lips curve upward. “I do.”
Even in the low light of the bar, I can see her blushing. I like being the reason for all that color on her cheeks. The waitress chooses that moment to bring us our refills—a whiskey sour for me and a martini for her.
We offer our thanks before she walks away, and as Pres reaches for her glass at the same time I do, our fingers brush.
It’s not the first time we’ve touched today—sometimes by accident, other times on purpose.
But right now, this small bit of contact—under the dim lights, with the whiskey warming my blood—feels electric.
Neither of us is quick to pull away.
I can’t get over how gorgeous she is, from those mesmerizing blue eyes to the high cheekbones and scattering of freckles. She’s everything I remember.
And more.
Like me, she’s changed since high school. Back then, she thought she was too tall and gangly. I thought she was perfect.
I still do.
Adult Presley’s body is a work of art—tight and curvy in all the right places.
Her hair is longer, lighter, with wisps of honey and sand woven in.
There are also other things I notice too, like the tiny tattoo behind her ear that I can’t stop looking at.
She has her last name on the inside of her forearm, like the rest of her family, in swirly, delicate script, but it’s the other one that has me so intrigued.
It’s stars—a cluster of tiny stars—and I can’t help but wonder what it means.
I watch as Pres takes a sip of her drink. Her throat bobs as the cool liquid slides down. Finally, she says, “So I guess what I should have asked was how did the introvert stumble into bartending?”
I smile. I’ve never really labeled myself an introvert, but I suppose it fits. I don’t like crowds, and I always hated parties in high school. Even at the club, I tend to stay in my office while Jonas handles the front, greeting guests and VIPs.
“I was broke. It was decent money,” I explain with a shrug. “And I was good at it. I was punctual, never missed a shift, and my standoffish behavior…” I say with air quotes, causing her to laugh. “Meant that I never crossed a line with customers.”
A shadow crosses her face. “Not always easy qualities to find in an employee,” she says absently, before blinking and asking, “So you’ve bartended all over then?”
I nod, wondering just exactly what happened between her and Jace to cause such a reaction, but I don’t want to sour the mood by bringing him up.
“I had a hard time settling down in one place until Nashville. I’ve lived in Phoenix, Seattle, Baltimore…even spent a few months in Dallas. I am not a fan of Texas.”
“No?” Her eyes crinkle as she laughs. “I wouldn’t think it’s much different from Nashville.”
“It is,” I say firmly, which only causes her to laugh harder.
“What made you decide to put down roots in Nashville?”
I take a sip of my whiskey before I answer her. “I’m not sure I would call them roots exactly. I like Nashville, but it’s not exactly where I envisioned I’d end up.”
I’m not sure I actually ever envisioned ending up anywhere long-term, at least not since—
“So why do you stay?”
“Jonas.”
“Your best friend?”
I nod. I’ve talked about him before, but failed to mention he’s my business partner too.
I don’t know why I’ve kept up with the illusion that I’m the manager at Velvet, rather than co-owner.
I should be proud that I’ve worked my way up from bartender to business owner, but sometimes when I look at all those zeros in my bank account, I feel like a sell-out.
I used to hate guys like me when I was a kid.
“He’s the closest thing I’ve had to family since…” I swallow, and her expression softens.
“It’s okay,” she says, placing her hand gently on top of mine. It’s small and delicate. “I get it, and I’m glad you found that. I always hoped you would.”
I run my thumb over her wrist, feeling her pulse dance beneath my touch. I told myself I’d stick to the role of a friend on this trip. But so far, I am failing miserably.
Picking up the rest of my drink, I down it in one gulp. She laughs and does the same. “Okay, so what do you want to do for the rest of the evening?”
“Well, it is my birthday, and we are in Vegas…”
I grin. “Uh-huh.”
She leans forward, a challenging glint in her eyes. “What exactly can I talk you into?”
“You don’t have to talk me into anything, Pres. It’s your birthday. I’m down for anything.”
“So if I told you I wanted to get matching tattoos?”
I shrug, acting completely unfazed. I’ve never gotten a tattoo. I can barely commit to a six-month lease. Why the fuck would I be okay with permanent ink? But the idea of doing it with Pres has me rethinking the idea. “I’d ask that you not pick the neck or forehead, but otherwise, I’m game.”
“You didn’t even ask what it would be!”
Another shrug. “Not my birthday. Not my decision. Although you might want to keep that in mind, ’cause for my birthday, I want a Goonies tattoo.”
“Oh my god, you still love The Goonies? Hollis, it’s been twelve years. Pick a new favorite!”
I shake my head, eyes crinkling with laughter. “Nope. Can’t. It’s a classic.”
She chews on her bottom lip. “Okay, well, luckily for you—and me apparently—I don’t want a tattoo. But I do want something.”
Why does my whole body seem to come alive when she utters those last few words?
She’s not going to ask for you, asshat.
“Then ask me, Pres.”
Her eyes glance down at my mouth for a heartbeat or two. I swear my own heart stops. Then she looks at me and says, “I want to go dancing.”
“That’s it?” I laugh. “That’s your big ask? That’s tame compared to a tattoo. Why did you think I wouldn’t want to go?”
An amused expression crosses her beautiful face. “I don’t know. I wasn’t sure if being in a nightclub would feel too much like work to you.”
I smirk. “We’re at a bar, Pres. Do you feel like you’re at work?”
Her lips curve into a smile. “No.”
“All right, then let’s go dance. But only on one condition.” I grin, finally feeling like the perks of my job might actually come in handy for once.
“Okay?”
“I get to choose the club.”
“Deal.”
Thirty minutes later, after a quick call to Jonas, we are walking past the long line of people waiting to get into one of Vegas’s hottest clubs.
“Take notes,” Jonas said to me over the phone when I told him where we were headed. He wanted me to work tonight?
Yeah, no.
Tonight is all about Presley.
The bouncer takes my name, checks his list, and gives us the go-ahead. I take Presley’s hand, and we walk through the nondescript black door to his right.
Like any good club should be, it’s like stepping into another world.
The music is loud, but the DJ has the bass just right so you can feel it vibrating deep inside your chest rather than your eardrums. The lights are a mix of deep purples, blues, and pinks, and the fog machines add a bit of mystery.
It’s different than Velvet, but no less luxurious, and the large crowd reflects that. It is absolutely packed in here. Vegas doesn’t seem to understand the meaning of a weekday, so I imagine this place is like this every night.
We push through the crowd until we reach the bar. I turn to Pres and lean in. My lips brush her ear. The alcohol from earlier is messing with my inhibitions, so I’m not entirely sure it was unintentional. She shivers. “Another martini? Or something else?”
Her lips quirk. “Surprise me, Mr. Bartender.”
“You may regret that,” I say, before motioning to the actual bartender. I make sure she can’t hear me when I order, even angling my body so she can’t read my lips.
When he goes to fetch my request, and I turn back, her arms are folded across her chest, and she’s pouting. I laugh and then see her eyes widen as the bartender returns with a bottle of tequila.
“Shots?”
“Yup.”
“Are you crazy? It’s my thirtieth, not my twenty-first!”
I chuckle. “Yeah, and what did you say at the bar earlier?”
“That it’s my birthday, and we’re in Vegas?”
“Exactly!” I emphasize. “If we only have a few hours left together in this crazy town, we’re gonna make the most of it—starting with shots.”
She watches as the bartender pours two shots and then slides them over. I wait as she stares them down, clearly thinking it through. Decision made, she reaches down, grabs both shots, and shoots them back, one right after the other.
“Your turn.”
I guess I’m getting drunk tonight.
“You are not a bad dancer,” Pres whisper-shouts into my ear as we once again wait by the bar for the bartender.
“Did you expect me to be a bad dancer?”
She shrugs. Her face is flushed from all the dancing and tequila. She pulled her long blonde hair into a ponytail a while ago, and all I can think about is all the wicked things I could do with that wrapped around my wrist. “It’s just that most guys I’ve dated aren’t great at dancing.”
I try not to imagine Jace’s hands all over her like mine just were. A surge of jealousy rises up, nevertheless. “We aren’t dating, though.”
“No…” She pauses, looking at me intently. “We’re not.”
The bartender approaches, and I hold up two fingers. He nods. But this time, when he comes back around with our drinks, I ask for two lime wedges and salt. I’m probably going to regret this later, but the tequila is giving me all kinds of stupid ideas tonight.
Pres watches as the bartender sets down a small glass with several limes and a saltshaker. Her eyes slowly meet mine. “Who goes first?” I challenge.
She bites her bottom lip, and I nearly groan. “You can,” she answers, her cheeks flaming red.
“Okay.” I grin. “Where do you want it?”
“What?”
Chuckling, I clarify, “The salt, Pres. Where do you want the salt?”
“Oh, um…” She looks down at her dress and her arms before slowly pointing to her neck.
Excitement races through me. Exactly where I was hoping she’d pick. I pick up the lime and hand it to her. Despite her earlier fluster, she’s a bartender, so I know she knows what to do with it.
With one hand, I grab the salt. With the other, I grip her waist and pull her closer. I can feel the heat of her body and the warmth of her breath. She looks up at me, and I give in to my earlier desire and wrap my hand around her ponytail, using it to tilt her head to the side.
She lets out a tiny gasp.
The sound of it practically undoes me, and I imagine what other noises she’d make if I had the chance to coax them out of her.
I lean down and slowly drag my tongue over the soft skin of her neck. God, she smells good. Vanilla always reminds me of her. For the last twelve years, I’ve barely been able to walk into a bakery without getting semi-aroused.
She grabs hold of my shirt, gripping it hard between her fingers, but lets go the second I go to sprinkle the salt. She shivers when I lick the same spot, lingering just a second longer than necessary.
Pulling back, I go to grab the shot off the bar. But Presley swipes it away before I get the chance.
“Any good bartender knows that’s not how you do a body shot,” she tsks with a hell of a lot more confidence than she had a moment ago. “No hands allowed, Hollis.”
She grins like the Cheshire Cat as she takes that shot of tequila and wedges it between her fucking tits.
“Jesus fuck,” I mutter, staring brazenly at her low-cut dress and the ample cleavage I’d been trying to pretend didn’t exist all night.
Someone wolf whistles, and that knocks me out of my boob haze. I angle my large body, blocking most of hers. I know it’s stupid. We’re in public, doing drunken body shots, for god’s sake.
But it doesn’t mean I want some asshat staring at her.
Besides me, that is.
I lean forward, my hand firmly around her waist as I close my mouth around the shot glass. God, what I wouldn’t give to toss the glass aside and lick every inch of her.
But instead, I tilt my head back and down the liquor. When I place the shot glass on the bar, she’s ready for me with a lime wedge between her teeth.
I have a split second to decide how far I want to take this.
Because in that moment everything in me is screaming to toss that lime wedge aside and kiss the hell out of her.
“Fuck it.”