Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Daphne
T he sun is even more oppressive than it is in California. The heat too. Somehow, the dry air is still thick and heavy.
The high today is only ninety-one. About the average for May. A temperate spring day by Las Vegas standards.
I'm sure it will get cooler as the sun sets—Los Angeles is a desert too—but right now, it's too warm to think of lust. How could anyone elect to exert themselves in these conditions?
"It's too hot," I say. I don't have a more clever commentary. Only an intense need for iced coffee. Or ice cream. Or anything with ice at the start.
Jackson nods in agreement, even though he shows no signs of wear. Of course, we're only three feet from the entrance to the Mandalay Bay. Most people wouldn't be melting just yet.
But Jackson isn't sweating or sighing or fanning himself with his hand. He's perfectly comfortable in his all-linen outfit. Even with the leather loafers.
Aren't his feet sweating? There. That's an unsexy thought. Sweaty feet.
I try to focus on the possible odor, but I can't. My brain keeps screaming hot hot hot . Which it then translates to Jackson is hot .
Mis-attribution of arousal. That's why people watch scary movies on dates. Because they associate their excitement with the person next to them. It's not the possible jump scare. It's Mr. Sexypants over here.
Linen pants shouldn't be sexy.
Why does he make them so sexy?
Jackson takes my hand and leads me back inside through the big glass doors.
All at once, the air-conditioning hits me. Ah, sweet relief.
"You haven't been to Vegas before?" he asks as he leads me through the casino.
"As a kid," I say. "And a teenager once."
"Right." He smiles. "You and Cassie used to joke about seeing The Thunder from Down Under."
"Oh, there's no jokes." I smile. "What do you think we're doing tonight?" We have tickets to the Australian-themed all-male revue. There's no full-frontal nudity though. It's a bad deal.
All the sexy revues filled with women are topless.
Not that I want to stare at random dicks. Not for fun.
Just the one. And I don't want to stare. I want to experience.
Ahem.
"We can't stay inside for the whole walk." He motions to the carpeted casino floor. "But we can dart in and out of air-conditioning. The Strip is designed so you can walk through the casinos when you like."
"To keep you close to the tables?"
He nods exactly .
"They're so loud." Seriously, my ears are already ringing from the ding-ding of slot machines and the murmur of conversation. "And smoky."
Not to mention the stale air and lack of natural light. Which is smart. The light thing. People don't realize how much they rely on natural light. Without it, we don't know if we've been at something for an hour or a day. We don't know when to go to sleep or wake up.
But it's really not sexy.
Nothing about this is sexy. Nothing except the linen-clad man next to me.
"Pick your poison." Jackson motions to the ugly red-yellow carpet inside then to the painfully bright sun through the glass doors.
Right. I pick inside. I nod and move through the casino. The designers were kind enough to leave paths in the carpet. The design actually has a path in it, though something tells me the path leads to another set of gambling tables, not to an actual paradise.
Jackson walks in time with me. He looks around the space with careful eyes, noting the groups throwing dice, the solo travelers playing blackjack, the lonely singles at the slot machine.
He studies the space the way Cassie does, as if he's trying to commit it to memory. She's always adding things to her repository of experiences so she can write more "honest" songs.
Why does he study things this way?
I want to know. I want to know everything about him.
I need to talk about something else. Anything else.
"This place is much sadder than I remember it," I say.
"You liked it once?" he asks.
"There's a giant castle! And the Eiffel Tower! Right next to each other." The buildings seemed so magical when I was a kid. Like some sort of playground for adults, one I'd appreciate when I was older and wiser. I always had an abstract interest in sex, but it seemed so far away then. Something adults do. Something magical in its own way.
"A few casinos apart." He nods. "There are castles in France too."
"But is New York City between them?" I ask.
He smiles as he leads me off the casino floor to a big, airy walkway. "Was that the appeal? The excess?"
The air changes. It's still a little smoky, but it's not stale. The sun streams through the skylights. The AC hums to keep us cool.
We're in the path between hotels. I expect one of those corporate walkways between office buildings, but it's something much smarter. A mall. Stores and restaurants dot the walls.
A hip clothing store. A bar with ice-cold vodka. A terrible chain restaurant.
I turn to Jackson. I try to keep my gaze in friendship mode. How do friends look at each other? A little eye contact, but not too much. I don't stare into his gorgeous green eyes or study the line of his jaw or wonder how his skin would feel against my fingers.
Okay, I do.
But I try not to make it too obvious.
Okay, eyes on the floor. It's also carpet, but it's not quite as ugly. A soft grey shade.
Now, where are we? Not on how hot my best friend's brother is. We're on Vegas. Why I liked it.
I continue, "I think it's the name. Sin City. It felt adult. It felt naughty. People are attracted to the taboo, you know." Okay, so much for not going to sex.
He doesn't take it as a come-on. He smiles in that what a silly friend sort of way. "You're as bad as Cassie is with music."
He loves that about Cassie.
But Cassie is his sister.
No. I need to get a fucking grip. Jackson is a friend. That's all. We're here as friends. Period. The end.
I make eye contact—only the eyes—and I shrug as if I don't even notice I keep bringing up sex. "We all have our interests."
"Obsessions."
"Maybe you should try it," I say. "Keep bringing it back to murder."
He lets out a low chuckle. "Why does everyone think I represent murders?"
" Law and Order ," I say.
"I'm a civil attorney."
"A what?" I ask.
Again, he laughs. "Mostly, I work on lawsuits."
"So you represent big, evil corporations?" I ask.
"Sometimes." He nods. "Other times, we take a case on contingency."
"On what?" I ask.
He explains briefly. Firms often take civil cases on contingency, meaning the clients don't pay anything until they win. Then, the firm takes about a third.
He's not exactly Atticus Finch. He doesn't fight solely for forces of good. And he's rarely the lawyer cross-examining a witness in court. He usually assists. And mostly, that happens in depositions, in boring conference rooms.
The law isn't as exciting as it is on TV, but he loves it all the same. He doesn't say that, but he wears his passion in his expression.
It's subtle on him. The curve of his lips. The line of his brow. The energy in his voice.
There's something steady about the law. The rules make sense. They give him a structure. Order from the chaos of the world.
He doesn't have to ask if something is good or bad, right or wrong.
It's the law.
That's his north star.
It doesn't quite make sense to me, but it does too. I don't ask myself about morality very often. I want to understand the world because the quest for knowledge excites me. Because I feel some primal urge to learn about sex and love and passion.
I don't ask myself if it's the best, most moral path.
I know it's the right one for me.
"And medicine?" He shifts to a joke. "Is it like Grey's Anatomy ?"
"You've never seen Grey's Anatomy ," I say.
"I used to watch with you and Cassie."
Right. Mom would always walk by and shake her head that is so unrealistic . "It's true medical students are socially awkward and bad at taking care of themselves." The long hours mean we don't develop social or self-care skills. Thankfully, I had to learn mine young. So I do okay.
"So that's why you need a wingman?" he asks.
"You got me."
He smiles.
My heart thuds against my chest. Holy dimple. He has a dimple. That's just way too hot.
I look for some other stimulation. Cheap clothing. Overpriced souvenirs.
Coffee.
Perfect.
I motion to the cafe on our right. "Shall we?"
He laughs.
My cheeks flush. "What?"
"I forget how much you're like Cassie."
Yes, he sees me as an extension of his sister. Not as an attractive human woman. I am fully out of the fuck-zone. Even if I was stupid enough to make a move, he is not interested.
That's for the best.
That is good with me.
I smile my best yes, I am totally like your sister smile. "Because I want to stop for coffee?"
"That's one way."
Yes, let's stay on this whole familial dynamic, one far away from sex. "We need icy drinks to keep us cool when we step into the blistering sun," I say.
"And you want to avoid facing the music."
"Cassie would never avoid music," I say.
He smiles. "The metaphorical music."
"Why would I want that?"
"You tell me." He holds my gaze for a long moment, inviting me to elaborate on my quest for a distraction.
Is that what I'm doing? No. I just want coffee. Mostly. "Sometimes a coffee is just a coffee, Dr. Freud."
"Freud." He laughs and shakes his head of course . "You're worse than Cassie is with Hole and Nirvana." He smiles and I like it and moves into the coffee shop.
He doesn't look at the brown walls, or the teenage barista with pink hair, or the menu. He keeps his eyes on me. He keeps his attention on me.
"What is it you want?" he asks. "From Mr. Right Now."
I stop in line. "A good time."
"What does that mean to you?"
"I don't know. I had this vision of Vegas as a kid. I see something like that. Partially. A woman in a sparkly dress, who drinks enough to take a guy home. But I can't… well, you know Damon's situation."
He nods. He doesn't have to say yes, of course, I know your brother is an alcoholic. Everyone in the state of California knows . He lets concern spread over his expression and drip into his voice. "Are you worried about him?"
"Am I worried about my alcoholic brother spending time in a place where you can walk around with an Eiffel Tower filled with booze?" Maybe we should stick with sex. That's a less fraught topic. Maybe I should focus more on how much I want to fuck him. That's less risky.
He doesn't shrink at my tone. He takes in the information and nods, understanding. "Dumb question?"
"No." I appreciate the honesty. Most people treat alcoholism as the elephant in the room. "It's a good question. Everyone else wants to pretend it's a dumb question, that of course, I trust him, and I'm not worried. I do trust him, but I'm worried too."
"I get that."
"You don't trust him," I say.
He doesn't say anything in response. He watches the customer in front of us finish and moves to the register. Jackson orders an iced tea and steps aside so I can order.
After I request an iced latte with almond milk (macadamia still hasn't made it big, even though it's delicious), I let him pay.
We move to the pickup area. It's empty, like the rest of the brown shop. People don't come to Las Vegas to sit in coffee shops.
"Is that why you're here?" he asks. "To watch over your brother?"
"Is that why you're here?" I counter.
I expect resistance, but I find none. He nods. "Dad asked me to keep an eye on Cassie."
Right. His dad hates my brother. He pretends he doesn't, now that Cassie and Damon are dating seriously, but Dad is always complaining when will Tom realize Damon is a good kid .
I try to ignore it, since it's a) not my problem and b) not within my control, but that's the thing with boundaries. Somehow, no matter how clearly you draw lines, problems find their way into your space.
"And the groom invited me," he says.
"He invited everyone he knows," I say.
"Are you saying I got a pity invite?" His half-smile eases the tension in the air.
"A default invite. Probably worse. But mine is the same."
His eyes meet mine. "No, he needs you there to make him look like a night owl."
My lips curl into a smile too. "I'm going to stay out until eleven tonight."
"I'll believe it when I see it."
My stomach flutters. He's teasing me. That's way too appealing. I need to focus on something else. Something unattractive. Like the basket of sex toys for another woman. "When did you end things with the girlfriend?"
"A few months ago," he says.
"But you still have phone sex?"
He nods yes without judgment or shame.
"Why?"
"Uh-uh." He shakes his head. "This is about your sex-life, Dr. Freud."
My cheeks flush. "Is it?"
"That is what you're after, isn't it? A good fuck."
"Yes."
"So. Tell me. What makes a man a good fuck?"