Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Jackson
D aphne smiles. "Oh, that's easy. Dare." She motions let me have it . "Do your worst."
With limited time comes limited options. That means I need to make a choice. I can't tour the Strip and blow Daphne's mind.
Immediately, that image fills my head.
Daphne bent over the massive hotel bed, her tank top pressed to her neck, her shorts rolled to her knees, her back arching as she begs me to fuck her.
Where the fuck did this come from?
I'm not sixteen anymore. I don't lose myself in erotic fantasies.
I'm not horny twenty-four seven.
It's the desert air.
The stale, casino air.
The thrill of gambling.
Even if I found the blackjack game uninspiring.
Maybe the cultural idea of Las Vegas is infecting my mind. Even here, in the path between the Luxor and Excalibur, even though it looks like an airport.
The sun shines through the windows.
The black glass of the Luxor and the gold of the Mandalay Bay glow in the rearview.
Daphne follows me with curious eyes, assuming I know where we're going.
I don't.
I do okay on the fly, but I do better with careful planning. A list of the best bars, top attractions, most exciting shows.
We only have an hour. I have this plan to visit the Strip.
Which means I need to find a spot soon. We're in Las Vegas. There are three main reasons why people come here. Gambling. Booze. Sex.
We tried the first.
The last is out.
That leaves alcohol.
A sensitive issue with her family situation, but, hey, when in Rome…
Ah. That's it.
"It's a surprise," I say. "This way."
Interest fills her eyes. Interest that makes my blood run south. But it's not about the two of us taking off our clothes.
Not directly, anyway.
I lead Daphne through the shops, the Excalibur, the walkway to the New York, New York.
And here I thought my annoying coworkers "bonding trips" to Las Vegas were a waste of time. They're finally useful.
He always tried to go somewhere "lit."
This isn't my idea of fun, but hey, it works.
The sunny path is busy, with tourists and cars below, and the heat is overwhelming. Thankfully, it's short. We dark into the dark, air-conditioned hotel quickly.
Ah, the charms of the fake New York City. Pretzels and hot dogs and I Love New York shirts.
And the bar from a movie set in New York.
Coyote Ugly .
I motion to the establishment.
She shoots me that trademark Daphne Webb side-eye. "Okay, Mr. Steele. What's the dare? Are you sure you want to do it here, and not at some classy cocktail bar at the Wynn?"
No. I'm not sure about any of this. But I want to play this game with her. I motion to the slushee machine of cocktails and the list of shots next to it.
Daphne follows my gaze. "Pick your poison."
"Any shot you want," I say. "As long as it's a body shot."
That same interest fills her eyes. "In the form of a dare…"
"I dare you to take a body shot."
"By myself?" She raises a brow. "No. You wouldn't take a body shot. You wouldn't drink any shot. You probably only drink classic cocktails made with craft bitters."
Again, her observation is accurate. Again, I want to prove her wrong. I want to prove I am a good time. "You played blackjack with me. I'll take a shot with you."
"Okay." She smiles, turns, steps inside the bar.
Even though it's early, the place is picking up. Conversation bleeds into country music. Twenty-something guys laugh over beer bottles. Couples sip from over-sided novelty cups. A group of women in matching white swig shots in unison.
A similar-sized group of guys stare at them, trying to decide if anyone in the bachelorette party is single or, better yet, looking to cash in a hall pass.
Is that the real reason people take these celebrations to Las Vegas? For one last fling?
It's not a choice I'd make. It's not one I understand. Why marry someone if you're that excited to fuck someone else?
But, so far, none of my beliefs about marriage have panned out.
That path I'm on—
It doesn't lead where I think it does.
Maybe these people have a better understanding of the institution.
Daphne follows my eyes. She watches the eager guys for a moment. Then she turns her attention to me. "You could have been a scientist."
My eyes meet hers. All of a sudden, I don't care about the rest of the bar. I don't care about the practical or emotional aspects of long-term relationships. I only care about holding her attention. "I could?"
She nods. "You're like me. You sit back and observe people instead of joining the action."
Is that what I do? "Is that something you want to change?"
She considers the question for a moment, then she shakes her head. No. She doesn't want to be different. "Sometimes, I think I'd be happier if I participated more. No, I would. But we can only do so much to fight our nature."
"You're doomed to stay a wallflower?"
"Excuse me." Daphne smooths her denim shorts and adjusts her crop top. "I'm not a wallflower."
As if to prove my point, three of the beer drinking guys look her up and down.
"I'm a scientist." She stands and cops a triumphant gesture. Back straight. Head high. Hands placed on her hips just so. "This is the perfect place to observe human behavior. Look at that. Well, keep looking at it." She motions to the bachelorette party. "Why do we perform this ritual anyway?"
"Pre-wedding parties?"
She nods exactly . "One last night with our friends. That's how we see marriage. As the end of our single life. The end of our independence. If we really see marriage this way, why do we do it?"
That's a great fucking question. "Stability." I say it without thinking.
She accepts it without question. She holds my gaze, waiting for me to expand.
"Legally, we become a unit when we're married. We combine our finances. We give each other power of attorney. If we get married, and I get in an accident that puts me in a coma, you're the one who decides when to pull the plug."
"I'll yank that thing from the wall." She offers her hand. "Most doctors would."
I take her hand and let her help me up. I rise to my feet. I move closer to her.
Too close. But she doesn't back away. She stays where she is.
Her eyes stay glued to mine. "Do you define everything in terms of the law?"
"Yes," I say. "But it's more than that, too. As a unit, we're stronger. We have more resources, more time, more ability. Think of cooking. Cooking for one takes just as long as cooking for two. The cleanup is just as much work. It's more efficient to divide the labor."
"You cook, I clean," she offers. "Not that I'd clean to your standards."
No, probably not. No one does. But I can relax them. In theory.
Again, she smiles in this way that says called it . There's an acceptance in it. She sees me and she likes me. "There's a loss of freedom with any commitment. That's what commitment is."
"You say yes, I'll do this one thing instead of other things. That's true." She moves a little closer. "You're wise. And this is a good conversation for after a few of those craft cocktails. Say, a martini with a twist." She guesses my drink. "For now, we have some body shots to take." She takes my hand and leads me to the bar.
A woman in her twenties, in a bikini top, cut-offs, and a cowboy hat, greets us. "Howdy."
"Howdy." Daphne smiles. "We would like the most fun body shot available."
"That's a matter of opinion, hon," the bartender coos with a put-on Southern drawl. She's in routine mode. The flirting she uses with everyone.
Not that it eases the tension in my chest.
Daphne doesn't even like women. What the fuck does it matter if a woman is flirting?
"What about in your opinion," she says. "Your favorite?"
"Oh, it doesn't matter to me. As long as I get to take it off someone cute." She looks to me, noting my stiff posture and my button-up shirt. "But most girls don't like to see their boyfriend with another woman." She looks back to Daphne. "Course, we could use you as the canvas for his."
Daphne doesn't correct her. "Absolutely."
"And, well, it's a little unusual, but we could use him for yours too." She looks around the bar. "Not strictly protocol but my manager is on break."
"You have to follow rules here?" Daphne asks.
"Of course, hon. That free-spirited attitude is built on something. But probably less than you two." She smiles. "You're a cute couple. What do you want to drink?"
"What do you think, Jackson?" Daphne turns to me with a smile as wide as the bartender's. She's enjoying teasing me.
"Men always seem to want to watch their ladies throw back a blow job," the bartender says. "Never want to drink one themselves."
Daphne laughs. "No. Jackson is more the generous type. Do you have a cunnilingus shot?"
"You know, we don't." The bartender taps her chin. "That ain't fair, is it? But you know what. I'll fix ya something. Do you like peach schnapps?"
Who likes peach schnapps?
Daphne notes the horror on my face and smiles even wider. "We love peach schnapps. Thanks."
"You want to go first. Or your man here?" the bartender asks.
"Ladies first," Daphne says.
"Okay, sir, hop up here." The bartender pats the bar.
"You want me to sit on the bar?" I ask.
She giggles. "You've never done a body shot, huh?" She pats the bar. Lay down here. And don't fall. My manager will kill me.
"He does martial arts," Daphne says. "He's in great shape. Balance, strength, and endurance."
Does she believe all that, or is she fucking with me?
It's all true, but why is she thinking about it? A normal doctor-like interest in health. Or questions she asks herself about my stamina. Or both.
No. It doesn't matter.
I'm her wingman right now. That's all.
"I love that in a man." The bartender smiles and motions one minute . She turns to the bottles to fix drinks.
Daphne motions after you this time.
This is fun. A normal, fun activity. Not an excuse for Daphne to touch me. Or suck things from my body.
I need to get those ideas out of my head.
The bar is high, but it's easy to slide up and lie flat. It's strange, looking up at the bright lights, the guitars on the wall, Daphne.
This is just the angle I'd have if I was under her. I can see the bottom of her bra. The light blue lace. Opaque.
She'd look hot as fuck in sheer black mesh.
Does she dress up to seduce boyfriends? Or does she do it for herself?
The bartender interrupts my dirty thoughts. "Okay, hon, where do you want it. The mouth or the belly button."
"Oh, definitely the belly button," Daphne says.
"Unbutton this for me then, hon." The bartender motions to my shirt.
I reach for the top button, but she stops me.
"No, hon. Your girlfriend unbuttons it. I swear, sometimes smart men can be so dumb." She shakes her head.
Fuck, Daphne unbuttoning my shirt. No problem.
I look up at the ceiling. I try not to think about the two of us on the bed. I fail.
Don't think about pink elephants .
I switch to another focus instead. The rest of the day. Our plans. What the hell are we doing?
Dinner with everyone.
The rest is secret. Zack's plans to embarrass everyone involved. Thankfully, both the grooms are strictly interested in dick.
There's a very low chance any of the activities will stimulate me.
Daphne's fingers brush my stomach. The waist of my slacks.
I try to visualize a show. Men gyrating in unison. An over-the-top appeal to someone's idea of sexuality. Not mine.
Far, far from mine.
Her fingers brush my skin again.
The image shifts. The pulsing music stays, but the men disappear. Instead, Daphne is the one on stage in a bow tie and black slacks, suspenders carefully arranged to cover her nipples.
She undoes the bottom button.
In my head, she pushes the suspenders off her shoulders.
I try to shift my mental image. To a surefire boner-killer. My sister crying about her broken heart. Under that tree in the backyard.
That's where we always go to talk.
She and Daphne are close enough they've had fights. Cry under the tree fights.
Daphne undoes another button.
Another.
I close my eyes. I picture myself under the olive tree. That's where she'd go if I touched her best friend. Only she'd be there alone. With no one to tell her it's okay.
My blood returns to my brain.
My shoulders tense.
I settle into some strange place between stress and desires.
Daphne undoes the last button of my shirt.
For a moment, her hand lingers on my chest. She looks down at the tattoo I got with Cassie and smiles. "I forgot about this." She traces the line without thinking. "It suits you."
All at once, both things overwhelm me. My desire to protect my sister.
My desire to pin her best friend to the wall.
Thankfully, the bartender interrupts. "You forgot your boyfriend's tattoo?" the bartender asks. "Hon, you gotta watch your drinking." She giggles and shifts back into the ritual.
I channel my martial arts practice. I try to let go of the thoughts in my mind. I try to stay here in the moment, ready, still, not reacting until I absolutely must.
The bartender notes my posture, writes it off as nerves, shoots me a you've got this smile. "Now, usually, I get on a gentleman's legs, but I'll spare you that jealousy." She winks at Daphne as she places a shot glass in my belly button.
The cool glass presses against my skin.
Not a sensation I expect or appreciate, but it still sends my blood south.
The bartender pours equal parts well vodka and peach liqueur into the shot glass.
A truly horrifying combination.
She's right. I'm a cocktail snob. I haven't drunk well vodka since college.
But that's a good thing. The memory will put me right back to parties that didn't suit me.
This doesn't suit me either.
She and I—
We don't make sense together.
Only we do. We make too much sense.
Again, the bartender interrupts my racing mind. She stays calm and easy. "Now, put your hands behind your back," she instructs Daphne. When Daphne follows, she continues, "And take it with your mouth." She winks at us. "Probably heard that before."
Daphne laughs. "A lot of variations. Jackson can be very bossy. He's a lawyer, you know. Used to getting his way. It can be annoying sometimes, but in the bedroom…" She shrugs as if to say I just can't help but fall under the spell .
She's enjoying the role-play.
And I'm five seconds from alerting the bar to how much I enjoy that.
I close my eyes. Think of cold showers. Boring ball games. Movies about people dying horribly.
Then Daphne giggles and my eyes are drawn to hers.
I watch as she bends, wraps her lips around the shot glass, sucks just enough to hold it in her mouth.
She rises and sucks the liquid into her mouth.
Daphne laughs as she releases the glass into her hands. "How was that?"
"Something tells me you have practice." The bartender winks. "Now, hon. Hop up here. It's your turn."
Which means it's my turn to take a shot from her stomach.
Fuck me.