Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Daphne
T he bar is a strange mix of tropics and elegance. Fake palm trees and real hibiscus wrap around the mahogany bench seats. Little white string lights cover the gold and cream wallpaper. A bartender in a Hawaiian shirt pours tiki drinks and martinis in equal measure.
This is Las Vegas. Always trying too hard to look chic and cool and landing in some delightfully tacky place.
There's even a neon sign of a palm tree.
Is it ridiculous on purpose or on accident?
Am I doing all this on purpose or accident?
Cassie is still my best friend. And those martinis are exactly what her ex would drink. This is the sort of place he'd like, actually. He'd buy into the false attempt at modernity and class. He'd sit there and talk our ears off about music without letting anyone else get a word in.
And, yes, Cassie does that now, but she and Damon discuss it together. They're obnoxious together.
And, well, I can be honest. Cassie's type is musicians who think they have exquisite taste. She likes annoying people. My brother is annoying. I love him for it, but I don't suffer from any illusions he's not a little self-important.
When he starts talking about guitar riffs or, god forbid, the genius of grunge songs about heroin sounding like love songs, as if Cassie hasn't already told me that a million times, as if no one has ever made the observation that love is like a drug, and addiction is like an abusive relationship—
Jackson presses his palm into my lower back, and my other thoughts scatter.
I try to call them back. I try to remember the way Cassie cried over her ex's cheating. I try to picture myself in her childhood bedroom, listening to Fiona Apple, eating coffee ice cream, promising her I'd always be her other half. Like Meredith and Christina in Grey's Anatomy . We'd always be each other's person.
But we weren't. I was too busy with school, and she was too hurt, and she fell in love with my brother.
I took the excuse to move across the country.
Isn't that bad enough? I shouldn't hurt her more. I shouldn't sleep with her brother. Even if it's equal. The whole abandoning her for the East Coast thing makes it very much not equal.
And, well, that ship has sailed.
I'm not one of those people who suggests oral sex isn't sex.
I already blew her brother in the limo.
Is it really worse to add intercourse to that?
No.
It doesn't matter.
I want him too much. I've denied myself for too long. I'm not willing to do it again.
I lean into his touch.
He brings his hand to my shoulder. The brush of his fingertips against my skin. That's all it takes for me to know this is the right choice.
Maybe it's not the smartest choice, maybe I'm not the best friend, maybe I'm out of my mind—
I'm still making the right choice.
Desire pushes my thoughts away. The surroundings overpower me. The gold fixings and dim lights and lush plants. And Jackson in all linen, the tropical, wealthy half of the bar.
I'm in a cheap, sexy sequin dress. The tacky, over-the-top, let's drink and fuck and throw money on craps tables half of the bar. But I don't feel embarrassed about my lack of conventional class. The tawdry look makes my skin flush.
That's the appeal of Las Vegas. It's sexy and classy and trashy and tacky all at the same time.
Everything we've done tonight is all mixed together in a perfect blend of sass and class, and all of it is screaming sex.
Or maybe some of that is me.
I want to mount him so badly.
Jackson looks around the space carefully. Even after three drinks, he's lucid enough to survey the scene.
"I didn't take you for a tiki girl," he says.
"I'm not. I have other aims." The ones outside, by the pool. This bar was on a Reddit thread of the best places to have sex in public in Las Vegas. One user even assured others the staff won't call the authorities if they catch you. Sometimes, they don't even ask people to stop. They spot the exhibitionists, nod do your thing , and go about their business.
Maybe she got that info in a porno. Maybe it's a fantasy.
I'm tipsy enough I don't care. I want to indulge my fantasies.
I take his hand and move toward the bar. "After you."
Jackson hails the bartender. Of course, he doesn't order a mix of rum and tropical fruit. He orders an old-fashioned.
Somehow, the classic cocktail doesn't sound obnoxious on his lips. It suits him.
I copy his move at the strip club and ask for the same. I want to taste what's on his lips. I want to live in his world for a minute. No, in my fantasy world.
Where he wears old-timey suits and banters like Cary Grant and drinks whiskey in a wide glass.
Even so, I tease him about the beverage. "Did you get that from Mad Men ?" I ask as the bartender stirs our drinks.
Jackson laughs with surprise. "The TV show?"
I nod. "You dress like Don Draper." He does wear a lot of suits. And that watch. He's always in that watch.
Of course, Jackson has no idea who I'm talking about. He shakes his head. "I dress like who?"
"The lead character."
"On the television program Mad Men ?"
"Yes." I laugh. "It was a popular show. A lot of people watched it."
"Ten years ago," he says.
"Is Jackson Steele teasing me about my pop culture knowledge?" My chest flares. My cheeks too. It's not embarrassment though. It's a mix of desire and affection and that strange, perfect feeling that only comes from someone teasing you in a way that means they really know you and like your quirks.
"If the shoe fits." He nods and presses his lips into a coy smile.
My heart thuds against my chest. How can a joke feel so good, so erotic and romantic and butterfly-inducing? I just blew him in the limo. But this feels personal in a different way. A deeper way.
Sex is personal, of course, but conversation is a different sort of intimacy. Knowing someone's mind and soul, not just their body.
Intellectual intercourse. That's a line in an Alanis Morrisette song. It's an idea we need to examine further. After all, the brain is the largest sex organ in the body, and the man is as good with his brain as his other parts.
Why is that so sexy?
A smart guy. Maybe it's the glasses. Or maybe it's him.
No. It's definitely him.
"And what modern television references do you have?" I tease him back.
"I don't dress like anyone," he says. "I dress like me."
"Well, Don Draper dresses like you do. On the weekends at least."
The bartender drops off our drinks with a nod. "I'd say more like Roger Sterling on the weekends."
"Who is that?" Jackson asks.
"Don's boss and best friend," I say.
"They're both charming womanizers, but Don is a con man and Roger is a sales guy, so, same difference really," the bartender says. "But Roger is old money and Don grew up in poverty. His mom was a sex worker. Not that it's a tragedy. My mom was a sex worker and I turned out fine. A lot of us Vegas born and bred guys are the same."
Wow, there's so much to unpack there, so much research potential, but I don't care enough to linger. There's too much to do. Well, there's Jackson.
That's the only thing on my to-do list.
But it's an urgent item.
I wrap my arm around his waist.
He leans into the touch as he checks out. "I've never seen the show." Jackson hands the guy his credit card. "But I agree. Nothing wrong with your mom having any job."
The guy nods I know, right . "A lot of guys order old-fashioneds 'cause Don Draper did it. They think women will find them hot if they act like Don. But women didn't drop their panties for Don because he drinks too much whiskey. They drop their panties because John Hamm is hot." He looks to me as he runs the card. "Do you remember those paparazzi shots of John jogging?"
Jackson looks between us, confused.
I have to laugh. "There was a very visible outline in his sweatpants."
"It became a meme. Look at all these pictures where we can see John's dick." The bartender shakes his head. "And people think Vegas has no class."
On a different night, I'd love this trip down celebrity memory lane. I'd even borrow Cassie's argument about the upskirt pictures from the two thousands making John's dick fair game. It's just the outline! It's not like they snuck into his shower.
But right now, I really don't care.
I don't care about anyone else's dick.
Only Jackson's.
"True," I say. "Thanks." I wave goodbye to the bartender, take my drink, and lead Jackson outside.
On the patio, the decorations are lusher, more vibrant. The sky grows a bright shade of indigo. The pool shimmers in the moonlight. The azure is a bright contrast against the potted palm trees and the birds of paradise.
I find a semi-private spot behind an ivy-colored booth with a high back.
No one can see us from the bar. Or the pool. Only if they get right in front of the space.
We have room to do whatever we want.
Jackson notices the sex-in-semi-public-friendly setting and smiles. "Did we go straight from the bachelor party to the honeymoon?"
"Maybe. That's the best part of marriage, isn't it?"
"The honeymoon?" he asks.
That's the part I picture. Sex in a tropical setting, white curtains blowing in the wind, blue bridal lingerie. (Because white is too obvious. And a bride needs something blue).
"I never thought of marriage that way," he says.
I want to talk to him here. I really do. I want to know everything inside his head.
And I want to have my way with him.
I take a long sip and let the impulses fight.
My brain screams talk.
My body screams fuck.
As usual, my brain wins.
"How do you see marriage?" I ask. "Besides as a financial institution?"
"As a promise. A commitment to a life with another person. I didn't worry about the romance. Or keeping the fire alive. What did that matter compared to raising a family?"
"You want kids?" I ask.
"I always did," he says. "But I never asked myself why. What I saw in that life."
"It's okay to want something because you want it."
He nods. "But do I want kids? Or do I want to be the sort of person who gets married and has kids?"
"I don't know. Do you?"
"I thought so. Now…" He takes a long sip. "I have time to figure it out."
I see him as a father. It suits him, somehow. That wisdom and strength and desire to care for someone. But he's right. It's his decision to make, not mine. "Did you talk about it with your ex?"
"Maddie? Yes. We wanted the same thing. A house in the suburbs, stable careers, two to three kids."
"What went wrong?" I ask.
"The same thing that always does. I didn't love her."
"You've never been in love?" I ask.
"I don't know," he says. "I thought so. Now…"
"Love is a chemical reaction in your brain." The words are true, but they don't feel true at the moment. They don't explain the entire situation. They miss something important. "Vasopressin and Oxytocin building with bonding. And sex."
"We had that," he says. "But it wasn't enough."
"But you'd give that up?" I ask. "You'd give up great sex for marriage?"
"Is that how you see marriage?" he asks.
I guess I do. I swallow a sip. "Sometimes."
"Why? Your parents seem—"
"Don't finish that sentence."
"They put work into keeping things alive," he says. "All those mini getaways."
"And the travel," I say. "It helps keep desire alive. Because it's hard for anyone to want something they have."
"That's perceptive," he says.
I nod.
"I'm good at sex," he says. "I never doubt that."
"Me either."
He smiles.
"I, uh, do you want to show me?" I ask. It's not the smoothest come-on, but hey, it works.
He smiles and teases me. "Have I not?"
"Show me more."
His eyes flit to my chest. "Is that why you picked this spot?"
I nod.
His pupils dilate. His voice drops. "Bad girl."
My sex clenches. It sounds so sexy on his lips. Everything does. And I want to slip away from the serious talk. I want to dive into sex.
"Did you picture this?"
"I did."
"Show me," he says. "Show me exactly what you imagined."