CHAPTER 3
QUINCY
The sound rushes in the moment my driver opens the door for me. It’s an assault on my senses, but it’s not unfamiliar. I’m used to the sound that seems to follow me around wherever I go. But there’s a buzz underneath it here that I’m not used to.
When I step out of the car, a man is standing there with an open smile on his face.
We make eye contact and he steps forward.
“Miss Wells,” his voice is warm and charming, “my name is Miles. I’m one of the assistants here.
If you will come with me, I can get you up to your room and give you some information about the tournament. ”
“It’s nice to meet you Miles,” I smile the smile that keeps people at a distance but can never be considered rude, “please call me Quincy.”
“Of course,” his voice is warm. He looks down at the clipboard cradled in his arm. “Kenneth has already ensured your wardrobe during the tournament is waiting for you upstairs. We’ll have makeup and hair people backstage for everyone.”
I almost cringe because I hope Kenneth didn’t give some ridiculous instructions about my wardrobe. Sometimes he pushes against my middle America vibe, and Vegas is the perfect place for him to try it again. I’m already dreading finding out what is waiting for me in the room.
Have a little fun.
Right.
Right.
After talking to Margot and having this poker tournament dropped into my lap, I told myself this was going to be a ‘yes’ trip. I’m going to say yes to as many things as I can, as long as I’m not in danger. It might be the only way for me to get out of the rut I’ve been in for far too long.
Which means I’ll be saying yes to whatever clothes are waiting for me. I’ll be saying yes to whatever comes my way. Hopefully, it doesn’t bite me on my ass later. The last thing I want is to damage my image, because then I’ll only be sucked deeper into the world I think I want to escape.
“Thanks, Miles,” I keep my voice light even if it does feel forced to me.
As we walk inside, I take in the grandeur of the hotel. This isn’t my first trip to Las Vegas, but I’ve never stayed in this hotel before. It’s huge and dripping in luxury designed to make the people visiting feel like they’ve arrived, like they’re something.
If only I wasn’t so jaded by this kind of opulence. I see it; I recognize it. I’m simply not impressed by it anymore.
Which is kind of sad.
It wasn’t long ago when this kind of place, echoing money and class, would have been so impressive that I would be pinching myself to make sure it was real and I was really seeing it.
I try not to forget where I came from, even when it would be so easy to only allow myself to be caught up in the opulence of where I am now.
“A few other people have already arrived for the tournament,” Miles fills me in as we step onto the elevator and the doors close behind us.
“That’s great,” the words fall from my lips, but I don’t really mean them. I don’t know who else has committed to this. Honestly, I don’t care. “Hopefully having so many of us here for the weekend won’t cause problems for you and the hotel. Paparazzi can be sneaky and ruthless.”
His face doesn’t change as he nods sagely. “We’ve already prepared for that,” he informs me, as if he’s more than ready to take on whatever challenges having so many celebrities in one place causes.
I’m impressed by his confidence, but I have my doubts about how prepared they are. I keep that to myself since there’s no use in arguing the point.
“The tournament starts tomorrow,” Miles informs me just as the elevator door opens and he starts toward one of the rooms. “There’s a full itinerary printed out for you in your room.
I’ve also included my direct phone number.
If there’s anything you need, please reach out to me or pick up any hotel phone.
Anyone here will help you, but I’m always available. ”
Just as he finishes speaking, he pulls a key card out of his pocket, opens the door, and holds it open for me while offering me the card. I take it, grateful when he stays in the hallway. The way he respects my space makes me feel more comfortable instantly.
“I’ll let you get settled. Your bags will be brought up any moment,” he lets me know.
As I step inside the large, overly fancy suite, he’s already stepping back. I turn toward him and give him a small smile. “Thank you, Miles. I’m sure this weekend will be a lot of fun.”
He gives a small nod before glancing back toward the elevator.
“Your bags are here. I’ll make sure they make it inside safely and then I’ll leave you to get settled in.
If you’re interested in dinner tonight and need a reservation or if you’d like tickets to one of the shows on the strip, let me know. I can get it squared away for you.”
Before I can answer, my two bags are being wheeled just inside the room. Neither man breaches the threshold and the respect it shows hits me in the middle of my chest. So many people I encounter try and take from me—my space, my time, my body, my image. But that’s not happening here.
It’s almost enough to get my shoulders to relax. But I learned a long time ago that I’m always on and always being watched unless I’m alone in a room.
“Thank you,” I tell them both.
With nods and polite smiles, they step back, and Miles allows the door to close. The sound is loud in the quiet of the room, and I take a deep breath as I look around. There’s a welcome basket filled with fruit, cheese, and chocolate.
It only takes me a few moments to get myself unpacked and I’m left standing in the middle of the suite unsure of what to do next.
Being in Vegas means I can’t exactly just hole up in my room, even though it’s tempting.
I wouldn’t really need to leave until tomorrow when I need to show up for the tournament.
I could easily get anything I could want delivered right to me. I’m sure Miles would love to do my bidding. At least, he’d do it without hesitation or any outward judgement. Frankly, that’s more than enough.
Still, it feels wrong to stay locked in my suite. I’m in a new city, which is exactly what I wanted, and I’ve committed to saying yes. I could have said no to Kenneth; maybe I should have. But I’m here now and I need to embrace it.
I change out of my travel clothes, which are always casual, and pull a dress on. My eyes flick over the clothing waiting for me to wear during the tournament. Thankfully, they are relatively modest, but flashy enough to be noticed on camera and have people wondering what I’m wearing.
When I step off the elevator, I head toward one of the many bars. A drink is the perfect way to start out the night, and it’ll give me a chance to figure out what to do next. I’m not really looking forward to exploring the casino. That’s a lot of flashing lights, sounds, and people.
It’s a damn good thing I can keep my face neutral because inside the cringe is epic.
Even with the fancy setting, the whole scene borders on garish.
When I step up to the bar, I’m glad to find it quieter and the lighting moodier. It’s not as jarring as everything outside. Maybe I could even blend in here.
As I glance around, I realize that might be wishful thinking. No one rushes up to me, but I’ve been spotted, if the whispers, furtive glances, and longer stares are anything to go by. I turn my back to the room and force a smile at the bartender whose eyes light up slightly.
I’m used to that reaction.
“What can I get for you?” His voice is smooth and I’m relieved when he doesn’t comment on who I am.
“Midori sour, please,” I order with a small smile.
“Comin’ right up,” he tries to charm me, the smirk on his face telling me everything I need to know about him.
And I’m not interested in what he’s selling. I think that my team wouldn’t let me hear the end of it if I hooked up with a Vegas bartender. I can already see the photos I never consented to, and a story that has no business being public, being splashed all over the damn place.
When he pushes my drink toward me on the top of the bar, my mouth tips down into something that might be a frown if I was behind closed doors.
It’s a sad existence when you can never trust the interactions you have with other people.
Every second is filled with questions which will remain unanswered.
Do they have an ulterior motive? Are they just waiting to sell a story to some off market tabloid? Will they post something on social media for their own clout? What kind of judgement are they handing out to me as if I’m not human, regardless of my celebrity status?
“Thank you,” I keep my voice sweet and I swear his eyes twinkle.
It’s a shame, he’s an attractive guy. But I can’t trust it.
Movement next to me has my body stiffening. The bartender’s eyes flick over to whomever has sat down. His eyebrows pinch together before his face smooths out again. His smile is forced now and doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Hammond Whiskey on the rocks,” a man orders next to me.
I recognize his voice. I’ll be honest, I’m not thrilled to hear it.
“Hey there, Quincy,” Aaron Holt teases next to me, “still pissed at me?”
My shoulders tense, my tone going glacial, “What are you doing here?”
One side of his mouth kicks up, but it’s not quite a smirk. He nods toward the bartender when his drink arrives, and he takes a sip before looking back at me.
“I’m playing in the tournament,” he informs me, his tone hinting that I should have already been aware of the answer.
Since I wasn’t aware, I mask my surprise. Not fast enough considering the way he shrugs as if answering an unspoken question, one I wasn’t aware was even on the tip of my tongue.
My sigh is long and weary. “I’m not pissed at you, Aaron.
I never was. I’m just not interested in playing games and doing the whole fake relationship for the press thing.
The fact that it was suggested right after you shot a movie with Margot, where there were rumors about you two before she was swept off her feet by a former SEAL, just made it feel grosser.
I don’t know if you had something to do with it and I don’t care. ”
Understanding washes over his face and some of the cockiness he was wearing like armor evaporates. His eyes turn solemn in a way I’ve never seen before, even when he’s acting.
“I didn’t ask anyone to reach out to your people,” he sounds sincere, but I’m not sure I can trust his words. “I wasn’t thrilled with the suggestion either.”
“Because you can get your own date?” The question is a challenge, complete with an arched eyebrow and too much curiosity for how he’s going to answer.
His head tips back as he laughs. When he looks back at me, amusement dances in his eyes. “I can definitely get my own date.”
When his eyes move over my shoulder, I don’t have to look. His eyes find mine again and he winks before he stands with his drink.
“Looks like you’re about to go find that date,” I tease him.
“Well, I’m about to go find something.” He pauses, his voice turning serious.
“Thanks for not slapping me the moment you saw me.” I can’t help but smile as I shake my head in admonishment.
“I never asked my PR team to reach out to your people and I’m glad you turned down the offer.
” He knocks on the top of the bar, the seriousness melting away from his expression as he smirks.
“I’ll be seeing you at the poker table, Quincy. ”
“Oh, you’ll see me there,” my tone is full of confidence.
With a nod, Aaron walks away. Even though I’m curious, I don’t look over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of whoever captured his attention. Instead, I look down at my drink and take a breath. I wasn’t expecting to see Aaron Holt here, but clearing the air feels good.
Better than I expected it to feel. Still, I doubt we’ll be friends.
I focus on the sound of the bar and the casino beyond. The highs and lows of it, the conversations that go unnoticed, the moments which slip between. While I listen, I keep my eyes on my drink.
When someone else slides onto the stool next to me, I glance over to find a man I’ve never seen before. That’s not what has me on edge; it’s the hungry look in his eyes as he looks me over. When he notices me looking at him, his lips stretch into a grin he probably thinks is charming.
“Quincy Wells,” he greets me, his voice on this side of booming.
“Hello,” I greet him politely.
“My name is Donald,” he introduces himself even though I probably won’t remember his name. “I know you’re here for a poker tournament, but I’m curious when the last time you played was?”
“I can play,” my voice turns defensive.
The way Donald’s eyes light up tells me I’ve given him the exact reaction he was hoping for. He leans toward me slightly and it takes all my willpower not to move away from him. But I have a feeling it would feel like a win for him.
“I never said you couldn’t play,” he points out and shrugs. “I’m just curious about how rusty you are.”
My lips press together for a moment as I try to keep the words from spilling out. But it’s impossible.
“I’m not rusty,” I defend myself, the competitive side of me coming out even though I know I should keep it under wraps.
“Well,” he holds the word out slightly, “I have a game. Usually it’s pretty small, but I curate everyone who attends. We’re playing tonight. You should come and make sure you’re ready for tomorrow’s tournament.”
He slips a business card onto the top of the bar and slides it over to me. I glance down at it, but I don’t take it. Not yet.
“The address of the game is on the back,” he tells me with a knowing smile on his face.
Then he’s walking away and I’m surprised he didn’t put more pressure on me to agree to show up.
And that makes me wonder if I read him wrong. My eyes flick down to the card, and I find myself picking it up.
You promised to say yes to everything this weekend.
My shoulders drop slightly as I remember the promise I made to myself. I’m not sure it’s the best idea I’ve ever had, but I can’t give up so soon. It wouldn’t hurt to play a few hands before tomorrow.
I’ll go, but I won’t stay long.