Chapter 26 TJ
I like touching Rachel. She hasn’t pushed me away yet. I hope she never does.
"Do you want to keep walking or should we grab a cab?" I ask. We’ve been wandering around Las Vegas Boulevard. We’re right in front of the Fountains of Bellagio. "How far is it?" I should lean in and kiss her here. This would be a romantic place to do it.
She lets my hand drop to consult her phone. "Almost two miles from here. Let’s grab a cab so we can get back quicker. I know you’re a super-fit pro-athlete and all, but I’m not, and I’m tired."
Right. She’s ready to be done with me. "Sure.
" I flag down a cab. We slide in, and she keeps shifting in her seat until her thigh is pressing into mine. We’re so close that I either need to put my arm around her or my hand on her thigh.
I go for option A, stretching my arm across the back of the seat.
"Are you having fun out here?" I ask, practically murmuring into her hair. I really like her hair. Did I tell her that yet? I should have told her that already. I should say something sly and smooth and clever. Instead, I say, "I like your hair."
I am an idiot. But then, by some miracle, I swear she leans in a little closer. There’s no mistaking it. She’s leaning her head on my chest. Maybe she’s tired. I want to remember this feeling of Rachel in my arms forever. With my free hand, I lift my phone and snap a picture.
"You’re not putting that on your ClikClak or Insta, are you?" she asks.
"You don’t want me to?"
"I’m probably not right for your image."
I sit up a little straighter, pulling away to look at her. "What do you mean by that?"
"Oh, come on. Look at you. Look at me. You’re in Vegas. You should be club hopping with someone in a painted-on minidress and stilettos, not me in my Walmart tank top and jorts."
"Jorts? What the hell are jorts? Are they some kind of fancy sneaker?" I look at her feet. She’s wearing flip-flops. No wonder she doesn’t want to walk another two miles. Her feet have got to be killing her.
"Do I look like a fancy sneaker girl to you? Jorts are jean shorts. And you prove my point. You don’t even know what jorts are. You have a brand. I’m not it. Don’t tank your aesthetics by putting a picture of me up, especially not when I look like this."
I don’t know what to say. Of course, she would think that I care about stuff like that. It’s all my social media is. The perfect image. I’ve worked hard to keep it that way.
I know, it’s a dick thing to say, but it is how my social media looks. What I have to decide is if I want to keep it that way. I need to come up with a plan.
I choose my words carefully, because the last thing I want to do is hurt Rachel’s feelings. "I understand what you’re saying. I—" I break off because whatever I say will come out wrong. "I … I just wanted a picture of us. To remember the night. To remember what a good time I had."
Like I’ll ever forget it.
She took me out for ice cream after my game. And paid.
I will never be able to eat hot fudge again without thinking about her.
Once back at the hotel, Rachel marches across the lobby, straight toward the elevator. I put my hand on her shoulder to make her pause. "Wanna get a drink?" I ask. "There’s a bar on the sixty-fourth floor. We can look out over all of Vegas."
She looks unsure.
"I’m not sure if I can get into my room yet," I say, hoping the desperation to continue my night with her isn’t evident.
We step into the elevator. "I’m not the glitzy rooftop bar type." Her gaze drops to her feet.
"Aw, come on. You only live once."
She freezes for a moment. Then she says, "How ’bout we have a drink in my room?" She looks at me hopefully.
Since I’m only doing this to prolong my time with her, I nod. "Sounds good." I pull out my phone and order a bottle of prosecco from room service to be delivered to her room. "Drinks are on the way."
There’s no hint of Ophelia when we get back to the room.
This is good. The longer she spends with her husband, the longer I get to stay with Rachel.
The room is virtually identical to ours, with a view of the stadium we played in.
Was that really just a few hours ago? The after-game high is starting to wear off.
Not to mention the time difference. Three days is not enough to adjust my body to the Pacific Time Zone. I feel like it’s 3 a.m.
I might just ask Rachel if I can crash on the couch in her room.
"Um, so Ophelia just texted and asked me if you can spend the night here." Rachel is practically pacing around the room. She’s picking up and folding clothes, straightening the pen and pad of paper on the desk. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was nervous.
"Yeah, I can take the couch. It’s pretty late. I was eyeing it anyway."
She laughs, a high-pitched, squeaky kind of laugh.
Definitely a nervous laugh. "Don’t be ridiculous.
You can sleep in the bed. My bed. The other is Ophelia’s bed, and she already slept in it.
" She pauses to hang up the dress she wore last night. "I mean, it’s not like we haven’t shared a bed before. "
There’s a knock on the door. Rachel rushes to answer it, but I’m close behind with the tip.
"You got us an entire bottle of champagne?"
I want to tell her that it’s not champagne, but I don’t want to correct her. I never want to do anything that makes her feel small. I’m familiar enough with that feeling.
"I thought we could celebrate crossing two things off your list." I pop open the bottle and pour the fizzing drink into the flutes provided.
"Three things. I’ve done three things on this trip."
I try to remember what’s on the list, other than flying and going to a casino. She said parasailing was on hold. "Did you appear on stage in a sexy sequined costume and I missed it?" My mind is flashing back to her legs in those shoes.
She shakes her head.
"I’m guessing there wasn’t a moose on the loose in downtown Vegas."
Another shake of the head.
"Any emergency baby deliveries?"
She laughs. "Um, no."
A pit forms in my gut. The prosecco tastes like sawdust. I swallow the whole glass in one gulp and immediately pour myself another, forcing myself to choke it down. There’s only one other thing on that list that she could have done out here.
The thought of some guy—other than me—putting his hands on her makes me want to punch someone. Go full-on Brandon Nix on them.
"Wanna see?" She’s scrolling on her phone.
No. Yes. No.
I need to see the guy she had a one-night stand with. I have to see who she chose. What’s her type? I can’t picture her with anyone that’s not me. I have no idea what to expect when she hands me her phone.
I definitely don’t expect to see a ClikClak from Ophelia’s account, with the two of them in protective eyewear, noise-canceling headphones, and holding rifles.
"Ophelia and I went to the gun range down the street. I did it! I fired a gun."
"You fired a gun?" Relief rushes through my entire body. Even the proof in front of my eyes is not enough to slow the racing beat of my heart.
"It’s one more thing off the list."
I’m finally able to meet her gaze again. Now it’s her turn to take a long drink. "Congratulations," I manage, trying not to stare at her slender throat as she swallows. Knowing that she wasn’t with someone else should be calming me down, but it’s not. I’m still spiraling.
Quietly, she says, "So, you know that whole ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’ thing? Do you believe that’s true?"
Where is she going with this? If she’s going to confide in me, I need her to know she can trust me. "With the right people, it is." I start to move toward her, to assure her, but she’s doing that pacing and fussing thing again. "You can trust me," I say, my voice soft.
Rachel nods a few times, almost as if she’s trying to give herself a pep talk.
I move closer to her, taking both her hands in mine. "Rach, you can trust me. Just tell me what it is."
She inhales a shaky breath before pulling her hands from mine. "It’s about number nine."
Here it comes. I promised I would be someone she can trust. I’ll do that for her, no matter how much I’m going to hate hearing the words coming out of her mouth. I nod and hope my face looks open and inviting. Trustworthy.
Rachel turns toward the window, her arms tightly hugging her body. Every second that ticks by is agony. "So, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."
"Yeah." Where is she going with this?
"And we’re friends, right?"
I nod again. I want to kick myself for ever telling her that.
"Can you be my friend tonight and help a friend out?"
"Anything you need." Thoughts whiz and whir through my brain with the catastrophic possibilities of what she is about to tell me. Are brain tumors hereditary? Is she dying like her sister?
Rachel sucks in a deep breath and exhales slowly.
"I think Richie was onto something. She knew how broken I was. Am. She knows trust isn’t something I do easily.
It’s why she put number nine on the list. She doesn’t think I can do a relationship, which I probably can’t.
But she didn’t want me to miss out on the—other stuff—like she did.
She wanted me to have my cake and eat it, too. "
I nod, unsure of what else to do. I have no idea what she’s trying to say.
"I know we’re friends. You made that clear. I don’t have any expectations other than friends. I really don’t. But tonight, I want my cake."
"We just had ice cream, but I can see if room service—"
Rachel takes a hesitant step toward me. "TJ." Her voice turns soft. "Tyler, I want you to be my cake. Just for tonight. Be my one-night stand. I promise, I’ll never ask you for anything again. But I trust you. Be my cake."
I close the distance between us in two steps. Cupping her jaw with both my hands, I hold her face, staring into those chocolate eyes for just a split second before I put my lips on hers.
Her eyes grow wide for a moment, and then her lids flutter shut.
She exhales into me, her hands holding onto my wrists.
It’s as if she’s afraid I’m going to let go of her.
As our lips and tongues and breath mingle, she relaxes, pressing her body into mine.
Her hands reach into my hair, pulling it into her fists.
"Rachel," I pant, breaking our kiss for a moment, "are you sure?"
She nods, gazing deep into my eyes. "I’ve never done this with another person. I know you’ll be kind."
Oh shit. She’s a virgin. I should have guessed that but leave it to me to miss the cues. "Then this means a lot."
This is a big responsibility. I’m honored she even considered me to fulfill this role in her life.
She shakes her head. "I promise it doesn’t. I don’t want the pressure of thinking this is love. Or that it means anything. I know it doesn’t."
"Rachel, of course you mean something to me."
She takes a step back. "I know. We’re friends. I’m only asking you for more tonight. Tomorrow, we forget it ever happened."
I shake my head. "That’s not how it works."
She raises an eyebrow. "So you can stand here and tell me every person you’ve ever slept with? Details. Names. Faces. Places. Positions."
My mind immediately goes blank. "Uhhhh …"
"You’ll be able to forget me, too. I promise. I … I just need this." She looks at me, her eyes pleading. "Please?"
Because I will never possess the kind of courage it takes to do what she’s doing—to ask what she’s asking—I let her believe the lie.
I let her believe that I’ll be able to forget about her after tonight.