Chapter 4 A Responsible Adult Would’ve Said No
AMANDA
The bass hits so hard I can feel it in my bones. Every beat pulses through the ground and straight into my chest, where it mingles with whatever pill Raven’s friend Madison gave me an hour ago.
“This is the best birthday present ever!” I scream over the music, throwing my arms toward the desert sky. My LED bracelet catches the stage lights, throwing rainbow patterns across my glitter-covered skin.
I spent three weeks putting this look together.
Holographic bodysuit that I cut and bedazzled myself, paired with a tulle skirt that lights up when I move thanks to battery-powered fairy lights I sewed into the hem.
The platform boots took me four trips to different thrift stores to find, then another weekend spray-painting them silver and adding the light-up soles.
My face is a masterpiece of glitter, body gems, and neon face paint that Raven helped me perfect.
I look like a disco ball had a baby with a unicorn, and I’ve never felt more beautiful.
The EDC main stage stretches before us like a neon cathedral. Lasers slice through smoke while thirty thousand people move as one organism, all pulse and rhythm and pure electricity. I’ve never felt so alive. Like every nerve ending has been dipped in starlight.
I dance in the middle of thousands of strangers and feel completely free.
The beat drops, and I throw my hands up, letting the sound wash over me like baptism by bass line. This is what twenty-one is supposed to feel like. Wild and reckless and absolutely perfect.
When the song ends, I spin around to find Raven and the rest of her LA friends and realize I have no idea where anyone went.
Shit.
The crowd stretches in every direction. A sea of neon and glitter and costumes that range from barely there to completely insane. How am I supposed to find anyone in this beautiful chaos?
I push through bodies, scanning for purple hair or anyone who looks like they belong to our group. No luck. Just strangers lost in their own worlds and—
I slam into something solid. Something that doesn’t give when I bounce off it.
“Sorry!” I look up and up and up until I find a face. Strong jaw, dark eyes that catch the stage lights and throw them back like fire. “Oh. Wow.”
He’s not dancing. Just standing at the edge of the crowd like a predator surveying his territory.
Black leather jacket hangs open over dark jeans, revealing a fitted black tee that does nothing to hide the solid muscle underneath.
Ink peeks out from his collar, teasing me that there’s more to discover.
His square jaw is set in a hard line, matching his military posture. His arms are crossed, his strong hands resting against his biceps in a way that makes you wonder what they’re capable of.
“Are you security?” I ask, having to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
He looks down at me, dark eyes scanning my face intensely. “Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?”
His mouth quirks up at one corner. “It’s complicated.”
“Mysterious. I like it.” I study his face, trying to figure out what he’s doing here if he’s clearly not into the whole rave experience. “But seriously, why aren’t you dancing?”
“Don’t really dance.”
“Then why even be here?”
“I have my reasons.”
Another nonanswer. This guy’s either an assassin or he’s completely full of himself. Either way, I’m intrigued.
“No,” I announce, planting my hands on my hips. “I’m not accepting that.”
“Accepting what?”
“The standing-still thing. You’re at one of the biggest music festivals in the world, and you’re just… watching? That’s tragic.”
“I’m fine watching.”
“Well, I’m not fine with you watching.” The music shifts to something with a slower, hypnotic beat. Perfect. “Dance with me.”
“I told you, I don’t—”
“I’m not asking you to breakdance. Just move a little.”
I start swaying to the rhythm, keeping my eyes locked on his. He stays perfectly still, but I can see something shifting in his expression. Interest, maybe. Or amusement.
I step closer. Let my hips find the beat while I move around him like he’s a maypole. His gaze tracks my movement, but his feet stay planted.
“Come on,” I tease, reaching for his hands. “I promise I won’t judge your moves.”
“You’re very determined.”
“It’s my best quality. Music this good shouldn’t be wasted on standing still.”
I press closer, letting the rhythm guide my body against his. Still, he doesn’t move, but I can feel tension coiling in his muscles. Like he’s fighting some internal battle about whether to give in.
The song builds toward another drop, and I place my hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt. Fast despite his calm exterior.
“Just put your hands on my waist,” I murmur, close enough now that he can hear me without shouting. “That’s all. One small step toward not being a statue, one giant leap for convincing me you have a pulse.”
He looks down at me, and for a moment I think he’s going to walk away. Leave me dancing alone like a weirdo who accosts strangers at music festivals.
Then his hands find my hips.
The touch burns straight down to my skin like he’s made of fire. Nothing complicated about it, just his palms settling against me while I sway to the music. But the way his thumbs trace small circles against my hip bones makes my stomach flip.
“See?” I’m suddenly breathless. “That wasn’t so hard.”
“You want to get out of here?” His voice is the equivalent of honey poured over gravel, and I find myself wanting to get stuck in it.
“Yeah.”
My phone buzzes against my thigh.
RAVEN
Where are youuuuu???????
I’m fine. Having fun with a new friend. I’ll catch up with you later.
Ooooh mysterious. Get it girl.
A more logical response might have been to question who this new friend is, but Raven’s never been one to worry too much about anything. I pocket my phone and look back at my mysterious stranger. “I’m Amanda, by the way.”
“Kade.”
“Well, Kade. Lead the way.”
His motorcycle is parked between two Range Rovers in the VIP lot. Black and chrome and sleek as a bullet. He swings his leg over and hands me a helmet.
“Ever been on one of these?”
“Nope.”
“Hold on tight.”
I climb on behind him, my tulle skirt bunching up around my thighs while the fairy lights flicker with each movement, my platform boots finding purchase on the foot pegs.
The moment his engine roars to life I understand why people become addicted to this.
Raw power humming beneath us while we race through the desert night toward the glittering promise of the Strip in the distance.
The Bellagio fountains are dancing when we pull up to the valet stand. Water shoots skyward in perfect choreography while Sinatra croons from hidden speakers. Kade tips the valet fifty dollars to park the bike right at the front entrance.
“High roller?” I ask as we walk through the doors.
“Only when I’m feeling lucky.”
The casino floor hits like a sensory assault that blends into one beautiful blur.
Slot machines chime in harmony with my heartbeat, and chips click like percussion against the bass still thrumming in my chest. The Bellagio’s signature colors swirl together—deep blues and golds, the elegant floral patterns of the ceiling that seem to dance above my head.
Cocktail waitresses in tasteful black dresses glide between tables, and dealers shuffle cards, their hands moving in slow motion while the room pulses with understated luxury and the remanants of whatever Madison gave me.
We start small. Twenty-dollar blackjack hands that feel huge to me but clearly mean nothing to Kade. I win three in a row, and he grins like I’ve just solved world hunger.
“You’re good luck,” he says.
“Or you’re good at cards.”
“Probably both.”
We move to fifty-dollar hands. Then hundreds. The numbers climb until I stop doing the math because it makes me dizzy. Kade seems to have unlimited money and zero interest in explaining where it comes from.
“Want to make this more interesting?” he asks after I win another hand.
“How much more interesting?”
“High-limit room. Real stakes.”
The high-limit section exists behind frosted glass doors that open only for platinum cards and serious money. The pit boss recognizes Kade immediately.
“Mr. Steele. Your usual table?”
“Whatever she wants to play,” Kade says.
The minimum bet here equals my yearly salary. I’ve never seen chips worth this much, let alone held them. But the way Kade looks at me makes me feel like I could conquer the world.
“Craps,” I hear myself say. “I want to play craps.”
We gather around green felt where dice determine fortunes. Kade hands me chips and tells me to pick the numbers. I have no idea what I’m doing, but something about this whole night feels destined.
Lucky.
Magical.
Like the universe has aligned specifically to give me the best twenty-first birthday possible.
“Roll,” the dealer says.
I throw and hit my point. The crowd cheers.
Kade’s hand finds the small of my back, warm and steady, his palm spreading across the curve of my spine like he’s claiming territory.
The touch burns through the thin fabric of my bodysuit, grounding me in the middle of all this chaos.
His thumb traces a small circle against my skin, and suddenly the cheering crowd and flashing lights fade to background noise.
All I can focus on is the weight of his hand, possessive and protective, like he’s my anchor in this spinning world of neon and possibility.
“Again,” he murmurs in my ear.
I roll. Another win. Then another. The numbers blur together, but the pile of chips in front of me keeps growing. People abandon their own tables to watch my streak. Strangers cheer when I win like they’re personally invested in my success.
Champagne appears without us ordering it. Dom Pérignon that tastes like liquid starlight. I’m flying high on adrenaline and whatever’s left in my system and the intoxicating rush of winning money I’ve never even dreamed of having.
“You’re magic,” someone says behind me.
“She’s on fire,” another voice adds.