Chapter 6
Chapter Six
brODY
She gives me a withering stare. Or it would be withering if she didn’t look like temptation in a pin-striped suit.
Even if the suit’s out of fashion. I only know this because my sister is a total fashion diva or fashionista, or whatever.
But it doesn’t matter because the way the skirt stretches across Brooks’ ass as she goes up on tiptoes to look through the peephole makes me stare all the same.
I drag my eyes away because that kind of unbridled admiration for the opposite sex—especially the untouchable Brooks—is what got me into this mess.
I check my watch—or rather my empty wrist because, of course, she—what was her name, Star Baby?
The lady from last night took my watch along with everything else.
Except this damn wedding band. I glance at my hand with the shiny gold ring.
Man, oh man. I swipe a hand through my hair. This is one nasty shit show.
I wish I never came to Vegas. Not even for All-Star weekend because now I’m going to humiliate myself for being the rookie phenom who couldn’t handle his liquor or a woman and ended up late for the game. And possibly married.
She opens the door, and Sabien stands there—but only for a blink because she yanks him inside the room like someone’s watching.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“I would ask you the same thing,” he says, flicking a glance at me, “but it’s obvious—”
“Don’t even think that,” she says as if he suggested she spent the night with a pair of goats.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“That’s a reasonable question, but I can’t go into details. You’ll have to take my word—”
I interrupt. “The chick I took back to my room last night stole my clothes and just about everything else—except my phone. She would have got that too except it was under my pillow—”
“I told you we need to keep this quiet,” Brooks says in a low voice, sounding a bit frustrated, or maybe more like if she had a gun, I’d have a hole in my heart about now.
“Sabien, you know Ms. Bianca Brooks with the Jett Agency?” I say this knowing he’s met her before, at least in passing, and if he weren’t already good and truly hooked by his bride and their baby, he’d be as impressed with her as I am.
He nods. “Of course. I work with Jett. Top notch agency.” He turns back to me and states the obvious. “Kid, we need to get you some clothes.”
“The clothes are on their way,” Brooks says, her arms folded across her chest in self-satisfaction. Sabien nods in approval.
“So what the fuck happened?” he says to me and then darts a sheepish glance at Brooks. “Pardon my language—”
“No need to worry. I think an f-bomb here and there is quite appropriate for the situation.”
I laugh, and damn if she isn’t even more irresistible when she drops the professional-agent-in-charge act and gets real. She watches me expectantly for what I’m going to say in response, whether I’m going to hold back or tell everything to my friend.
I hold up my ring finger to show Sabien the wedding band. His brows shoot to the top of his forehead faster than a slapshot, and he blasts out a whistle.
“Fuck man. What did you do?”
“I had too much to drink and brought the wrong lady back to my room. She stole all my things and took off. And I ended up with this wedding band. Though I’m not exactly sure how.”
Brooks interrupts. “You said you never left the room, right?”
I nod. “Some things are fuzzy, but I remember refusing to leave the room. The details of our conversation are fuzzy.”
“So you’re not married, then?”
“Probably not, but the real problem is I can’t get the damn ring off my finger, so it looks a lot like I am.”
“You know…,” Brooks says, tapping her lush lips with her index finger. “I think we can eliminate that problem—at least until we can get to a jeweler to have the ring removed.”
“How?” I notice the throbbing in my head has dimmed to a manageable beat, and I’m prepared to give Brooks a big hug in gratitude if she can do something about hiding the ring.
“We can disguise the ring with a band-aid.” She smiles and rummages through her bag.
“Great idea,” Sabien says. “I think it’ll work. You can just say it’s a bug bite if anyone asks.”
“A bug bite? I don’t think so,” Brooks says, still rummaging. “There are no bugs in Vegas. We’ll say it’s a cut.”
She finally pulls a garden-variety band-aid out of her bag and takes control of my hand.
“Keep it simple, Brody. Say it’s a cut if you have to, and don’t elaborate.
Chances are no one’s going to care why you have a band-aid on your finger.
” She finishes wrapping it around the wedding band, and though it’s suspiciously bulky, it should pass muster since I don’t plan to hold hands with anyone in the press or the general public. Or anyone at all.
I don’t remember the last time I held hands with someone. I glance at Brooks because technically she’s holding my hand right now, scrutinizing the wedding band disguise, and I don’t hate it. Before I can contemplate what that’s all about, she drops my hand.
“It’ll do.”
Is that crease in her forehead just above her tortoiseshell glasses from worry or annoyance? Not that it matters.
There’s another knock at the door, and this time I don’t bother trying to answer as she rushes with impressive speed past me, swinging the door open.
“Oh thank god,” she says, ushering a young man carrying boxes inside the room.
“Bigelow, I presume,” I deadpan. Bigelow smiles. He’s younger than any concierge I’ve run into in my travels, by about a century.
Brooks tosses me a warning glare, then says to Bigelow, “Did you get everything? The suit in the size I asked?”
“I did my best.” He clears his throat and glances at me.
I give him a smile of encouragement because he looks like he needs it.
“This should be interesting,” Sabe says.
All business, Bianca turns to Bigelow. “Put the boxes in the bathroom. God knows there’s enough room for a party in there, so that’s where he can dress.”
“I’m right here,” I say as she refers to me in the third person, mostly to annoy her.
“Get dressed and make it fast,” she says, and if it weren’t for the hint of real worry in her voice, I’d make another wiseass comment. Instead, I nod and shut the door behind me to the bathroom.
The pants barely fit, so I’m careful not to take any long or quick strides as I re-enter the hotel suite fully dressed except for my tie, which hangs around my neck. As expected, Bianca inspects me like I’m a runway model at a fashion show about to make the walk. So I strike a pose for her.
Sabe laughs, and she frowns. I suppress my grin, and it’s a sad fact that I’m getting good at it because teasing her isn’t exactly very nice. But it’s kind of an addictive thrill. One more reason I’m going to hell.
“You look passable,” she says. “Just don’t make any sudden moves.” She stares at my pants in the vicinity of my thighs and crotch, and I wiggle my hips for her. Her eyes dart to my face, showing a nice pink blush of guilt and shame.
“I agree with Brooks,” Sabien says, diffusing the moment.
He makes a great buffer between us, keeping me from going too far.
It could be that I’ve been enjoying the tension between me and Brooks so much that I might have pushed her too far.
Maybe I should behave because she’s trying to help me out.
Trying like hell to behave professionally and pretend there’s no spark of attraction—or at least awareness—between us.
“Let’s go,” she says and turns to Bigelow. “I’ll see you later. I need one more favor.” Then she strides to the door, moving fast like we’re late.
“We have time, don’t worry,” I say, following her.
Sabe snorts and jumps in front of me to put space between me and Brooks as if he’s protecting one of us.
He succeeds in blocking my view of her swaying hips and world-class ass.
I suppose it’s just as well because as much as the roundness of her bottom begs to be caressed, I can read the Do Not Touch sign as if it were in neon plastered to her skirt.
In the elevator on the way down, the three of us are silent, like we’re mentally preparing for something—and I don’t mean the hockey game. I push at the band-aid clad wedding band with my thumb, and a small, tiny, infinitesimal squeeze knots in my gut.
“Suppose I really am married?” I say, just before the elevator doors open.