Chapter 4
Ryan
“That guy is one lucky bastard,” Mitch groused as we stood at the front edge of the crowd watching the action on the green.
The lucky bastard in question was the owner of an NFL team who had made an incredible shot several minutes ago, leaving him at the top of the scoreboard as the first round of the golf tournament drew to a close for the day.
“It was one helluva great shot,” I agreed absently, tapping out a quick text to my neighbor.
I smirked as I added the picture I’d surreptitiously snapped of the former NBA player who was currently ranked third in the tournament.
Justin would lose his shit when he realized I’d been standing less than ten feet from his all-time favorite basketball player just moments ago.
“I’m not talking about his golf game. I’m talking about her,” Mitch corrected, inclining his head in the direction of the older man now being congratulated by several of the other competitors who had surrounded him.
The “her” Mitch was talking about was the woman standing next to the guy – a beautiful former cheerleader for his team who was easily forty years the man’s junior.
If rumors were true, she was also his latest girlfriend.
I slid my phone into my back pocket as I studied them and swiped the back of my hand over my brow to catch a bead of sweat gathered there. The unrelenting sunshine was brutal today, but it was still better than freezing my balls off back home.
At that moment, the woman reached up and wrapped her arms around the old guy and planted one hell of a kiss on his lips.
He grabbed her by the hips and enthusiastically returned the kiss, one hand sliding down to grab hold of the firm butt cheek encased in the tightest, tiniest, white shorts I’ve ever seen. Yep, the rumors were definitely true.
I shook my head, taking another long sip from the bottle of water in my hand as Mitch continued to bitch and moan about how lucky the man was to be sleeping with a woman like that.
“She used to do the splits all the time in the cheer routine, and I follow her on Insta, where she always posts these insane yoga workouts. Can you imagine how flexible she must be in bed? Damn, he’s rich as hell and has a chick like her all over him. Some guys have all the luck.”
“I’m pretty sure she’s all over him because he’s rich as hell,” I emphasized with a grimace.
“The guy’s been married four times, and each wife has been younger than the last. If the tabloids are to be believed, Ms. Short-Shorts over there ran off wife number four and is angling to become wife number five.
I don’t think there’s anything lucky about that. ”
“Well, you’re the only one who thinks like that, my friend,” Mitch said with a snort, clapping me on the back as we turned and headed toward the corner of the parking lot where the ride-share cars were lined up to pick up their passengers.
“I’ll bet every other guy out here would give their left nut to be in his position.
Fame, fortune, and hot sex on-tap with any sexy, young thing who catches your eye? It doesn’t get any better than that.”
I shook my head in disgust. “Yeah, it does. The fortune sounds great, but the rest of it? Hell, no.” The idea of having sex with women who only wanted a man for his money made my balls shrivel.
“Yeah, I forgot I was talking to Saint Ryan,” Mitch snarked. “Only you would think that having hot sex was a bad thing.”
I almost choked as I took another sip of my water, then eyed him sourly over the top of the bottle.
“I’m not a saint just because the only hot sex I want is with my wife,” I objected, directing another scowl his way.
“You’ve been married so long I’m not sure you remember what hot sex actually is,” he goaded.
I came to a stop a few feet from the end of the line of tournament attendees waiting for their turn to claim a ride, then looked at Mitch and said pointedly, “Believe me, I haven’t forgotten anything, and my wife is the hottest woman I’ve ever been with, hands down.
The fact that we love each other just makes it even better. ”
He rolled his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. “She’s still got you by the balls, man, even after all these years.”
I leaned in closer, so those standing around us couldn’t hear my reply.
“Melanie can grab my balls anytime she wants to. She knows exactly what to do with them.” I waggled my brows, causing Mitch to snort and bump my shoulder with his as he passed me to step up to the back of the line, which was moving quickly, thankfully.
“You are so fuckin’ whipped,” he muttered.
I shrugged, not at all feeling the need to defend myself against his accusation.
I’d gladly placed my balls – and my heart – in Melanie’s hands over thirteen years ago, and I hadn’t regretted that decision for a single moment since.
I was the lucky one, not the geriatric billionaire with the NFL team, four ex-wives, and a money-grubbing girlfriend who was barely old enough to legally drink.
Once we returned to the hotel, we each headed to our bedrooms to shower and change for dinner.
I finished first and walked into the living area of the suite to wait for Mitch.
I pulled my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans, then flopped down on the couch and pulled up Melanie’s name.
As my finger hovered over the screen, Mitch’s bedroom door flew open and he charged into the room, rubbing his hands together gleefully.
“Let’s go, asshole.”
I grinned up at him, then held up my hand so he could see my phone. “Just give me a second to call Mel, and I’ll be ready to head out.”
He threw back his head and groaned. “C’mon, man, I’m starving. You can call her later.”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned for the door. I hesitated, then stood and shoved my phone back into my pocket. I didn’t want to be rushed when I talked to her, and I knew he’d be on my ass trying to hurry me out the door if I called her now.
Moments later, we stepped off the elevator and turned toward the hotel’s restaurant on the other side of the casino floor.
We skirted around the poker tables, and Mitch slowed to watch the action.
When I realized he was no longer beside me, I stopped and walked back a few feet to where he was standing, then grabbed him by the elbow and tugged him toward the restaurant.
“I thought you couldn’t wait to eat?” He flashed a guilty grin at my reminder, then shrugged.
“You’re right. Eat first, then hit the tables.”
We came to a stop just inside the entrance and waited as the hostess led the small group in front of us to a table in the back. Moments later, she returned and seated us at a table near the bar, assuring us that our server would be with us momentarily.
We settled into our seats, and I reached for the menu as Mitch announced that he planned to join in on one of the games in the high-stakes poker room.
I shook my head at his comment as I wished him luck. “I’ll stick to the lower limit tables out on the main floor. I came to Vegas to watch the tournament, not to lose my shirt in the casino.”
“Aw, c’mon, dude. Live a little. I know Mel controls the purse strings, but you’re entitled to spend your own hard-earned money any way you please. Surely she doesn’t keep track of every dime you spend.”
I gritted my teeth at the familiar argument, then cracked my neck from side to side to ease the tension gathering there. I was getting pretty damned tired about his snide comments about my wife, and it was past time to tell him to shut the hell up.
“Knock it off, Mitch. It’s not Melanie’s fault that I turned down the opportunity to invest in those houses with you. I agreed with her that our sons’ college funds took priority, and I wasn’t about to risk their futures or put Mel and me in a tight spot financially.”
I was interrupted when our server stepped up to the table to take our drink orders. As soon as she left, Mitch held up a hand to stop me from speaking again.
“I was out of line, man. Forget I said anything, and let’s just enjoy ourselves, all right?”
I nodded grudgingly, a little surprised that Mitch had admitted fault.
Accountability wasn’t always one of his strengths.
The next hour or so flew by, filled with fantastic food and a glass of incredibly smooth Macallan that Mitch ordered for me.
I knew him well enough to know that the gesture was his way of apologizing without actually saying the words.
We had a good time, mostly reminiscing about my dad teaching us how to play poker when we were in high school, making us use pretzel sticks in place of poker chips or actual money.
“I swear, Phil didn’t have a single tell when he played,” Mitch groused good-naturedly. “He could have bluffed his way through an FBI interrogation with that poker-face he had.”
I laughed as I recalled how aggravated we would get sometimes, playing with Dad.
He would go all in, looking so sure of himself that we thought he must have a royal flush or something.
We would all fold, only for him to gleefully reveal a pair of nines as he raked in our pile of pretzels.
He was so convincing that we fell for it every damned time.
We split up after dinner, with Mitch heading across the casino floor to the private poker room filled with high rollers and professional gamblers looking for more action than I dared to risk.
Since I wasn’t the least bit interested in losing my ass in the high-stakes room, I wandered over to the same blackjack table I’d briefly visited last night and took a seat.