Chapter 25
Miriam
“Absolutely not!”
“We had a deal!”
“That didn’t include cutoffs!” I stretch my fingertips at my sides. There is no hem. Only frayed edges of jean shorts that are three inches from showing a coochie lip.
I don’t know what Antonio was thinking buying this outfit. Half of it is still at the store.
“Doe,” my sleazy stylist begs from the other side of the door I pushed him out of before squeezing myself into these scraps. “Please. I have your hard hat.”
“A hard hat?” I snicker.
“You wanted to try something new, right? We do this every year. I promise we’re dressed alike.”
I doubt it.
Try something new was today’s motto. Antonio kept his word by tagging along to the haunted museum, where we promptly made a U-turn for the front door. He stuck it out at the Pinball Hall of Fame before I agreed to an open-air leap eight hundred-plus feet in the air.
Yes, there was a cable attached.
Yes, I still peed a little.
We made good on our vow not to let the uncertainty of the Steel’s future thwart our weekend.
The man is living his best and fearless life, whether on the 108th floor of a building or in the living room getting ready for a night on the Vegas Strip.
The only “strip” I’m interested in is peeling off this ridiculous outfit and showing the shower jets every angle of my body.
This suite is a beautiful mix of modern amenities in a soothing color palette of blues, gold, and cream.
I have no business being outside dressed like I’m responsible for street repair.
Antonio taps on the door. “If you really want to stay in, I’ll leave. I’m not taking any photos tonight. Promise.”
My toes sink into plush navy carpeting on my way to the full-length mirror.
The shorts are short, but they’re not awful.
The high waist keeps me tucked in, but my thighs threaten to swallow what little material stretches across my legs.
At least the sleeveless white body suit covers my breasts, though I’m showing more cleavage tonight than I have in years.
“Yes to new experiences,” I tell my reflection through a shaky breath. How many people can say they flew to Vegas on a whim with a professional rugby team?
Fine.
I toss on the orange work vest that came with the outfit and open the bedroom door. It takes a miracle to defy the laws of gravity and keep my tongue from rolling out of my mouth.
Antonio is in a pair of jean shorts that match mine.
Large, carved thighs protrude from the tiny material, flexing cords of muscles that reach all the way down to those Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles calves.
His chest is bare underneath a construction vest, immaculately sculpted and teasing dark nipples. Do they match—
Don’t think about his nipples!
I open my mouth, but the heat in his gaze melts the words. He hasn’t said anything either, just stares with an unreadable expression.
This would be the point in a horror movie when a jump scare occurs. For the record, I don’t like to jump or be scared.
“Should I change?” I ask, second-guessing if a night out is worth it.
He blinks. “No—no. You, uh, you look…” His eyes stall on my hips. “Damn—I mean. You look nice.”
Nice is good.
“You don’t think it shows too much?” I spin around to show the back. The vest covers the top half of my butt. One wrong dip or bend, and the good people of Las Vegas are seeing my peach.
“Antonio?”
He’s in the kitchen with a glass of water to his lips. Is his hand shaking?
I frown. “Are you sick?”
The glass slams to the counter. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nope. Just hot.”
“It is a little warm in here,” I say on the way to the thermostat. “I’ll set it a few degrees lower so it’ll be cool once we return.”
“Great,” he mumbles, brushing down his vest over a washboard stomach. Sweet goodness.
Eyes up.
“The helmet looks good.” I point to the hard yellow plastic resting over his brow. “Functional.”
“Ready?”
“Yes,” I nearly pant, suddenly too hot myself. I grab my shoes near the door.
Don’t ask why, but I packed open-toe stilettos. They’re black with a four-inch heel and thick elastic bands around the soles. I hate when my baby toes dangle from thin straps like they’re bungee jumping. Not that I wear heels often. I’m a fan of flats, but I figured why not?
I’ve never worn this pair, and we are in Vegas.
At my new height, I’m closer to Antonio’s eyeline. So close I can see the beads of sweat forming under his hat in high definition.
I press the back of my hand to his cheek. “Are you getting a fever?”
He sniffs and shakes his head. “No. Come on.”
I’m guided out of the hotel room by hand. The fanny packs he got us will keep our wallets, phones, and hotel key cards safe for the night—but not my feet. I trip on the lip of the elevator.
“Are you sure you’re good in those?” Antonio directs the question to my shoes.
My nod rattles my hard hat. “Should be. Trying something new, remember?”
The elevator is a glass structure that faces out to the hotel casino. Gamblers come into focus as we descend from the tenth floor. The cold whisper of air conditioning is a reminder of the skin I’m showing.
“Are you sure everyone else is dressing up?” I swallow, determined not to run back upstairs. Well, walk. I don’t doubt I’ll trip over my own shadow.
Antonio squeezes my shoulder. “I promise, Doe.” He turns me to face the glass. “Our night is just beginning.”
Every Steel player is shirtless in construction vests, hoochie shorts, and Timbs. A few wave from the cluster of yellow hard hats as our elevator comes into view.
They yell in unison at Antonio, who presses one hand to the glass and body rolls. The muscles in his abs contract as he thrusts his hips toward the ceiling.
“What are you doing?” I cackle.
His head tips back to flash a grin. “Getting the party started.”
I am no better than a man.
With the amount of legs, wings, and thighs on display, it’s a miracle I haven’t run into a wall or tried to order a to-go box. I did trip into the private bathroom, but that’s unrelated.
Hundreds of bodies grind to the Ying Yang Twins’ “Shake” under the glow of LED lights.
Rugby teams from across the country have invaded the nightclub, wearing every costume imaginable.
There are elves, scuba divers, cheerleaders, and vampires.
Flooding the Spirit Halloween fashion show are the hard hats that took over the dance floor three songs ago.
It’s pointless to count the number of times my eyes gravitated to Antonio.
Even in a crowd of contoured back muscles and a buffet of booties, I still find him.
When he’s not laughing, he’s pulling out every ’90s dance from the vault.
The man knows how to move his hips, and how to annoy me every six minutes.
I’m not upset, but I did banish him from the VIP suite he insisted on renting. Yes, it’s as extravagant as it sounds.
The skybox isn’t too far up from the main floor, but I’m the only one using it.
Antonio, too, before I told him to go hang out with his team.
I was perfectly fine blending into the back wall for the rest of the night without special accommodations.
My discomfort and mild panic couldn’t get cozy before I got a pat on my hard hat and a “No.”
Who needs bottles of wine and a snack board all to themselves? Scratch that. I appreciate a good rosé and some sea salt pretzels. I had a glass in his honor. Three, to be exact, and counting. I feel nice, cocooned from the chaos of the big crowd and able to enjoy myself with snacks and wine.
The music changes to Faith Evans’s “Love Like This.” Fists holding twenty-dollar bills reach for the ceiling as confetti explodes into the humid cloud of sweat and pheromones.
From my perch on the balcony, I have a full view of the bumping and grinding below.
I’ve dipped it low from up here with a drink in the air.
Bread jogs out of the private bathroom, waving his hard hat. “Don’t go in there for thirty minutes. Forty to play it safe.”
Ew.
I slap his hand as it reaches for a Twizzler on my plate. “No, sir. Did you wash your hands?”
His brows dent. “What kind of question is that, Maid Miriam? I did. Twice.” He snatches a piece of licorice and grabs a water bottle. “Having fun up here?”
“I am,” I say with a shimmy to the music. “No drunk people stumbling into me. More air to breathe. I like it, but I also appreciate the company—when you’re not blowing up the bathroom or raiding the snacks. Are you staying?”
“Nah. I’m not getting in trouble. Everyone knows you’re Cap’s girl.”
The alcohol must be messing with my cognitive function, because I swear he said I’m Antonio’s girl.
“Did you get concussed in the bathroom?” I ask. “Antonio and I are not together in any way, shape, or form.”
One edge of Bread’s mouth curls. “Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“You got it.” He bops his head to the music and nods at his teammates.
My hands find a home on my hips. The pose is one my mother always struck before the chancleta came out.
“You think I’m lying, M’Baku?”
“Yooo,” he snickers like he’s never called somebody a bald-headed demon. “You both are. He doesn’t realize his own feelings.”
He definitely got smacked in the head.
I refill my wineglass and search for Antonio. He’s at the bar, talking to a beautiful woman in a Jessica Rabbit getup, long-flowing red wig and all. Her whisper in his ear activates a slow smile.
“See.” I point to the pending sexual encounter.
Bread smirks. “That’s nothing.”
“Looks like something to me.”
He leans on the railing so I’m not talking to his neck. “Nah. She’s interested, but he’s not matching her energy. Bro’s eyes haven’t left her face. The old Antonio would’ve led her out the club and resurfaced tomorrow afternoon.”
“Likely story,” I mumble.
Sure, he’s been attentive to my needs. He’s good to his friends, and I’m no exception.
It’s only a matter of time before he finds his way into someone’s bed for the night.
It better not be the sofa, because I need at least seven hours of sleep to function.
I also don’t want to hear him putting Jessica Rabbit or any other woman through the frame.
I’m so worked up, I might hump a pillow if it bends right.
Bread snickers. “Go ahead and process that, Ms. PhD.”
“I’m not—this is my shit!” Bread catches my glass when I toss my hands in the air at the DJ playing a throwback I kept on repeat in the lab.
“Fuck it up then!” He urges me on as I belt out the lyrics to “Get Money.” Something behind my back catches his attention. “That’s my cue.”
Bread nods to Antonio and takes the steps two at a time to rejoin the Steel, who are standing in front of the balcony.
I don’t dance in public.
Ever.
I stay far away from anything that resembles attention and don’t give people a reason to look at me. Crowds make me nervous, and I would rather throw up before I let my Mary Dance see the light of day.
I never felt comfortable doing what’s common to everyone else. Yet here I am, twisting my heels on the floor like I won’t break an ankle.
Whistles and hollers come from the group of hard hats cheering me on.
The Steel shouts, “Go, Mimi!” to replace “Get money” in the song’s chorus.
Bread and Quincy lead a two-step to match my own.
The smile I aim at Antonio grows at the grin playing against his lips.
He’s posted up on the wall, watching me.
I found the courage to try something new tonight because of the space he gave me so I wouldn’t feel overwhelmed. An entire VIP suite with wine and snacks is excessive, but it’s thoughtful nonetheless.
Antonio is a good friend. My best friend.
I spin, allowing my hips to move on their own. One song becomes another and another.
By two a.m., I’m done.
I sweat my curls out, am seconds from crashing on this couch, and I’ve lost feeling in my feet, which are still shackled to these shoes. My buzz wore off, along with some of my deodorant. But it was a good night.
“Come on, Doe. Let’s go back.” Antonio rubs my knee.
“How do you still smell good?” I grumble.
“You smell good too.” He leans in to take a whiff and coughs. “On second thought.”
I pop an eye open and slap his vest. “Turd.”
He laughs and pulls me to my feet. “It got you up, didn’t it? You good in those?”
I shrug. “Might fall. But if it gets me down the steps and into my bed faster, I won’t complain.”
Antonio’s hand runs over his beard. “Take them off.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your heels. It’s faster to walk back to the hotel. We’ll switch shoes.”
“You’re joking,” I huff, ready to use our construction vests as a blanket and sleep right here.
He’s already out of his Timbs and waiting for me in basketball socks. “Need help with yours?”
Guess we’re doing this.
He squats in front of me and smacks my hand away when I sit back to unzip my heels. His touch is soft as he guides the zipper down and removes each one. I groan at the hard press of his palm to my foot.
“Don’t tell me you give good foot rubs.” I moan at the pressure to my arch as he kneads away years’ worth of knots.
His laugh is a low rumble. “I can be good with my hands.”
I clench my thighs and ignore the voice that’s daring me to ask him what else those hands can do. I’m so caught up in sleep and sex deprivation that I miss him slipping his boots onto my feet. My feet are swimming in his Timbs, but they’re no match for his situation.
Thick tears gather through soundless laughter that activates a snort. By some miracle, Antonio managed to squeeze his feet into my stilettos. His toes stretch over the lip, and his socks are poking through the elastic.
A rugby player in hoochie shorts and heels is a look he pulls off with his toned calves and sculpted hamstrings.
He tosses my purse over his arm and extends a hand. “Come on.”
“You might want to hold on to the railing,” I giggle.
He scoffs. “I could run fifty yards in these.” To prove it, he does some type of football fake-out—or rugby fake-out, I guess. I still struggle to follow the game.
Whoever said pride comes before the fall did not lie. Antonio takes one step down the staircase and slides the rest of the way down on his knees. Everything happens in slow motion to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On,” which is in my head courtesy of the alcohol in my system.
The good news is the private staircase is away from the dance floor. The bad news is the whole team is at the bottom of the steps he slid down. They’re all laughing.
He rights himself, flicks hair he doesn’t have over his shoulders, and sashays away with his chin high.
Tonight is a night I’ll never forget.
“Doe!”
“Coming!”