4. Serena
SERENA
Sometimes, I wrestle with my demons.
Other times, we snuggle up and cuddle.
Today, I plan to drown them with champagne.
Violent—possibly.
Effective—absolutely.
—Serena’s Secret Thoughts
“I’ve got it,” I yell, tripping over a shoe and just barely catching myself before I faceplant.
It’s been almost a year, but I still can’t reconcile the way I move now with the way I moved before I tore my ACL a second time last fall.
Just another reason I’m hoping there’ll be a server standing in front of a cart filled with everything I ordered from room service when I open the penthouse door.
One of many reasons, to be honest. But hey, we’re in Vegas.
I’m not going for honesty. I’m going for self-medicating in the form of carbs.
I glance quickly in the mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back at me.
My messy strawberry-blonde hair could use a trim and a solid keratin treatment almost as much as the bags under my eyes would benefit from more help than any eye patch would ever even try to say it could provide.
I used to be a force on the field and off it.
Now I look more like a before commercial waiting for the makeover so she can sparkle in the after.
Oh well. I’m not fixing any of that this weekend. Instead, I straighten my hair and my shirt before looking through the peephole and do a little happy dance when I see the silver-domed trays waiting to be wheeled in.
“Thank you so much,” I tell the server as I swing the door open and step aside as he wheels in the cart and lifts the lids.
“Will there be anything else, Miss Kingston?”
“No, thank you.”
Okay, maybe I over-ordered, but seriously, it all looks so good.
A charcuterie board dotted with fresh fruit, meat, veggies, and cheese, another specialty cheese tray—because nobody ever believed you can truly have enough cheese—an artisanal breadbasket, and a few bottles of champagne tucked into an ice bucket fill the cart.
Definitely too much food, but hey, when in Vegas.
“What the hell, Serena? Are you planning on inviting the entire touring troupe of Magic Mike over while I’m in my meeting?” Liv asks, grabbing a grape.
“Nope.” I pop the cork on the first bottle of champagne and consider drinking right from the bottle. “You go do your work thing. I’ll be here enjoying my bounty.”
“Did you read the text yet?” She sits down on the back of the couch, dressed to impress in a black silk suit, her dark hair pulled back from her face, and her lips painted a beautiful crimson red.
I think I want to be her when I grow up.
There’s no way she has time for this, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping her.
“No.” Ignorance might not be the most mature way to handle . . . well, anything, but it’s all I’ve got going for me at the moment. Not sure I’d call it bliss, but it’s a start.
“You know.” She softens her voice and squeezes my hand. “You’re going to have to talk to him at some point, right?”
“My dad?” I ask, absolutely positive he’s not who she meant.
Liv drops my hand and rolls her eyes. “Him too.”
Because seriously, more than one man has me on edge today.
Screw this.
I find the flute, fill it to the brim, and drink the entire glass before repeating.
“A little early for champagne, isn’t it?” Liv asks before looking at the clock and slipping on her heels.
Ignoring her, I rip into the heavenly scented rosemary focaccia bread and drag it through the burrata before biting into it.
Oh wow. That’s delicious.
“Umm . . . Serena?” She moves the champagne bottle out of the way as I reach for a ripe, red strawberry from the tray and glare at her. “Are we eating our feelings today, carbie Barbie?”
“Whatever, bitchy Barbie.” I pop the berry into my mouth and toss a grape at her head. We may sound mean to outsiders, but when sarcasm is your love language, mean is up for interpretation.
Liv is more tough love than kill them with kindness. Most days, I wish I could be more like her. “I’m contemplating drinking my feelings, which means I need carbs to soak up all the alcohol therapy, thank you very much.”
It’s a solid plan, but it’s also a whole lot of feelings.
Which means a whole lot of champagne.
It may not be my best decision, but as someone who’s done nothing but make smart decisions her whole life—well, mostly smart decisions—I think getting stupid drunk and forgetting everything sounds like a great plan.
Forgetting Hendrix.
My job.
My dad.
My lack of direction . . .
Basically my whole fucked up life.
She pushes my hair away from my face and smiles. “Whatever you say.”
Wow. I must really look bad for her to soften.
“What time is your meeting?” I glance at my phone again, then flip it face down on the table and shove it away.
I know I should just look. Rip the damn Band-Aid off and get it over with.
Hell, I’m probably building this up to be so much worse than it actually is.
But I can’t. Not yet. Instead, I eye the champagne, again contemplating just going straight for the bottle instead of the glass.
“Better question. What time will you be back? No one knows us here, and I definitely need to get drunk tonight.”
She grabs the half-empty bottle of Cristal and holds it out of reach, like she can read my mind. “In what world do you think they don’t know you here?”
“In a world where we’re half a country away from Kroydon Hills and all its residents. Now give me my champagne, go to your stupid partners’ meeting, and get back here so I can get drunk without having to defend myself to anyone tomorrow.” God, I hate when she’s right.
“You’re going to feel like hell tomorrow,” she warns, checking that she has everything she needs in her bag.
I’m so proud of her. She’s worked her ass off for partner, and nobody in this world deserves it more than Liv. “Yeah, well . . . you’re going to wake up a partner in your firm tomorrow. So we can act like we’re both celebrating tonight.”
Damn it. My voice cracks on the last few words.
Olivia St. James has everything in the world going for her.
She’s strong and smart and beautiful and the biggest badass of a businesswoman I’ve ever known. Well, besides her mother. She deserves this, and I can’t wait to celebrate her success with her tonight.
“Serena . . . Maybe just talk to—”
Oh fuck no. “We are not speaking his name.”
My blood thrums in my ears.
I’m not doing this.
Not now.
Not again.
“How old are we?” she groans and throws her hands up in defense when I grind my teeth. “Forget I asked. I’ll be back in a few hours. Try to stay sober enough to leave the room when I get back, okay?”
Lifting a shoulder, I force the black silk strap of my dress back in place and smile. “Whatever you say, Liv.”
There’s not a chance in hell I’m staying sober tonight.
Oh. My. God.
Why can I feel my heartbeat behind my eyes?
And why is it thrumming in time with a phone ringing?
Not ringing. More like screeching.
Oh God. Pretty sure that’s not my ring tone.
I try to force my eyes open but fail miserably. “Livvy . . .”
Well, that’s not good. Pretty sure it shouldn’t hurt to speak. My throat feels like I swallowed splinters wrapped in fire, and the way my stomach is churning, I think I tried to douse it with alcohol instead of water.
“Liv . . .” I try again, a little louder this time.
Ohhh . . . That hurts worse.
“Olivia, I swear to God, if you don’t turn off your goddamned alarm, I’m going to throw your phone out the window.” I try to turn her way.
Emphasis on try because a strong arm wraps around me and yanks me back against a solid chest.
What the actual fuck?
“It’s Vegas, little Kingston. The windows don’t open.”
Vegas . . . We’re in Vegas.
I crack my eye open—not as easy as it should be, but okay—to find Olivia on one side of me, which means . . . Oh God . . .
“Mornin’, beautiful.” Rafe Langley smiles like it’s the most normal thing in the world for—wait . . .
I look over Olivia to the other side of the massive bed—massive enough for four of us to be sleeping in it.
Liv and I share whenever we feel like it.
The bed, that is.
Not men.
A girl has to have some lines, and that’s one neither of us cross. Which means—I look down at my fully clothed self—that line is still intact.
Thank you, Lord.
My brain fights to remember why Olivia’s client and his brother have basically made us the insides of an extremely sexy sandwich.
“Why are you here, Rafe?” My voice comes out a hoarse whisper.
Water . . . I need water.
And an entire bottle of aspirin.
And maybe a cup of tea and honey.
“We’re in the penthouse suite,” Liv snaps as my stomach churns. “There’s three bedrooms and two couches. Why are there four of us in one bed?”
Great question.
What the hell happened last night?
Liv grabs her phone and silences us all as she walks out of the room with Logan hot on her heels, and I push away Rafe’s hand and try to sit up. Try being the operative word because it’s harder than I expected.
This is why I don’t drink. Ironic since, if I did drink, it probably wouldn’t affect me as much as it does right now. Damn, my head hurts. “What the hell did we do last night?”
Rafe sits up next to me, his bare chest flexing in the intense sunlight streaming through the windows.
It’s a nice chest. Plenty of abs, a few tattoos, and a light dusting of hair.
But it does absolutely nothing for me. It’s a shame, really.
He’s a good-looking man. Shaggy brown hair, big brown eyes, muscles on muscles and abs for days.
But does a single butterfly take flight in my stomach?
Nope.
Not a one.
Fuck you, Hendrix Sinclair, for ruining men for me.
“Do you really not remember?” he asks, reaching for a shirt on the floor and sniffing it before throwing it back on.
Eww. Men are gross.
I think . . . hard. And I’m a little ashamed to admit thinking hurts.
“I remember blackjack.” I crawl across the mattress, a little too aware that I’m in a slinky, skintight black dress with no bra and a tiny little thong.
There’s no way I didn’t just flash this man an ass cheek.
I make the mistake of glancing in the mirror as I grab a sweater to throw on.
My hair that looked soft and wavy last night is a long, knotted mess of stringy curls this morning.
But hey, at least I don’t have raccoon eyes.
My bags are even worse now, but they’re not smeared black, so I guess that’s a win. Yay for good mascara.
“You don’t need to put on clothes for me, little Kingston.”
Gorgeous and cocky.
Wow, do I have a type.
“Yes, I do.” I debate brushing my hair but settle for a messy bun instead because I might actually be scared of how much a brush would hurt at the moment. I need a shower and shampoo and enough conditioner to detangle a bear. “And stop calling me little Kingston.”
“Well, at least you remember meeting me.” He grins.
“I also remember telling you I wasn’t interested.
” It would have been so much easier if I was.
As pieces of the night begin to fit into place, I picture his smile and remember liking it and him as we talked.
He felt safe. Just not in a sexy way at all .
. . Because apparently, I am well and truly broken.
Not that Rafe didn’t try. He flirted like a champ at the blackjack table while—
“Holy shit. Did Logan bet Olivia that she’d marry him or is my memory just fucked enough to make me think that happened?”
This time, Rafe’s smile is slow and a little devious. Unfortunately, it still doesn’t do anything for me. “Not exactly.”
Okay . . . maybe my memory is playing tricks on me.
“So they didn’t get married by Elvis last night?” Guess I can chalk that up to a drunken Vegas hallucination. No more champagne for me for a while.
“Oh no,” Rafe laughs. “They totally got married. You walked her down the aisle and gave her away. Logan didn’t bet that she’d marry him. He bet he’d beat her at blackjack, and them getting married was what he won.”
Umm . . . I guess I’m not the only one going back to a big fat mess at home.