West Coast Love Page 4
“And . . . you think you can win? Are you a better dancer than you are a singer?”
“If there’s money involved—yes.” I do a double take at her raised-eyebrow expression. “Is that surprising?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, the night is young, Ms. Aquino.”
“Well then, Mr. Silva, I suppose we should find a way to get to the club first, because I’m dying to see you on the dance floor.” Her steps speed up, and when we close in on Darrell and Ellie, now stalled behind a big group of women wearing red hats, she grabs my hand and pulls me through another set of doors to exit the lobby.
My insides leap at the contact, and I lace my fingers with hers. “Who knew you had such a competitive spirit?”
“I want a cut of that bet . . . and what happens in Vegas, right?”
6
VICTORIA
What happens in Vegas is F-U-N.
Bubbles drift down from the ceiling in sheets, sticking to my hair, neck, and shoulders, filling the dance floor with suds up to my calves. My body’s running on adrenaline, spurred by the excitement of being far away from home, away from everything familiar, in this club where the mess in my heart is lost in the mess on the dance floor. Hands high in the air, I’m gyrating and jumping to an unknown dubstep mix that has yet to end.
How long have we been dancing to this song, anyway?
Don’t know and don’t care.
No one around me does either. Bodies flail and flounder like fish out of water. Ellie and Darrell haven’t stopped groping each other, and whether out on the dance floor, at the bar, or huddled around a round table, they’ve been inseparable for the hours we’ve hung out tonight. And Joel—who lost the hundred bucks after Darrell and Ellie outran us and beat us by a foot—dances nonsensically, punching the air like he’s got beef with it.
And me? I’m swimming in limbo, in between the beats of the song, in the fizz of bubbles, and in the thrill of swinging my limbs in wild abandon.
“I can’t believe I even considered not coming,” I yell. My sister was right. This was exactly what I needed. To let loose, to have some fun. And what better way than with a guy like Joel, who I trust, a guy who was gracious enough not to bring up my almost-tattoo and the fact I upchucked on his shoes. The same guy who has remained completely sober with me since I have to be lucid for tomorrow’s 9 a.m. audition. Though to an outsider, we probably appear to be completely high or drunk along with the rest of the club.
It’s also a boon that Joel’s not at all bad on the eyes. I thought he was handsome and mysterious before—I mean, what’s not to like with his deep-set dark brown eyes, muscled pecs and arms, and lean waist? He handles a camera that’s about half my size with such ease, and this strength extends to his quiet personality.
But now . . . now, uninhibited, with his shirt like a second skin, his attraction factor has doubled. Quadrupled.
It’s probably the Vegas goggles I’m wearing. It might be that I’m so damn lonely.
But right now, I remember that I had a life before Luke, a life I built for myself from my own need for adventure. I started with a blog on a free server in college, reviewing local San Francisco restaurants. Two years later, my blog now garners thousands of views a day, not to mention gets pins on Pinterest, has advertisers, and is relied upon for restaurant reviews. I took the five-year route to get through school, but I left it a businesswoman.
Right now, it feels like I can get back into that bubble of invincibility I’d once lived in.
“I’m going to kick this callback’s butt!” I scream, with newfound resolve.
“What?” Joel peers at me through the bubbles that crown his head and outline the bottom of his beard.
“Nothing!” I laugh. The shift in my mood in twenty-four hours has been dizzying, topped off by this unbelievable turn of events that has me in a club I would never have thought to come into, with Joel, the last person who I expected to see in Vegas. Not only does the guy actually speak, but he dances. He laughs. He even sings at the top of his lungs. He is the opposite of what I thought him to be.
Swept into the next song, I stick my arms out to the side and spin. But my feet trip on themselves and lose traction on the slippery floor. My arms flail to find balance, though I know what’s coming next: a good, hard fall on my butt.
Just as I clamp my eyes shut and brace for the crash, Joel’s arms slide around my waist from the front. I grab the fabric of his T-shirt—he had peeled off the button-down shirt he wore earlier—and he palms the small of my back, smashing me against him and bringing my cheek against his chest. While I can’t decipher what he’s saying, the vibrato of his voice thrums against my skin, and I can tell he’s laughing.
“Oh no, oh no!” I say amid giggles. With Joel’s extra weight we’re top-heavy. Our legs tangle as we both slip and crash down to the ground.
Somehow, he maneuvers it so he breaks my fall, and I’m on top of him, legs splayed against his, chest on chest. My hair falls in clumps around his face.
“You okay?” he asks. As his chest rises when he inhales, my body is carried up along with it.
I prop myself up by planting my hands against Joel’s sides, and I explode in laughter. “Yes. Are you?” A line of bubbles trails across his nose, and under the occasional strobe of colored lights, I notice that there’s a scar where his beard ends on his cheek. His lips, hidden behind his facial hair, are thick and kissable.
I’ve never been this close to Joel before. His camera was a barrier, his shyness always a hindrance. But away from his work—like this—Joel is a completely different man. Or maybe it’s that while he’s gotten to know my family very well, I don’t know anything about him at all.
“Believe me. It could be way worse.” With a huge smile on his face, he’s staring at me with an expression I can’t decipher. My face heats with his examination, made worse—or is it better?—with how I’m lying on top of him. The sounds around us have been muted. The bubbles all but disappear, and what’s left is only us, damp and hot. And wet.
My finger grazes the layer of foam on his face, tracing the tip of the scar, when his hand stops mine. His grasp on my wrist jolts my heart awake, but his grip relaxes the next second, and he lowers my hand gently. His eyes lock onto mine.
With other men, my first instinct is to look away. With Joel, I don’t. There’s no intimidation in his stare, not a trace of the über-alpha I am often attracted to. There’s no attempt on his part to impress me, to woo me with clever words—it’s as if he doesn’t have the need to prove himself to anyone at all. As his hand glides up my forearm, to my elbow, then up to my cheek, tingles course through me like bubbles on the surface of my skin. Curiosity serves to heighten my primal urges. How would his lips feel on mine? Would the scratch of his beard tickle or bring me bliss?
So when he wraps his hand around the back of my neck and lowers my face to his, I don’t panic. This all seems par for the course, part of the purpose of this trip, to do something out of character. His kiss slows my heartbeat, turns up the volume to high. The stroke of his tongue against mine mimics the whoosh of blood in my ears. He maneuvers me to kneeling, then to standing. Unlike my jelly legs and brain, Joel’s fully in control as he walks me to the rear of the dance floor, backward to a darkened corner. Both of his hands are on my face now, while mine bunch his shirt at the waist. I press my stomach against his erection, which is calling for me to explore it.
“Yep. It could be way, way worse,” Joel says in between kisses.
“Is that it?” I laugh into his mouth, then nibble on his lip, because what the hell, right? “You don’t sound so positive.”
He disengages, eyes flashing. His hands travel down my back, crawl to the curve of my ass. “What if I said I couldn’t stop thinking of you? That last night, I wished I’d gotten to do this.” He dips his head and runs his lips behind my ear, taking my earlobe into his mouth.
I gasp at his bravado and the warmth that spreads through me. Delight runs up my
spine, and I’m emboldened by it. “Liar. Even after I got sick all over you?”
“Mm-hm.” He moans into my skin.
I giggle at the slight tickle of his breath on the pulse point below my jawline. “I might need for you to prove it.”
“Your wish is my command.” He presses his mouth to mine, and I lean back for support, against a wall. I’m dizzy with lust, lost somewhere between his hands gripping me against him and his body covering mine. Air rushes out of me, my legs seconds from giving way. This spell that Vegas has placed over me has brought out the animalistic, the uncontrolled, the carnal, and right now, I like it. There have been too many days of me checking my emotions, thinking too much. God knows, there have been enough moments in the last week when I’ve felt like a loser, cast away and unwanted—the fool—and I’m done with it. Why not take this leap, make a rash decision? I’m in the hands of Joel, all rough exterior but kind, and his lips and hands know exactly how to take me to the verge of melting. Neither of us has had a drop to drink, so I know this physical attraction is true. I’m safe with him.
“Let’s go.” My fingers run along the waistband of his jeans, and I feel his abs cave in as he sucks in air.
“Sure?” His eyes flash to mine through a veil of thick lashes.
I nod, as sure as my broken heart. As sure as I am about wanting to turn this page so I can move on and slide those bad memories of Luke behind me.
* * *
We walk along the darkened periphery of the room, weaving our way through the waves of people, and find Ellie and Darrell hunched over a two-person standing round table near the bar, each with a straw in their mouth, sharing a bowl of a red cocktail. I pull Ellie away as Joel speaks to Darrell.
Her eyebrows scrunch downward. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
“Yes.”
She gets ready to turn. “Okay. I’ll tell him I’m leaving, too.”
“No.” I slide in front of her, accidentally bumping someone as they walk around us. “I mean, I’m leaving with Joel.”
Her eyes go wide. “You sure? I don’t mind. Friends before fucks, always.”
I can’t help it. I laugh, despite the serious look Ellie has on her face.
“Not funny. I’m so for real.”
“I’m for real, too. I’m sober, and so is he. It’s all good.”
Her eyes narrow as if she’s conducting her own field sobriety test. “Your sister is going to kill me.”
I shrug. “Then don’t tell her.” Looking over my shoulder, I see Joel making his way to the door. I back away from Ellie, pointing at her. “I’ll be okay. See you in the morning. Text you, okay?”
I spin and walk toward the exit, reaching for Joel’s warm palm.
Once outside the club, he unabashedly pulls me in by the waist. Though it’s night, the bright lights of businesses, billboards, and hotels light up the Strip like it’s daytime. The kiss he plants on my lips infuses me with the rush of Vegas and a feeling of wakefulness, pride in my decision, to be with this man.
By pure will, we somehow pull apart, and Joel slings an arm around my shoulders, tucking me into him. I wrap mine around his waist, revel in the way we fit as we walk swiftly back to the MGM Grand. Then, my senses return. “Where are you staying?”
“Back at the MGM.”
“Me, too.”
It almost feels meant to be. But I push the thought aside as we enter the lobby, ignoring the stares of people since we are a wet mess.
An elevator is waiting for us when we turn the corner, so we jump into it and shut the doors despite a group of people running to catch it. Once the doors close and Joel presses the number eight, we fly into each other’s arms once again, lips seeking one another, bringing my heart to running speed. His hands thread into my tangled hair; mine claw at his shirt so I can get under it. I want to touch his body, want to see it in totality.
We barely pull apart when the doors open to a group of people waiting on the other side. As if the sight of us is old hat, they simply part as we walk between them, his hand around my waist, me limp with lust next to him. He doesn’t let go of me as he fishes his key card from his pocket, and his grip strengthens as we step into the room. And when the door shuts the rest of the world away, leaving us alone in a room lit by the view of the Strip outside our window, I’m so keyed, so primed, so wet, that I’m tearing at his clothes, at his belt buckle, at the button on his jeans. “I want them off.” I growl at the effort of trying to pull them down.
“Patience.” He stills my hands, bringing them to his lips. He feathers a kiss over my knuckles. “Victoria.”
I’m anything but patient, because I feel the vibe slowing. My conscience is trying to claw its way through my haze. “Too much talking, not enough getting naked.”
His lips quirk up, and he threads his hands with mine. “I’m not . . . wanting a relationship.”
I match his smile. “I don’t want one either.”
“You don’t?”
“No.” I laugh. “I just . . . want to go with it. With this. And you might lose me altogether if—”
“Oh no, I’m not going to let that happen.” He spins me around by the waist, making me gasp. With his lips on my neck, his hands grope my breasts, slide down toward my abs, and pull my shirt up and over my head. His hands slip to the front of my jeans, unbutton them with precision. The sound of the zipper sliding down makes me suck in air in anticipation. “Are you back with me?”
My eyes shut. “Hell yes.”
“Get on the bed.” His voice vibrates against my skin; his instruction is an aphrodisiac. I crawl onto the bed, and while on my knees I face him. He’s standing in front of me, his abs in full glorious view. I run my hand down his body, and my tongue follows the trail of hair from his naval down lower, to where his jeans begin. As I look up at Joel, his eyes hooded with desire, I flip the button open and slide the zipper down, reaching in to grip his cock.
All of a sudden I’m so hungry. I want him in my mouth, in me. But he bends down and catches my lips with his, coaxes me to lie back on the bed. His hands work swiftly, sliding my jeans off my body, and I wiggle out of my pants and underwear. The need to be with him is so overwhelming that I use my feet to help kick his jeans off, bringing us to a crescendo of laughter; then we quiet down when we’re both fully naked and the stark truth is finally in front of us.
I say it first, because I want it off my chest. “I promise I want this. No strings.”
“Okay.” He looks as if he has more to ask, but doesn’t, thank goodness. He pulls his wallet out of his jeans and takes out a condom. Back next to me, he kisses me tenderly, and I surrender to the simmer of desire, spreading my legs for him to enter me. I take him in above me, groan freely as he fills me, fuel his pace with my pleas, because with every thrust of pleasure, he displaces the sadness that has engulfed me for days. I want him to keep going, forever, but my belly coils with the impeding sign.
“Joel, I think . . . oh my . . .”
“Fuck.” His voice is frantic, as if surprised. “Me, too—”
But before he can say anything else, I raise myself to meet his climax, wrapping my legs around him as I shudder against his body with his name on my lips.
7
JOEL
August 10
Balancing the bag of donuts and two to-go coffee cups in my hand, I slide the key card into the reader of the hotel room door so the light turns green. I enter the dim room, solely lit by a sliver of sun coming through the blackout curtains. To my left I can see the outline of a woman in my bed, her curves partially covered by the sheets.
The place is a wreck. Clothes, mine and hers, litter the floor—signs of a night that I will remember every second of over the days to come. That’s what happens when you’re sober. Every second is catalogued, the minutiae remembered. Not the waxy, fuzzy memory of beer goggles and the hazy, slow-motion movement of bodies, but the acute sound of skin against skin, the soprano of the final cry, then the gasp of the second round.
The begging for a third.
Last night was fucking spectacular. Better than.
Making all of this harder. Because this isn’t a stranger I happened to find a connection with. She isn’t someone I can simply walk away from because I don’t have ties to her. I know this woman professionally, and now intimately. The memory of her is imprinted on my brain, my DNA, my skin. Beyond attraction, beyond sex, I respect her. I care about her. I’m not sure how this goodbye is supposed to go.
The bed tips as I perch myself on the edge and set both cups on the nightstand. My fingers are drawn to Victoria’s skin, to her hair draped against the curve of her shoulders, to the line of her spine. I let them hover, savor the heat of her body, before I gently touch her.
Her voice is the mewl of a cat when she turns toward me. I finger the strands of hair that slice across her face; her eyes flutter open. A second later, when she registers who I am and where she is, a smile splays across her perfect face.
My thumb pauses over her heart-shaped lips. Lips that kissed mine, lips that screamed my name. I bend down and kiss them. She tastes like morning, of sweet innocence. Except she isn’t nearly as innocent as I thought she was before I took her to bed. “Hey, sunshine.”
“Hey.” The blacks of her eyes shift upward to the dresser and the two coffee cups, and her face melts into a smile. “You’re amazing. Thank you.” Then, her face falls. “You’re dressed all the way down to your shoes. What time is it?”
My insides wince at her tone. I expected this. Victoria isn’t the kind to do a simple encounter. And despite the temptation to promise her more, to see her again, I know, realistically, it won’t work. Whether or not I get this gig, I don’t ever stick around for anything or anyone longer than a night. “It’s a little after seven. Sorry for waking you.”
“No, it’s perfect. I have something for work this morning. My alarm was set to go off in a half hour.” She sits up, bringing the sheet to cover her breasts. Demure, despite the tiger I know she is. She accepts a coffee cup from me, settles both hands around the container. “No regrets, right?”