LAS VEGAS
I fly out a few days later and catch a ride to The Wolfe, the luxury boutique hotel where I’m supposed to meet Dylan. The irony’s not lost on me. It’s a weird coincidence that I’m reuniting with the guy I helped heal at a hotel carrying the same name as the boys I helped break.
I pause along a cascading water wall at the far end of the lobby and pull a compact from my purse to apply a coat of lipstick, check my reflection, and run a hand through my hair. I’m wearing it down. Dylan loves my hair. He likes to tug on it during sex. He likes how it drapes across his body, tickling him when he’s naked and I’m straddling him, holding tight to his shoulders when we have sex.
I’m nervous. I haven’t seen him since that horrible, heart-stomping evening. We haven’t talked since I left him high and dry at that game in Dallas after I was blindsided by creepy Fast Food King’s bullshit one-upmanship and Patrick’s need to be in charge.
I pinch the acupuncture spot on the web of my thumb to ground myself, take a few calming breaths, and gather my courage before I walk through the door of the darkened bar. The bar is crowded with people of all ages. My heart flutters in my chest like a teenager’s, my pulse building. But I don’t see Dylan.
What if he doesn’t show? What if for some twisted reason this is some kind of revenge plot? There are so many people here. I crane my neck but I still don’t see him. What if this is a way to get me back for leaving him with no explanation? Where is he? My palms break out in a sweat and I glance around the bar.
‘He’s not that guy,’ Hope says. ‘He’s not petty. Keep moving. One foot in front the other.’
I resume walking, past a bottleneck of people clustered at the bar, and that’s when I spot him. Dylan’s sitting at a small table in the far corner checking his phone, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. A bouquet of flowers rests on the table. Goose bumps sprout on my arms. I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited to see anyone in my entire life.
I toss my hair over my shoulder, count three, two, one, and make my way toward him, my heart beating fast, practically carving a hole in my chest. “Hey, old man.”
His eyes light up and he springs to his feet. “Evie.” He pulls me into a tight embrace. My breasts press against his hard chest, our hearts thump-thump. “God, Evie. You’re finally here.”
“Finally.” I cling to him. He smells like hope and dreams. He feels like love lost and love found. I want to disappear into his arms forever, and it’s all I can do not to burst out crying.
“I missed you,” he says.
“I missed you back.” I inhale his scent and draw a hand over his neck. We fit together like long-lost puzzle pieces snapping into place. He wraps one broad, protective hand around my shoulders, the other around my head. He weaves his fingers through my hair and kisses me. He explores my mouth with his tongue, tasting me, claiming me, devouring me.
I’m home, Dylan. Oh, sweetheart, I am home.
He kisses me, tangling his hand in my hair. He shuts the door of his penthouse suite behind me with his foot. “God, I missed you, baby.” He feathers kisses on my forehead, face, lips and neck, and pulls at the zipper of my dress.
I unbutton his shirt. My breath comes quicker. He shrugs off his shirt and I run my hands over his muscular chest, and shoulders. I’m getting turned on by every muscular rip and swell. My cocktail dress falls to the floor and I step out of it. He palms my breasts through my lace bra, rubbing a broad thumb over first one nipple, then the other. They pebble under his touch. His breath comes faster. The muscle in his jaw ticks as he unhooks my bra. I inhale. My bra gapes opens and I shrug it off.
He runs fingers down my neck, my chest, tracing circles around my breasts, pinching my nipples between his thumb and forefinger. I moan, electricity spreading in bursts to my arms, my fingers. He unzips his pants and kicks them off, then yanks off his underwear. His hard dick springs free, bobbing up toward his abdomen.
He’s bigger than I remember. Dylan McAlister’s got a gorgeous cock. Tight balls. Flat stomach. Muscular shoulders. Be still my fucking heart. He pulls my lace panties down my legs and kneels in front of me, his breath warm on my abdomen. “Spread your legs, Evie.”
I do.
“So good.” He kisses my stomach, running a hand toward my core and I grow wetter. He reaches between my legs and circles a finger around my pussy. “My mantra,” he says. “Evie’s wet pussy.” He strums his thumb across my clit and eases two fingers inside me.
I groan. “Your cock inside me, now, Dylan.”
“I’m in charge tonight, baby.” He drops his mouth to my sex. He scrapes his teeth over my clit, the scruff of his beard tickling the sensitive skin on the inside of my thigh. He thrusts his fingers in and out and I moan. “Come for me. I want to watch you come.” He looks up at me. That muscle in his jaw ticks again. His eyes are heavy with lust, his cheeks flushed. He runs those talented fingers over my clit as my breath comes quicker.
“Yes.” I grab his hair, threading my fingers through its thickness. I arch my pelvis, riding his hand that’s fucking me and I gaze down into his brilliant blue eyes. My orgasm circles and I’m panting by the time it hits me, strong in my core, tingles shooting down my legs, up my stomach to my breasts, my arms, my heart.
He wraps his arms around me and smiles. “How you doing, Lucky Charm?”
“Yeah,” I say catching my breath. “Yeah.”
“Bed,” he says and points. “On your back.”
I lie on the bed on my back. He grabs a condom from his wallet on the floor, rolls it on and then lines his beautiful cock up with my center and enters me. I am filled. I am whole.
He fucks me, thrusting in and out. I want even more of him. “Harder, Dylan.” I wrap my legs around his back, moving with him as he pounds into me. I want to feel every inch of this man. I want to burn his memory inside me. Carve him in my bones. I claw the skin down his back. The world flies away somewhere I didn’t know existed before I met him. There will always be other clients. But there will only be one Dylan McAlister.
“Evie.” He leans in and kisses me, then grabs my hair and pushes it back from my sweaty forehead. He curls my hair around his hand and kisses it, before dragging my hair down his neck, down his chest, down his stomach.
He’s so fucking hot.
“You’re gorgeous, Evie,” he pants. “I’m coming. I’m coming…” He holds onto that lock of hair as he shudders, his head tilting backward, and pushes even harder into me.
He collapses on top of me, spent, and we catch our breath. I run a hand over his sweaty back. The longer I travel down this road, the more I get lost in the fantasy of what life would look like if Dylan and I were playing this game together for real. And I’m okay with that. I’m good with that, actually. Maybe all we really needed all this time was each other.
We sit across from each other in a booth at a neon lit, crowded, casual trendy restaurant, two beers on the table. He holds my hand and turns it over in his palm. He runs his elegant fingers up and down the inside of my wrist. Sparks dance in the air around us.
“Mom’s in remission,” he says. “It’s a bitch of a fight and yet she’s up for it.”
“She’s a warrior. I’m so glad. I adore your mom.”
“How’s your mom?”
“Slow progress. Kind of hard to tell. I think she’s happier. Not as swingy.”
A waiter drops off two mile-high burgers surrounded by sweet potato fries.
“What’s going on with the church?” I ask.
“Lighthouse is still Lighthouse,” he says and shrugs. “Frankly, it’s not my concern anymore. I put in my time. I served my eighteen-year penance. I cashed in my chips and I’m out of that game forever.”
“Patrick?”
“Bless his heart,” Dylan says.
I cover a laugh.
“My brother can fight over every last dime that’s squirreled away. Mom confided one night over a bottle of Jack that the will isn’t what Patrick thinks it is.”
“Mom’s drinking Jack?”
“Mom’s doing whatever the fuck Mom wants. She’s done with people telling her how to live her life.”
‘L’Chaim!” I hold my glass up in the air and we toast.
“About the will. Patrick’s not getting the lion’s share that he’s been planning on. It’s going to an orphanage in Puerto Rico. The rest will be divided between the two of us when that day comes.”
“Good on the orphanage. Does Patrick suspect?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.” He shakes his head. “And I’m not going to be the one to tell him. Ha.”
“Tell me about the game.”
“The one here? Private. High stakes. Got in with a big money guy I met in L.A. A good man. A little gruff.”
“Gruff? Translation – asshole?”
“No. A little rough around the edges.”
“Good. Is it good?”
“It’s very good, Lucky Charm. He owns this hotel, among other things.”
‘That’s weird.’ Queasy flutters in my gut. ‘Wolfe. Same last name as those brothers.’
“So, the gruff guy who owns this hotel -- he’s like the CEO of a ginormous conglomerate or something?” I ask, chewing on a fry.
“Yes on his being the CEO. No on the conglomerate. It’s a family-run company. He owns the majority share. He’s some kind of wunderkind. He had a weird accident in high school and it set his brain on fire. He was a multi-millionaire by the time he left Stanford. He brought his brother into the business and they expanded.”
Queasy’s wound up like a Golden Retriever doing anxious laps around my stomach. And I know it’s one of the Wolfe brothers. The guy Dylan’s talking about is either Wyatt or Easton Wolfe. “What’s his name?” I ask, my palms sweating.
“Easton Wolfe.”
I stop chewing. The blood drains from my fingers. “Did you meet his brother?”
“Nope. You okay? Is there something wrong with the food?”
“The food’s great. I think I know the guy.”
“A lot of people know Easton Wolfe. He’s got his finger in a lot of pies. He has companies all over the globe.”
“This is different,” I say.
“Different? Oh. He was a client? Did something happen? Say the word and we can change hotels. We don’t need to stay here. You’re more important than a comped room.”
“Not a client.” I shake my head. “Just a guy I know from a long time ago. I haven’t seen him in years.”
“And I doubt you’ll see him here, either. I’ve played a few tournaments at this hotel and I’ve never run into him. Easton Wolfe is constantly traveling. But it’s your call, baby. I’ll do whatever you want me to. I want you to feel safe. I want you to feel comfortable.”
I hate lying, I’m shitty at it. I might be forced into the occasional white lie in the course of work but I will not lie to myself. Those days have come and gone. The universe has a fucked up sense of humor. I’ve circled back around to the Wolfe brothers. They just don’t know it yet. But I do. Can I live with that?
‘Yes,’ Hope says. ‘You are not a rickety shed. You survive when the storm blows through. This isn’t even a squall.’
And I remind myself I’m not just here to have fun or be comfortable. I’m here for Dylan and I’m here for the job. “I’m okay. We can stay here. It’s fine.” I will deal with these feelings later.
“Good,” Dylan says. “Not that it matters but my room’s comped. The food’s comped. A few shows are comped.”
“Am I comped?”
“No, darling. You’re definitely not comped.” He leans over and kisses me. He tugs my lower lip with his teeth. His breath is warm against my face, and I want his mouth everywhere on my body. My neck. My breasts. My sex. I give my head a shake. I’ve got to leave the pleasure zone and return to business. Get straight for the game. I reluctantly pull away from him.
“By the way,” Dylan says. “Your rate’s doubled.”
“About that…”
He shakes his head. “I’m good. Don’t worry about me.”
The waiter stops by. “Can I get you more drinks?”
“No thanks.”
“We’re good, thanks,” Dylan says.
“I can’t drink before a game,” I say. “Probably shouldn’t have had this one. I’ll fall asleep and then I’ll snore. They’ll never ask you back.”
“They’ll ask me back as long as I’m staked and capable of losing money. I forgot to tell you,” he says. “I already played the game. I did pretty good. A hundred thousand up.”
“Dylan!” Tingles zip up and down my spine. I’m so excited I practically topple off my seat.
He beams like a kid coming home with A’s on his report card. “I’m winning again. Winning fairly consistently. I’ve been meditating, drilling into that core wound we discovered, reciting affirmations, chanting mantras. My shitty old beliefs might derail me on occasion, but those fuckers will never own me again.”
“Yes!” I mouth a quick, ‘Thank You’ to the heavens. “But, why am I here?”
“To celebrate. Who else would I celebrate with, baby?”
“Get out!”
And that’s what we do for two solid days. We go to Cirque du Soleil, our seats ten rows back from the stage on the aisle. Close enough to see everything. Not so close to be overwhelmed. He leans in and asks, “Do you think we can do what they’re doing right now on stage?”
“I am not a double jointed fire eater who can swing from a trapeze.”
“Come on. At least try the trapeze for me?”
“God, you’re demanding,” I say, swallowing laughter.
He takes me to a five-star French restaurant where we eat delicately sauced dishes with names I cannot pronounce. We swim for hours in the aquamarine, warm waters of the hotel pool. We get a couples’ massage at the spa. Dylan hires a helicopter to take us far enough out into the dessert to see the brilliant night stars. I cling tight to his arm because heights freak me out a little.
We play blackjack at one of the hotel’s casinos, when a suited-up security guard taps Dylan on the shoulder. “Mr. McAlister?”
“Yes,” Dylan says.
He holds a hand up to his ear and whispers into it.
“Yes, I see,” Dylan says. “Tell him I’ll contact him shortly.”
“Excellent. Have a good night.” The guard walks off into the crowd.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“A business opportunity. I’ll hit the guy up later.”
We take in a concert. Center stage five rows back. “I loved this guy when I was a teenager,” I say, jumping up and down along with everyone else in the auditorium. “No one rocked a pair of purple tights, platform shoes, ratted hair, and eye liner like Johnny Stone did.”
“Throw your bra on stage and flash him your boobs,” Dylan hollers over the din.
I smack him over the head with a glo stick. “You just want to see my tits.”
“Yes, please.” He waggles his eyebrows.
“Dirty old man.”
“Some things never change, baby.”
He fucks me in the shower, pulling my hair back, wrapping it around his hand. The water beats down on us and he slaps my ass, his other hand curved around the top of my pelvis as he pounds me from behind. His cock fills me. His warmth envelopes me. He feels so good and I’m moaning.
“You miss me, Evie?”
“So much, Dylan.”
“Not as much as I missed you.” He reaches a hand around and strums his fingers over my clit until I cry his name and arch and buck against his hand, pleasure coursing through my body. Pleasure comes in rocky waves, crashing everywhere within me. I bite my lip, hit the tipping point, and come in shakes and shudders – little earthquakes.
When I can finally breathe again I grind back against him, taking all of him deep, then deeper inside me. “Come for me, Dylan.”
He roams his hands over my breasts, pinching my nipples, his breath coming faster. I push back against him almost as hard as he’s taking me. It feels like we’re on a roller coaster and I think we’ve known each other forever. Maybe God created us to be together. Maybe this was God’s plan all along.
“Do you want to go shopping?” he asks the next day.
“Don’t care, old man.”
“I’d like to get you something to go with the necklace.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I want to.”
An hour later I stare at all the brilliant baubles in the jewelry cases, the diamond horseshoe pendant he gave me resting comfortably on my breastbone.
“Do you have any earrings that go with her necklace?” Dylan asks the clerk.
“Happy to show her options,” he says, unlocking a drawer, pulling out small black velvet boxes and placing them on the glass countertop. “The round cut two carat studs would go perfectly with your necklace. Try them on.”
I remove my earrings and put in the studs. “They’re gorgeous. Dylan. What do you think?”
He’s wandered a few yards away. He’s staring into a different case. He’s looking at engagement rings. For a second I forget how to breathe and I tug on a lock of my hair, winding it around my fingers. “Dylan, what do you think?”
He walks toward me, a funny look on his face. “About? Oh, the earrings. They look great. Do you like them?”
“I love them.”
He kisses me sweetly. “Sold. Ring them up, please.”
Two days spin by in a flash. It’s laughter and sex. Glamour and sex. Affection and sex. We’re back in our ‘old married couple’s routine, finishing each other’s sentences, egging each other on.
We lie next to each other on a king-sized bed in his suite at the WW Vegas boutique hotel and casino. Electric candlelight flickers from sconces across the thin green and gold pinstriped walls cocooning our suite. There’s a view of the Strip in one direction and the brilliantly lit aquamarine pool in the other. Vegas is the epitome of glitz but this place is elegant. And yet a part of me misses that that kitschy little motel in Sugar Grove.
I trace Dylan’s freckles with my finger, drawing constellations on his high cheekbones. I know we’re only got this weekend. The time to let him go draws closer but I’m going to hold tight to him for as long as I can.
I’ve never really experienced anyone like him. Because of Dylan I learned my biggest weakness could also be my strongest strength. My empathic reactions — my most tragic wound — is transformed into my super power. My life would be perfect if I could have Dylan in it every day go to bed with him every night and wake up every morning spooned up against him.
Will I meet another man I’m attracted to as much as Dylan? Who knows? What I do know is that it’s finally okay for me to be empathic. No more pushing it away, no more keeping it under wraps. It’s mine to own. Using my empathic ability with clients is already a big messy stew of passion and sex and sadness.
But if I can help heal these broken men, help them get their power back, I’m cool with that. I’m signing up for a wild ride, but I joined this ruthless rodeo when I was born into my crazy family.
“We never actually talked about why you left me swinging in Dallas,” Dylan says, playing with my hair.
“Yeah, about that,” I say, unsure if I should share the details.
“Patrick told me he scared you off.”
“He did?” Did Patrick also tell him what went down with creepy Glenn?
“He said he gave you some kind of ‘Come to Jesus’ lecture about you not being the right girl for me.”
I nod. “I’m sorry I left the way I did. Everything got overwhelming really quickly.”
“You had to go, Evie. Ripping off the bandage was probably best for both of us. How else were you going to take care of your mom? Hey, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”
“What?” I say and tickle that spot under his ribs, the one that always earns a smile. I take a mental picture of the creases around his eyes, he way his long, brown lashes brush against his high cheekbones. I burn his laugh into my memory forever and ever, fucking-amen. I tuck that laugh inside my heart, in a file that reads ‘I Will Never Forget’ because I will never forget Dylan McAlister’s laugh. He’s water on a stifling hot summer day. He’s love on a cold, hard, mean winter day.
He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “It’s going to sound weird.”
Dylan McAlister’s the man who marked me with a diamond necklace. The first man to make love to me in years. The first man to make me come. He’s the real deal. I’ll give this man my soul. I’ll ink his name on my skin. He’s already burned in my heart forever. “Tell me what you want.”
“Your hair,” he says. “I want to cut your hair.”