I send him a kiss emoji and put my phone in my clutch.
Should I feel guilty? I used to believe good wives didn’t do things like this. That version of me is quiet tonight.
When I get out of the car, the cool night air slides over my bare legs. Goosebumps dot my thighs and exposed shoulders. I smooth my dress and check my reflection in the car window. The woman staring back at me looks ready for anything.
I chose this.
My heels click against the pavement. The glass doors slide open and the noise hits me first.
Laughter from somewhere near the craps tables. Cards shuffling, chips clicking together. A hundred conversations blending into one low roar.
I feel powerful and sexy as I stroll in. The heels add four inches to my height and a dangerous angle to my walk. A man at a table does a double take. A security guard’s attention snags on my legs and lingers there.
Good.
I bypass the poker room and head to the bar for a drink instead. I need to think. How do I get Tony’s attention? Is he even working tonight? Shit, I didn’t consider that. But it’s Saturday—the manager should be here.
The bar is tucked into a corner near the main floor. I slide onto a stool.
“You’re back.” The bartender is in her late thirties with a sleeve tattoo on her forearm—roses and thorns. Her dark hair is pulled back.
I don’t remember seeing her last time, and I would have. My pulse jumps. “You know me?”
“I remember faces.” She picks up a clean glass and polishes it anyway. “Especially faces Tony asks about.”
Heat floods through me. “Tony asked about me?”
“The brunette in the red dress who couldn’t pay her tab.” A knowing smile. “I’m supposed to tell him if you come back in. He doesn’t usually ask about anyone.”
My hands are shaking and I don’t know what to do with them, so I press them flat against my thighs.
“Is that good or bad?”
“Depends.” She sets down the glass and leans forward on her elbows. “You’re not in trouble, are you?”
She’s looking at me with an assessing gaze, and I’m suddenly curious what happens to people in trouble.
“I’m here because I want to be.”
“Good.” She straightens up. “What’re you drinking?”
“Whiskey. Neat.”
Not my usual. Mrs. Robert Matthews drinks Chardonnay at charity galas and martinis at dinner parties.
But whoever this Shannon is becoming? She drinks whiskey in bars while powerful men ask about her.
The bartender pours generously and she pushes it toward me.
“I’m Diana.”
“Shannon.”
“I know.” She grins. “Like I said. Tony asked.”
I wrap my fingers around the glass, but before I take a sip, a hand touches my elbow.
It’s a young guy in a casino security vest who hardly looks old enough to work here. There’s a nervous energy surrounding him like he’s delivering a message he doesn’t fully understand.
