“Well it was on national TV, so …” He steps aside and gestures for me to get into the car.
I hesitate, not sure if he meant for our matching attire to be meaningful of whether it was on a whim, but I get in. This has got to be the Vegas version of the Britney and Justin matching denim at the AMAs.
On the ride, I can’t stop glancing at Riff. A gold-sequined tux jacket is ridiculous but somehow he’s pulling it off. The way it fits him through the shoulders, the way it tapers down his chest.
I try to see past everything I know about who he is to the world, and catch sight of what’s underneath, what I’ve learned recently.
He is not a wannabe cowboy; he’s an indie-folk hipster.
He’s not promoting bro-country; he’s making fun of it.
He’s not a ladies’ man; he’s actually … kind of a feminist?
From a distance over the past year, looking at his previous work and watching him perform the songs he wrote about me, he seemed tough, cocky, carefree in a way that made my blood boil. Next to him in a tiny space, though, after our studio time and what we accomplished in the writer’s lounge, he seems … quiet, reserved, and almost … resigned. Resigned to what, I can’t say. Resigned to this sham relationship maybe. Resigned to having to play nice with me?
We arrive at daXx’s mansion, and I have to say that the Vegas theme is appropriate because the place already looks like a mini luxury casino resort with the pool and the palm trees and the flashy lights and the gold accents.
The limo waits in a valet line, while guests ahead of us have arrived in Lamborghinis, vintage convertibles, matte-black SUVs, or limos like ours.
Drone cameras hum overhead to get footage of the whole thing.
We step out onto a red carpet, as though this is the Grammys, and pose for a few photos. I take Riff’s hand. He looks surprised for an instant, but of course turns to the camera and smiles—because that’s why we’re here—and I paste on my own smile to make everyone believe I’m the happiest girl in the world. Maybe I could have been, if I hadn’t gone and ruined it all with “Friction.”
Riff squeezes my hand, just slightly, brushing his callused fingertips over my skin, and now I’m short of breath. I’m not sure how I make it from the curb to the entrance, but next thing I know, attendants dressed like showgirls approach us with champagne in shot glasses on silver trays, and we both let go of each other to take one. We step inside to a faux casino setup that fills the open-concept main floor, featuring blackjack, poker, roulette, and a row of slot machines.
All the chips are branded with a cameo of daXx wearing a crown whose points are topped with little hearts.
Executives schmooze one another at the bar, leaning in to talk over their glasses of whiskey and bourbon.
A remix of Imagine Dragons’ “Take Me to the Beach” pulses through the space.
It’s not lost on me how fitting the song is, considering that we’re fifteen miles from the beach, while also listening to a band from Las Vegas at a party with a Vegas theme.
Despite all the distractions, I catch Riff absentmindedly mouthing the words “Nothing, not a penny, never wanna hear you preach, take-take-take-take-take me to the beach,” and I freeze on the spot.
“You like Imagine Dragons?”
He stops and turns to me, hands in his pockets. “Am I not allowed to?”
I still have to remind myself he’s not who I thought he was. “Well, yeah, of course you are, I just … didn’t expect that.”
“No, I don’t guess you would have.”
“They’re one of my favorites.”
Now he lifts an eyebrow. “Okay. You have my attention.”
“I’ve been a fan since beforeNight Visions.”
“Lies.”
“Seriously. I saw them play at Spaceland in 2010.”
“So you know theirreallyearly stuff? ‘I Need a Minute’? ‘Look How Far We’ve Come’? ‘Uptight’?”
“‘Hear Me,’” I say. “‘All Eyes,’ ‘I Don’t Mind.’”
He gapes for a second, then says, “A lot of those songs got me through high school.”
