“I’m fine.” I smile. “Thank you.”
“Here.” He comes closer and hands me a can of Diet Coke. “You look like you could use the caffeine.”
“That bad, huh?”
I take the can, and Tom’s fingers linger on mine a beat too long. Our eyes meet. Nothing flutters inside because he isn’t Bash Murray and, you know, there’s an elephant in the room in the shape of a wedding ring on his finger.
“You seem nervous out there on the floor. You shouldn’t be. You’re a natural.” He lowers his hand, but I still feel where our fingers touched.
“Thanks.” Why am I thanking him? Or am I totally misreading the situation? Again. It’s becoming a bad habit that I’ll need hours of therapy with Ariel to understand. “I should get back.”
No point flirting if Bash isn’t here to witness it, and I’m not that girl who can blatantly disregard someone else’s marriage vows.
He follows me back to the bright lights and low hum of conversation on the casino floor. He doesn’t try to touch me. He simply winks as he resumes his position behind the bar, and my eyes instinctively seek out Bash in his private booth on the mezzanine floor. Maybe he was waiting for me to reappear because he looks straight at me before returning his attention to whichever VIP he’s entertaining tonight.
That’s it.
No glimmer of acknowledgement that he’s seen me naked with my legs spread wide and his tongue inside me. No smile. No lingering look that means he wants a repeat performance.
Disappointment sucks.
“Where do you think you’re going with this?” The pit boss removes the unopened can of Diet Coke from my hand. “One more lapse of concentration, and I’ll have to let you go.”
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. Ariel was wrong; Bash probably has no input into whether I stay or go. Firing me isn’t his decision. He didn’t save my job because I meant something to him, he literally didn’t do anything. “It won’t happen again.”
I take over on one of the roulette tables. Keep my eyes down. I don’t even check out the guests seated around the betting area. My eyes feel heavy with unshed tears, but I hold them in, or the option to quit will be outside of my remit too.
My hands work on muscle memory. My brain slowly clicks back into calculating-bets mode, and I deliberately avoid glancing at the mezzanine for the rest of the night. I know Bash is there in the same way that I know that the moon will be shining when I step outside at the end of my shift. But I’m trying to convince myself that he isn’t shining for me. He never was. I was a pleasant interlude, nothing more.
Focusing helps. The realization will crash through me later, when I get back to my dorm room, but I’ll face that when it happens. I’ll quit. I should’ve done it while I was ahead, while there was still the tiniest possibility that Bash Murray might miss me, but what other options do I have?
I might be a fawn, but I do still have my dignity, and I’ll wear it with pride. Like a crown. Even if he’ll never understand that I won’t be used and discarded like a paper towel.
No, siree.
By the end of my shift, I congratulate myself on not glancing at him once since the pit boss delivered his warning. I haven’t flirted with anyone either, but at least I can walk out of here with my head held high. Ish.
Don’t cave now, Remy, I tell myself. Don’t look his way.
Too late.
Communication between my brain and my body only seems to function when I’m watching the tiny ball rolling around the roulette wheel and counting chips.
He’s no longer on the mezzanine.
My heart races. Where did he go? Not that it’s any of my business, but what if he’s waiting outside for me? Because, sure, we haven’t spoken in three weeks, and now suddenly, he has seen the light and realized that he can’t live without me.
Deep breath. Get a grip. He’s probably in his penthouse apartment right now, telling a beautiful woman that she has bewitched him.
Ugh!
I can’t wait to get out of here, cool down, take great gulps of polluted air, and pace the streets until my feet ache some more.
Instead, I gasp audibly when a suit appears in front of me, and a familiar voice, says, “Looking good, Remy.”
I raise my eyes. “George? W-what are you doing here?”
He’s looking smarter than I’ve ever seen him. He always was particular about his clothes and hair products and his designer stubble, but his suit clearly comes with an eye-watering price tag, and his cologne hovers around him like a poisonous cloud.
