She’s not going to ask for you, asshat.
“Then ask me, Pres.”
Her eyes glance down at my mouth for a heartbeat or two. I swear my own heart stops. Then she looks at me and says, “I want to go dancing.”
“That’s it?” I laugh. “That’s your big ask? That’s tame compared to a tattoo. Why did you think I wouldn’t want to go?”
An amused expression crosses her beautiful face. “I don’t know. I wasn’t sure if being in a nightclub would feel too much like work to you.”
I smirk. “We’re at a bar, Pres. Do you feel like you’re at work?”
Her lips curve into a smile. “No.”
“All right, then let’s go dance. But only on one condition.” I grin, finally feeling like the perks of my job might actually come in handy for once.
“Okay?”
“I get to choose the club.”
“Deal.”
Thirty minutes later, after a quick call to Jonas, we are walking past the long line of people waiting to get into one of Vegas’s hottest clubs.
“Take notes,” Jonas said to me over the phone when I told him where we were headed. He wanted me to work tonight?
Yeah, no.
Tonight is all about Presley.
The bouncer takes my name, checks his list, and gives us the go-ahead. I take Presley’s hand, and we walk through the nondescript black door to his right.
Like any good club should be, it’s like stepping into another world.
The music is loud, but the DJ has the bass just right so you can feel it vibrating deep inside your chest rather than your eardrums. The lights are a mix of deep purples, blues, and pinks, and the fog machines add a bit of mystery.
It’s different than Velvet, but no less luxurious, and the large crowd reflects that. It is absolutely packed in here. Vegas doesn’tseem to understand the meaning of a weekday, so I imagine this place is like this every night.
We push through the crowd until we reach the bar. I turn to Pres and lean in. My lips brush her ear. The alcohol from earlier is messing with my inhibitions, so I’m not entirely sure it was unintentional. She shivers. “Another martini? Or something else?”
Her lips quirk. “Surprise me, Mr. Bartender.”
“You may regret that,” I say, before motioning to the actual bartender. I make sure she can’t hear me when I order, even angling my body so she can’t read my lips.
When he goes to fetch my request, and I turn back, her arms are folded across her chest, and she’s pouting. I laugh and then see her eyes widen as the bartender returns with a bottle of tequila.
“Shots?”
“Yup.”
“Are you crazy? It’s my thirtieth, not my twenty-first!”
I chuckle. “Yeah, and what did you say at the bar earlier?”
“That it’s my birthday, and we’re in Vegas?”
“Exactly!” I emphasize. “If we only have a few hours left together in this crazy town, we’re gonna make the most of it—starting with shots.”
She watches as the bartender pours two shots and then slides them over. I wait as she stares them down, clearly thinking it through. Decision made, she reaches down, grabs both shots, and shoots them back, one right after the other.
