Chapter 1
LOCKE
Another day, another meeting with an overpaid narcissist. This one’s panicking over the possibility of his affair hitting the press.
“Tell me again why you haven’t gotten a divorce?” I ask.
He just stares at me as if I should already know the answer. “I love her. She’s the mother of my children. I just want a little excitement now and then. How realistic is monogamy anyway?”
I arch a brow, shaking my head slightly. “Whatever you say. Although I think she’d be happier with a divorce and half your money.”
“Well, I’m not here for your opinion,” he scoffs. “Can you help me or not?”
People call me a publicist. Press agent. A fixer. Whatever makes them feel better about hiring someone like me. I cover up the messes rich men make when they think they’re untouchable.
I make sure their dirty laundry stays buried… sometimes literally. Some might say that I’m the best Hollywood agent around. Others might say I’m just too far gone. I’m more inclined to agree with the latter.
“Come on, man.” He pleads as a bead of sweat traces a path down his brow. “I need these tabloid reporters off my back. I know you can take care of them.”
“They’re just doing their job,” I reply, indifference clear in my tone. “I have ways of convincing them to keep quiet, but it’ll cost you more.”
He lets out a long sigh, like he’s been holding his breath. Rubbing the back of his neck, he replies, “Whatever, I just need this done soon.”
God forbid the world finds out he’s not the flawless, doting husband he plays on red carpets and social media.I can’t believe I came all the way to Vegas for this.
And while I would love to see this particular asshole’s entire world burn, he’s paying me far too much to let that happen.
I turn to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows. I couldn’t care less that this man looks like he’s on the verge of a total mental collapse. All I can think about is that I have more important things to do right now. A good cigar, for instance, is a much higher priority.
I used to care about this business, maybe a little too much. Used to work around the clock, worrying about my clients and the money. But I can’t say that I’ve cared about much of anything in years.
At some point, all the things that used to be exciting or unique about my life just became background noise. When you have the world at your fingertips, everything eventually loses its sparkle.
The kind of boredom I feel now has settled into my bones after ten years of watching the same people ruin their lives in the same ways. A decade of covering up the same messes.
Tonight will be no different. My brothers are dragging me out to another club opening. As if it could be any better than all the others we’ve seen in this city. Nate promised me a cigar.
I turn around and he’s staring at me with his head cocked to the side, like he’s expecting me to say something.
“Hello, did you hear me? Can we get to work?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll take it from here. If you’re done with your little pity party, feel free to go. My colleague will send you the invoice.”
Chapter 2
ARDEN
The lights of Fremont Street never get old, at least not for me. The mix of old Vegas nostalgia and new luxury ignites something in me that I can’t quite explain. It’s a unique kind of magic.
Maybe it’s because I grew up a few blocks from here and spent years roaming these streets. When I walk downtown, it feels like I’m back in high school with my best friend, dipping in and out of casinos sixty years older than us, to see if anyone would serve us a drink at the bar. I huff a laugh, shaking my head at teenage me and her terrible fake ID. There were some bartenders who humored us, anyway.
Or the time Lexi and I rode a double-decker bus around town, all day, for no reason other than wecould. We got off here, at this exact spot, and walked the rest of the way home.
This part of the city hums with a warmth that feels alive, electric, even in its brokenness. The neon lights flicker against the cracked pavement and illuminate graffiti-covered buildings. The streets reek of spilled beer and cheap liquor, crowded with the faces of wanderers and the forgotten who haunt Fremont Street night after night. They’re hardly noticeable among the raging sea of drunk tourists, but I see them.
Every corner, every flashing sign, every inch of this place seeps into my blood. This isn’t just where I live. It’s who I am.It’s home.
Maybe that’s why I still come here so often.
