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Vegas is a bust. It’s starting to feel that way, anyway.
I haven’t told my brothers I’m back in town. I haven’t gotten in touch with my dad.
Instead, I’m playing blackjack by myself on a Friday night with an aching chest and a bit of a buzz.
And it’s not just my dad and my brothers—I haven’t gotten in touch with my new teammates or my new coaches or my buddies in town. I haven’t told anybody I’m here. Tonight was supposed to be for Cookie and me, and instead I was dealt the biggest shock of my life when I discovered Cookie is in fact little Ava Maxwell, my best friend’s younger sister.
The girl I’m supposed to be looking out for and protecting, not the girl I’m supposed to be railing in a suite at the Palms.
It might not be so bad if Beckett hadn’t specifically asked me to check in on her. Instead, I fucked a girl I first met when I was fourteen and she was half my age.
It’s not just a huge betrayal of the trust of one of my oldest friends. It’s also the fact that she lied to me.
You can’t build a foundation based on a bed of lies.
And that’s what that bed at the suite upstairs was—a fucking bed of lies.
She knew who I was and didn’t have the courtesy to tell me who she was. I don’t know if that’s something I can just get past, and I’m not even sure I want to.
She’s dead wrong about one thing, though. She said if I would’ve known who she was from the beginning, I wouldn’t have given her the time of day.
I would’ve given her the time of day. I might’ve even found time to reminisce about some shared memories from the past, or we could’ve compared notes about her brother. But what I wouldn’t have done was take advantage of her when she was hurting after her breakup.
Maybe it’s my own guilt talking. Maybe I should’ve known. But I didn’t, and I can beat myself up about it, or I can take a fucking night for myself and move on in the morning.
Because that’s all this is. It isn’t some deep heartbreak. It’s disappointment for the things I was looking ahead to with her. She won’t be there in the crowd wearing a jersey with my number on it as she cheers me on from the stands…something it’s hard to admit I imagined when I thought of Cookie over the last week.
She won’t be smiling up at me with that innocence in my bed as I corrupt the hell out of her.
She won’t be looking with anxiety at me as she takes in my size or moaning softly as I inch slowly into her.
She won’t be deliciously sore, thinking of me every time she sits because of the way I wrecked her sweet, tight pussy.
She won’t be impeding on every moment when the sweet scent of fresh-baked cookies wafts to my nostrils.
Oh, wait…
That last one is still true. For now, anyway.
At least until I can find another pastry chef to bang so I can get this girl the fuck out of my mind.
Except I don’t want to just bang some other girl.
I still want her. I only want her. Is that the gin talking? Because I’m not an only want her kind of guy.
I lose my ass at the table, and after a couple more drinks, I head up to my room.
I kick off my shoes and pass out on the couch before I even get myself over to the bed.
Things seem to look a little different when the light of morning dawns and I awake through the haze of a vicious hangover. The sunlight streams in on me, making me squint as a headache wraps around my brain like a vice.
My first thought is of her, and it makes me feel…
Sad.
I don’t want to be away from her. I don’t want to hold on to anger.
So she lied. Trust is a hard thing to rebuild once it’s broken, but maybe we could find a way.
