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“Yeah.”
It was the same cold feeling that washed over me when I discovered Coach Anderson’s blackmailing scheme, though I had to admit that Ciaran’s situation was far worse. I’d been a shithead ripe for blackmailing.
Ciaran, on the other hand, had done nothing wrong, but Drew had violated his trust in so many ways that it might take years to recover.
Watching our golden reflection in the elevator’s inner walls, which shimmered like mirrors, I said, “It’s no problem.”
I reached down to interlace our fingers. We exited the elevator and made our way outside.
“Then why are we not going upstairs into The Towers? I thought he lived here.”
“Andy lives in The West Flamingo.”
Ciaran stopped mid-step even though we had the right of way in the crosswalk.
“W-what?”
Under the bright Vegas streetlight, his blue eyes flickered cataclysmically. I’d just witnessed the second the thought hit his brain.
It wasn’t storming outside. In fact, the weather was warm, balmy, and bugs were out in force, but a bolt of lightning might as well have struck me then. Anger rose and I felt hot all over, but I could not show it.
As much as I wanted to destroy Andy, my goals changed in that instant.
Protect Ciaran. Protect him physically. Protect his heart.
Ciaran shook his head like he was insane. “You must be imagining things, Ciaran,” he muttered to himself as we started walking again and crossed the street before an oncoming car approached. Ciaran was making the connection but refusing to believe it.
To him, Drew and Andy could not possibly be the same person. How could they be?
He’d find out once we reached the thirty-first floor of The West Flamingo.
If I put myself in Ciaran’s shoes, it didn’t make much sense that a Las Vegas high school counselor would be chummy enough with a Malibu billionaire to introduce him to his mom, unless there was history there.
I was still holding out hope that I was wildly incorrect, but I wouldn’t bet money on it, and I was the kind of person who threw money away as casually as someone tossing a wad of napkins into a waste bin.
Ciaran gave me a questioning gaze when I pulled out a key card to admit us into The West Flamingo’s main entrance.
“It’s a Vaulteneau Property,” I explained.
Ciaran’s unimpressed expression simply read, Of course it is.
The door clicked and we stepped into the mostly empty, though brightly lit lobby. The temperature was twenty degrees cooler than outside and the air smelled clean, like someone had just stirred together a jug of grapefruit juice and lemonade.
Our sneakers made faint squeaking notes as we made our way across the lobby’s marble floor. A large flamingo statue graced the center of the atrium. It was roped off so patrons and visitors couldn’t try to climb up and sit on it. Elegant potted plants added lush greenery to the space while gold-framed mirrors made the large circular area appear even larger.
Acoustic music piped in overhead in a low volume. After a few bars of music, I recognized it as a Taylor Swift song.
To our left, a receptionist attired in a maroon blazer and a crisp white button down stood behind the counter. She waved at us when she recognized me. “Good evening, Mr. Vaulteneau,” she said in a welcoming tone. I returned the greeting.
Beside her stood a tall, burly security guard, who nodded but didn’t say anything.
Ciaran and I turned down the hallway that led to the elevators and passed a self-serve station table with ice water dispensers. I noticed the pops of yellow in the water. Lemon slices.
“How many properties does your dad own?” Ciaran asked as we waited for the elevator.
“Truthfully, I’m not sure.” When Ciaran lifted an eyebrow in disbelief, I added. “Admittedly, he owns a lot of properties. He’s got to park the money somewhere and real estate is always a solid investment.”
We stepped inside the carriage and had the space to ourselves.
