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A sensitive issue with her family situation, but, hey, when in Rome…
Ah. That's it.
"It's a surprise," I say. "This way."
Interest fills her eyes. Interest that makes my blood run south. But it's not about the two of us taking off our clothes.
Not directly, anyway.
I lead Daphne through the shops, the Excalibur, the walkway to the New York, New York.
And here I thought my annoying coworkers "bonding trips" to Las Vegas were a waste of time. They're finally useful.
He always tried to go somewhere "lit."
This isn't my idea of fun, but hey, it works.
The sunny path is busy, with tourists and cars below, and the heat is overwhelming. Thankfully, it's short. We dark into the dark, air-conditioned hotel quickly.
Ah, the charms of the fake New York City. Pretzels and hot dogs and I Love New York shirts.
And the bar from a movie set in New York.
Coyote Ugly.
I motion to the establishment.
She shoots me that trademark Daphne Webb side-eye. "Okay, Mr. Steele. What's the dare? Are you sure you want to do it here, and not at some classy cocktail bar at the Wynn?"
No. I'm not sure about any of this. But I want to play this game with her. I motion to the slushee machine of cocktails and the list of shots next to it.
Daphne follows my gaze. "Pick your poison."
"Any shot you want," I say. "As long as it's a body shot."
That same interest fills her eyes. "In the form of a dare…"
"I dare you to take a body shot."
"By myself?" She raises a brow. "No. You wouldn't take a body shot. You wouldn't drink any shot. You probably only drink classic cocktails made with craft bitters."
Again, her observation is accurate. Again, I want to prove her wrong. I want to prove I am a good time. "You played blackjack with me. I'll take a shot with you."
"Okay." She smiles, turns, steps inside the bar.
Even though it's early, the place is picking up. Conversation bleeds into country music. Twenty-something guys laugh over beer bottles. Couples sip from over-sided novelty cups. A group of women in matching white swig shots in unison.
A similar-sized group of guys stare at them, trying to decide if anyone in the bachelorette party is single or, better yet, looking to cash in a hall pass.
Is that the real reason people take these celebrations to Las Vegas? For one last fling?
It's not a choice I'd make. It's not one I understand. Why marry someone if you're that excited to fuck someone else?
But, so far, none of my beliefs about marriage have panned out.
That path I'm on—
It doesn't lead where I think it does.
