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They're too fucking sexy. I want them on my palms, wrapped around my waist, pressed against my cheeks.
This is a taste.
Not even a taste.
And it's happening. Here goes nothing.
I lean down, bringing my mouth to her torso. I wrap my lips around the glass, then suck just enough to hold it there.
In one swift motion, I rise and slam the shot back.
The drink is even worse than I imagined. Like rubbing alcohol and artificial flavoring. But knowing it's on Daphne's lips sends more blood south.
I swallow hard, and I ditch the glass.
The bartender claps. "Let me know when you're ready for the next round."
"Later." Daphne reaches for my hand. When I offer it, she pulls herself up and slides off the bar. "We've got dinner plans. We're here for a bachelor party."
"We're here when you need us." She winks.
Daphne pulls two twenties from her pocket and presses them into the bartender's palm.
She beams. "Thanks, hon. Hope you two have a fun night. If you're looking for someplace with a little more action—" She also brandishes a business card and presses it into Daphne's hand.
Only this one isn't for a nightclub.
It's a sex club.
Daphne shows it to me. "Too fun for you?"
I should sayyes, of course, but I don't. I say, "Is that a challenge?"
"Not yet." She smiles. "But maybe later."
"It is your turn."
She nodsI know. "We don't have time. We have to get to dinner."
That's true.
"But that will give me awhile to think of the perfect dare."
That is, if my brother doesn't beat her to it.
Our dinner reservationat the steakhouse at the Paris is only a few casinos away, but the scorching heat makes the trip feel slow.
It's too loud for real conversation. Not that I know what to say. My thoughts refuse to get in line. They keep screamingtake off Daphne's clothes, now.
I barely see the MGM Grand, Coke World, the M&M building. I barely notice a thing until a guy in an all-black rash guard shoves a postcard into my hands.
No, this isn't a postcard. It's an advertisement for an escort. One with a picture. A tan blonde with fake breasts in a bright pink thong, her nipplesjustcovered by clip-art stars.
Do I look like a guy who goes for this kind of thing, or do these assholes hand everyone cheap R-rated trading cards?
Daphne shares none of my irritation. She studies the image with pure intellectual curiosity. I can almost see the wheels turning in her mind.Is this some sort of prototypical sex worker? Do these lightly censored images get the best results? What would make someone call the number on one of these cards?
Her eyes flit to mine. Her curiosity turns to me.
