pretty good shape. That black tee clings in the right ways to his torso. I can pick out the definition of sculpted pecs, and his arms are built. I admit it; I let my eyes trail down to a very firm ass in his well fitting jeans. No boxers hanging out with this boy; class all the way.
“Stop inspecting me,” he grumbles. I give an over-the-top wink.
“Like to see what you’re working with, Wexler.” I sashay into the limo, squeezing in beside Tyler and Stacy. Tyler waves in the other girls, and Meredith ends up sitting beside him.
“Hey, Merry. Lookin’ good,” he teases.
Damn, Meredith may be old enough to be his mother, but she’s bold enough to make him forget that fact. She arches a perfectly plucked and penciled eyebrow. It’s like Joan Crawford going after college frat boys.
“You being a naughty boy so far?” she asks, giving his knee an enthusiastic squeeze.
“You know it.” Still grinning, Tyler pops a bottle of champagne.
The night’s going along beautifully, so long as I can ignore Nate Wexler, certified lawyer and registered pain in the ass. He sits there with his hands on his knees, tense, like he’s holding his breath and waiting for this night to be over.
“Where to next?” Shanna calls, now wearing a plastic tiara of her own.
“We were thinking a strip club,” Nate says, with all the pain of a man who probably wanted the boys to have a sedate steak dinner and be in bed by eleven-thirty.
Aw. Poor baby.
“Yes!” Tyler shouts, clapping his hands. “Strip clubs love when you bring ladies in. They’ll probably give us some free drinks.”
“I’m not sure women enjoy going to strip clubs, Tyler,” Nate says, the disdain in his voice so obvious even Stacy blows a raspberry.
“You’re right. We like sitting at home, knitting, and watching Downton Abbey,” she mocks.
And while I do love tea, crocheting, and the Dowager Countess, I agree with her. We’re not a set of prudish wilting flowers.
“Bring on the ladies,” I say, nudging Nate with my elbow. We eye each other. Again, I find myself falling into the magnetic blue of his eyes—just for a second, of course. I don’t care how good-looking he is, though. I’m not into stiffs and snobs, and he is way both.
Nate squares his jaw, but he says nothing. Score one for me.
“The Palace Veil it is,” Mike says, arm around Stacy’s waist.
Everyone cheers but Nate and me. I know we’d both be happier if the other wasn’t there. Ah well. When in Vegas, ignore the douches, let the good times roll, and always carry a spare set of panties in your purse, just in case. That’s what Mom used to tell me.
Mom was fun.
8
Nate
Yesterday, 9:36 pm
T he Palace Veil is a little outside of the Strip, in a rundown looking part of the city. Neon lights flicker all around the outside, a squat one story with thumping music bleeding out into the night. Pictures of over-bleached and over-glossed young women, topless with black bars to cover the most essential bits, line the exterior.
The driver parks and lets us out. I have to stifle a groan as Tyler leaps towards the door, enthusiastic as a kid in a candy store made out of breasts.
“Most men like seeing naked women, you know,” Julia says, giving me a smug smile as we walk toward the building. “Unless you’re Data.”
“What about my data?” I ask.
“Data, the humorless, literal android from Star Trek: Next Generation .” She rolls her eyes. “You make my nerd heart sad, young Padawan.”
“Is that also from Star Trek ?” I ask.
She bursts out laughing. I’m going to stop asking questions.
We finally enter the club, the fog machine hazing the room to a degree where I can’t even see the grimy floors or terrible cracked walls. Almost. It smells like Febreze and sweat in here—not the world’s most hygienic combination.
At least Mike’s having a good time. I think he’s happier now that Stacy is here, actually. They’re making out with enthusiasm over by the bar,
“Stop inspecting me,” he grumbles. I give an over-the-top wink.
“Like to see what you’re working with, Wexler.” I sashay into the limo, squeezing in beside Tyler and Stacy. Tyler waves in the other girls, and Meredith ends up sitting beside him.
“Hey, Merry. Lookin’ good,” he teases.
Damn, Meredith may be old enough to be his mother, but she’s bold enough to make him forget that fact. She arches a perfectly plucked and penciled eyebrow. It’s like Joan Crawford going after college frat boys.
“You being a naughty boy so far?” she asks, giving his knee an enthusiastic squeeze.
“You know it.” Still grinning, Tyler pops a bottle of champagne.
The night’s going along beautifully, so long as I can ignore Nate Wexler, certified lawyer and registered pain in the ass. He sits there with his hands on his knees, tense, like he’s holding his breath and waiting for this night to be over.
“Where to next?” Shanna calls, now wearing a plastic tiara of her own.
“We were thinking a strip club,” Nate says, with all the pain of a man who probably wanted the boys to have a sedate steak dinner and be in bed by eleven-thirty.
Aw. Poor baby.
“Yes!” Tyler shouts, clapping his hands. “Strip clubs love when you bring ladies in. They’ll probably give us some free drinks.”
“I’m not sure women enjoy going to strip clubs, Tyler,” Nate says, the disdain in his voice so obvious even Stacy blows a raspberry.
“You’re right. We like sitting at home, knitting, and watching Downton Abbey,” she mocks.
And while I do love tea, crocheting, and the Dowager Countess, I agree with her. We’re not a set of prudish wilting flowers.
“Bring on the ladies,” I say, nudging Nate with my elbow. We eye each other. Again, I find myself falling into the magnetic blue of his eyes—just for a second, of course. I don’t care how good-looking he is, though. I’m not into stiffs and snobs, and he is way both.
Nate squares his jaw, but he says nothing. Score one for me.
“The Palace Veil it is,” Mike says, arm around Stacy’s waist.
Everyone cheers but Nate and me. I know we’d both be happier if the other wasn’t there. Ah well. When in Vegas, ignore the douches, let the good times roll, and always carry a spare set of panties in your purse, just in case. That’s what Mom used to tell me.
Mom was fun.
8
Nate
Yesterday, 9:36 pm
T he Palace Veil is a little outside of the Strip, in a rundown looking part of the city. Neon lights flicker all around the outside, a squat one story with thumping music bleeding out into the night. Pictures of over-bleached and over-glossed young women, topless with black bars to cover the most essential bits, line the exterior.
The driver parks and lets us out. I have to stifle a groan as Tyler leaps towards the door, enthusiastic as a kid in a candy store made out of breasts.
“Most men like seeing naked women, you know,” Julia says, giving me a smug smile as we walk toward the building. “Unless you’re Data.”
“What about my data?” I ask.
“Data, the humorless, literal android from Star Trek: Next Generation .” She rolls her eyes. “You make my nerd heart sad, young Padawan.”
“Is that also from Star Trek ?” I ask.
She bursts out laughing. I’m going to stop asking questions.
We finally enter the club, the fog machine hazing the room to a degree where I can’t even see the grimy floors or terrible cracked walls. Almost. It smells like Febreze and sweat in here—not the world’s most hygienic combination.
At least Mike’s having a good time. I think he’s happier now that Stacy is here, actually. They’re making out with enthusiasm over by the bar,
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