Liberty Begins (The Liberty Series) by Leigh James Page B

shoes. Alex would probably be mad if I went out on the floor in my sneakers, but I needed to be able to move fast, just in case. Just in case I started crying saying goodbye to the crazy guy I thought I was falling for, who I crazily thought had come for me. Or in case I had to run because he really was crazy, and I would have to run away from him and his entourage and his weird backpack.
    I squared my shoulders and shook my hair out, so my ringlets sprung up and cascaded down my shoulders. It was reassuring to see my own eyes in the mirror, but I was not as calmed by them as I normally was. I hoped I would go back to normal after this, relying on myself and not needing anything else. I hoped I didn’t feel like I was missing something.
    I carried the pack out onto the floor and looked for John. It was easier for me being in flats; most of the crowd paid no attention to me because I was now 5’7” compared to my usual towering self in three-inch stilettos. I saw John and his group in the far corner by the bar, and I made my way over towards them through the sea of men and the occasional couple. Sunday night was “Industry Night” in Vegas, which meant that all the locals who’d been working in the bars and clubs all weekend were off and had no cover charges at most places. People came in to see their friends, to catch up, to relax. The atmosphere in the Treasure Chest was always at its best on Sundays, when women were in the crowd and everyone there was supportive, not predatory. There weren’t guys trying to justify that fifteen dollar drink, expensive hotel and pricey plane ticket. It was just mostly people who worked in the business who wanted to have cocktails and relax.
    I usually liked Sundays. This one? Not so much.
    John saw me from across the room. I waved lamely and moved towards him, a pit in my stomach. Then someone grabbed my wrist. “Hello gorgeous,” said an unfriendly voice. It was a youngish guy, with gelled hair, a big nose, olive skin and a strong grip.
    “Hiiiii,” I said, fake smiling at him. I lifted my arm up and tried to pry his fingers off of me. I couldn’t get them to budge.
    “I’m busy. I have to go now,” I said, in my fake-nice voice, trying to yank my arm out of his grasp.
    He pulled me closer and whispered in my ear. “I’m a friend of Cruz’s. You should be nicer,” he said, and released his hold. His breath smelled like mints and not like booze, which surprised me.
    “Lovely to meet you,” I said sarcasticallyover my shoulder as I headed towards the comparative safety of John. What was it with Cruz’s taste in friends? Really, he needed to screen people a little more closely.
    John pulled me to him when I got there, and because I knew it was the last time, I didn’t resist. “What did he say?” he whispered urgently into my ear. It was more of a command than it was a question.
    “He said he was a friend of Cruz’s and that I should be nicer,” I said. But for a second I wasn’t thinking about the scary guy, the scary backpack, the fact that I had to say goodbye to John tonight. It just felt so good to be in his arms. I let myself close my eyes and rest against his strong chest, careful not to smudge my makeup on him. Then I put my face against his neck and inhaled. He smelled like the outdoors, like sunshine, like clean, white towels. The opposite of stripping, of crazy, of trouble. I let myself stay for a moment there so I would remember it always. They say that smell is the strongest of all the memory senses. I wanted to be sure that I would still have him with me after this was all over, whether he was crazy or not.
    “Your backpack,” John said. He pushed me back so he could hold me at arm’s length and look into my eyes.
    “About that,” I said, willing myself back to reality. “A taser? Really? And a smartphone? I just met you three days ago. I can’t —”
    “Put it on,” John growled into my ear. “Now! We can argue about the contents later.”