But okay. All right. If that’s what she thinks, then fuck it. Fuckher. I’ll show her who I really am underneath it all. I’ll show her the chaos I can inspire now that I have no one to answer to.
The old Stella’s coming back tonight. And she’s going to cause a riot.
Chapter 3
Thomas
All right, so maybe I’m not as hated as I thought.
At least, not by the women at this party. The two currently hanging off me don’t seem to mind me. In fact, they seem to like meverymuch.
“You’resucha gentleman,” the one on my left gushes, staring up at me with hearts in her eyes.
After saving her from taking a tumble in the middle of the casino, I’ve become her—and her friend’s—knight in shining armor. I think her name is Rachel…or maybe this one’s Sydney. I wasn’t paying much attention as they introduced themselves, too busy bracing for another possible assault as we made our way through the casino floor and toward the lifts. Getting off the party bus and walking through throngs of people was stressful enough, but so far everything has been fine.
“Genuinely the sweetest,” the one to my right coos, pressing closer as we and ten others cram into the metal box. “I bet everyone you meet immediately loves you.”
If only they knew.
“I’m a fan favorite,” I lie, basking in their smiles and breathy laughs.
They’re both pretty and around my age, if not a little older, but that’s never bothered me before, and I’ll entertain their advances for as long as they’re interested. Other than that, though, I’m not looking for anything to happen.
It’s not that I don’t want it to, but my reputation is so bruised that I can’t risk another misstep. I have to keep myself out of trouble. And no offense to these women, but I’m getting the distinct vibe that any escapade with them—either one alone or both together—would end up as tabloid fodder tomorrow.
“Ladies first,” I say when the doors reopen.
I get more batted lashes and giggles before they step out behind the rest of the crowd, joining the group that’s just gotten off the other lift. We’ve been dumped in what I assume is the high rollers’ room, and I swear I’ve seen the same one in a James Bond movie. There are poker, blackjack, and craps tables dotted around the expansive black-carpeted, mood-lit space. A sleek mirrored bar lines one wall, with intimate booth seating placed opposite it. And I’m sure the wall of glass on the far side of the room overlooks the Strip, but the space is so vast that all I can see out the darkened windows is the glow of the fake Eiffel Tower and top floors of the hotels across the boulevard.
I’m barely in the room before a waitress approaches with a tray of champagne and a gentle guiding hand, leading me to the section of the room where the other men are gathering. It’s a little disappointing to be separated from my two-woman hype squad, but it’s probably for the best.
“Gather round, lads,” Ron calls over the music, which is slightly less headache-inducing than whatever technomonstrosity was playing on the bus. “I want to make a toast before tonight’s debauchery begins.”
Not sure how much debauchery can happen with his bride-to-be on the other side of the room, but all right.
“To my countrymen,” Ron begins, lifting his champagne glass as his eyes dart around to the handful of us also from the UK. “Thank you for making the trek halfway across the world to be here tonight. And to the rest of you, I’m glad to see your ugly mugs here too. It means the world that you’re here celebrating my last night as an unmarried man. Who would’ve thought I’d settle down?”
Certainly not me. When he was a Premier League footballer, Ron was known for having a different woman on his arm every week. Guess that all changed when he retired last year and met the love of his life. I really am happy for him, but I won’t be surprised if his bride gets her heart broken down the line.
It’s a cynical take. And maybe they have a chance of making it now that he’s stepped out of the limelight. But from what I’ve seen before and know of my fellow athletes, being faithful is not their strong suit.
Not me, though. Can’t cheat if you’ve never been in a relationship.
“To Ron and Janelle!” a man standing next to me cheers.
I missed the last bit of Ron’s toast, but I lift my glass and join the chorus celebrating his impending nuptials. Then it’s off to the races.
More specifically, Ron tells us to have the night of our fucking lives and to enjoy the next hour of gambling before we move on to dinner. I’ve never been much for card games or losing money, so this is wasted on me, but there’s no use wallowing in a place like this. I’m safe from prying eyes and cameras, and noone here seems to care about who I am. There are more than enough other stars here, and in the ranking of sports popularity, I’m pretty sure footballers beat F1 drivers—even if the city is about to revolve around us.
Finishing my champagne, I set the empty glass down on a passing waitress’s tray and turn for the bar, ready for something stronger. I don’t typically drink during the season, except for the celebrations after a placing on the podium, but I’m making an exception this weekend. I deserve it.
Janelle must have finished her own toast before Ron, because the women have dispersed around the room. I smile my way past a group huddled around a tray of shots and stop short when another bunch rushes past to get to the closest blackjack table. Once it’s safe, I continue on, but I slow when I spot a woman on her own—the same one I glimpsed on the bus.
Most of them are paired off or in groups, but she’s removed from the bedlam, lingering at the far end of the bar. She sits with her back to it, one elbow resting on the marble top, leaning back enough to put the slender line of her body on display. Her long, rich brown legs are crossed at the knee, one stiletto hooked over the bottom rung of the stool while the other slowly bounces to the beat of the song playing. Each time, the feathered hem of her little white dress inches higher.
She’s holding a champagne flute loosely against her stomach, posture relaxed, but the look in her eyes tells a different story.
There’s no other way to put it: she’s prowling.
