“I can’t ... Jack, I gotta go. Now.”
She ducks into the limo as the driver opens the door for her.
And they’re gone before I can ask her to stay.
TESS
Shit. Shit. Shitttttt.
I want to scream. Probably both.
Fuck.
The limo drops me off, but some of those shitty paparazzi followed us here and continue taking my photo as the driver opens my door, and as I jam my key into the door leading to my studio apartment.
“Get the fuck away,” I yell at them. “Seriously, go.” I’m not playing nice, because this is my worst nightmare and it is literally all my fault.
I should have never played with fire. Never have gone with Jack Fucking Harris to dinner, to bed. Hell, I never should have become friends with such high-profile people in the first place.
I came to Vegas to disappear. Not to be on page nine of some gossip magazine. I came here to hide.
And now ... I’m terrified I’ll be exposed.
Once inside my studio, I take off yesterday’s clothes, find a pair of sweats, an old hoodie. I put the kettle on for some tea, and as it heats up I dig in my closet, under a box of books, to make sure my money is there. Not that it wouldn’t be, but that cache of cash is my one safeguard. If I need to leave, I can. And that money will ensure that I can start over.
I take last night’s tips from my wallet and shove them in my money box, lock it back up. Closing my closet door, I make four strides, back and forth, the width of my place. This apartment is my favorite place in the world, my teeny-tiny sanctuary that has now been compromised.
The paparazzi followed me here.
Dammit!
The kettle screeches and I make myself some lemon-ginger tea, hoping the ache in my belly disappears. Screw groceries and laundry. I don’t want to step foot outside this apartment.
I’m a liar. I told Jack I wasn’t scared of anything.
But that wasn’t true, because right now I’m terrified.
Terrified that the people I ran from will come looking. And those stupid photographs will help them.
I collapse on my double bed, wishing I had a computer, access to the Internet somewhere besides the library. My phone may allow texting, but there’s no data plan.
My only hope is that the paparazzi will realize me being with Jack is no story. Sipping the steaming tea, I force myself to calm down.
Why would anyone care about me anyway? Why would anyone want to post a story about some girl who works at a casino. Like every other girl in this town? Nothing is going to happen.
Right?
I’m a cocktail waitress named Tess. There’s nothing interesting about me.
At least that’s what I tell myself. Because what other choice do I have?
Chapter Six
Anarchy Motorcycle Gang, Arkansas
SLIDER
“Hey, Slider,” Angel says, handing her phone to me. “Look at this.”
She’s in a thong and a push-up bra, and nothing else. Her fake breasts are full and ready to be fucked. I didn’t come back to this whore’s room for anything other than to have my cock in her mouth.
I take the goddamn phone. “You gonna start sucking my cock or what?”
She doesn’t say anything, just rolls off her bed, and drops to her knees, like the good little slut she is.
“What the hell is this? Why do I care about this fucker?”
She’s pulled up some shit story about Jack Harris—some pussy DJ in Vegas—and some skank leaving his house.
“Thought you might want to know.” She purses her lips, looking up at me, then shrugs and unbuckles my pants, pulling them down.
“Why would I want to know about some pansy ass boy in the desert?”
She slides her hand over my cock, but it’s fucking impossible to get hard if she’s showing me pictures of some guy.
“Just thought you might be interested in the girl he’s with, Slider. Thought Cutter might care even more than you ... thought maybe you’d like to have to pleasure of telling him first.”
Angel knows she’s on my bad side, I know she’s been sleeping with Drake, and she knows I keep her on this compound to be my little fuck buddy, nobody else’s.
This must be her way of making it up to me. Cutter is the President of our outlaw gang, and she knows I won’t have access to talk to him unless it’s important.
“Who is this girl?”
“Zoom in.”
I do, and what I see is some skinny little brunette climbing into a limo. The next photo is of her waving goodbye to Jack, but there’s fear in her eyes.
Eyes I know all too fucking well.
“Shit,” I pull up my pants. “Is this really Cammie?”
“Sure as hell is. I’d know those eyes anywhere.”
I grin, knowing how important this story is to Cutter. Knowing that bringing back his daughter will make me a road captain.