JACK: Las Vegas Bad Boys(3)

“Food isn’t what I need. And even though I don’t know what I’ll decide about this ten-year contract, I do know that I can’t spend another minute with you.”

That’s when she starts screaming.





TESS


Look, I know it’s foolish to imagine Jack Harris ever falling for a cocktail waitress like me—but, damn, that boy is hot. And while I’m sitting in the VIP section of the club—which, by the way, how is this my actual life?—I can’t help but stare at him up on stage.

My jaw may be dropped and there may be a teensy bit of drool at the corner of my mouth, but I don’t think I’m too obvious.

Besides, it’s dark in here and no one is looking at me.

Everything about Jack screams sex appeal. Right now, he’s onstage dropping sick beats. And, okay, I don’t really say things like sick beats, but I’m making an effort to fit in and use the right lingo and drop the right names.

And no, it’s not because I’m some celebrity-crushing, star-struck bimbo.

It’s because my formative years were ... um ... complicated. And I missed out on the pop culture references Emmy and Claire drop like they’re hot.

Wait, did I say that right?

Anyways, the point is, I don’t particularly want to bring attention to how completely untraditional my upbringing was, and the best way to avoid that is to fit in as unnoticed as possible.

Which might be a tad easier if I hadn’t fallen in step with Claire and Emmy, because a few months after meeting them they were both married to some of the hottest bachelors Las Vegas has ever seen.

Which makes them higher profile than I’d like my best friends to be ... but their friendship is the sort I spent my entire life dreaming of: true and honest and real. Obviously, I’m not going to walk away from that.

So, instead, I try my best to fit in. Luckily, there has been soap opera worthy drama with my friends since we all started spending time together. And because of that, no eyes have landed on me.

Yet.

First there was the whole thing with Emmy’s sister being in a coma, followed by a kidnapping, followed by a wedding. Throw in her new husband, Ace, who kept a hidden identity before he proposed.

Then Claire had her first marriage followed by her fake engagement followed by her real wedding, complete with her big I’m actually a mother reveal. Her new husband Landon is a diamond tycoon and heir to a fortune ... even though he thought he’d lost it for a hot minute when we all traveled to London to surprise them.

For a day or two, I got nervous that once we returned from England all eyes would finally land on me, but McQueen, the other bad boy in this Rat Pack, took up where Landon left off. He fell in love with an Irish goddess-slash-MMA-fighter named JoJo and saved her from a crazy, murdery stalker.

Oh, and then he proposed before her first professional fight.

And that was just last week.

So, yeah, no one has had time to dig up any dirt on me.

Why would they? Like I said, I do my very best to fit in seamlessly, and make as many culturally relevant references as possible. Yep, I’m constantly looking at magazines, but it’s not for the celebrity gossip. I’m trying to figure out how to dress, how to joke. How to be.

But right now, sitting here on this plush velvet couch, with all my previously mentioned friends, I’ve apparently forgotten my mantra. Because Emmy and Claire are cracking up, watching me watch Jack. I bristle, knowing I’m the center of whatever they are laughing about.

“What?” I ask, looking around. The club is so loud I doubt they even hear me.

“You’re gawking, Tess,” Claire says, leaning over and speaking directly into my ear so I don’t miss her four-syllable observation.

“Oh,” I say, clamping my mouth shut, momentarily mortified.

Ever since we got back from London six weeks ago, Emmy and Claire have been teasing me about my crush on Jack. But they’ve been discreet about it, knowing I’d be embarrassed as all get out if he knew.

Like I said, I won the friend-lottery with those two.

“I wish you and Jack were together,” Emmy shouts. “Ashley is seriously a hyena.”

“A gorgeous hyena,” I add, cocking an eyebrow over at Ashley, who has been sitting a table away all evening with Jack’s agent and the fancy music producer that’s apparently been wooing him.

It’s crazy talk to call Ashley a hyena, even though her laugh does grate on me. Everyone knows Jack’s on-again, off-again superstar girlfriend is hotter than hell. And even if they weren’t together, I’m no competition.

I’m Tess ... a girl from Arkansas who likes BBQ and sweet tea. Not, you know, a Grammy award-winning diva.

On that note, the club goes nuts as Jack ramps up the tempo for what I’m assuming is the final encore of the night. There’s already been one. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Ashley and Kirby leave the club.