The Resistance(5)
“You’re really going to make me walk across the hotel to get my ID just to prove that I’m older than twenty-one? Do I look that young?”
“It’s Vegas. I can’t be too careful. Wouldn’t want this bar to lose their liquor license.”
“Fine.” I quirk an eyebrow. “I’ve got nothing to hide, but you’re buying the drinks if I have to walk to that ballroom and back just for you.”
“Get to walking, sweetheart” he says with a nod and a smirk.
Huffing, I slide off the stool and start to leave, but I can feel him watching me. I can feel it. I stop and glance back. “Does your job also include watching my ass as I walk?”
“Nope” He’s rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip and winks. “Just a perk of the job.”
He almost had me with that bottom lip action, but he lost me with the wink. I roll my eyes and continue out the door and through the casino, regretting wearing these shoes and this tight skirt to the event tonight. Even after giving them a rest at the bar, my feet still hurt.
Walking back into the dimly lit room, I go straight to the table and grab my purse. When I turn to leave, Mr. Relentless is standing there with a flask in one hand, and is apparently drunker by the way he sways to the side. “You’re back,” he says. “I knew you’d want me.”
“Real charming,” I reply. “Now excuse me.” I duck too fast for a drunk, which means I move at my normal pace, side-stepping around him, and rush back out into the main casino where the sounds of slot machines take over. When I enter the bar again, the bartender smiles as he dries a glass.
Hot dimple guy reaches forward when I flash the license. I start to hand it to him, but with my own smartass smirk, I show the bartender instead. The bartender eyes the other guy and then hands the ID to him for his approval.
Needing a cocktail more than ever, I ask, “Can I get my drink now?”
“Sure,” he says, and gets to work.
“Happy?” I ask the guy with my license. He’s rolled his sleeves up and his well-defined arms draw my attention to a pin-up style hula girl tattoo. The coloring is faded, revealing there’s a history there. While he analyzes my card, holding it up at different angles like he expects it to be a fake, I’m left fascinated watching the hula girl move rhythmically with his muscles.
He looks up from my license, all cocky with a wry grin, and a waggle of the eyebrows that I find sexier than I should. “Very happy, Holliday Hughes. Thanks.”
Right then I figure out what game is being played and I get pissed that I fell for it. Although I’m facing the bartender, the other guy knows I’m talking to him when I say, “You could have just asked me my name.” Somewhere along the line he crossed over from doing his job to enjoying the fact that he knows my details—all of them—including my weight or the lie I told them at the DMV.
Sitting back, he seems to be enjoying this way too much, and asks, “What’s the fun in that?”
“It’s called etiquette, not fun.”
“Depends on which end you’re on—”
“The receiving end of your bad pickup line is lacking the finesse I prefer in a date.”
“So I’ll start over.”
I swivel in my chair and eye him up. “Start with the truth. Did the hotel really hire you?”
He smiles. “Yes, they did.”
There’s an innocence to his smile and an honesty to his tone that makes me drop my guard… just a little. “Okay. What’s with the hula girl tattoo? Someone you know?”
He takes a swig of his drink before answering, “Maybe somebody I’d like to know—”
“Maybe somebody you hooked up with once.”
That makes him laugh. It’s a good laugh, deep and real, sounding a little raw. “Maybe,” he says, making me smile.
“That’s two maybes and no real answer.”
“The truth?” When he asks this, I take the opportunity to get another good look at him. Even in the low light his hair is dark. It’s not quite black, more like a really dark brown.
“No, lie to me.”
“You’re a hard ass, you know that?”
Keeping my eyes steady on his, I say, “You should know since your eyes basically felt up my backside a few minutes ago.”
The drink is set down in front me, but Mr. Tall-Dark-Hottie security guy says, “Put it on my tab.”
“Yes, sir,” the bartender replies.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Wasn’t that part of the deal? If you showed me your ID, I’d buy the round?”
I notice a small scar near his right eye. Makes me curious to how he got that little imperfection. I’m so used to the pretty boys of L.A., that to see a real man is a total turn on. Feeling too much for this guy already, I direct my focus and scan the bottles lined against the back wall, choosing to tease instead. “You’re mocking me.”