RHYS

"Are you going to introduce your girlfriend to your parents when they're in for the grand opening?" Canon asks as he strolls into my suite as if he's got all the time in the world for socializing. He drops onto a chair across from the sofa I'm sitting on and raises his eyebrows as if in expectation of a real answer.

"Fuck off, Canon."

"The fact that you're not even questioning who I'm referring to is sad."

"I'm busy here, Canon," I tell him, nodding at my laptop. "I don't have the time or interest to address the bullshit that comes from your mouth on a good day, let alone at present. And if you would stop using the master key to walk into my place of residence I'd appreciate it."

"Why don't you just grow up and ask her on a date?" he asks, ignoring my dig at his free usage of my front door.

"Wait." I give up on the reports in front of me and give Canon my full attention. "Are you advising me on my life choices right now? You had a threesome with two strippers last night."

"Yeah, and whose fault was that? One of them was for you but you claimed you were too busy to get laid. What was I supposed to do with her? Send her home unlaid?"

"Do what with whom?" Lawson strolls into my suite as if he too has nothing but time.

"What is this? Are we having a party? Do neither of you have anything to do? Our grand opening is in"—I check my watch—"two weeks."

"I've got jack shit to do." Lawson runs a hand through his hair, leaving it in disarray. "It'll be at least two weeks and a day before the first frivolous lawsuit rolls in. Also, it's Saturday, you dick," he adds with a grin. "Live a little." I'm about to tell him I'll live once the grand opening is behind us and to get the hell out of my place but he's already ignoring me, having dropped into the chair next to Canon.

"I'm good too," Canon says. "But thanks." He angles his phone in Lawson's direction. "The giraffes or elephants?"

"The giraffes." Lawson stretches as if he's getting comfortable to stay a while, his legs sprawled out, completely at ease, and grabs the remote from my coffee table.

"Agreed. Do you want to go in with me on a stroller? Shit, these things are pricey," Canon murmurs while tapping on the screen of his phone.

"Sure. But order a Bugaboo though, I'm not going in on a shitty umbrella stroller."

"What are you guys doing?" I stop working—again—to pay better attention to Canon and Lawson, my eyes narrowing as I remind myself of the lengths Canon will go to to amuse himself.

"Making a baby registry for you and Lydia."

"Get the hell out. Both of you."

"You seem a little stressed, bud. Perhaps if you'd taken Peaches up on her offer last night you'd be able to focus better."

I rub my forehead with my hand before responding. "Has it ever occurred to you that her name isn't Peaches?"

"Jesus Christ, Rhys. Her name is Claire. I was taking comedic liberties, lighten up."

Claire. Meghan. Sara. Christine. Staci. Susan. Amy. Penny. Jessica. Etcetera.

Is there a girl from Double Diamonds I haven't fucked? Does remembering their names when I see them again instead of calling them 'sweets' make me less of an asshole? I'm starting to suspect that it doesn't. How is it that only weeks ago I'd have laughed at this entire conversation? Weeks ago I'd have fucked Peaches, given her a big tip and thought nothing of it.

Because weeks ago I hadn't kissed a girl in a bar.

A girl who looks at me with her innocent wide eyes and face full of hope. A girl who thinks I'd call, remember her birthday and what her favorite flavor of ice cream is, or that she prefers milk chocolate over dark. Things I wouldn't remember, things I never remember. A girl who has no idea what a dirty pervert I am, or how many women have come before her. How many relationships I've fucked up, how many women I've paid to make me feel good when I couldn't even be bothered to fake my way through dating a woman—or even taking one to dinner—long enough to get to the transaction of orgasms.

I tap open a new report on my laptop and try to focus.

"Do you ever worry that all we do is work and fuck?" I ask the question out loud, not really sure who I'm directing it at or expecting an answer. They've been with me since the beginning of this journey. They were among the first people I brought on board after I located this property four years ago, a half-finished resort that had been abandoned when the previous investment group ran out of funding midway through construction.

We managed the initial phases of the project remotely, flying in and out of Vegas as the need arose. Just under a year ago we made the official move to Vegas, moving in to our executive suites on the thirty-fourth floor as the remainder of the hotel was still undergoing final construction. We've been living like perverted bachelors in a whorehouse ever since.

"Not really, no," Canon replies, tapping on his phone. "You coming with us to the club tonight?"

"Yeah, maybe," I say mostly so he'll stop asking. Maybe I will, I don't know. I can't think straight. The opening is so close. So goddamned close. Years of work about to come to fruition and it needs to be perfect. If this venture fails the damage it will do to the company would be colossal. My family's company. It's messing with my head. This hotel, this resort, it's my moment. Mine. My cousin Jennings has already taken over as CEO of the family company. My mother has been head of the North American division of the company since I was in junior high, with no signs of stepping aside.

Truth be told, I didn't want either of those jobs. I never did. I wanted something of my own. Something virgin and uncharted that I could build from the ground up. Or mid-construction-up, as it were. Something new, that would add to the company legacy, a project that would grow the family empire instead of simply contributing to it.

"Vince has something going on tonight in the back room," Canon cajoles. The back fucking room. Officially, it's the equivalent of a high-roller room. Pricey lap dances.

Unofficially, you're not paying for the lap dance. You're paying for the extras. Hand jobs, blow jobs, sex. You're paying to take the party off-site. An hour, a night, a weekend. Unofficially, of course.

How many times have I been to the back room? Asked for something more than a lap dance? Chosen from a selection of willing women as if I was selecting a value meal from a fast-food drive-thru?

I'm not good enough for her. I'd ruin her. Break her heart, crush that wide-eyed optimism that radiates from her, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. I'd fuck her like a whore and forget to call because that's what I do. That's who I am.

She thinks I'm a good man. I can see it on her face when she thinks I'm not looking. I can see it on her face when she knows I am. When she rocked her warm pussy against my thigh. When she bit her lip and spread her hands across my chest. When she watches me make an espresso with the industrial coffee machine. I think she almost came last week when I put my own cup in the break room dishwasher.

Too easy. Too easy to impress, too easy to ruin.

Too fucking optimistic when what I like is the satisfied look on a woman's face after I've made her come, followed by the look of her ass walking out the door with a handful of cash tucked into her bag that guarantees me she understands what it was. That there was no miscommunication about my interest in her beyond getting off.

Besides which, even if I wanted something different, I don't have the time. Two weeks until opening. Two. Weeks. My entire family will be in for the grand opening. My parents. My cousin Jennings and his new fiancée. My grandmother. My aunts and uncles and a smattering of cousins.

I want them to be proud of what my team and I have accomplished here in Vegas and no, it doesn't escape my attention that personally they have nothing to be proud of me for.

"How do you know what Vince has planned for tonight? Did you golf with him again today?"

"No. Got an email."

"You're on a mailing list for Double Diamonds?" I ask slowly, not sure this is real. "What the hell do they need to send emails for? To give customers a heads-up when they're running low on singles?"

"Everyone has a newsletter, Rhys. Don't be a dick. Besides, this is just for the back room customers, not for everyone."

"To notify us of what? Half-priced lap dances?"

"Auctions."

"Same thing."

"It's not an auction for reduced-price lap dances, Rhys. It's a virgin auction."

"Jesus Christ, Canon." I shake my head.

"No shit, really?" Lawson looks up from the game with interest and begins thumbing through his phone. "I didn't get that email," he mutters.

"It probably went to spam," Canon tells him this as if this is a normal conversation. "Check your junk mail. So you in?" Canon looks at me expectantly, unfazed by the concept, and I can't fault him. I can't say the idea doesn't make me a little hard.

"I told Brady I'd stop by tonight. I need to run some numbers with him about that idea we had for opening a satellite location of Hennigan's inside the Windsor."

"Lydia won't be at Brady's tonight," Canon tells me.

"How do you know that?" If he's doing one of his creepy security stalking things on her I'm going to be pissed. Sometimes he hacks people just because he can, or because he's bored. Or curious. Or because it's fucking Wednesday. Canon with time on his hands isn't good for anyone.

"Because she's going to be at Double Diamonds," he says, handing his phone to me.

His words hit me in slow motion. Logically I know I'm processing what he's saying in the blink of an eye, but illogically, it feels like it takes me a few minutes to get there.

Lydia.

Up for auction.

In the back room at Double Diamonds.

A virginity auction.

A goddamned virgin?

What did I say to her in the bar? What kind of filth did I whisper in her ear? I asked her how she liked to fuck, for Christ's sake. I told her I wanted her to choke on my cock. I talked to her like she was an experienced whore, not an innocent virgin.

Did she answer me? Or did she just smile and duck her head? Bite her lip and suggest we move to her apartment? I thought her a sweet little tease, too likely to want more from me. Like dinner or a repeat. Or worse, my time.

I wondered why my pants were still on and why she was rocking one out on my leg like it was her freshman year in high school. But a virgin? A twenty-two-year-old virgin, for fuck's sake. The thought never entered my mind.

Why in the hell is she doing this? Selling herself? She has a job and a place to live, so what in the hell is her end game? Money? Is it all about the money for her? What was I? A diversion? A practice run? A potential mark?

I thought she was different. Real. Too real for me was my worry, wasn't it? When it turns out she's just my type—for sale. The thought makes me itchy, worry about what else I've been wrong about clawing at me. My fingers inch into a fist, imagining her leaving that auction with any random entitled prick who can afford her. Someone who will whisper filth into her ear and fuck her like a whore.

Someone like me.

"How much?" I ask Canon, my jaw tight. I know I'm fucked up, because a good man would not be having the thoughts I'm having right now.

"It's an auction, not a buy now," he replies. "Bidding starts at a hundred grand."