“I’ve enjoyed a drink or two. Alcohol gives you perspective without the lecture.” ~Johnny Outlaw
Leaning his palms on top of the sleek black bar, the bartender smiles, and asks, “What can I get you, beautiful?”
Dressed in a button up and vest, he fits right in with the vibe of the bar. His smile is flirty and I bet his looks work well for him and often, but not on me tonight. After the jackass in the ballroom, I’m in no mood for another BS line, and just order my drink, “An Old-fashioned with extra orange please.”
“Coming right up. But first, I’ll need to see your ID. Please.” He flashes his smile again, bright white teeth, as if that will ease the blow that I’m still being carded at my age.
I reach down to my lap for my purse, then look back up to the bar top, and to the floor under my feet. Shit! I left my purse at the table in the party. Holding my finger up, I start to stand, and say, “I left my purse in one of the ballrooms. I need to go get it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says with a lazy shrug. “It’s cool. I trust you.”
I sit back down and say, “You can charge it to my room.”
“Sure thing.”
“Rules are made to be broken, but laws, breaking laws can get you into a lot of trouble. Hate to be a dick, but I’ll need to see your ID.” Two barstools down from me, the hot guy from the corridor sits smugly with a cocked up eyebrow and a wry grin firmly in place.
Stunned, I tilt my head to the side and ask, “Are you being serious?”
He puts his hand up when the bartender starts to protest. “I’m undercover and if she’s underage, your ass is going to jail.” Turning back to me, he says, “Dead serious.”
“You’re a cop?” I ask, eyeing him again. He’s clearly too hot to be a cop, so I’m taken aback by his tone because he actually seems serious. “You don’t look like a cop.”
“I didn’t say I was a cop. The hotel hired me. Now about that ID…”
I take the time to look him over before I give into his demand. Up close, I can see his shirt is tailored by the way it fits, his hair is messy in that sexy, just rolled out of bed way, and there’s a lightness to his eyes that leaves me wondering if they’re green or blue. It’s hard to tell in this dark bar.
The bottoms of his jeans are a bit frayed, and he’s wearing brown Doc Marten’s—not the boots—naturally distressed, not bought that way.
He’s an arrogant son-of-a-bitch, but I’m starting to think that small dimple in his chin gives him that right. It really is kind of hard to resist, and emphasizes just how intriguing he really is. Not how I usually imagine hotel security.
“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.”
“No, I’m buying you a drink and if you’d let me, maybe more?” The insinuation of his offer is not lost on me.
“Just like that? You give me a hard time. I give you a hard time, then you want to buy me more?”
With a nod, he says, “Exactly like that.”
“I don’t even know your name, so more than a drink might be a bit presumptuous.”
He sticks his hand out. “Jack Dalton. I was named after my dad’s favorite writer and there are rumors,” he says, lowering his voice and looking around before his eyes land back on mine, “that we’re distantly related to the Dalton Gang. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Jack Dalton.” A warmth covers my cheeks and down over my chest when our hands touch. It’s ridiculous that at my age I still blush, but I do and I might be falling for his overly-confident act, something I would never do back in L.A. “So you’re an outlaw, huh?”
Dropping the smile, he looks away briefly, as if checking the surroundings for eavesdroppers. His expression lightens when he turns back. “I guess you could say that, but I prefer Jack.”
“Jack. I like Jack, but I think I’ll call you Dalton. Seems more fitting.”
Chuckling, he says, “I can handle that.” He takes a sip of his drink, then looks me over. “Holliday is a beautiful name.”
My heart starts to race from his sweet words and the sincerity in his eyes. “My mom was a little quirky. I think she heard it on a soap opera once or a Christmas special. My friends call me Holli. It’s more normal.”
“Normal sounds boring and there’s nothing boring about you.”
There’s still a barstool between us, but I find his charm enticing and lean a little closer. “Thanks. Guess Holli just seems easier.”
Taking a sip of my cocktail, the ice shifts. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. I feel him watching even when I’m not. The moment of silence between us is filled by the music changing, a new song starts playing and I listen, enjoying it. “I love this song. Have you heard it?”
His head tilts up and he listens for a second then shakes his head. “This band sucks.”
Running my fingertip over the lip of the glass, I say, “I think there are a million women who would argue otherwise.”
“Maybe more,” he adds, chuckling.
“Probably. The Resistance is very popular. You don’t like their music?”
He leans in, taking a quick peek around, then says, “I heard the lead singer is a total asshole.”
Intrigued, I whisper, “Really?”
Spreading his arms wide, he says, “Big ego.”
“Seems like that happens a lot when people get too rich and too famous too fast.”
“Yeah. I can see that.” He takes a couple of sips, then asks, “Would you like another drink?”
“I’m good. Thanks.” I shift, wondering if I should return to the party. But when I steal another glance, catching sight of his strong jaw and broad shoulders, I decide to stay a little longer. He’s much more interesting than anything that ballroom holds tonight anyway. “Are you working all night?” I ask.
“Some of it.”
When I slip off the stool, there’s a sudden panic in his eyes. I quickly reassure him… because I’m having too good of a time not to. “I’m going to use the ladies room.”
He nods, looking straight into my eyes. “You’re coming back?”
“Yeah.” Turning on my heel, I say, “I’m coming—” I’m grabbed, a loud gasp escaping me before I finish my sentence. My purse falls from my hands, landing on the barstool from the sudden commotion.
“I’ve been looking for you. You’re a tough girl to track down,” Drunky from the party slurs, the alcohol on his breath hitting me in the face as his hand tightens around my arm.
It all happens so fast, the commotion just a blur. One second I hear a barstool scrape loudly against the hardwood floor, the next Dalton is standing in front of me and the drunk has released my arm. Dalton warns, “Don’t touch her again.”
With his hands up in surrender, the guy says, “Back off, buddy. I didn’t mean to scare her. I was just happy I found her after searching the casino. So excuse me while I buy her a drink.” His eyes meet mine over Dalton’s shoulder and he adds, “Or we can get a nightcap in my room. I paid for the upgrade and the view is great.”
I see Dalton steal a glance my way when I answer, “No.”
“Just no?” the guy asks, astonished. “You’re not giving me a reason? I thought we were sharing something special in there.” His head bobs a little—losing his common sense to the booze. If he’s invited to this conference, he’s a successful businessman, but he can’t hold his liquor worth shit and he needs to learn some manners.
“You need to walk away while you still can,” Dalton says, unflinching.
Holy shit. Dalton’s protecting me. I’ve never had anyone stand up for me like that before. I’m instantly drawn closer to him, grabbing hold of the back of his shirt with one hand, his arm with the other. Feeling brave, I say, “I don’t owe you a thing.”
“What a little bitch. You’re a tease just like the rest of th—”
“You have your answer,” Dalton says, his words a snarl that vibrates his chest.
The confrontation I was trying to avoid is now in full swing. After a heated moment of hard glares between the two of them, the drunk looks away. “Whatever, Asshole,” he spews. In his haste to take a shot at Dalton, he stumbles, spilling the remainder of his drink on him. “You can have her. She’s a fu—”
Dalton doesn’t back down though his shirt is wet. Standing strong and tall, his eyes locked on the other guy. “You should walk away while you still can,” Dalton says, keeping his voice low between us. “Because if you finish that sentence, you’ll be leaving on a stretcher. Your choice.”
Two large security guys walk up behind him, but they wait. After a few more profanities, the guy meanders off without another word, out the door and disappears into the crowded casino.
A camera flashes in the corner of my eye and I lower my head toward Dalton, hoping the camera wasn’t aimed at us. I’d hate to end up in an online story saying I got into a bar fight.
“C’mon, we’re leaving,” he whispers, taking possession of my hand. Moving fast, he tosses a large bill on the bar and tells the security guys, “Thank you for your assistance.”
Our fingers lace naturally, his grip tight, confident, but intimate. Looking down at me, he asks, “Now that you know my name and the fact that I might be related to criminals, how about that more we spoke about earlier?”
I grab my purse, anxious to see exactly where ‘more’ leads me. “Okay,” I reply, not putting up much of a fight… or any fight at all. Maybe it’s because I just gave him the answer he wants or maybe it’s because he feels he might get to second base, but his arrogant smile is becoming less cocky and more endearing the more time I spend with him.
On the way out, whispering is heard throughout the bar. “Is that who I think it is?” The chatter makes me paranoid. I’m not used to the attention and it’s unsettling. Tracy says I need to get used to being in the limelight the more PR I do, but I’m not there yet.
Dalton notices when I tense, and asks, “Everything alright?”
I shake it off. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”
He leads me out and around the walkway to the right instead of through the casino. While riding the escalator, I feel the need to say something. “I’m sorry about that jerk.”
“Not your fault. No need for sorries.” He gives my hand a little squeeze.
At the top, we take a right toward a security guard behind a podium. Dalton doesn’t flash his room key like I’ve had to do every time I come back to my room. I guess since they both work for the hotel, they know each other. The guard smiles at him and tells him to have a nice night. Dalton returns the gesture, but keeps walking until we stop in front of an elevator. He pushes the button and the doors open immediately.
When we step inside, I ask, “Are you taking me to a hotel room?”
“Yes,” he replies, still holding my hand. “I want to spend time with you privately.” With his other, he inserts the key card into the slot, then waits to push the button. “Are you okay with that?”
“Yeah.” Maybe I should’ve said no, but when he pushes the button for the top floor, I let it ride just like in roulette “I don’t do one-night stands,” I announce with my chin in the air. Anymore, I add silently.
His eyes meet mine and there’s a vividness to them, a sly happiness shining in the green. Ahhh, green. “Who said anything about just one night?”