“Yeah. Several, but none of them are technically single.”

“Fair enough. Have you thought about that tattoo that you wanted?”

I grinned. “I have. I think I want to do it.”

“Will you do it on camera? It’s not a requirement, but I’d appreciate it. The producers are always looking for some sex appeal.”

“Why the hell not?”

She fist pumped the air. “Yes! Score! I can’t wait. You just tell me when, and I’ll get some of my cherry blossom designs ready for you.”

“Soon,” I said vaguely, torn between wanting to do it right that second, and wanting to feel like it wasn’t an impulse decision, especially an impulse decision based on the fact that I was trying to stay distracted from the disaster that had become my love life.

Bev had to have known what was going on, when Tristan and I had gotten hot and heavy, but she hadn’t tried to stop me. She had touched my shoulder a few times in passing, saying things like, “If you need to talk about anything, honey, I’m always here,” or “I hope everything is okay…”

And then after, when it had all so obviously gone to hell, she’d gone out of her way to be there for me.

I never cried. I had always been good at keeping the tears in, and the mess with Tristan was no exception.

But Bev bought gallons of ice cream, and was even sweet enough to stay up late several times to eat it with me.

I’d confessed everything to her, every hot, ugly detail. She’d been as wonderful about it as she was about everything, telling me that it would be okay, and that no, I wasn’t the stupidest girl alive.

“My man picker is off,” I’d told her forlornly.

She’d patted my shoulder comfortingly. “Aw, sweetheart, it really isn’t. I saw what you were dealing with. There isn’t a girl alive that could turn down a guy like Tristan, with the way he was laying on the charm. Just take a lesson from it, and it won’t be a waste.”

I knew it was good advice, and I promised myself that I would tuck it away for future use.

Fuck Anonymous with Frankie was a riot. She monopolized the entire thing, going on and on about several of her latest disastrous relationships, and some of her unorthodox sexual preferences.

She told every story with so much humor that all of us were laughing for most of the session, and I was particularly grateful, because she’d deflected any attention off me for another week.

When she went into detail about her lifestyle as a dominatrix, I think she shocked most of the women, but I was fascinated, especially with all of Tristan’s talk of restraints.

“So you’re always dominant?” Candy asked, clearly tantalized by the idea. She’d been flirting with Frankie all night.

Frankie nodded. “Some people switch, but that doesn’t work for me. I have a very specific fetish. There are very different ways to practice BDSM, but my way is full speed ahead hardcore, which isn’t for many, even in the scene. I can only think of one other person, who shall remain anonymous, who takes it as far as I do.”

Sandra looked more shocked than anyone else about Frankie’s lifestyle, just staring at her, open-mouthed, as she went into detail about strap-ons and spreader bars. I got the feeling Frankie could have talked about strap-ons alone for hours.

“I work in the Cavendish Casino,” Sandra told Frankie, her eyes still a little wide in shock. “I work over in the art gallery, which isn’t far from your tattoo shop. Sometimes I see the camera crew when I go out for lunch. It’s all very exciting.”

“You got any tats?” Frankie asked her with a smile, clearly convinced that she didn’t.

“Just a tramp stamp,” Sandra said, which startled a laugh out of several of us, including Frankie.

“A tramp stamp is no joke,” Frankie told her. “So you work on the property. You ever seen the big man on campus?”

Sandra needed no other excuse to start in about James ‘the dreamboat’ Cavendish.

“We think she should make a pass at him,” Candy piped in, after Sandra had been going on for a solid five minutes.

Frankie looked dubious. “My advice would be not to. He’s actually one of my closest friends, and if he’s interested, you’ll know it.”

Sandra looked crestfallen, as though she’d really been planning to make a pass at one of the richest, most beautiful men on the planet. I admired her confidence.

“I met him at a club kind of recently,” I added, when there was a brief pause in the dialogue. “Sandra has talked about him exhaustively for years, and I have to say, I wasn’t at all disappointed. Those eyes…”

Frankie nodded. “He’s to die for beautiful. He doesn’t do relationships, but you couldn’t ask for a better friend.”

“Why would he?” Harriet asked, sounding a bit bitter. “Filthy rich, male, and gorgeous, he can stay single forever. He’ll probably knock up some nineteen year old when he’s eighty, and call it a day. Men have it so easy.”

Frankie laughed. “Getting a bit ahead of things, aren’t you? I can’t say what James will be doing when he’s eighty, I’m just telling you that the best you could hope for nowadays is a casual fling with the guy, and if he’s interested in you, you will know it.”

“Well, fuck,” Sandra pouted, “that messes with all of my workplace fantasies about him seducing me in my office.”

My eyes widened. I honestly couldn’t tell if she was joking or not, but she didn’t crack a smile, so I was leaning towards thinking that she wasn’t.

I didn’t think it could be healthy to be that obsessed with your boss, but I held my tongue.

Lucy stayed late that night, lingering when everyone had left except for her and Frankie. I’d known she would. One sympathetic look from her and the tears finally came.

She gathered me up into her arms, and I told her every little detail about the last few weeks, leaving out nothing.

It was Frankie’s first time hearing it all, and she looked surprised at some of it, like his reaction to my declaration of love.

“That asshole,” Frankie said succinctly. “That’s got to be Twatalie baggage, for sure, but that doesn’t make it okay.”

Bev and Lucy were fascinated by this.

“What on earth is a Twatalie?” Bev asked.

That made me laugh, even through my ugly tears.

“Not what, but who," Frankie explained, her tone wry. "Twatalie is his gold-digging ex. It’s a long story, but she fucked around on him with some rich men, and he just didn’t see it coming. Been a man-whore ever since.”

That brought on a fresh bout of tears. That’s what I hated most about crying. Once I started, it went on for a long time.

“He—he’s already slept up with other girls. He went out and hooked up with someone the night we had a fight.”

Frankie grimaced. “I’m sorry. I should have kept that to myself. I didn’t realize the extent of what had gone on with you guys.”

“I’d rather know. It hurts, but I needed to hear it. I have to get over this. I’m so stupid.”

The three women rushed to reassure me that I wasn’t stupid, but it was hard not to feel that way, when I knew that I was still in love with Tristan, and he was probably sleeping with some random woman that very night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

It was almost two weeks after the big falling out when I got an excited call from Frankie. She was bursting at the seams hyper, I could hear it in her voice.

“They’re going to perform at Decadence! Can you believe it? Their first gig in months, and they get to rock at the Cavendish property on a Saturday night!”

I knew, of course I knew exactly what she was talking about, but I asked anyway. “Who?”

“Tristan and the guys! Can you believe that? Jerry is a miracle worker. We’re going.”

I felt sick to my stomach. “I don’t know. I doubt I’m invited. And I’m not sure I want to see Tristan, like, ever again.”

“And what about Jared? He told me that you promised him you’d come to his next performance.”

“It was more the other way around. I made him promise to tell me when there was one, and he didn’t. You did. I really don’t think Tristan will want me to be there.”

“Well, you’re really wrong. Just come with me. We can watch from the back, then slip out right after they finish. No one will even know we’re there.”

“I know you. You don’t want to slip out right after they finish. You’d want to stay for the party, and I don’t want to be the downer that makes you leave early. And I certainly don’t want to go by myself.”

“Just stop it! You’re coming. I’m driving you. Be decked out in the hottest thing you own by eight p.m. Or else.”

“Or else what?” I asked, honestly curious, now that I knew about her dominatrix alter ego.

“Don’t question the or else! Just be ready in your best, ‘I’m hot and Tristan can eat his heart out’ dress.”

In the end, I barely even considered backing out. I wanted to see them play, and I knew that Decadence would be crowded enough to keep things from getting awkward.

I wore a tiny white dress that didn’t cover up a thing in back, barely covered up a thing in front, and showed off most of my legs. It was risqué, so risqué that I’d only worn it once before, to go out with Tristan. He’d told me it was the sexiest dress he’d ever seen, and so I didn’t even consider anything else. It was a clear choice for ‘eat your heart out, Tristan’ attire. My sexy red heels were another no-brainer, as I was well aware that they drove him crazy, since he’d told me that on more than one occasion.

Bev helped me curl my hair into thick ringlets, and even sat and watched me put on makeup, throwing out suggestions all the while. That was the best thing about Bev; she was unconditionally supportive. I knew she didn’t think I should be going out to see Tristan, but if I was, by God, she’d help me look my best for it.

I went heavy with the makeup; smoky eyes and blood red lips, the combination bringing out the paleness of my skin and eyes.

It was pouring rain outside. It had been all day. But in the midst of a Vegas summer, it was still steaming hot. Still, I didn’t want to get wet just going from the house to Frankie’s car, so I found the biggest umbrella in the house, and made a mad dash for it.

I managed to slide into her car still mostly dry.

She grinned when she saw what I was wearing. “That’s a fucking perfect dress for making someone eat their heart out. Good job, girl. Gonna give him a heart attack.”

“I just hope he’s not mad that I’m there. He’ll probably think I’m a stage five clinger for showing up.”

“No. Stop worrying about that. He knows that you’re coming, and he’s not mad at all. All of the guys will want you there.”

I didn’t get a load of what Frankie was wearing until we were getting out of the car at the valet station. My eyes widened.

I’d known that she was fond of half-shirts. She worked them like nobody’s business, so much so that I’d found myself trying the style, just hoping I could pull it off half as well.