Chapter Fourteen

Taryn

“Is there anything else I can get for you?

A blonde lady yawns right in my face, and I take a step back. How rude. “Don’t you have anything new,” she whines, gesturing around the store. “I was in Paris last month, and I saw like, all of this.”

Bitch.

Today, I’m just not in the mood. But instead of telling her what I think of her behavior, I plaster a warm smile on my face. “Yes. As a matter of fact, we have a whole new shipment of Dior Ready To Wear. I haven’t even put it on display yet, but there’s a gorgeous cocktail dress that would look perfect on you. Shall I bring it out? Size four?

The Margot Robbie lookalike sniffs and tells me to go fuck myself with her eyes. “Size two,” she says, glancing down over her slim figure.

I rush into the store room and pluck three gorgeous dresses with price tags featuring four digits. Walking back toward the blonde, I smile and hold them out.

“These would all suit you perfectly,” I say. “Want to start with the cobalt?”

The blonde raises her eyebrows and yanks the gowns from my hands. I can tell she’s impressed – she bites her lower lip as she holds one of the gowns up to her figure and turns to face the mirror.

“Wow,” she says. “This is nice. I have a wedding coming up next weekend – one of my sorority sisters from college – and this would be perfect.”

“Yes. You’ll certainly upstage the bride, if that’s your goal.”

The girl gives me a wicked smile. “It is,” she says, smiling sweetly. “Can I try these on?”

I show the blonde to one of our luxury fitting rooms, then go behind the counter to do some paperwork. It’s almost time to close, but in no way does that mean time to relax. I have to go home and go through my sketches. Since Nixon decided to push the fashion show back while he searches for a new venue that isn’t burnt to a crisp, I have to completely rework all of the planned outfits.

The blonde emerges, clad in a Dior gown that makes her look perfect. She raises an eyebrow at me.

“Stunning.” I don’t even have to lie – she looks gorgeous. “The bride is going to have to keep tabs on her groom. All evening.”

The blonde cackles, and it sounds like an air horn. “Good. I’ll take this one, and the other two. What’s your return policy?”

Now it’s my turn to smile sweetly. “Strict Nécessaire doesn’t have a return policy unless an item is defective. We’re confident you’ll be more than satisfied with your purchases. Exclusive means exactly that.”

The blonde nods. “Fine.” She tosses the remaining Dior gowns on the counter. “And I’ll need a pair of shoes. Any Louboutins in size seven will be fine. I trust you.”

As soon as she disappears back into the fitting room, I make a puckered up face which makes me feel better but only for a split second. When I first arrived in Vegas, rich girls like this blonde made me see red. They still annoy me with their obnoxious entitlement – but I’ve developed a certain affection for them. After all, this girl will likely be walking out of Strict Nécessaire thousands of dollars poorer. But girls like her are the reason why I’ve done so well. I can’t sneer at them, no matter how much I itch to do it.

I find the girl a pumpkin pair of Louboutins with crystals over the toe box, the perfect pop of contrasting color, then wrap up the Dior gown in silk lining. She pays with a credit card, not even batting her eyelashes as she signs the receipt. As soon as the door chimes with her exit, I slump against the wall and take a deep breath.

This is okay. It’s just another day for me and my boutique. And the more we make, the better chance we have of surviving long-term.

I close up in a rush, running a broom over the floor and sweeping up the bits of dust and foil champagne wrappers. As soon as I’m done, I change into flats, grab my bag, and lock the front door.

I always cut through Nixon’s casino on the way to my car – renting the space for Strict Nécessaire from him gives me the perk of a free space in his secured garage. I frown. The casino looks emptier than usual. The typical bachelor and bachelorette groups are still parading around, but they look duller, less excited than normal.

Shit. This isn’t good.

I scurry across the casino floor, darting past the comedy club on my way to the parking garage.

A familiar voice stops me dead in my tracks. The nine o’clock show is underway as someone plays to a packed house of revelers eager for a good belly laugh. I sigh when I realize that the familiar voice belongs to Reagan Caldwell. No way. It’s just some random rising star comic that sounds like him because he’s been on my mind since the moment I saw him inside Velvet. Reagan? Performing in public? The man who used to stutter whenever he tried to talk to me back in college?

I burst out in chuckles. He’d get a kick out of this, so I decide to check it out, just for a minute. Then we can have a good laugh about how he’s apparently got some doppelganger moonlighting in Nixon’s comedy club.

Still giggling, I slip into the back of the venue. But when I turn my gaze to the stage, my jaw drops. It’s not someone who sounds like Reagan. It actually is Reagan, standing in his expensive Calvin Klein slacks and a white Oxford shirt. The knot of his cranberry silk tie hangs loose, and his jacket drapes over a low stool. He holds a beer in one hand and a mic in the other.

A hand that’s clearly not trembling with fear. He’s got an easy expression on his handsome face like he’s actually calm, cool, and collected.

And enjoying himself.

I can’t believe it. Reagan Caldwell – the eternal wallflower. Doing an open mic set in a late-night Vegas comedy club.

Nixon must have put him up to this. I creep closer and closer. Nearly every seat inside is taken. Tables of designer-clad men and women drink and laugh, clapping with each new quip that spills from Reagan’s eloquent mouth. I slip into a chair near the front of the stage. With the bright lights glaring at Reagan, I know he’ll never see me. This way, I can look my fill without getting busted.

I know I should get home. There’s a lot of planning and work to do, and I can’t slack off and waste time just on a whim. But there’s something about Reagan’s open, easy manner that makes me curious…this is completely unexpected. I’m confused – has he always been into comedy? I know he’s into bad practical jokes and outrageous teasing, but straight stand-up is another story entirely.

“New York is a great place,” Reagan says, grabbing the mic and striding around the stage. “It’s full of all this shit you’d never expect to find in real life.”

The crowd falls silent as he grins and takes a sip of beer.

“During the day, I work as a lawyer. I get it, I probably don’t look the type.” Reagan smirks and steps closer to the bright lights. “I know, you can see the blood running through my veins and now you’re all surprised.”

The crowd laughs, and Reagan shakes his head.

“And one day, I’m at work? This woman comes up and says she wants to sue. Pretty typical shit for an exclusive law firm, right? Well, not exactly. Turns out, she’s the mother of some child star – I can’t say his name, but just think of a certain Disney channel show. She threw her kid a birthday party over the weekend, with clowns and everything.”

I can’t help smiling at Reagan’s easy, friendly manner. And I’m not the only one. In that moment, I’m so proud of him that it nearly overwhelms me. He’s the kind of multi-faceted man that could be the father of my children.

Whoa, slow down there, Taryn. Where in the hell did that come from?

“So, this one clown – Mr. Pickles – shows up. Right from the beginning, Disney star’s mom knows there’s something not right. Mr. Pickles doesn’t seem too into the kids. He slips a waiver under the mom’s nose, and she signs it right away.” Reagan’s eyes widen as he reaches into a box sitting on the stool that holds his jacket. He withdraws a red, rubber nose and places it on his face to the delight of the crowd. “Which is her first mistake. I’m telling you as a legal professional, never sign anything without reading it.”

The crowd laughs, and Reagan pauses.

“Especially when Mr. Pickles is involved,” Reagan adds. “So, the party starts. Mom’s pretty busy, she’s running around, corralling all of the little ankle biters into cake and punch and pin the tail on the politically correct animated drawing of de Blasio, the works. When it comes time for the clown show, Mom’s looking around everywhere for Mr. Pickles. But she can’t find that Bozo. He’s not with the kids, he’s not gulping vodka from a flask in the bathroom, he’s not even hiding in the powder room not going to the bathroom.”

I snicker and lean back in my chair, relaxing against the plush material.

“At this point, Mom’s feeling pretty flustered. She gets one of the other parents to look after the kids, and she goes into the house and starts poking around. He’s not in the dining room – not in the living room, either. So, Mom goes upstairs. And that’s when she sees Mr. Pickles. He’s in the bedroom.”

The crowd falls silent, and we all lean forward in anticipation.

“That’s when Mom notices – Mr. Pickles is decked out in her naughtiest lingerie. Corset, crotchless panties, heels. But it gets even worse. He’s got a huge dildo in his hand which is definitely not hers. When she tells him to get his ass back into his clown suit and go to the backyard, Mr. Pickles bends over the bed.”

The crowd roars with laughter, and I’m giggling so hard that my eyes tear up. I grab a cocktail napkin from the table to dab at them.

“Mr. Pickles says he’s been a bad boy, and he needs a spanking with the huge dong. And if she wants to, she can penetrate his back door. Mom goes postal – laying into him, telling him that he’s fired, that her husband’s going to string him up by his balls, everything. Mr. Pickles doesn’t respond, he just ramps up the ‘I’ve been a bad clown’ act and starts to spank himself with the gigantic cock. Finally, Mom loses her shit and starts screaming. That’s when Little Junior starts wondering about the commotion. He leads all the other kids upstairs and into his Mom’s room…where he sees Mom and Mr. Pickles, fucking like rabbits, right on the bedroom floor.”

I laugh so hard that I shriek, doubling over at the ridiculous image in my head.

“And that’s why you never want to hire a clown from a fetish site,” Reagan says, smirking. “Always know what you’re buying and where you’re buying it from. Cut rate isn’t the way to go for kids’ parties. Petting zoo, bouncy house, pony rides. That’s golden.”

The crowd laughs and claps. Just as I’m straightening my clothes and getting ready to make my escape, knowing a lot more about the man, the myth, the legend that’s Reagan Caldwell, the spotlight flashes over the audience. Shit, I think, ducking my head. No, please no.

Too late. The light stops dead at my table, and we lock eyes. I’m so fucked. When he sees me, he grins.

“Ah, the lovely and successful Ms. Mitchell,” Reagan says. He turns to the rest of the crowd and makes a sweeping gesture with his hands. The crowd giggles, obviously anticipating what’s going to happen next.

A roast.

I plaster a smile on my face. One would think my years of dancing would have acquainted me with being the center of attention, but somehow, I still feel a pinch of anxiety because the next laugh’s going to be at my expense.

“Don’t worry, Ms. Mitchell, I promise Mr. Pickles isn’t going to come after you,” Reagan says. “I know how much you like birthdays, but I’m pretty sure he’s going to the pokey for a long time.”

I flush scarlet and giggle in spite of myself.

“Ms. Mitchell here has a thing about birthdays,” Reagan says. “No, before you ask – definitely not a fetish for clowns – but for all the birthdays she’s had, she looks awfully young. I’ve only just gotten reacquainted with her, and she’s already had three birthday celebrations in as many days.”

The crowd roars with laughter, and I bite my lip.

“She’s so lovely, am I right?” Reagan asks. When the crowd agrees in raucous style, my cheeks turn scarlet. “Something about her just inspires celebration. I mean, when I celebrate, I usually want a bottle of Hennessey and a couple of rare steaks. But Ms. Mitchell? She’s good with helium Mylar balloons and a sheet cake shaped like Strawberry Shortcake.”

I giggle. The crowd around me goes nuts, and I sink back into my seat, mesmerized. He’s really funny, I think as I glance around. Everyone stares at him and grins – not a single person messes with their phone or looks annoyed.

Is there a whole other side to Reagan Caldwell? Have I been completely wrong about him? All I can think about is him bounding down off the stage, grabbing my arm, and dragging me up to the presidential suite to fuck me senseless. In that moment, I realize how far I’ve fallen.

All the way.