Chapter Twenty-One

Reagan

“What the hell was that?” The blonde – Tawny – asks. “Are you like, her sugar daddy or something? Should I know you? You do look kind of familiar.”

No, not another woman who saw me on The Real Housewives of New York. I stifle a groan and deflect.

“What?” I shake my head. “No. You don’t know me, and I’m not a television star.”

“Then what happened,” Tawny asks, narrowing her eyes.

“I…I have no idea,” I say honestly, shrugging my shoulders in frustration. Taryn’s going to be the death of me with her ever-changing moods. I want to invent a mood ring that would help with reading her multiple personalities and pitch it to Mark Cuban on Shark Tank. “I’ve never really seen her like that before.”

Tawny rolls her eyes. “Taryn was always a little headstrong,” she says, as if letting me in on some big secret. “She likes to be in control, even if it’s at everyone else’s expense. She doesn’t understand the meaning of spontaneous. Look, I’m going to change – you can tell her I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can afford this dress, even with a deep discount.”

“Okay.” My mind spins. Why the hell did Taryn bolt like that with that weird getup? It doesn’t take a fashion guru to know a cosmo woman like Taryn would never step out of her store in mismatched accessories. What happened to make her evade talking about her past? Surely not the dancing because I’ve known about it forever. Hell, I’ve even seen her burlesque show myself via YouTube. Many a long night’s been spent in NYC with my finger on the enter key and my other hand stroking my hard-on. Her line about “viral advertising” for the fashion show was obviously bullshit, but what the hell made her lie in the first place?

Tawny changes in the fitting room then hangs the dress back up on the rack. She digs into her purse and brings out a silver card case. “You can give this to Taryn if you ever see her again,” she says, rolling her eyes. “In case she’s been wondering what we’ve all been up to. We’d love to get together for drinks.”

“Who is ‘we all?’”

“Our burlesque troupe, Diamonds and Dames,” Tawny says. “Taryn danced with us for years.”

“I know.” I realize I should probably recognize Tawny, but she pales in comparison to Taryn. I’ll admit, I never even looked at the other dancers. “I’ll make sure she gets this.”

I pocket Tawny’s card. She leaves, and I’m left standing in Strict Nécessaire, feeling like an asshole. Just as I’m wondering whether I should stay or go, Bailey comes trotting out from the back. She frowns when she sees me standing there alone.

“Where’s Taryn?”

“She said she was going out to do viral marketing for the fashion show,” I say. “Wearing a hat and a scarf.”

“That’s weird,” Bailey says, wrinkling her nose. “Taryn hates hats. Ruins her hair and she thinks it’s her best feature. She was really looking forward to lunch with you. Did something happen?”

I shrug, feeling helpless. I almost want to throw my hands up in the air and walk off without completing the conversation. It feels like an exercise in futility. “No clue,” I say. “This girl came in, someone that Taryn used to dance with. And she freaked out, and then she left. We were supposed to have lunch together.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s nothing.” She gazes around and lifts both shoulders nearly to her ears. “I should probably just hang out here over lunch, maybe she’ll come back in an hour or so.”

“Maybe,” I say, glancing down at my Rolex. “I should get going. I have to meet with my brother about the event.”

“Okay.” She bites her lip. “Um, Reagan?”

“Yeah? What’s up?”

Bailey presses her lips together and gives me a strange look.

“What is it?” I ask. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Is Taryn okay?”

Bailey doesn’t respond. She squirms, twisting her hands in front of her and knotting her fingers together.

“Bailey, come on, just tell me. We’re both adults.”

“It’s nothing,” she says, pissing me off to no end. I feel like I’ve stumbled into some alternate universe where females are on some kind of mission to confuse and alienate. “Bye, Reagan. Have a nice day.” She grabs some dress hangers and walks to the door. When I realize she’s holding it open for me to leave, I walk out into the Promenade.

“Well, bye.”

I’m so confused. Every time I feel closer to figuring Taryn out, something like this happens. I’m not sure why she’s so ashamed of her past – it doesn’t make a lot of sense. Heck, I’m a lawyer by day and a stand-up comedian every chance I get. My partners don’t know about it, and I want to keep it that way. But Taryn and I are friends. More than friends. It makes my heart ache that she doesn’t trust me enough to tell me her true feelings after everything we’ve shared. I want to know her mind as intimately as I know her body.

Does she know that I know this? Or is she somehow worried that I won’t want her because of her so-called sordid past? The truth is, I really don’t care. If anything, I admire Taryn’s strength. She’s a fighter – she’s always been a fighter, since back when we were kids in undergrad. And she obviously did what she had to do in order to open Strict Nécessaire. I don’t know why she’s avoiding the inevitable. Everybody’s got a past.

It occurs to me as I walk down the strip that maybe she’s embarrassed. I don’t know much about her background – only that she’s from South Dakota, which makes me think her family is pretty conservative. I bet they don’t know about Taryn’s dancing, and if they did, they probably wouldn’t approve.

But I like to think they’d be proud of her now. After all, Taryn’s a very accomplished woman. She’s not even thirty, and she has one of the hottest designer boutiques in Vegas. She’s right up there with my brother and myself – we’re all young, determined, and driven. And if Taryn wasn’t driven, she wouldn’t be where she is now, enjoying an exclusive contract with Ivory Clause.

But I want to know her better. I want to really know Taryn – I want to figure out what makes her tick, what she really thinks in that brilliant and beautiful mind of hers. But if she won’t open up, even a sliver, I’m screwed. My time in Vegas is running out. As soon as Dante is under control, I’ll be back in New York City, drinking and sleeping at the office, while Taryn will remain a distant, delicious dream of the past.

As I think about her past performances, a little shiver of lust travels straight to my balls. Dancers are beautiful. I’ve always thought so. And while I can’t deny that the thought of Taryn dancing – really dancing, not just alcohol fueled gyrations – turns me on, I don’t want her to think that I disapprove.

This is one hell of a situation. As I walk past Ruth’s Chris, I wish I was in there right now, with Taryn, eating steak tartare and sipping Syrah.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I snatch it out without looking. It’s Taryn – it has to be – and she’s going to say that she’s sorry, that she still wants to get lunch. And then I’ll get the chance to explain everything.

“Taryn,” I say breathlessly. “Where are you?”

There’s no answer for a few seconds, then I hear a familiar masculine chuckle in my ear.

“Oh, Reagan, I love you sooo much,” Nixon says in a high-pitched voice.

“Shut up,” I growl. “I didn’t look at the caller ID.”

His peals of laughter make me want to reach through the phone and slap him. “Obviously. Look, I need you to swing by my office right now – there’s something we have to discuss for the benefit.”

“I’ll be right there.”

We hang up, and I slip my phone back into my pocket. I’m starving, and I’m close to Caesar’s – Munchbar has a takeout window, so I order a bacon cheeseburger with extra fries and wait for my food. The smell of grease and meat is enough to make my mouth water, but I’m still fantasizing about sitting in an intimate booth at Ruth’s Chris, across from Taryn.

By the time I make my way back to the Armónico, it’s almost two. The sun is high overhead, and I’m sweating buckets as I walk into the casino and down the back hall to Nixon’s private elevator. Too fast, it grinds to a stop at his private office and the doors ding. His office door is closed. I don’t even knock, just push open the door and plop into one of the leather executive chairs in front of his massive desk.

“Hey,” he says, the phone pressed to his ear. “Give me a second.”

His face is tense and stressed – lines of worry are etched on his forehead. It’s not a good look, and I wonder if some hoity-toity band has backed out of their contract or demanded dead bunny pelts in their dressing room. With creative talent, it’s always something.

Frowning, I open the bag of food on my lap and start wolfing down my fries without even tasting them. Nixon makes a face, and I pass him the bag. He grabs a handful of fries and munches them, his frown growing even deeper with every second.

I can’t stop thinking about Taryn. Is she ever going to open up to me, or are we stuck in a tense dance, slowly circling each other like sharks in the water waiting for the first drop of blood?

“So,” Nixon says, hanging up and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “I have some bad news.”

“What? Does it have to do with Taryn?”

Nixon gives me a serious look. “Man, you’ve gotta keep your head in the game. Put some ice on your crotch for the love of God!”

“I’m not lusting after her,” I lie. “She’s just been acting kind of weird, that’s all. I think Dante’s really getting to her with his antics. She hightailed it out of the store today, wearing some weird disguise and skipped lunch.”

“Maybe she just doesn’t want you hanging around, panting after her pussy like a dog with a random erection,” Nixon says, rolling his eyes. “Well, the sponsors pulled out of the show. Dasani and Red Bull both – they were set to pay for the main stage, as well as a couple of bands to perform.”

“Shit,” I mutter, reaching into the paper bag for my burger. I’m not even hungry anymore, but something about eating garbage food appeals to me. Maybe it’s because I’m in such a garbage mood. It’s almost like I want to punish my stomach, so it will ache as much as my heart. No good organ wants to be in pain alone.

“Yeah,” Nixon says, giving his head an annoyed shake. I know that look he’s wearing. I’ve even put it on his face a time or two over the years. “It’s all because of this stupid fucking video! I feel like such an idiot.”

I don’t have the pleasure of understanding what in the hell he’s talking about. “What video? What happened?”

“Well, at first, I was almost tempted to think you were behind it,” Nixon says, spearing me with that older brother death glare that I hate. He reaches across his desk and grabs another handful of fries from my bag. “Given your penchant for practical jokes and trying to lighten the mood.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “The last practical joke I played was at Taryn’s expense, and you told me to lay off. I have. End of story.”

“I know,” Nixon huffs and closes his eyes, leaning against the headrest of his chair. In the fluorescent light of his office, he looks almost ten years older. There are visible dark circles under his eyes and his skin is puffy and sallow.

“What the hell happened to cause a viral video?” I ask. “Come on, Nix, I really don’t feel like being left in the dark today.”

Nixon shakes his head and sighs. “You know how we got Ansel Elgort to DJ? Well, he was practicing, and some asshole just happened to be there to catch the whole thing on video. It’s been on YouTube for hours – it hit the front page of Reddit, too.”

“So? He’s got fangirls,” I say, biting into my burger and chewing. “That can’t be a bad thing, Nix. Don’t you think it’ll just increase the amount of coverage we’re already getting?”

“That wasn’t all that happened,” Nixon growls. His face starts to turn purple with anger. “Right when he was finishing the sound check, a porta potty truck crashed into the tent where all of the clothes were being stored. So they’re all fucking ruined,” Nixon adds in a loud, angry voice. “Everything’s fucking covered in that blue sanitizing liquid. It’s got Dante Giovanetti’s grubby little fingerprints all over it. Who else would think to cover our fashion show in shit spray?”

If I were in a better mood, I think I’d burst out laughing. It is funny, Dante aside. I imagine the blue neon fabric carnage, but I know it’s nothing but bad news for the benefit. And for Taryn. I wonder if the high-end outfits are insured. I saw the four and five figure price tags on some of the runway looks.

“Shit,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s fucked up.”

Nixon puffs out his cheeks and blows an angry stream of air toward the ceiling. “I know,” he says, sighing the exhale of pitiful fool at the end of his miserable rope. “And since I’m the main sponsor, it’s my insurance doling out the payments. I know it was Dante. Piece of motherfucking shit.”

“You’re right. It had to be. He must’ve gotten a copy of the rehearsal schedule.”

“Yeah,” Nixon says. “And now we’re totally fucked.”

I hate to agree with him about this, but who else would possibly be screwed up enough in the head to fuck over a charity benefit using portable toilets?

“Don’t worry. We’ll think of something.”