Bare Knuckle: Vegas Top Guns, Book 5 (14 page)

He lifted Trish off his lap then disposed of the condom. His shorts were under the bench. He gave Trish’s ass a pat as he ducked to grab them. “C’mon, showgirl. Get your pretty on. We’ve got plans.”

His mind stuttered as she slowly—
deliberately
slowly—pulled a lacy black bra out of her duffel. As if she needed a bra. With breasts that great, lingerie became window dressing.

The eyebrow she raised was all doubt. “Those plans better not involve cheeseburgers.”

“Fine.” He couldn’t resist slinging an arm around her waist. He pulled her close enough to kiss—fast but not shallow. He stroked his tongue along the inside of her lip. “Milkshakes.”

“Do you like taking pictures of my ass or not?”

He laughed against her shoulder. “I do. Definitely.”

“Then I need to keep it in its shape. No milkshakes either.”

“I won’t take no for an answer.” He swatted her ass again for the fun of it. “And get dressed, you tease. Exhibitionist or not, we’re
not
getting arrested for indecent exposure.”

Chapter Thirteen

They didn’t speed toward whatever destination Eric had in mind. They
cruised
. Like something out of the ’50s with greasers, Pink Ladies and James Dean’s red
Rebel Without a Cause
jacket. Getting to the Strip meant hideous traffic, especially on a Friday night. Cars crept along. So Trish unbuckled her seat belt, scooted along the sleek leather bench and snuggled up against Eric’s solid chest. He put an arm around her. Two movie stars on the world’s most exquisitely gaudy set.

“You sure you’re not gonna tell me where we’re going, sugar?”

“Nope.”

“Just…no wig.”

“That’s right.”

She hadn’t expected him to give up their destination, but she liked teasing him anyway. His curt replies held quiet notes of humor. He’d never be the kind to wisecrack. She’d dated showbiz men on and mostly off and found it frustrating how they competed for people’s attention. Eric’s attention was stuck on her. Perfect.

With the top down, she bathed her face in the warm desert breeze. Sure it smelled mostly of booze, fried food and gasoline, but Trish loved the charged-up energy and the occasional hint of sage and sand. The lights were out in full, outshining the stars.

Only, they weren’t bright enough to ease her lingering melancholy.

When she’d thought he was turning her away… The disappointment had been greater than it should’ve been. The quickie in the locker room and Eric’s revelations about his brother had helped. Could it have been so hard to tell her first? She’d taken the blow of his seeming rejection as if a choice role had been yanked out of her grasp.

“Will you at least talk about your car? I know you must love it.” She stroked the supple cream-colored leather. “How much did it set you back? I can’t imagine!”

At a red light, he gunned the engine. “Four grand.”

“No way.”

“Four grand and eight years of work.”

“You restored it?”

He ran his left hand over the polished steering wheel. “I did.”

“Do you always devote yourself to projects that take so long?”

He shrugged those big shoulders. “Don’t you? How long you been in the business?”

“Since I was three.” She couldn’t help the pride in her voice. “That was my first pageant. I won second place, but I didn’t care. I got to wear a blue dress with jingle bells layered in the lace. Any trophy for a three-year-old is better than Christmas.”

“Christ,” he said under his breath.

Trish stiffened. His tone darkened over that happy memory. She sat up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Awfully young.”

“So?”

He glanced sideways as the light turned green. “I didn’t say it was wrong. Only that you were young.”

“Don’t think I haven’t heard that before. People always blame Mama for dressing me up and parading me around. They never thought to consider that maybe I
liked
it.”

“So you’ve always been a Barbie.”

A flush swept over her face. “Have you always been an asshole?”

“You think I am right now.”

“Yes, I do. You have no right to judge me.” She crossed her arms. And of course he noticed. “God, you are such a hypocrite.”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t have looked twice at me if I hadn’t been wearing a red bikini and a fuck-me smile. Then you get to mumble about how I was brought up? Tell me, Jim Jennings, exactly how did you get out of Detroit?”

His lovely mouth pinched into a hard line. “Wrestling scholarship. Boxing. The service.”

“The male equivalent of pageants and modeling. You use your body the same as I do. Who was the last chick you banged because she got off on your sparkling conversation? I bet you can’t name one. So don’t give me your shit. I work
damn
hard.”

As she tried to calm her breathing, she ran a hand over her bare neck and real hair. God, she felt vulnerable.

Eric pulled the car into a parking ramp beneath the Stratosphere. After a tense ten minutes searching for a spot, he parked the car but let the engine keep purring like a jungle cat.

Another no-no scowl tugged at the edges of her mouth, but she couldn’t help it. No pouting or playing or listening to Mama’s voice in her head droning warnings of wrinkles.

She was genuinely hurt.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he said, a quiet rumble. “Hard to know what to think. I’m fucking up what I want to say.”

“What do you mean by anyone like me? And
don’t
say I’m fishing for compliments.”

He shook his head. “You’re a…fantasy. Any man’s fantasy. Hard to keep it straight that you’re real.”

“Isn’t that what you were trying to find the other night? The real stuff?”

His nod was tight.

“No matter the parts I enjoy,” she said, “I hate auditions. Rejections hurt. I’m always sure they’re gonna toss me out. Every girl is prettier and has a better resume. I have to be
on
all the time. Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to sit here without a wig on? No. You don’t.”

The tightness in her chest kept building. Was she so fragile?

“Every man looks at me like you do,” she continued, forging on with only a whisper. “I play up to the fantasies you mentioned. And sure, I get off on it. But sometimes I’m not worth talking to. Sometimes I’m a fun fuck, or I get slapped with dumb-shit remarks that remind me I’m meat.”

Eric flinched. His frown accentuated the scars along his temple. They stared at one another for the space of five excruciating heartbeats.

“Patricia?”

Her turn to flinch. She hated her given name and the molasses-drenched memories it conjured. She’d spent years struggling to leave those dead-end roots behind. Coming from Eric, however, her given name felt…different. Serious. Personal.

“Spit it out,” she said. “You’re probably pissed.”

“No, I’m not.” He reached for her face. Turbulence churned in his night-blue eyes. Rough thumbs caressed her cheekbones. “I’m sorry.”

Trish inhaled softly. She couldn’t remember the last time a guy had apologized well enough for her to believe it. His earnestness urged her to let him off the hook. They could go back to the way they’d been.

That would mean forgetting the rest of the evening’s ups and downs. For once, no matter her vulnerability, she didn’t want to compromise. A lot of that had to do with Eric. She got the oddest feeling he didn’t want her to—even if his big fat mouth had chewed him into a hole.

“And?”

“You’re not a Barbie,” he said quietly. “I’ve teased before, but I mean it. You’re a woman. And I hurt your feelings.”

Oh, fuck it.
It was the best she’d ever gotten—the most she’d ever demanded for herself.

She met his mouth with a sweet kiss and a conciliatory smile. “That’s right. I’d
never
settle for Ken.”

Strong hands slid to her shoulders. He glanced down her gold-and-black lamé top, which displayed a hefty dose of cleavage. She would’ve shot right back to red-hot pissed if he hadn’t flashed his quick smile. “And you’re sure not plastic.”

“Not a bit, sugar. All real.”

“Even your hair.” The caress he petted along her nape made her shiver. “Soft. I prefer it.”

“Although,” she said, wanting some levity back, “I wouldn’t mind the Dream House one day. Personal elevator, big whirlpool tub, fireplace, all decked out in pink and—”

“Do you want me to shut this car off or not?”

Trish stole another kiss, this one hotter and charged with a new energy. They’d created it from some awkward give and take. She talked a lot, but that didn’t mean she always said the important stuff.

“Let’s go, sugar.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “You sure?”

“Yup. Gimme what you got.”

Mischief danced across his intimidating face. She wondered if anyone else would notice. “Remember those words, showgirl. No wimping out.”

“Wimp out? Never. I’m up for anything.”

Ten minutes later, Trish stared at the ticket booth for SkyJump Las Vegas.

“No way. And I don’t mean no way, but no fucking way!”

Eric
tsk
ed. “Bad language from such a pretty mouth.”

“I’m serious. If you think I’m jumping eight hundred feet to my
certain doom
, you’re insane. I shouldn’t be standing near you.”

He crossed his arms, so nonchalant, as if he’d proposed the tamest thing in the world. “What happened to being up for anything?”

“Dared into suicide was never an option.”

He pointed to a big-screen TV where, one hundred and eight stories up, the next victim was preparing. A SkyJump attendant strapped the young man’s Technicolor jumpsuit onto protective harnesses and guide wires. “See? Perfectly safe.”

“Eight hundred and fifty feet! How long would I be falling?”

“Eight seconds. At roughly…one hundred and five miles per hour when you finish.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“More than a pretty face, showgirl. C’mon, I thought you’d have more balls.”

She couldn’t help a giggle. “Wouldn’t that have surprised you, stud?”

Eric did more than smile. He full-on laughed. “That would’ve made for a really different night.”

Had she ever heard his laugh that fully before? That loud and carefree? She could get addicted to a sound so precious.

Dangerous.

First she had to deal with a more immediate danger.

“If you’re gonna make me pay a hundred bucks to plummet to my death, you’ll have to promise something pretty damn sweet.”

The shop’s giant TV showed the strapped-in guy as he walked onto the tiny platform. A straight drop toward the Strip. His face was sweaty and clammy pale.

Trish was gonna be sick.

Eric only flicked occasional glances toward the jumper. Mostly he watched her, like deciphering a puzzle—how to convince a sane woman to risk life and limb.

“How about a bottle of champagne? We’d come back. Grab our stuff from the lockers. Find a darkened booth.” He touched her ass below the waistline of her frilly black skirt. “I know what you’re
not
wearing under there. Could be fun.”

“Nope.”

“Then maybe a night here at the hotel?” He threw in a salacious grin. “With me.”

“Now you’re not trying. That was a given as soon as I stepped out of your Camaro.”

“Fine. Think about it. What will it take?”

He led her out to where several dozen people stood drinking and chatting on an open-air observation deck. Trish craned her neck. The itty-bitty platform could be anywhere up there, among the Stratosphere’s lights. One distant human body was impossible to spot.

Cheers surged out of the souvenir shop. The young man must’ve jumped. Then came his scream, like a little girl covered in spiders. If that was eight seconds, it was the longest eight seconds in the history of time. He got louder and louder as a bright blue-and-yellow jumpsuit plummeted toward the so-called landing spot.

Splatting spot. Definitely.

Trish gulped. “I’ll take the title to your Camaro.”

“Fuck off,” Eric said on a sharp laugh.

She watched, numb everywhere, as the jumper safely slowed to a stop. Apparently alive. Attendants undid his harnesses. He walked away as if he’d downed two bottles of Captain Morgan.

“Eric, you act like this doesn’t faze you. Like you’d do it without a second thought.”

“Yup.”

“Boxing matches, sports car, free falling. You’re an adrenaline junkie.”

“Never claimed otherwise.”

At least that made sense. Everything was so locked down. Maybe it took jumping off buildings to tempt him out of bed. What that said about enjoying sex with her was humbling.

“Okay, I’ve got it. You have to tell me what you do for a living.”

His amusement faded—a change as slow as a puddle evaporating. “I did. I’m in the service.”