Chasing Kings (15 page)

“Honey, are you all right in there, or am I going to have to get a security guard?” A woman with a husky voice knocked on Sam’s bathroom stall door.

Apparently she’d been crying loud enough it was becoming distracting to those in the other stalls.

“I-I-I’m f-fine,” Sam said, not sounding
at all
fine.

“Whoever he is, he ain’t worth it, sweetie.”

Sam opened the stall door and looked down at the woman who’d been speaking to her. Thanks to the ludicrous heels she was wearing, Sam was pushing six feet tall, making her tower over the petite blonde. The woman had black roots and leathery skin—a gift from a life lived between smoky bars and the desert—but she had kind eyes.

She pulled a tissue out of her purse and handed it to Sam, who tried to wipe the inky-black trails of mascara off her cheeks.

“You okay?” the woman asked again.

“No.” Sam shook her head, and tears began to well up anew, her lower lip trembling as she tried to keep herself together. “I just screwed up. Big time.”

“Aw, baby. Ain’t nothing in this life ever get so screwed up Jesus can’t see his way to making it right.” She patted Sam on the cheek, and upon seeing the mascara stain on her fingers, handed her another tissue.

“Yeah? You think Jesus is going to bring me ten grand?”

The woman’s eyes widened slightly, and she let out a small cough. “I guess that all depends on how good you’ve been.” She forced a smile. “And on how high Jesus’s credit limit goes.”

Sam thought she’d been good. Hadn’t she? Hadn’t she been good and played straight, obeying all the rules her whole life? Wasn’t she supposed to get some kind of karmic reward for her efforts?

She brushed back the tears with the heel of her hand, then remembered the tissue and used it to clean up the mess.

“It’ll all be okay, baby girl.” The woman gave her one last smile then walked out of the washroom, leaving Sam by herself once more.

What the hell was she going to do?

How could she explain this to Ethan? She’d done exactly what he asked, but instead of playing it safe, she’d risked big. Risked big and lost big.

Now he was out his original two grand, and he was that much further from the ten thousand he needed for Julian. He was screwed, and now she was to blame.

She didn’t have any bets left to make, and Jesus sure as hell wasn’t going to come through with the cash. Apparently God didn’t grant miracles to those who gambled. Go figure.

Sam sat down on a leather stool near the door and let out a shaky sob. When she’d gotten to the hotel, she hadn’t thought anything could make this stupid messed-up vacation any worse. Then she’d met Ethan and suddenly things had seemed like they might go her way for once.

Now the universe was proving to her things could
always
get worse, and she was shit outta luck if she thought the scales might tip in her direction.

Depends on how high Jesus’s credit limit goes.

The older woman’s words came back, bouncing around in Sam’s mind like a bonus round in a pinball machine.

Credit.

A new knot formed in her throat as she rifled through her clutch and found her small travel wallet, her fingers trembling as she went through it to see what she’d brought with her.

Don’t do it, Sam, you don’t owe this guy anything.
Her pragmatic mind scolded her for even contemplating what she was considering doing.
You’ll regret it.

Probably.

She got to her feet and checked herself in the mirror, seeing how much of the makeup damage could be repaired. When she didn’t look as if she’d been stood up for the senior prom, she left the bathroom and made a beeline for the cashier counter.

“What can I do for you, baby?” People in Vegas loved the endearment
baby
for some reason.

Sam slapped down her Visa gold card—her
emergency use only
card—and shoved it towards the cashier.

“I need ten thousand dollars. Please.”

Oh you stupid, stupid woman,
her inner voice sighed.

Stupid, maybe.

But she knew she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she had the burden of Ethan’s debt hanging over her head. She’d seen what Julian was capable of, and Ethan’s bruises had just been a
warning
. What would he do if Ethan didn’t come through?

Ethan had said he didn’t want her money. But he was going to get it anyway.

There were fourteen steps between the couch and the door of Sam’s hotel room. Ethan had memorized the number after he’d walked the same path over and over for an hour and a half.

He hadn’t wanted to go back to his own suite, especially not since Julian had proven how easy it was to get in. He didn’t want to be alone, and although he was by himself in the room, Sam’s presence lingered, making him feel less isolated. The sweater she’d worn on their first evening together was lying over the arm of the couch, and he’d stopped his pacing a few times to smell it.

She didn’t smell like the women he was used to, girls who preferred sickly sweet perfumes and vanilla-sugar body lotions. The smell of cookies got him half-erect some days because of the shit his costars piled on. But Sam had a more womanly smell, a blend of earthy and spicy he couldn’t get enough of. If the other girls in his life were cupcakes, Sam was tiramisu or some other bittersweet exotic dessert. Whatever she was, he loved the taste of her.

He continued to prowl the room, checking his watch again though mere minutes had passed. He’d told her to play it safe and had to remind himself it might take a little longer to bring in the kind of money he needed if she was placing small bets.

At least he knew she wasn’t going to run off with the cash like some other Samantha Harts he was acquainted with.

Ethan had just sat down when a keycard beeped in the door, sending him back to his feet. Sam came through, dumping her purse on the entry table and kicking off her shoes.

She wasn’t looking at him, but her mascara had been smeared. Ethan was a pro at spotting sullied makeup. Sometimes he had to stop mid-fuck in order for his costar to have her eyes or lips touched up, so he’d learned to see it and adjust it himself whenever possible. Saved time, and in his case a lot of unnecessary waiting to come.

But if Sam’s makeup was in ruins, it had to be because she’d been crying.

And if she’d been crying…

Fuck.

He didn’t say anything, waiting for her to confess the money was gone, but when she stepped into the room, she favored him with a small smile. Although it was obviously forced, it somehow managed to buoy his spirits, momentarily convincing him things weren’t as bad as he feared.

Except the mascara stains were still there.

When she was close enough to touch, he reached out, holding her wrist in one hand so she couldn’t back away, and brushing his thumb under her eye.

“What happened?” he asked, dreading her answer.

“Oh.” She lifted a finger and turned to go back to the door, but he still held her wrist, anchoring her in place. “I can’t get it if you don’t let me go.”

He released her but was scared she might make a break for it at any moment.

She went and got the clutch, then withdrew a white letter envelope from inside, only the envelope was so fat he couldn’t imagine how she’d stuffed it in such a small bag.

“Here,” she said, returning to him and holding out the envelope.

“What’s this?” He couldn’t reconcile her tears with the package he was now holding. If she’d been crying, she had to have lost the money. Yet here was a fat envelope in his hands that could only contain one thing.

“It’s ten thousand dollars,” she replied, giving him a confused look. “I’m pretty sure that’s what you sent me to get, wasn’t it?”

“You won this?”

“I sure as hell didn’t earn it.”

Ethan peeked into the envelope, and a hundred bills in varying degrees of use greeted him in a green fan.

Ten thousand dollars.

“You won this?” he asked again, scarcely believing his idiotic plan had worked. He had the money. He could pay Julian. Ethan was a free man.

“I think the words you’re looking for are
thank you, Sam
.”

A simple
thank you
wasn’t going to cut it.

How on earth could he express his gratitude to the woman who had literally handed him the money to save his life?

Ethan threw the envelope on the coffee table and scooped Sam up in his arms. She went willingly with a surprise
eep
noise when he swept her off the floor and moved them towards the bed. He tossed her onto the plush duvet, and her short skirt rode up, showing him a flash of lilac-colored panties. Some sense of modesty made her try to pull the dress back down, but he whispered, “Don’t.” His voice was raw, husky from both lust and emotion. He hadn’t expected to be so moved by what she’d done, but now he couldn’t think of enough ways to thank her.

But he knew a good place to start.

Her hand went still on the hem of her dress when he spoke, and she watched him with wide-eyed wonderment as he uttered the command. He climbed onto the bed beside her and braced himself on one elbow, using his free hand to smooth her mussed auburn hair from her face. In the dim bedroom lighting, the reddish-brown streaks were lit up like copper, and he ran his fingers through them as he gazed down at her.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” he asked.

She swallowed hard, an audible gulp filling the otherwise perfect silence of the room. “No.”

“You are. So goddamn beautiful.” He scooted closer, placing a palm to her cheek and tracing his fingers over her soft, warm skin. Her mouth opened with a sigh, and he rubbed his thumb along the sensitive tissue of her lower lip, opening her up to him so when he dipped his head to hers, he was able to kiss her with all the intensity he wanted.

Her body arched into his, meeting his need with her own, her tongue matching pace with his, her hands finding the hem of his shirt and skating up his bare back, clawing at his shoulders to pull him closer.

He deepened the kiss as he rolled on top of her, feeding off her surprising vigor. She kissed him with the graceless passion of a teenager in the backseat of a car, all tongue and teeth and growling urgency. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had kissed him like their mouths were consummating something as filthy and intimate as sex itself. The kiss held the taste of stolen moments and a rawness that was better than most blowjobs he got in any given week.

What Sam was giving him wasn’t stilted or forced. She
needed
him, and that desire rode through her like a living thing, filling him up and making him want to give back twice as good as he was getting.

He was so hard the press of the zipper on his jeans hurt, but all his other pain was an afterthought. He needed release and wanted to get it from Sam, but he didn’t want to scare her.

She jerked his shirt up, snagging it on his head in her haste to remove it. She stopped suddenly once the garment was off, her trembling hand tracing the pattern of bruises darkening his skin.

“Ethan…”

“Don’t.” He took her hand, bringing her fingers to his lips. “Please don’t stop because of that.
Don’t stop.
”

She nodded, seeming to understand that he needed the distraction she could offer. And he wanted to give her something with his body that might express how he felt now that his words had fallen short. Sam’s formerly hesitant hands wandered lower, undoing his belt and zipper.

“We can take it slo—” He was trying to give her an out if she wanted it, but his chivalrous words died on his lips when she slid her hand down the front of his pants and curled her fingers around his shaft.

Any pretense he had of behaving like a gentleman went out the window with her first stroke.

“Fuck, Sam.”

“Okay,” she replied, continuing to work him with slow, agonizing strokes, her hands mimicking the motions she’d made with her mouth in the limo. She stared between their bodies, her gaze transfixed. She didn’t seem to be listening to him anymore.

“I’m going to take off my pants,” he told her. His last shred of willpower would be stripped along with them, so he removed them slowly. They’d explored each other’s bodies, but only up to a point, and he wanted to give her ample time to decide if she wanted to take this final step with him.

Instead, when he rolled off her to remove his jeans, she sat up and undid her dress, peeling the tight material up over her head and throwing it on the carpet next to his shirt. He added his jeans to the heap and took a good look at her.

She’d opted for a lilac lace bra to match the panties, and while he appreciated the effort, he would have wanted her just as badly in mismatched cotton. It was all going to end up on the floor anyway.

He lowered himself on top of her again, enjoying the warmth and intimacy of close contact in spite of the protests of pain from his body. All too often with work, he was performing in cold spaces or doing such bizarrely acrobatic moves he could barely enjoy himself, so discomfort was nothing new. But sometimes it felt good to have a woman underneath him and just enjoy her presence and their connection.