“What? Keep me updated on the brilliant thoughts coming in over the wire.”
“I don’t know what happened. But now I’m worried,” I say, checking over my shoulder. We don’t need Andrews to see us conspiring together in the hall.
“Why? Think I gave you the clap?” she deadpans.
“No, of course not! Wait. You don’t have it, do you?”
Oh shit. Tell me we used a condom, if we did anything. That’s all I ask.
“I kind of want to say I have a bunch of communicable diseases just to see the look on your face.” She groans and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Look. Let’s get a coffee and talk it over. All right?”
“Fine,” I say. “We can’t take too much time.” I check my phone. Half past ten. “My friends’ wedding starts in less than seven hours.”
“You don’t have to spend your day running around with me, you know,” she says, folding her arms.
“Actually,” I say, “I do.” Because if that video was any indication, Julia Stevens and I had a hell of a good time last night. And on the off chance any of that good time was illegal, it’s probably in my best interest to find out what happened.
“You think we committed crimes?” Julia asks, her eyebrows shooting up. She blows on her mocha, a smile spreading over her face. She even bounces a little in her seat. “Oh my God. This is epic. Sort of Bonnie and Clyde, but we don’t get shot at the end. Wait.” She rummages through her pocket—of course her dress has a pocket—and pulls out her phone. The phone case is the same blue box weirdness she got tattooed on her ass. Naturally. “Vegas Bonnie and Clyde would be delicious for my new romantic thriller series.”
“Would you concentrate?” I take a sip of my mint tea. I don’t imbibe any caffeine after my first cup of coffee. I don’t like to be dependent on anything. “Skinny dipping might be the least of our worries. If we were out of control, and people find out, it could do damage to our careers.”
“Maybe to yours, O Great Divorce Attorney. My fans would probably eat it up. They like to think I’ve culled all the wild, romantic escapades in my books from experience.”
But Julia’s not as flippant as her remarks would make her sound. She’s chewing on her lip, a clear tell of nerves. I stare at her mouth. Her full, soft lower lip does look very bitable.
Don’t let your dick lead you around, Wexler. So far this girl hasn’t brought you anything but migraines and a possible criminal record.
“Let’s start with you. What’s the last thing you remember doing yesterday?” I ask. I grab a paper napkin, take my pen out of my coat pocket, and get to work. When discussing techniques and strategies with clients, I like to sketch out the plans. It helps when I see something in front of me.
Julia groans.
“I don’t remember doing you. That’s a shame.” She puts her chin in her hand. “You were probably good, given the video footage.”
How the hell do I respond to that? “We couldn’t see the expressions on our faces,” I say at last. Clearing my throat, I continue. “No way to get a proper reaction.”
“No, but from your body language, I could tell you were very excitable.” She grins and chews on an almond biscotti.
If I didn’t have to make damn sure I haven’t murdered anyone . . . . It’s okay, Nate. You just have to keep it together until we piece together last night’s timeline. Then you’re out.
“Again. What do you remember?” I say. Apparently I’m being too businesslike about this, because she sighs in annoyance.
“Wow. Lighten up, Nate. I’m just as worried about this as you are.” She frowns.
“Clearly you’re not, because I’m the one trying to make a plan and you’re the one making jokes.” My headache is coming back, a dull pounding behind my eyes.
“I like to think of it as ‘I’m trying to keep us calm.’ You’re dead certain we’re headed to Alcatraz.”
“Alcatraz isn’t a functioning prison anymore,” I say.
“You’re a functioning prison,” she says.
“That doesn’t make sense!”
“Neither does splashing and frolicking and groping your dick in the Bellagio fountain, but in case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a whole buffet of doesn’t make sense going on right now. So load up your plate, grab the crab legs before they run out, and eat.” She huffs, running a hand through her eternally frizzy hair. “All right. I remember meeting everyone for the Cirque de Soleil show here—O, I think, that’s the name. Then we went for a drink afterwards before going to dinner. That’s all I—”
“You remember the bar?” I ask.
She screws up her face. “Yeah, the Lily Bar and Lounge. How many bars does one hotel need, you know?” She shrugs.
“Let’s go,” I say, turning and heading like a shot for the lobby. I slow down, pause. Julia sidles up next to me.
“You don’t know where it is, do you?” she asks, smiling sweetly.
I hate Vegas.