“I remember you,” the bartender says, grinning at Julia. He’s a handsome guy, mid-thirties with thinning blond hair.
He wipes down the bar while I stand beside her. The place is intimate, wood-paneled walls with some purple velvet hangings. It’s closed, but he’s setting up for the afternoon.
“This your boyfriend? Fast work.” He winks at Julia, who laughs a little.
Somehow, their flirtation irritates me.
“Can I ask you a crazy question?” Julia says, putting her chin in her hand and looking up at the guy. That would be disarmingly attractive if I didn’t know her. “What did I do after I came here last night?”
“You kidding?” the guy says, raising an eyebrow. He leans against the bar. “You didn’t have that much to drink here.”
“I’m guessing I did shots somewhere along the way. This bar was the only thing that stood out in the haze,” she says. God, she even winks. “Or maybe this bartender.”
“Bam.” He claps a hand over his chest and laughs. “Right through the heart.”
We’re wasting time here. That’s why their flirting is getting on my nerves. Probably.
“Can you help us or not?” I say. I’m trying for glassy, lawyer cool. The bartender smirks.
“All right. You said you were going to some Brazilian steakhouse. Vio, or Via, or something like that. It’s down along the Strip. Not too far.”
“Thanks,” I say, turning around at once and heading off. I have to wait as Julia talks with the guy a little more, then finally decides to get up and join me. She sashays a little, a pleased smile on her face. “Anything else coming back to you?” I ask.
“Oh, it’s coming back all right.” She points to herself. “The flirt machine hasn’t gotten rusty.” Then she does some kind of victory dance.
Why the hell couldn’t Stacy and Mike have gotten married in Evanston?
7
Julia
Yesterday, 8:49 pm
“Weren’t those clowns hilarious?” I say as I slice away at a thick, juicy steak. It’s a healthy pink and deep red in the center, absolutely perfect. “I want to know how they stayed afloat on the roof of that house!”
O at the Bellagio is complete magic, all water acrobatics and high dives. Probably my favorite Cirque I’ve ever seen.
The girls all nod, sipping drinks and making orgasm noises over the quality of the steak. Sometimes it doesn’t suck to be me.
“Glad you got to see some funny clowns,” Shanna says, winking as she clinks glasses with me. “That guy this afternoon was more of a sad clown.”
I laugh, then rub my forehead and sigh. That Nate Wexler asshole really got under my skin. It took a glass of champagne at the hotel bar—and the attentions of a really cute bartender—to get me out of my funk. Now I’m riding high on a cloud of good booze, good friends, and the Vegas lights. Nothing can beat this.
Wait, no. Dancing. Some kind of salsa dancing on the floor with a live band will add spice to any evening. The band strikes up, and the lights dim a little. Shanna and I laugh, and she grabs my hand.
“May I have this dance?” she says, batting her eyelashes. I pretend to swoon.
“I thought you’d never ask,” I say. We all get out of the booth and head to the floor.
The men onstage are dressed in some kind of cultural costume, with blinding white shirts and big sleeves. They wink and greet us as we start moving to the music; everyone likes to have their work appreciated. Seconds later, I’m spinning around next to Shanna. Meredith and a couple of other authors—Daphne and Toni—appear to be going under a limbo stick on the other side of the room. I don’t think salsa or limbo are really Brazilian in origin, but eh. I’m not going to complain.
“Ten four,” Shanna whispers in my ear. She bumps her hip against me. “Someone’s dancing up to you.” And then she leaves me, just like that, twirling back into the crowd.
“What?” I say, not understanding. Until I feel a presence brush up right beside me, and then it’s all super clear.
“Hi there,” someone whispers in my ear.
There’s this insane moment where I turn around and expect it to be Nate Wexler. That would be the cherry on top of this day. In fact, there’s a small part of me that hopes it’s him. Just so I can get the opportunity to stomp on his foot, of course.
But it’s not Nate, not at all. A tall man with shaggy blonde hair and a goatee is dancing right next to me. He’s doing a white guy hip swivel that counts as salsa dancing to the Nordic set, but I’m not going to make him feel bad about it. He’s close, very close, but not that thing where he dry humps your leg while you shake your ass. Classy. That’s a promising start.
“I wanted to dance with the sexiest girl in the place,” he says in my ear. He grins.