“Probably a good thing if we’re not married,” I say, shrugging. “For me, a little sugar in the day is the way of life. There’s supposed to be this all jelly bean store somewhere in Vegas that I’ve been dying to go to.”
“I’m shuddering just thinking about it,” he says. He pulls out his phone, checks it, and smiles. “Full bars. All right. Be right back, and then I’ll call a cab.” He puts the phone on the table and gets up.
“First nature calls, then you?” I grin at him.
“Thanks for phrasing it in such a delicate fashion,” he says. But I think he sounds amused.
“It’s what I’m here for.”
He walks away, and I run another ice cube down my forehead, along my cheek, riiiight into my cleavage. It’s necessary. What can I tell you? A man that cold is also very hot.
Okay. Enough with the temperature jokes.
Nate’s phone rings, and I jump in my seat a little. Then I frown. Who the hell set his ring tone to “Blame Canada” from South Park? Weird choice.
Oh wait, shit. I did that. I remember now. My bad.
I grab the call without even thinking.
Well, actually, that’s a lie. I have been thinking. And when I see the caller ID—Phoebe Barnes—I instinctively jump all over that shit. This has to be the Phoebe, the one who stomped on his heart and paraded off into the sunset with her soul mate.
“Hello?” I say when I answer, already feeling like an idiot who didn’t think this through.
“Who the hell is this?” a woman shouts.
I wince and hold the phone away from my ear. Man, I really thought a guy like Nate would be into classier women.
Then again, he had spent a wild night with me.
Yeah, I probably don’t want to fling too many insults around at women Nate’s slept with.
“This is—uh, ah, uhm. How can I help you?”
“Where’s Nate?” she snaps.
Man, it sounds like something crawled straight up this woman’s ass.
“In the bathroom. Uh. How are you?” I wince.
Great job, loser.
“I know he’s in Las Vegas. And now I can’t find Peebles. Do you think that’s a coincidence?” the woman screams, her voice rising higher and higher.
Wow. You could shatter glass at this pitch.
“Let’s start with the basics. What is a Peebles?” I ask.
“Tell that asshole to call me back!” Phoebe shouts, and the line goes dead.
Good. Remind me never to pick up on a one-night stand’s crazy ex. Especially when I might be married to said one-night stand.
When Nate returns, I hand him the phone. “You, ah, need to call Phoebe back,” I tell him.
His face kind of goes slack, and my stomach does a small swan dive. That’s the kind of face you make when someone you still have a thing for gets in touch for mysterious reasons. Trust me, I know that look well. I had to stand in the mirror for hours in the months after my separation from Drew, training my facial muscles not to do that.
“Did she say what she wanted?” he asks.
I’m sure he wishes that she did nothing but coo sweet nothings and weep bitter tears of heartbreak. Instead, I have to go with the truth.
“She screamed obscenities and asked if I knew where Peebles was. Is Peebles, like, some kind of rare artifact or something?”
Nate looks as astonished as I feel. “Peebles. Holy shit,” he says, his eyes adopting a kind of weird light.
“Am I supposed to guess, or?”
“Peebles is Phoebe’s special gray spotted Tibetan parrot,” he explains, rubbing his hand across his sexy, gradually becoming stubbled jaw.
Man, he shouldn’t shave. This is a good look on him.
Fuck it, pay attention. We were talking about parrots. As you do in Vegas.
“So Phoebe lives in Vegas with Peebles and her fiancé. And this has what to do with us?” I ask.
“Don’t you remember last night?” he asks, looking incredibly grave.
I’m about to make an obvious comment, when a flash goes off in my mind. A flash of squawking gray feathers and hushed giggling.
We exchange an incredulous look, the memory apparently rushing back to us at the exact same time.
“Oh, shit,” I moan.
15
Nate
Yesterday, 1:42 am
“You know what I need after a good workout?” Julia asks me as she licks salt suggestively from off her hand. “More alcohol. It does a body good.”
She giggles and tosses her hair. I lean over and kiss her neck. She groans softly as I slide my hand up her knee, skimming the silky line of her thigh. This may be a dive bar, with a juke box blasting Johnny Cash and the crack of pool balls in the background, but right now Julia Stevens is all that exists for me.
I can’t remember how we got here. When did we lose Mike and the others? I should be more worried about it than I am, but my hand slides further up Julia’s thigh, right into the danger zone. Fuck yeah, Kenny Loggins.
“You two need to get a hotel if you’re gonna do that,” the bartender grumbles, pouring us two more shots of tequila. He’s an old man with eyes like a desert hawk and a moustache like Yosemite Sam if he stuck his finger in an electrical socket. “I don’t care if this is the Strip, this place is respectable.”
“Respectable me, then,” I say, dimly aware it makes no sense.