Chapter Six: “What Happens in Vegas”
Chapter Six
“What Happens in Vegas”
“SO, NICK. WHAT DO YOU DO?”
He had just put the last shrimp into his mouth. “Best shrimp cocktail I’ve ever had.” He apparently had no problem speaking with his mouth full, another thing Sewanee found inexplicably charming.
She chuckled and leaned back. “So good.”
Nick swallowed and leaned forward earnestly. “
So
good. And as large as baby lobsters. Big shrimp! The most delicious oxymoron.”
Yes, inexplicably charming.
A busboy cleared away the destroyed remains of the appetizer and Sewanee appreciated how the candlelight danced on the table’s glass top. She appreciated Nick’s toned forearms resting on it, revealed after he’d pushed his sleeves back when the food arrived. She appreciated the swimmy feeling in her head, the glint in Nick’s hazel eyes, the way her body felt in a dress she’d never buy.
Before she could reiterate her question, the sommelier arrived with a bottle of wine. He poured a splash into a large Bordeaux glass and nudged it to Nick, who passed it to Sewanee, wordlessly correcting the somm’s gendered assumptions about who
was making the decisions tonight. She thrilled at the simple gesture and said to the sommelier, “Can he have some, too?”
“Certainly!”
Once Nick was holding a glass, they tipped them toward each other, gave a delicate swirl, breathed in the aroma, and took a sip. There was a pause as they chewed the wine. They swallowed in sync, the way two people would reach for the other’s hand simultaneously.
They said, at the same time, “Wow.” They laughed. Then repeated, louder, “Wow,” and laughed again.
Sewanee looked back to the sommelier. “Amazing. Thank you. Would you decant it, please?”
“Of course. Right away.” He left them.
Sewanee finished her taster and sighed happily, giving silent thanks to Adaku.
Nick watched her. “Decant it, eh?” He took the rest of the wine into his mouth.
“It’s a bit tight. It needs to open.” She watched him swallow. “So what is it you do?”
“Why are Americans always asking, ‘what do you do?’”
Sewanee grabbed some bread out of the basket and slathered it with what the waiter had described as “malted ghee.” She suspected it was just honey butter. “It fills the gaps in conversation.”
“Thank God for that, because uncomfortable silences have been a real bother tonight.”
There hadn’t been any lull in the conversation. They’d bantered and prodded and downright delighted each other for the last hour.
The sommelier returned with their decanter, poured two healthy glasses, and left again.
“I’d think,” Nick said, taking a sip, “asking ‘what do you like to do’ would be a better way of actually getting to know someone.”
Sewanee cocked an eyebrow. “Bless your heart. Stop evading.”
Nick guffawed. “I’m not evading! It’ll just bore you.” He grabbed some bread. “I work for a VC that buys and sells companies.”
“So, finance.”
“Now, try and contain your excitement, please, I’m not done yet.” Nick leaned in, mock-whispering, “I’m the closer. It takes a good amount of charm to close a deal and in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m quite charming.”
“I hadn’t, no.”
“Huh, it’s usually the first thing people notice about me.” Grinning, he took another swallow of wine. “What’s the first thing people notice about you?”
“My wit,” Sewanee deadpanned.
“It is wonderfully dry.” He held up his glass. “Like a fine wine. But it wasn’t the first thing
I
noticed about you.”
“No?” Sewanee drawled.
“No. First thing I noticed was your mouth.”
Sewanee ignored the hum that went through her at that. “Really.”
Nick paused with the glass at his lips, looked thoughtfully out into the restaurant. “No, you’re right. It was your legs. Your head was down at the time. So, chronologically . . .” He looked at Sewanee over the rim of his glass.
She leveled her gaze at him. “You can ask.”
“What do
you
do?”
“Not that. Go ahead. Ask about the eye patch you’ve so graciously avoided asking about.”
Nick looked baffled. “I haven’t avoided asking about it, or anything else for that matter. It wasn’t a topic of conversation. Much like your legs, which hadn’t come up until a moment ago.”
She could see why he was good at what he did.
He continued easily, buttering his bread, “An accessory? A statement piece? Like a fake tattoo or lens-less spectacles? This is Vegas, after all.”
“No.”
“All right, then. Not temporary?”
“No.”
“Well, then.”
There was a silence. The first true silence between them.
Sewanee leaned forward. “You’re not curious?”
Nick shrugged, pouring them both more wine. “’Course I’m curious. The same way I’m curious about what’s under that dress, because it’s you and I’m curious about you, but satisfying that curiosity isn’t in the cards for us tonight.” He set the decanter down and stared at the tabletop for a moment.
“Can I say, though?” He leaned so far forward their faces were less than a foot apart. And then he looked up at her. His eyes had brown flecks. “Cover up whatever you please for the world, but in intimacy? Hide nothing. In intimacy, everything is beautiful. So, what
do
you do?”
Sewanee didn’t hear the question. That is, she heard individual words that formed a question, but she didn’t hear what was asked. It came to her on a delay. In the ensuing silence, she picked up her glass and took a drink,
mmm
-ing about the wine, stalling, regrouping.
She had already given him a false name and Texas twang. It was too late to drop the charade, so she continued the deception. “I work in publishing.” She knew enough about books and how they worked. She
did
sort of work in publishing, after all. She could sustain this until he left. “I’m an editor.”
“Ooh. Clever lass. And what kind of books do you edit?” She sighed, debating whether she truly wanted to go down this road. Nick interpreted the sigh differently. “Are you about to bore
me
now? What are they? Technical manuals? Microbiology textbooks? Something horribly dry, like that wit of yours?”
“The opposite, actually.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of a wet read.” He took another sip of wine.
There was nowhere to go but straight ahead. “I edit Romance novels.”
He nearly did a spit take. He swallowed roughly and choked out, “Grand.”
Their steaks appeared. Food, yes. Food was a good idea. She’d lost track of how much she’d had to drink.
“Jaysus,” Nick murmured, cutting into his steak, “you are a curious one. Where on earth did you come from?”
“East Virginia.”
He laughed and pointed his steak-tipped fork at her. “So, let me get this straight.” He popped the bite into his mouth and groaned lasciviously. The sound did not go unnoticed. “By Romance novels, do you mean . . . oh, who’s your man with all the movies?
The Notebook
guy.”
“Nicholas Sparks. No. He writes love stories.”
“Love. Romance. What’s the difference?”
Sewanee was kicking herself already. Why? Why had she done this? “So, there’s Fiction, right? Love stories are fiction.”
“I’ll say,” Nick said wryly.
Sewanee laughed. “Just remember: you asked. So, under the umbrella of Fiction, there’s Women’s Fiction. Usually written by women, about . . . life. You can win, you can lose, you can die. You know, real, human things universal to everyone.”
“Then why the hell’s it called Women’s Fiction?” Off Sewanee’s pursed lips, Nick nodded. “Right. Sexism. Continue.”
“Then there’s Romance. There has to be two things for Fiction to be considered Romance.”
“Is there going to be a test later, because I don’t have a pen.”
“One: there has to be a happy ending. Boy gets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back. Usually some groveling is involved. The beast is tamed, all obstacles are overcome, true love finds a way.”
“A fairy tale.”
“Exactly,” Sewanee murmured, thinking briefly of the panel earlier today. Which somehow felt like a decade ago. “In fact, there’s an acronym for it. HEA.”
“Happily ever after?”
Sewanee smiled and took a bite of steak. “Who needs a pen?”
Nick chewed thoughtfully. “Are they popular, these Romance novels?”
“They make up about thirty-five percent of all fiction sold.”
He snapped his head back. “I should be publishing Romance novels! Know any good editors?” He glanced at his plate. “This steak, by the way.”
“It’s obscene.”
“It’s a testament to your company I’m even talking right now and not dragging this off into the corner like a feral hyena.” Sewanee laughed and took another decadent bite. “And what’s the second thing? About Romance novels?”
“It has to be about two people falling in love.” Sewanee paused, remembering some of the books she’d recorded as Sarah. “Well, actually, now it can involve more than two people. But it has to be about love.”
Nick thought about this. Tapped his empty fork on his plate. “How’s that different from a love story in Women’s Fiction?”
“The HEA.”
“Right. So, Women’s Fiction can’t end happily?”
She was so out of her depth here. She whirled her hand, reached for her wine. “The lines are blurred–it depends. It’s about marketing. Mostly.” She had no idea if that was true.
“That’s it?”
“Well.” She swallowed. “Also. Usually–not always, but almost always–I mean, it’s what the genre’s known for, but
usually
. . .” Now he was peering at her. “There’s sex. On the page. Lots and lots of page sex.”
“Ohhhhhh.” He elongated the vowel to the point of absurdity. “Smut. Trash. Filth. Heaving bosoms. Throbbing members and the like.”
“We’ve stopped using euphemisms in the last thirty years, but–”
“The kind of books your spinster aunt wraps in a paper bag and tucks away in her nightstand drawer?”
Sewanee shook her head. “You’d be surprised who reads these books.” She took another sip of wine. “You know who
should
read these books? Men. If they really wanted to understand what makes women tick.”
Nick wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Or we could just ask. What makes you tick, Alice?”
Sewanee cycled through possible replies in her head, all sarcastic. Then she stilled. She didn’t have an answer. It had been too long to know. So she deflected. “What makes
you
tick?”
“Curiosity,” he answered without hesitation. “I don’t understand people who stop. Who go, I’m good right here, no more for me, ta. You know that parable, the bloke dying of thirst who goes to the well?”
“And won’t risk looking into it to see if there’s water, because he couldn’t live with the disappointment?”
“So he dies of thirst.
Womp womp.
Me? I’d be looking in that well for sure. I have this painting–and I’m not one of those art people, but I have this one painting–of a path that disappears ’round a bend. Because I always have to go ’round the bend.
Must
do.”
“Like the next page of a novel.”
“Like the offer of dinner with a beautiful woman.”
“God, you’re good.”
“A woman who says, with oblivious innocence, ‘It’s a bit tight. It needs to open.’”
Sewanee’s brow furrowed. “Well, it was. It did.”
“Ay. But you can bet I wasn’t thinking of the wine when you said it.” He looked quickly at her dress then had the grace to look away. He muttered, almost to himself, “If I knew you better I s’pose I’d be ashamed.” After a moment, he dared to look at her. “But I don’t. And I’m not.”
Sewanee unconsciously licked her lips. “Well. To assuage your curiosity? I am and I don’t.” The retort flowed from her as smoothly as the wine from the decanter.
Nick stilled, untangling her comeback. She saw the moment it clicked. His eyes bulged and an uncontrolled laugh burst out of him. “Jaysus.” He threw his napkin on the table and slow clapped. “I’m done. You win.”
“Were we playing a game?”
“Always.”
“And you like to win?”
“Who doesn’t?”
Smiling, they both sipped their wine. She saw him glance at his watch and said, before she thought better of it, “Do you have to go?” She was surprised to find her voice hoarse. She quietly cleared her throat. Good thing she didn’t have to record tomorrow; nothing dried her voice out like red wine.
“Not this second. But soon.”
Resigned, Sewanee signaled the waiter for the check.
“I’m curious,” Nick said. “Do they talk to each other in these Romance novels of yours or just get straight down to business?”
“Of course there’s talking. Talking is foreplay. The other stuff doesn’t work without the talking.”
He smiled slowly. “You don’t say.”
FULL OF STEAK
, truffled potatoes, and Margaux, Sewanee and Nick giggled their way out of the restaurant and onto the casino floor. Nick dragged his weekender roller bag and slim briefcase behind him. On impulse, she looped her arm through his, just another couple strolling through a Vegas casino, slightly overdressed, slightly drunk, slightly inclined to make bad decisions. Then something caught Sewanee’s attention and she slowed.
Nick followed her gaze. “Are you wanting to play?”
She bit her lip. “I’m not sure. I mean, I came with five hundred dollars and told myself I’d make one bet. All of it on red or black.”
“Right.” He moved toward the roulette table. “I want to see which one you choose.”
She tugged him to a stop. “I think I’m a little too tipsy to enjoy the win. And not tipsy enough to handle the loss.” She moved to leave.
He didn’t budge. “C’mere to me and listen?” She nodded benevolently. He took a breath. “This isn’t dire. This isn’t life and death. Either way you’re walking away from the table. The excitement’s in the play, yeah? That’s what we’re doing here.” He stepped closer. “You came with five hundred dollars to lose. You could have lost it in the jacks, slipped out of a pocket, into the toilet, never to be seen again.” He paused, gazed into her eye. “Surely you’ve lost more important things before than five hundred dollars.”
For a moment, she blinked at him. Then she said, “You’re right, you are an arse,” and walked straight to the table.
She opened her purse, pulled out a small billfold, took out the whole of the cash in it.
Do it, Swan
. She put the bills on the table and the croupier changed them into chips. “Place your bets, place your bets,” he called.
Nick came up behind her, the front of his body hovering like a polarized magnet at her back. Without hesitation, she put all her chips on red. Nick whispered in her ear, “Win or lose?” She would have answered immediately were it not for his voice traveling from her ear, down the inside of her neck, dropping into her chest cavity with a free-falling thunk and then pooling, seeping, into the part of her that had been swelling since dinner. She found her voice. “Win or lose.”
The croupier took the little white ball and released it with a practiced flourish. “Final bets, please.”
They watched the ball go around.
“No more bets, no more bets.”
As the ball circled the wheel, Sewanee felt Nick inch further forward. “Why red?” he murmured.
“The steak. The wine. Your tie. My lips.”
The ball circled.
Around.
Around.
Around.
As the ball slowed, she leaned further over. It bounced around; black 35; red 7; green 00; black 17; red 14. And stopped.
Red 14.
Sewanee didn’t jump up and down. She didn’t scream. She simply turned to Nick, eye wide, lips parted, and said, softly, “That was incredible.”
That made him laugh. “You’re incredible.”
She kissed him. It began as a
thank you
kiss, something pure and almost infantile.
But it lasted long enough to reach puberty.
Nick moved deeper into her as though they had known each other for years, his hands finding hers at her sides, his mouth soft and firm and warm and powerful and everything good she’d forgotten existed in this world.
When he pulled away and she opened her eye, she found him smiling down at her. “You should collect your winnings,” he whispered.
“I already did.”
His laugh propelled them apart. The croupier exchanged Sewanee’s chips for a single $1,000 one that she dropped into her purse. Nick took her arm, steering her toward a quieter corner of the casino. Well, as quiet as a Las Vegas casino corner could be on a Saturday night.
They were both breathing heavily. His eyes looked slightly glassy and his tie was askew and her legs shook a bit and just as she said, “I don’t want you to go,” he said, “I don’t want to go.”
They broke. They laughed. Kept laughing. They laughed so hard, they bent at the waist. She pushed him gently, so he pushed her back and she tottered in her heels, crashed into a swiveling leather chair in front of a slot machine, which just made them laugh harder. Why? This wasn’t funny. Nothing about this was funny.
But it was playful. It was sexy. It was a level of intimacy she had imagined, but never experienced.
Seconds ticked by. A minute. Their breathing steadied. They straightened. Nick stepped toward her and took her face in his hands. They smiled weakly at each other.
Eventually his hands fell to her shoulders. “I’m guessing you don’t often find yourself in Dublin?”
She shook her head. She had to remind herself to use the Texas accent when she answered: “I’ve never found myself anywhere.”
She heard how this sounded, so added, “Never been there, actually.”
He seemed to come out of a trance. He slid his hands down her arms and dropped contact. He took another breath.
She cupped her elbows, holding herself, suddenly cold. “Maybe this is better,” she said.
“How’s that?”
“Maybe this is the whole story. I mean, what are the chances?”
“Of what?”
“Of this being as good as we imagine it would be.”
He grinned at her. “But what if it were?”
She bit her lip.
Roys she could handle. Chuck and Jimbos–Jim and Chuckbos?–she could deal with. Nick was singular. Entirely uncharted waters.
On the one hand, Sewanee was ready for him to go, for the evening to end. Curtain closes, house lights come on, makeup comes off. On the other hand, she was ready to drop the phony accent, the fictitious persona, and make everything real. Curtain opens, lights dim, everything comes off.
But that was impossible.
So instead, she said, “How would you write the rest of the story?”
“Whaddaya mean?”
She stepped forward. “There
is
a quiz.”
He pointed a finger at her. “I knew I needed a pen.”
“What’s the Women’s Fiction ending? And what’s the Romance one?”
He laughed. “Right. Grand. Here goes.” He took a deep breath. “Women’s Fiction–I want it on record I still hate the name.”
“Get in line.”
He paused. “I wrestle with my decision to leave. I’ll hate myself forever, but I do it. I probably have a fiancée. And there’s
probably a war on. We live completely different lives, struggle with the unfairness of it all.”
Sewanee was smiling so wide her jaw ached.
“Thirty years later, we cross paths.” He gestured at the casino. “We’re back here. So much has happened. So much sacrificed. And yet, here we are, together at last.”
Sewanee tilted her head. “
Engh
,” she began, but Nick held up a hand.
“But. I’ve some mysterious disease for which there’s no known cure. And I
die
. No HEA!” Smiling victoriously, he held out his hands as if he’d set a beautiful table and wanted her approval.
Sewanee chortled. “Bravo! And the Romance version?”
“This one’s easy.” He stepped closer. “I blow off my flight. We go upstairs. What happens is . . . well.” He whispered huskily, “Page sex.” She laughed. “A fantasy come to life, isn’t it? Next day, we part, but you . . . you’re preggo, aren’t ya? Cut to: One Year Later. A job across the pond. You bundle up your–our–infant son and show up to your first day of work and your new boss is, wait for it now . . . me. Shocking, I know. You don’t tell me about our son–I don’t know why, exactly, but you don’t–and we agree to conduct ourselves properly at work. Then. One day. My desire overtakes me and I want, nay, I
must
have you.”
Sewanee giggled, her cheeks pinking. Nick stepped even closer. “I drag you into my office. Lock the door. Sweep everything off the desk, all man-like, lots of growling. I pick you up, set you down on it, right there on the edge. I push up that skirt that’s been driving me mad, open your–”
“Okay, okay, Mr. Fast Learner. I get the picture.”
“You sure?”
“Tease.”
“You have no idea.”
Sewanee took the deepest of breaths. “Then what?”
“Well. After that there’s no way you can continue to work for me. So you quit. I chase after you and . . .” He looked past her shoulder, thinking. “And . . . I offer you money–because I’m a billionaire, of course–money to start the nonprofit you’ve dreamed of starting. Something with kittens. But then I hear, off in another room . . . Is that the cry of a forlorn kitten? Or is that a
baby
?!”
“Oh no,” Sewanee gasped.
“You have a
baby
?! You slut!”
“I tell you it’s yours.”
“Jaysus no, not yet. Because you see how I react and I’m an utter wanker–sorry, I forgot to mention that–”
“It was implied, it’s always implied.”
“So I go to my penthouse or castle or some shite and drink myself absolutely rat-arsed. And then . . . and then . . .” Nick blinked helplessly at her.
“You have a brother.”
“I have a brother! A billionaire brother! And . . . ?”
“And he knows the truth about the baby.”
“. . . How?”
“Because you work together–”
“At the money factory!”
“And after meeting me he puts two and two together.”
“. . . How?”
“Because.”
“Right. And I finally realize the error of my ways and I come beg your forgiveness.”
“Grovel!”
“I come
grovel
your forgiveness.”
“And I accept your grovel. Because all my dreams have come true.”
“And we fix everything that was ever wrong with us and we live–”
“Happily. Ever. After,” they finished in unison.
“Grand,” Nick breathed, looking at her in a way that made Sewanee feel like his hands were everywhere on her body at once. She held his gaze. Then he looked down at his shoes. Then at his watch. Then he stuck out his hand. “Alice.”
She took it. “Nick.”
“I leave you as I found you.”
Hardly,
Sewanee thought.
Nick stopped a passing cocktail waitress. “Excuse me? Which door do I go out of to get a taxi?”
“Where are you headed?” she asked.
“Airport.”
“Not tonight you’re not.”
“Pardon?”
“Airport’s closed. Can I get you something to drink?”
“What? No, no thank you, what do you mean the airport’s closed?”
“Snow. Can you believe it?”
“Sorry,
snow
?”
Sewanee stepped over. “Since when does it snow in Las Vegas?”
“Like, never,” the waitress replied. “Last time I was in first grade and we got a snow day. It was awesome.”
Nick and Sewanee both took out their phones.
“The airline sent a text an hour ago.” He looked at his luggage as if it might have more information. “I need to get a room.”
“Ooh, yeah, that’s not gonna happen.” The waitress rested her tray on a cocked hip. “Just heard we’re sold out tonight.”
“What? How?”
“Take a fight night at MGM, Beyoncé in concert, and that book convention thing and the town’s nearly at capacity. Cancel a few hundred flights on top of that?” At Nick’s stricken look, she tapped his forearm. “You want that drink now?”
“No, no thank you.”
“Well, casino’ll be poppin’ all night! Good luck!” She beamed and left.
Sewanee, still looking at her phone, mumbled, “All flights are canceled. In and out. My friend can’t leave LAX.”
Nick raked a hand through his hair. “I haven’t pulled an all-nighter since uni.” He laughed. “Snow?! Really?”
“Okay,” Sewanee muttered, putting away her phone. “I’m about to do something and I don’t want you to take it in any way that could be . . . whatever. I have a room.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is this your turn at the Romance version?” She snorted. “Let me guess. There’s one very small bed.”
“Two, actually. Very large beds. In very large rooms. Very large separate rooms. It’s all very large. Hotel-room-from–
Rain Man
large.” She impulsively created a bit more space between them. “I’m comfortable offering you a place for the night. But only if you’re comfortable.”
“I’m comfortable. But are you comfortable? You’re awful kind, but are you–”
“The place is so big I could be sleeping in another state. It’s fine. I’m fine. If you’re fine.”
“I’m fine!”
“Then we’re good.” Sewanee straightened. “You’re good?”
“Good.” Nick nodded. “After you.”
He followed Sewanee through the casino and around the bend.
SHE LET NICK
enter the suite first. The butler had been by to turn on some lights. Low. Moody. Sexy. Nick took in the expanse of the room before taking in the view. He smirked at her. “This’ll do, I s’pose.”
He ventured deeper into the space, into the living room, his
broad back silhouetted against the window. “It’s a bit magical, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she answered as she moved toward him, rounded his right side, and looked out into the neon night. The flashing colors of the city, like gels on theater lights, continuously shifted the tint of their faces. They stood side by side, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond the ghosts of their own reflections, the Strip lay sprawled, a white blanket collecting over it. Soft flakes confettied from the sky. It was a sight Sewanee knew she would never forget.
Nick murmured, “I want to say something. Something profound. Poetic. Spirit of my ancestors and such. But for the first time tonight, I have no words.”
“You’ve run out of foreplay?”
“Cheeky.” More silence. “It looks like a pointillist painting, doesn’t it? That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.”
“Well. Que Seurat, Seurat.”
He threw back his head. Then his laugh melted like the snow hitting the window, sliding down the glass, and she watched, in the refracted reflection, his eyes slide down her body in kind. “I’m fairly confident this is as close as I’ll ever come to being in one of your novels,” he murmured. “This must be some sort of trope, yeah?” He waved his hand about, taking in the room, the lights, the falling snow. Her.
She continued looking out. She felt as though everything she was wearing–every last thing–had slipped off her. She had never felt this way. She had always wished she would. “Guess what it’s called.”
“Something epic, I’m sure. Divine Providence? Celestial Intervention?”
She chuckled. She finally turned to face him. “It’s called Snowed In.”