I watch him slide the key into his pocket, noting the small, manatee keychain, and when he turns to me, our gazes collide. I take a small step back. A second passes as he seems to collect himself.
“Shall we?” He nods at the construction site two or three hundred yards through the trees, and I say, “Sure.”
We walk close together, shoulders and elbows bumping once or twice. Past the pond. Past the grove of trees. He tells me about the construction crew—one big crew that typically does big, casino-style jobs—and the timeline as we move within sight of the pool.
He’s saying something about, “Tom, the main guy,” and how his last project was a dog track, but I’m not really listening. I’m imagining him on the concrete, shirtless and pale. I have a strange memory of myself, lying on my back, choking on blood beside my own pool. March 15. I wonder for the jillionth time what that date means to him.
“Suri?”
“Yes?”
He’s standing in front of me. He puts his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t think about that.”
I feel a blush cross my cheeks. “How did you know?”
“You look like someone just killed your kitten.”
I scrunch my nose. “I’m more a dog person.”
“Then puppy,” he says.
Behind him, men and women move about the cement and plywood site, but all I see is those brown eyes. Hypnotic eyes. Heat flows from his palms, through my blouse, into my shoulders, spreading downward. I can barely find the words to reply, “That’s not how I look.”
“It is,” he tells me softly. “Don’t.”
There’s a hint of something stern in his voice—almost harsh. A warning? Don’t make this into more than what it is, he’s saying.
“I won’t.” I toss my hair—to…what? To show him that I’m not getting too serious about all this.
“I mean it,” he whispers. “I want you to forget about that. Forget everything that happened before right now. If you need help,” he says with a smug look, “I’ll help you when we’re done here.”
I’m so rattled I can barely manage a nod. A few seconds later, a tall African-American man strides over with his gloved hand outstretched. Tom.
We spend the next half hour walking the site, with Marchant introducing me to his construction crew and me asking questions. I discuss some of my ideas, little things to make the original design a little cozier, a little sexier, and Tom tells us how long it would take to make them happen. Since the escorts’ dormitory building also got damaged, it’s being gutted and expanded slightly, with new suites carved out for the girls (and guys). For coordination purposes, the building on the right, the one with the library, salon, doctors’ office, and whatever else is there, will be getting new décor as well.
By the time our conversation with Tom is over, I’ve decided I’ll probably be here at least three weeks. Maybe four. And I feel giddy. Middle school crush giddy.
The feeling quickly dissipates, leaving cold anticipation as we walk back through the grove. He feels it, too. I can tell. And I think it’s just sexual tension—same as what I feel—until we reach his door and he turns to me. “Suri…there’s been a change. You’ll be staying here with me.”
*
MARCHANT
I watch her eyes widen. Pretty eyes. She looks startled.
“If that doesn’t work, there’s a decent hotel about seven miles away. I can book you there.”
The sun is going down, casting a red sheen over her face. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. But I’m on edge, waiting for her answer.
She smiles. “You don’t have to do that. I’m okay here. But where will you stay?”
“I’ve got a suite downstairs in the basement.”
“Oh.” She nods. “That sounds fine. Did you run out of rooms?”
“Something like that.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind? I could do the hotel if that’s easiest.”
“No—you’re fine.”
I lead her inside and wave toward my room. “I’ve got another bedroom by my room, but it’s kind of bare bones. My room is yours if you want it.”
I watch the uncertainty flit across her face, followed by a long look into my eyes. She’s trying to see what I want, but I keep my face neutral. I want to see if she’ll take the lead.
“Um, okay. If you’re sure?”
I like the way she hesitates. Polite. I don’t see that often in Vegas.
“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” I tell her, as I step to the couch where I sat her bag. I throw it over my shoulder and lead her down the hall. Turn on the light to my room. It’s large, with a bed, a bookshelf, a dresser, and a couch.
Truth is, I don’t like being in it. Not after the last few weeks. I need a break. And there’s something good about seeing her in it. I have the preposterous thought that the room deserves an occupant like her—to sort of clear out the bad vibes. But that’s just f**king stupid.
“Bathroom’s in here,” I say, opening that door. “I already got my stuff out. Just use what you want.”
She gives the bathroom an appreciative glance—it’s large, and done to the nines—and I realize I left my medicine in the medicine cabinet. Stupid!
No—wait. Rachelle has it. Because no one trusts me.
Which leads me to remember I need to go see Libby. Soon.
I surprise even myself by grabbing Suri Dalton around the waist and tossing her onto my bed. Pulling down her pants and eating her pu**y. She’s screaming by the time I’m done, and I’m laughing, because really, I do enjoy eating her pu**y.
I lick my lips and scoop the TV remote off a bedside table, toss it her way. Walk over to the wall and press the button that brings the TV down from the ceiling.
“Wow,” she giggles, pointing the remote at the screen.
I arch my eyebrows. “I’ll be back in a little while. You eat meat?”
That earns me a laugh. “Yes. I eat meat—when I’m in the mood.” Another giggle, followed by a palm-muffled, “I’m sorry. I’m not usually quite so weird.”
If this is weird I don’t even wanna know what she would call me.
“There’s a TV guide if you press the round, blue button. I’ll be back in an hour.”
I saunter down the hall feeling oddly light, despite where I’m going.
17