JACK: Las Vegas Bad Boys (6 page)

I
don’t want
to be a shitty son, but I watch as Mom’s call goes straight to voicemail.

When it shows up as a message, I hit
Play
.

“Hello, Jack. Your dad and I are on speakerphone,” Mom says.

“Afternoon, son.” Dad’s gravelly voice comes through the message. “Just calling to check in. Your mother wanted me to be here when she—”

Mom cuts in. “You’ve only been gone twenty-four hours after coming home because you needed to regroup after that mess with Ashley, and already Linda from down the street called to tell me you have a new lady according to some photos on glamour.com. Jack, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but when a girl’s heart is involved it’s no joke.”

“Well, I don’t think this is about hearts and true love, Sadie,” Dad says, laughing softly. “Think this is about our boy sowing wild oats.”

“Oh, Hudson, enough with that.”

“Jack, just give your poor mother a call.”

The message ends and I toss my phone aside.

All afternoon I’ve been dealing with this shit. One phone call after another. Publicist, agent—those I took. Ace, Landon, McQueen—well, I didn’t answer those. What the fuck was I supposed to say, after Tess explicitly requested I say zilch about her and me, about last night?

God, my cock twitches at the memory of her soft skin and dirty mouth.

The only person I haven’t heard from is Tess, and I’m hoping that’s because she hasn’t seen the shit show. I’ve tried to call her a few times, and it went straight to voicemail.

The only thing I can’t figure out is who would have told the photographers to come here.

But they must have known. And the fact that mere hours after the pictures were taken they were already posted to online gossip sites adds suspicion to the whole thing.

Someone presses the intercom from the lobby, wanting to be let in.

“It’s me, asshole.” Ace’s voice comes through the speaker, and I get up to let him in.

When the elevator opens into my loft, out come the boys. I look around, relieved that their women aren’t with them. I can’t fucking deal with them, too.

“What the hell, man? You sleep with her and then sic the press on her?” Ace asks.

McQueen walks straight to my fridge and grabs a beer, pops the cap with his key, and takes a swig. I follow his lead and grab a few more, then hand one each to Landon and Ace.

“It’s not like I did it on purpose,” I explain. “I feel like shit.”

“For sleeping with her?” Landon asks, plopping down on my couch.

“Why would I feel like shit for that?”

“Because it’s Tess, asshat,” Ace says, shaking his head. “Tess has had a thing for you for months. It’s not cool to, like, mess with her. You have any idea how much bitching I’ve listened to today over this? Tess wouldn’t answer Emmy’s calls, so the girls all went over there to find out what happened.”

“Nothing happened. We hung out. She fell asleep. Bad timing with the news story. Nothing that exciting.”

“You already said you slept with her, idiot,” McQueen snorts.

“You guys really come over here to chew me out for this thing with Tess?”

“We came over to chew you out on behalf of our women,” Landon says. “Claire seems to think Tess is this innocent princess who will be ruined if you sink your teeth into her.”

“Why is your woman hating on me? I’m not a player like you guys.”

“Yeah right. Before Ashley, how many women did you sleep with?” Ace asks.

“I have no fucking clue.”

“That’s something a player says. The girls seem to think Ashley had your nuts in a grip for the past year, and now the moment you’re free you’re gonna become a sex addict.”

“Sex addicts and players are two different things,” I say, raising an eyebrow. Hell, I had Tess once and I already feel like I’m going through withdrawals. And, oddly, I have no desire for anyone else.

“For the record,” McQueen says. “JoJo doesn’t care who you sleep with as long as it’s not me.”

“Why the fuck would JoJo think I’d sleep with you, dick weed?” I ask.

He looks offended. “I’m McQueen, everyone wants me.”

Ten minutes with these guys, and my head is starting to pound. The last thing I wanted was to hurt Tess, and now these guys are sitting here saying I have.

“Okay, you fuckers can stay and drink my beer and avoid your women. I’m gonna go find Tess and apologize. See? Not a player. I’m a fucking man.”

* * *

It’s four-thirty in the afternoon and I’m still in bed. The tea is cold and I’m starving. I didn’t buy any groceries so there’s nothing to eat, and I didn’t do any laundry so there’s an enormous basket of dirty clothes. And I don’t even care.

I’m burrowing myself deeper into my cocoon of blankets when there’s a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” I turned my phone off hours ago, because I wanted to pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. Somehow my head got all wonky in the last twenty-four hours, and no amount of “talking it out” with Emmy and Claire would fix that.

I’m a shitty friend.

The stuff with the press showing up, and remembering why I’m so uncomfortable with the spotlight, just brought to the surface exactly why I’m running—brought to the surface who I’m running from.

I blink back tears and roll out of bed.

Looking through the peephole, I see Emmy and Claire.

I pull open the door and plaster a smile on my face.

“Hey, ladies, what’s up?” I ask.

“You didn’t answer your phone like a normal person so we came over to see if you’re okay. Are you okay?” Claire asks, pushing through my door.

“Sorry, I just woke up.”

“This place is so depressing, Tess,” Emmy says. “I think you should move into the extra bedroom at our place.”

“Emmy’s right,” Claire says. “I mean, this place is—.”

“You guys, don’t. Please. I know you mean well, but I’m not moving into your apartments. That would be awkward. Besides, it wasn’t so long ago you weren’t living in penthouses, and you had to find quarters to do your laundry at the laundromat, and you were eating cereal for dinner.”

Claire waves her hands for me to stop. “We get it. Sorry. It’s just things have changed for us, and I hate that they haven’t changed for you.”

“I don’t need anyone to sweep me off my feet to be happy. I’m working hard and making a life for myself, okay?”

We’re standing in my one-room studio because I don’t exactly have anywhere to sit, besides a chair at the desk and my double bed.

“I know, girl. You work hella hard,” Emmy says. “We just don’t want things to get weird because we have….”

“Billionaire husbands?”

“Yeah.” Claire purses her lips, then speaks again. “I think I forget how hard-up you are right now, Tess. You never complain or ask for anything. And I haven’t been to your place since I came back from London, which was almost two months ago.”

“Why would you come here?” I ask. “You both have lovely homes. And I love spending time with you guys there. I don’t even have a place for us to sit.”

“You have a bed.” Emmy plops down. “And speaking of
sleep
.”

“No one was speaking of sleep,“ I say. “Anyone want tea?”

“No, thanks,” Claire says, pulling out the chair tucked away at my desk, looking at my neatly stacked piles of library books. “Man, Tess, you have so many books. It’s sort of insane. I never see you reading anything but fashion magazines.”

Ignoring her, I try to get to the real reason they’re here. “Um, it’s cool you came over to visit, but since we’ve already covered the fact you never do ... what is this all about?”

Emmy smiles, falling into the pillows on my bed. “Well, we’re kinda pissed at you.”

“Me?” I huff indignantly. “What did I do?”

“You were naughty last night and didn’t even call to tell us,” Claire says, crossing her arms in mock seriousness.

“Yeah,” Emmy says, throwing a pillow at me. “We had to hear about it online.”

I catch the pillow, and my breath catches, too. “What do you mean?” I ask. “What did you hear?”

Before Emmy can respond, there’s another knock on the door. My heart jumps. If those photos of Jack and I got out in the world, I’ll have lost all sense of security.

W
hen the town
car stops at the apartment complex, I try to swallow my sense of shock. I knew Tess worked at a casino, and I knew she must be living on her tips, but I can’t believe Ace pays his employees a wage that forces them to live in a place like this.

Walking up the three flights of stairs to Tess’s place—#308, according to the text Emmy sent—I tell myself that this is just an apartment. But, in my gut, I know it isn’t good enough for Tess.

Shit, what does it say about all of us, that we have so much money but one of our own lives in such a sketchy place?

I hear people screaming in one unit, and the strong scents of cat urine and cigarettes wafts down the hall. I see two men passing bags of weed to one another, and I drop my head, not wanting them to recognize me. Not here, not now.

Right now, all I care about is Tess.

Seeing her.

Making sure she’s okay.

After knocking on the door of her unit, I stuff my hands in my pockets to stop from fidgeting. I can’t think of the last time I felt so jumpy—but hell, I feel like shit for bringing Tess into my world when she so clearly told me she didn’t want me to.

“Jack,” she says, opening the door and moving to let me inside. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” She shuts the door, locks it.

She’s in sweats and a hoodie, and looks rumpled in a way that I find incredibly attractive. Most of the time Tess is trying to look put together, but here, now, I see more of who she really is. A girl, carving a life for herself.

Emmy and Claire are sitting here in this tiny studio, and a rush of embarrassment floods my veins as I think about my place, where I brought her last night. Thirty of her apartments would fit inside my ten-million-dollar loft.

Emmy jumps up from the bed. “Tess, actually, Claire and I are going to get out of your hair.”

“Don’t go. Tell me what you heard,” Tess says.

Emmy smirks, looking between Tess and me. “If Jack’s showing up at your place, I think what I read is true.”

Tess’s brows furrow, and confusion flashes over her face.

Claire stands from her chair. “You better not mess with our girl,” she says, while shooting me an evil eye.

Why does everyone think I’m gonna mess with Tess? First the guys, now these girls. Hell, since when did I get the reputation of being an asshole?

“I just can’t believe Ashley is so vindictive,” Emmy says, throwing her purse over her shoulder. “I mean, obviously she’s jealous of Tess, but who calls the paparazzi? That’s just lame.”

“You think it was Ashley?” I ask.

Claire and Emmy both snort. “Uh, you don’t?” Claire asks. “That girl is always looking for attention. Why else would the press be literally everywhere you go?”

“Your theory is pretty cold,” I tell Claire, watching as she kisses Tess goodbye.

“Well, Ashley was pretty icy,” Emmy says, shrugging. “Honestly, I never got your relationship. I always pictured you with someone warm, gentle. Someone less calculating.”

All three of us turn to look at Tess, and the innuendo is clear: Tess is all the things Ashley is not.

“Okay, well … Tess, call us later, okay? We love you.” Emmy gives her friend a hug, and then she and Claire leave.

With the door shut, I watch as Tess locks the deadbolt again. Once it’s secure, she leans against it, arms crossed. Eyes on the ground.

The Tess I’ve met—when we’ve been out socially—is bubbly, enthusiastic, and overly engaged. But the girl I see right now is withdrawn, a shell of the girl I was with last night.

She must know about the online stories.

“You okay, Tess?” I ask, not knowing if I should even be here.

As I wait for an answer I look around her place. A tiny stove and mini-fridge make up the kitchen. A desk in the corner is stacked with books, and a bedside table has a pile of magazines and notebooks. It isn’t messy, or even cramped. There’s a place for everything in the tidy room, and her bed is covered in a heap of pillows and a quilt.

“Can I get you something?” I ask. “Or would you rather I go, too?”

At that she looks up. “I don’t want you to go.”

“You saw the story?”

“No,” she says, resting her head against the door. “I don’t have a computer.”

“Oh. Right.” I run my hand over my jaw, feeling like a fucking pretentious prick. “It was online, a story about you at my house, photos of you coming back here this morning. They had your name, but the reporter said, ‘The full story on Jack Harris’s new girl is to follow.’”

“What site was it on?” she asks.

“Glamour.com.”

“Is that site popular, you think?”

“My publicist said they have like ten million visitors a month.”

Her face goes completely white. “Shit,” she whispers.

“Look, I know you said you didn’t want the press to see you, but this sort of thing always blows over. Honestly. No one will get a story on you, and no one will care in a few days.”

“Easy for you to say.” She walks over to the kitchen and fills a teakettle with water. “You want tea?”

“Uh, sure?” I can’t think of the last time I was offered a cup of tea.

I watch her light the gas burner and set the kettle on. She grabs two mugs from an open shelf and looks through a basket.

“Any preference?” she asks.

“None.”

“Chamomile, then.” She opens a bag of loose leaves and prepares our mugs. I don’t talk, because honestly I’m not sure what Tess wants or needs at the moment. She seems so distraught; I can tell this tea making is a ritual for her and I don’t want to interrupt it.

Once the tea is finished, she hands me a mug. “It smells delicious,” I tell her.

“Sorry, I don’t have a table.”

“It’s fine.”

We sit on the edge of her bed, and I have the distinct feeling that Tess is figuring out how to say whatever it is that is on her mind. I watch her mind work as she bites her lip, looks to the ceiling than the floor, then me.

Scooting back on the bed, her tea held with both her hands, she crosses her legs and clears her throat.

* * *

I didn’t expect to reveal any part of my past to Jack. The last thing I want is to tell someone about my horrible childhood,
blah, blah, blah
. Real romantic. Especially since, for one solitary night, he basically made me forget about all the terrible things that happened before I moved here.

The only problem with forgetting, though, is that once you remember, it hits you like a ton of bricks.

And now it isn’t just remembering. If this story really is out there, the people I’m running from might see it.

And they might come for me.

With tea in my hands, I sit on my bed, trying to ground myself. I can’t afford therapy—though God knows I could probably use it—but I can afford the self-help section at the library. Brené Brown and Cheryl Strayed have basically helped me figure my shit out, one chapter at a time.

And as I sit here, preparing to share a snippet of my story with Jack, I try to channel my inner bravery, my deepest truth. Because even though I’ve been a victim, I don’t want that to be the story I tell him. It isn’t the one I tell myself.

Because no matter how much I’ve hurt, the truth is I’m a survivor.

“Am I freaking you out yet?” I ask. Jack is all deer-in-the-headlights, totally caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

All he wanted to do last night was get back at Ashley, and now he’s getting dragged into my mess.

He gives me a sidelong glance. “Am I gonna need something stiffer?” he asks, raising his mug of tea.

The corner of my mouth pulls up.

“Is that a smile? Because damn, girl, it’s gotten pretty intense up in this apartment.”

“I know.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to be some girl you sleep with and then she becomes a crazy person … but my past
is
crazy. It’s like a movie, not real life. And that’s why the photos and the story all stress me out.”

“I don’t get it,” Jack says. “You can have a fucked-up childhood and still have a photo taken.”

I take a sip of my tea, wondering if this is all a bad idea. He never asked for this.

“It was really nice of you to come over here to make sure I was okay,” I tell him, giving him an out. “But you don’t have to stay and listen to my sob story. I won’t hold it against you if you just need to move on. You wanted a one-night thing, and I’m already taking your entire day.”

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “It was you who asked for a one-night thing.”

My heart flutters at his words. Is he implying he might want more than a night?

“Regardless,” I tell him, dismissing the sentence that makes me lose my head. “I can keep myself safe without you.”

“Safe? Listen, Tess, the press aren’t going to hurt you. I mean, it was a jacked-up thing for them to be there, but they know what crosses the line. No offense, but you aren’t really some huge story. It will blow over.”

“I can’t risk that. I think I need to leave town. Now.”

He laughs. “Are you serious? Because I think you’re freaking out over nothing.”

I exhale, not wanting to say much more, but feeling like I’ve already opened a can of worms with him.

“Jack, the truth is, I’m on the run. I came to Vegas to get lost in the crowd—and if the wrong people see the photo of me here, I’m not safe.”

Jack sets his tea on the floor and moves his body up on the bed so he can look right at me.

“What happened to you, Tess?” His eyes are filled with concern. I know that now he realizes that I’m not being dramatic. I’m trying to keep myself together. “Who are you running from?”

I blink back tears, having never said these words before. “My dad.”

Jack runs his hand over his jaw. “Fuck, Tess.”

“I can’t let him find me, Jack. I can’t. When I left … it was bad. I ran away in the middle of the night, and he followed me for weeks. But I finally got away. He thinks I owe him something, but I don’t. I gave him plenty. I gave him way more than I ever should have.”

I shake my head, tears falling down my cheeks. The last person I expected to be showing the parts I’ve buried is this mega-star, this man I’ve crushed on so hard, who I fantasied about being close to—never in those dreams did I confess the truth of why I’m in Vegas.

Now, for the second time with him, I feel exposed. Last night, when he saw me naked, I felt beautiful. Now all I feel is empty. All I feel is alone.

“Oh, baby,” he says, pulling me into his arms. My hot tea spills on my pants. “Fuck,” he says, taking the mug from me and setting it down. Then he returns to me. “Here, come here,” he says, folding me into his arms.

I know I need to run. It’s the smart thing to do, the only way I can guarantee I won’t have to return to the compound.

Or worse.

But right now I don’t want to run. In this moment, all I want to do is stay.