“I’m putting a stop to this hike!” She points manically to a nearby cab stand.
As we get closer, she’s still throwing Jake, I mean, Gas, dark looks, though she has secured our group a couple of cabs as she mutters about numb toes, blowouts, and not trusting tourists to know their way around.
“She seems to have forgotten she’s a tourist, too,” I whisper as Roman holds open the car door for me.
“Yeah, but it sounds like April saw the fountain at Bellagio already.”
“Oh. Is that why we’re walking? Did you want—”
Slamming the door behind him, he takes my hand into his and tilts his head. “You make my point for me, adorable.” My brow furrows. “You’re adorable in the way you take care of others.” I don’t reply because the truth is, I usually don’t have a lot of choices. “Just so you know,” he adds, “I’ve got everything I want to see right here.”
I don’t easily blush but feel my cheeks pinking as he brings my hand to his lips. The colour can only deepen at the motherly cluck of pleasure from April.
Minutes later, we’re dropped at the southwest corner of the MGM Grand, where the blue-lit entrance of Hakkasan glows as though in welcome. There’s a line to get in, which I’d expected, and I’m kind of surprised as the guys begin to head straight for the door.
“You okay?” Roman turns as I slide my hand from his.
“Just getting my ID,” I mutter, trying to ignore the flutter of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I’m not big on breaking the rules, and where there’s a potential for police involvement, well, it just makes me feel ill. But I said I’d be here, so I am. I just need to paste on a smile and pull out my fake-but-looks-legitimate ID and fake my post-twenty-one status.
But where the heck is my ID?
“What is it?” Picking up on the tension, Roman positions himself between me and security.
“I can’t find it. I can’t find my ID.” That flutter of anxiety turns to a pterodactyl-sized swoop, my hand disappearing once more into my open clutch. “It’s got to be in here somewhere.”
A deep voice calls Roman’s name, and he confirms with a bare glance and a nod that the reservation is in his name.
“Babe?” April appears by my side, allowing Roman to go deal with whatever those questions were.
“Where the hell is it?” I mutter, beginning to empty the contents of my clutch into April’s hastily cupped hands. Lip gloss, my bank card, a twenty-dollar bill, a handful of change. I shove my fingers into the tiny flat pocket and pull out . . . “What the hell?” Balanced between two fingers is a blue foil square inscribed with the word Skyn. “A condom?” I whisper, eyes wide. “How the heck—?”
“I slipped it into your purse,” April answers with an unrepentant grin. “A girl should always be prepared.” I don’t have time—or any words—as Roman turns back, and I hurriedly shove the condom and the rest of my stuff back into my purse. “You know,” she adds in a whisper, “I kind of think you might need more than one.”
“Focus, April. My ID isn’t in here.”
That wipes her grin away pretty quickly. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. I had it in the hotel bar, and now I can’t find it.”
“Jesus, Kennedy, I paid a hundred and fifty dollars for it.”
“A hundred and fifty bucks for a fake ID?”
“Hush,” she hisses, her gaze sweeping behind her. “Do you want to get thrown out before you even get in?”
“I won’t be getting anywhere the way things are going.”
“Do you wanna just give it a burl?” His hand settles on the small of my back.
“Burl?” I repeat, trying to ignore how good that feels. “I’m not sure that means the same here as where you come from.” Which is basically gnarly. Which is kind of how I feel.
“Try to brazen it out,” he clarifies, his hand sliding around to my hip. “Sneak in.” He presses the words to the shell of my ear.
“Mmm.” I shiver. Who knew ears were an erogenous zone? Pressing my lips together, I give myself a shake before this mist of lust takes over, and I glue myself to his face. “No, I couldn’t do that.” God, I sound prim, but I can’t help I was made this way. Blame nurture not nature, or rather the lack of it, given the way my mother didn’t spare an ounce of attention for anyone without a penis and a wallet.
“Nope, that won’t work,” April argues, glancing toward the doorway. “They’re not called door bitches for no reason.”
“No harm in trying,” Roman persists. “Except . . . you like to follow the rules,” he adds, amusement curling through his tone.
“That’s what they’re there for. You know, to follow.” Urgh. Prim. Not for the win.