“Me?” He brings a hand to his chest. “I’m an angel,” he protests.
My mother snorts. “Please. I married a cowboy. I know all about you…angels.”
“I’m sure Dad was a complete Southern gentleman when you first met in Florida.” I waggle my brows at her, knowing that’ll make her blush and hopefully get us off the hook from hearing her “behavior” speech.
“Who was a Southern gentleman?” Grandma Bishop walks in, immediately pulling me in for a hug.
“Dad was when he first met Ma,” I respond. “She’s worried about us going to Vegas,” I explain.
“I raised all my boys to be gentlemen, so he better have been!” she responds, then leans in and lowers her voice. “Though your mother showed up a few months later to announce she was expecting you, so perhaps he was too much of a gentleman if you get my drift…”
“Grandma!” I laugh.
“Oh my God.” My mom groans. “Just do as I say and not as I do, okay?”
I grin. “You got it. No making you a grandma just yet.” I flash her a wink, and her eyes go wide.
“I’m too young! And so are you!” She glowers at me, keeping her lips in a firm don’t push me expression. My mom is sweet as candy, but when she means business, you don’t mess with her.
“Promise, Ma. Plus, I’m gonna be rooming with this drunk. There won’t be any inappropriate fornicating happening,” I tell her.
“Don’t use me as an excuse. What he meant to say is he’ll have whiskey di—”
I jab my elbow hard into his ribs before he can finish his sentence. “Dude, my grandma is here.”
“My apologies, Grandma Bishop. I should be more formal.” He flashes a shit-eating grin at me before he continues, “Whiskey penis.”
“And we’re leaving now…” I roughly grab the back of his shirt and push his stupid ass toward the door.
“Bye!” He turns around and waves before I can open the door and shove him out.
“You’re an asshole,” I say as soon as we’re on the porch.
“Your family loves me,” he mocks, stumbling down the stairs.
Rolling my eyes, I follow him to the side-by-side so we can finish our shit and leave on time.
By two, we’re packed and on the road, heading toward the airport. “Vegas bound!” Diesel shouts out the passenger side window, slamming his hand against the door.
“Why do I have a feeling I’m gonna have to watch you like a hawk this weekend?” I shake my head.
“Pfft. As long as neither of us comes back with an STD or a future baby mama, we’ll be fine! Isn’t the whole point of this birthday trip to celebrate and get fucked up?” he counters in a snarky tone, making me want to smack his you-know-I’m-right grin off his face.
“As long as we come back in one piece.” I shrug. “But I’m still not babysitting your ass.”
“Deal!” He holds up his fist and bumps it with mine, but I’m still not convinced.
This might be the trip of a lifetime, or it might change everything—either are possible with two rowdy cowboys going to Vegas for the first time.
Chapter Two
Zoey
The whole week has been a clusterfuck, and I can’t wait until this weekend when I can go to Vegas and enjoy myself. After I graduated from cosmetology school, I rented a chair at a busy salon known for its crazy and outlandish styles such as rainbow-colored highlights and complicated updos. Though I work in Phoenix, our masterpieces look as if they should be in New York City. I have clients as young as five and as old as eighty, and while I enjoy cutting hair and being creative, I long for so much more.
Trina, a woman in her mid-fifties, arrives right on time and sits in my chair. I see her once a month because she’s particular about covering her grays. The woman is beautiful, sassy, and doesn’t take shit from anyone.
“How’s your week going?” I ask once I’ve fastened the cape around her neck. She fills me in on all her family drama and the husband she’s two seconds from divorcing. “Be right back. I’m going to mix your color, and we’ll get started.”
“I should’ve left him years ago,” she says as I brush the dye onto her roots. “Cheating asshole wanted me as nothing but a trophy wife. Now he’s got even more money, and I should take every red cent,” Trina huffs. Listening to people’s adventures is one of the highlights of my day, and considering everything I’m told, I should be paid as their therapist, not a stylist.
“If only I were your age again.” Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, and it causes me to smile.
“What would you do?” I ask, actually intrigued.
“I’d do it all. I would live my life regardless of what everyone else wanted me to do. I’d move away. Be a free spirit. Spontaneous even. Travel more. Hell, I’d even get a dog,” she tells me. “Maybe two.”