Get Lucky (2 page)

“
N
ate the Great
! My man, how are you?” Tyler Berkley lifts his Ray-Bans and gives me a huge high five as I walk into the lobby. My high five is more sedate than his. But as Albert Schweitzer once said, you don’t leave a brother hanging.

“I’m doing good, apart from still being hounded by a nickname that should’ve died ten years ago,” I say, though I clap Tyler on the shoulder. For Tyler, ten years is no time at all. I’ve long since traded in my stained college tees for a professional suit and tie. Meanwhile, Tyler’s still wearing board shorts and a tank top, like it’s senior year. Even flip flops, God help us all. Some things don’t get old. At least, not to Tyler Berkley.

“Where’s the party?” I ask, peering around the bustling lobby. The place is expansive, cream and gold, with enormous and colorful blown glass flowers decorating a section of the ceiling. The marble floors are polished and buffed to perfection.

“Party’s right this way, my man,” Tyler says with a grin. He puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly. A couple of perfect ten girls in sundresses walk by, eyeing us with disdain.

Not like Tyler notices. “Hey! Nate’s on deck!” he calls through cupped hands, making this process as embarrassing as possible. He then starts whooping, and I sigh as I roll my suitcase over to meet the wedding party. Tyler may be a man in his early thirties, but age would never matter to him.

Already, I can see Mike, the groom himself, talking to the lady at the reception desk. I try to steer myself around a cluster of people standing right in the center of the lobby. They’ve got that dazed, touristy look about them.

“Whoa!” A woman bolts around the herd of people, runs smack into me, and almost sends me to the ground. I manage to stay upright, but she’s not so lucky. She tumbles to the floor, her bag tipping over and the plastic handle making a loud smacking sound. I hold out a hand to help her up—I know I’m kind of a dick, but I hope I’m not an asshole.

Still, even with this gallant gesture, I can’t help judging the bag itself. It’s shiny and purple. I prefer a more sedate color palette.

“Thanks,” she says, taking my hand and pulling herself to her feet. Her smile is wide and bright, like crashing into people on a regular basis is just her way of saying hello. “Man, is it hopping or what?” She laughs, pulling her purse up onto her shoulder. Her laugh is kind of charming, actually. And even though I’m questioning her taste in luggage, I also find myself taking her in.

She’s short and curvy, her strawberry blonde hair flyaway. She’s got big blue eyes and a genuinely warm smile. Cute and approachable. Normally I’d be tempted to keep talking to her. But right now, I’ve got this bachelor party to deal with.

“You shouldn’t run around like that,” I tell her, and glance over at Mike. He’s waving, giving a puzzled shrug. The woman huffs.

“Thanks, Dad,” she mutters. Rolling her eyes, she, well, rolls away, her suitcase traveling behind her.

There she goes. It probably wouldn’t have amounted to much, anyway. I tend not to do well with women who are into shiny things. They’re the kind of people who like crocheting and cats. And crocheting things for their cats.

Finally, I finish my journey across the lobby and join Mike and Tyler.

“Vegas, baby!” Tyler yells, pumping his fist in the air.

Here we go—another
Swingers
line. I swear, I think that movie is Tyler’s bible.

“Don’t look at me like that, Wexler,” he says, jabbing his finger in my face. “You want the strippers and booze as much as I do, man.”

“I’m pretty sure you outdo me in that department,” I tell him. Tyler just laughs.

“Rough flight?” Mike asks, pulling me into a quick hug and slapping me on the back. “Or just being your usual charming self?”

“Sorry, guys. Probably just tired. Where’s Stacy?”

Mike’s fiancée is here as well, with her own bachelorette party in tow. Much as I’d like to warn him off marriage—it’s a dying institution, one that worked when it was designed for combining lands and trading cattle—I have to admire his choice of wife. Then again, it shouldn’t surprise me. Even in our Northwestern days, Mike was always into the smart, sexy type. So was I, for that matter. But I don’t have a type anymore. It’s safer this way.

“She and the girls are checking out the casino,” Mike says, grinning.

“Slots, right?” Tyler guffaws like he made a dirty joke.

“No, blackjack. Stacy’ll probably clean them out.”

“And then we’ll be in trouble with hotel management.” I finally get to the registration desk. The woman behind it has perfect hair and a perfect smile. “The tables are all rigged,” I say. “Did you ever hear of Jeffrey Ma? He was an MIT student, learned how to count cards—”

“Nate. Dude. Not this weekend, okay?” Mike says, clapping me on the shoulder. “This is about love, man. Not numbers.”

Mike’s a good guy. There’s no reason he should still be friends with a dick like me. But I won’t lie; I’m glad that he is.

“Check it out,” Tyler says, nudging me right in the ribs. “Ladies off the port bow.”

I look over to the tanned girls in sundresses who had rolled their eyes at us earlier. They continue rolling their eyes as Tyler whoops and asks them to come over.

Mike shakes his head, and I sigh.

“Maybe we can hang with them later. Set you up good, man,” Tyler says, punching me in the arm. Hell, maybe I do need to lighten up. It’s Mike and Stacy’s wedding, after all, not mine.

Not my wedding.
That thought slips past my protective barriers to punch me right in the gut. I know why I’m in such an especially shitty mood right now, and it has nothing to do with women running into me, or Tyler hitting on everything in sight.

It’s the wedding itself. It’s who I don’t have at my side. Not anymore.

Well, fuck it. This is Mike and Stacy’s big celebration, and I’m not going to wreck it for them. I won’t let myself be that weak.

The girl behind the desk slides me a paper envelope containing my keys. “Enjoy your stay, sir. Welcome to the Bellagio,” she says, smiling.

“Thanks,” I say. I even force a smile of my own. Who knows? I do it enough, maybe the smile will eventually become real.

T
he Romantic Style
convention is the one I look forward to every single year. I mean, how could I not? A full weekend of panels, piña coladas, and fabulous talk with romance-hungry readers? Sign me up. And the fact that it’s in Vegas, capital of good times and steak for under five dollars, only makes it more alluring. I’m always ready for every party, with my heels on and my makeup on point. I love my readers, I love my fellow authors, and I love love. Which, being a romance novelist, I probably should.

The fact that it’s being held at the Bellagio Hotel this year is icing on a delicious, buttercream cake.
Ocean’s 11
! Sabotage! Breaking into things! Hot people! Not that I’ll be doing any of those things, but I’m in close proximity to the people who do them! Yay!

But there’s always the pesky matter of being on time. And I confess that I’m not great at that. Like, for instance, right now. I have to meet my agent in the bar for a drink.

“Gangway! Coming through,” I say, hustling through the crowd, and bam. I smack into someone tall, dark, and rumpled looking. I tumble to the floor, and my bag goes flopping with me.
No!
Damn, I hope the fall didn’t wreck my crochet patterns. There’s a tea cozy I’m having a particularly difficult time with right now.

Fortunately, the dude is a gentleman, and helps me up.

“Man, is it hopping or what?” I laugh as I look up into his face. Then I almost choke on my words, because dreamy guy is dreamy.

His eyes are a flashing dark blue, his jaw square and impeccably shaved, his dark brown hair combed back neatly. He’s wearing a slightly rumpled business suit—probably came in first class from New York or London. I instantly start using his panty-dropping good looks as a template for my next romantic hero. Clive Razor, a sadistic billionaire who gets what he wants. That is, until a certain tenacious young woman enters his life, masquerading as his newest squash partner—

“You shouldn’t run around like that,” the dreamy guy says, sounding pissed. His handsome features collapse in a judgmental frown. And just like that, the romantic bubble pops. I don’t need dream visions of surly jerks in my life. I have enough of those in reality.

Damn. I was maybe gonna masturbate to him later. That dream is dead now.

“Thanks, Dad,” I mutter, grab my bag, and take off. Well, that was a disappointing run-in. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve got my key, and now I’ve just got to get to the bar. I can drop my stuff off in the room later—the one I’m sharing with Shanna.

There it is—the Baccarat bar. It’s right off the casino floor, modern style gray couches and chairs centered around low polished tables, a spray of blue blown glass flowers erupting out of the middle of the carpeted area. The vases of flowers and grand piano kind of contrast with the action and energy out on the gambling floor, but I think it’s great.

Some people hate Vegas, with all its flashing lights and high volume slots. Me, I love the energy.

I spy Shanna already. It’s hard to miss her, with her hair dyed bright blue and the sleeve tattoo of Japanese flowers on her right arm. She’s talking with . . . yep. That’s my agent.

“Who do I have to fuck to get served around here?” Meredith yells, holding up her now-empty Moscow Mule cup and waving it around. Meredith Chambers, hottest romance agent in New York, filthiest mouth east of the Mississippi. Or west, come to think of it. Some women walking by give her a shocked, slightly annoyed expression. She responds with aplomb. “Legs together, ladies. I’m not afraid of a little muff diving.”

“I’m pretty sure you can get sued,” I tell her, walking up to them.

Shanna beams and gives me a hug, and Meredith cackles, full on throwing her head back. She’s still dressed to the nines; I never see her in anything less than a Chanel pantsuit. Flashing the Rolex watch on her wrist, gold jewelry jangling, she checks the time. She looks all of her fifty-seven years, and she makes them look good.

Meredith keeps snapping her fingers until, finally, a nervous looking waiter comes over.

“May I get you another?” he squeaks.

“Mule or orgasm?” she asks, eyeing him up and down, sizing him up. I think he’s going to melt in fear.

All right, is this bordering on sexual harassment? Maybe. But the occasional double standard does wonders for women.

Meredith hands off her cup, and I sit. “There’s my gorgeous fucking rock star. Look, you didn’t hear this from me,” she says, looking around in an exaggerated manner, “but
Forbidden Desire
is coming out on the
Times
list. You can get on Twitter in about an hour. Number five.”

“Number five?” I gape, incredulous and exhilarated. Shanna hugs me again, and we almost fall over. But damn, does it matter?
The New York Times
list.

“This calls for more prosecco,” Shanna says, pouring some.

Aw, she got a bottle and an extra glass, just for me.

“You spoil me,” I say, toasting her.

“Best friend burden. Besides, we have more than one thing to celebrate today.” She gives me an encouraging smile. “You must be happy, Jules.”

Oh. Right. That. “Thanks,” I murmur.

“What happened? You fucked the cabana boy?” Meredith asks, scrolling through emails on her phone.

“No. My divorce is final,” I say, trying to sound cheery. And I do. Mostly. Even Meredith stills for a minute. Wow, she actually looks sort of chastened.

“Sorry, kid. I have a huge fucking mouth.” She squeezes my hand. “Congratulations. I know what a prick he was.”

This is the part where I should shout “hell fucking yeah” and jump up, fist in the air, superhero style. Then we would all whirl around and turn into a bunch of bright spandex-suited ladies and run off to fight marvelous amounts of crime and eat copious amounts of cake.

But instead, I force a smile and nod. I had been married to Drew for five years. He had been a delight for four of them. Then my career had taken off, and so had he.

“Hey,” Shanna says, gently nudging me out of my funk. “Want to wave those guys over?” She points to three men walking along the casino floor. One of them’s rolling a bag.
I feel that burden, brother
. “Three of them. One for each of us.” She winks, and Meredith guffaws.

“I’m old enough to be their mother,” Meredith says. “So I would definitely fuck them. Let’s do this.” She whistles and waves at the masculine trio. One of them looks nice and, basically, normal. The other has a gelled hair, Axe body-sprayed, pleasant doofus look about him. And the third, with the rolling suitcase, he’s . . . .

Shit
. It’s tall, dark and scowling. He surveys us with a clearly bored and sullen expression.

“What’s wrong? You look like you swallowed a NuvaRing,” Shanna says, looking alarmed.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, and dammit, I mean it. Fuck it. I came here to drink a lot, laugh a lot, and gamble in moderation. Mr. Tightass can’t spoil my good time.

“Ladies,” Axe Bodyspray says, sliding over to us. He whips off his sunglasses; why the hell was he wearing them indoors? “Mind if we join you for an appetizer?”

“Apertif?” Shanna says, though she laughs. “I think that’s what you meant.”

To this guy’s credit, he doesn’t get flustered or douchey. He laughs right along. Hey, if there’s one thing I appreciate, it’s a good sport.

“Sounds good. Let’s get together and make some magic happen.” God, that line. He’s kind of adorable in a frisky puppy sort of way.

Axe Bodyspray takes a seat between Meredith and Shanna. The normal guy sits a little farther away, smiling at all of us but not leaning in. I get the feeling he’s taken. And that leaves only the seat next to me available for Tightass.

“Hello,” the jerk says, blandly and pleasantly. He looks like we’re meeting for the first time.

Great, I must’ve made an indelible impression when I smacked into him in the lobby and fell over. He doesn’t remember three minutes ago. Which is fine. I totally don’t want to remember it either. Even if he’s got those Clive Razor godlike looks.

“What are you boys doing here?” Meredith asks, leaning back to scope out Axe’s ass. He doesn’t seem to be put off by it.

“Bachelor party. For me,” normal guy says with a smile.

There you go. My romantic instincts are never wrong.

“Who’s the lucky lady? Or guy?” Shanna asks.

“Lady. My fiancée, Stacy. She’s around here somewhere. Name’s Mike Rosenbaum.” He shakes with us. “That’s Tyler Berkley,” he says, pointing to Axe, “and Nate Wexler.”

That would be Tightass McGee right here.

“Julia Stevens,” I say, holding out my hand to him, my eyebrow arching. “We bumped into each other back at check in.”

“I remember,” he says, giving my hand a quick, firm shake. “I remember that.” He eyes my suitcase with something like disgust.

Wow. Not talking to this dick any longer. I smile over at Mike instead.

“What are you gorgeous ladies doing all alone in Vegas?” Tyler asks, wiggling his eyebrows at Shanna.

“We’re at the Romantic Style convention. It lasts the whole weekend,” Shanna says, sipping her drink.

“You’re romance writers?” Mike asks with a smile. He seems genuinely interested. “That’s crazy. My fiancée is obsessed, maybe she’s heard of you.”

“I write under A.M Leroy,” Shanna says. “It wouldn’t surprise me if she hasn’t heard of my books, though. They’re a little—er—out there. Kind of have a niche audience.”

Shanna always sells herself short. “What she means is she writes sci-fi erotica with amazing world-building and really kinky sex,” I say. “Android bondage? Bisexual alien queens with a harem? That right there is your lady.”

Shanna blushes a little. “Julia’s the bestseller,” she says, grinning. “And she actually writes under her own name. That’s kind of rare in our profession.”

“So I can actually find Julia Stevens at the bookstore?” Mike says. “I like that.”

“Just seemed like the honest thing to do,” I say with a laugh and a shrug.

“Honest?” Nate says. And there he goes. Tightass McGee makes a harrumphing noise deep in his throat. If I were a little more polite, and hadn’t just had a glass or two of fabulous afternoon prosecco, I might let this one go. But I’m not, and I have, so I won’t.

“Got a problem with your throat? Lozenge?” I ask, smiling sweetly. “Need some hot tea with honey?”

I’m not letting it go gracefully. Nate sighs.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” he says, his deep, rich voice going deeper and richer with condescension.
Such
condescension. Oh, do me now. “I just think the whole romance thing leads to unrealistic expectations. Expectations that do harm down the line.”

He reclines slightly in his chair, gorgeously imperious. If Mr. Darcy was a modern man with a rolling suitcase, a stick shoved way up his ass, and no actual redeemable qualities, he might be this guy.

Now everyone’s kind of stewing in awkwardness, and my blood is boiling. Mike clears his throat, obviously telling Nate to shut the hell up.

“Well, what line of work are you in?” I say, crossing my arms.

“Divorce attorney,” he replies, his tone effortless and cool. His gaze locks with mine, his eyes the deep blue of a perfect midnight sea filled with fucking nasty sharks. “Too many couples come into my office because they’re
incompatible
. Normally, you do a little digging and find it’s a lot of dissatisfaction on the wife’s part.” He adopts a slightly higher tone of voice. It’s a little whiny, too. “ ‘He’s not spontaneous. He’s not enthralling. He doesn’t go down on me enough.’ ”

Nate raises his hand, and a waiter instantly appears. Doesn’t surprise me that he’s the kind of guy people instinctively know to serve right away. Nate orders three scotches on the rocks—imagine that, ordering for his friends—and the waiter’s off like a shot. Nate Tightass is clearly used to getting his own way. And he is pissing me right the fuck off.

“So you blame marital issues on the romance industry?” I say, digging my nails into my thigh. Legally, it beats sinking them into his perfect, arrogant throat. Though it’s not nearly as satisfying.

Nate shrugs. “I blame it on society selling women—and men, to be fair—a bill of goods. Men, we’ve got the
Sports Illustrated
swimwear issue and porn to get us started down the path to inevitable disappointment. With women, it starts even earlier, in infancy. You know. Disney princesses and all that other horseshit.”

Horseshit? Fuck you.
I will defend my Belle and Mulan awesome warrior princess road comedy fan fiction to the fucking death.

“So what you’re saying is that love, chemistry, mutual happiness, it’s all a huge fucking farce?” Meredith says, her voice so flat it could be mistaken for a county in Nebraska.

Tyler is staring at all of us with his mouth slightly open. Clearly, he doesn’t know what to say.

“I should be grateful. If people didn’t swallow the wrong messages, the wrong ideas about lasting love, I’d be out of a job,” Nate says, staring me right in the eyes. “How about you, Ms. Stevens? Found your happy ending yet?”

I could lie to him. But before I think to do anything that smart, I tell the truth.

“I’m divorced.” I swallow after I say it. No matter how many times I speak the words, think them, it’s still a gut punch.

“I see,” he says, no emotion in his voice. His dark blue eyes seem to sparkle with gleeful light. “Too bad you didn’t come to me. I could’ve gotten you a hell of a settlement.”

My life is in tatters, and this asshole is making jokes about it. Apparently even his friends think this is over the line.

“Nate, what the fuck?” Mike says. His eyes are flashing, angry. The normal one has had enough. “The fuck is wrong with you, man?”

And for the first time, I see Nate the Tightass freeze and look regretful. Not because of me, probably, but he’s basically pissing on the idea of lasting love at his friend’s goddamn bachelor party. Nate clears his throat.

“I’m only saying what my experience has been,” he says at last, though maybe with the tiniest hint of remorse.

And I could be the grown-up here, get up and walk away all nice and quiet. But lucky me, the booze arrives just as I’ve reached my limit. Three scotch on the rocks. Before he can take the glasses, I grab one tumbler.