Page 48 of A Vegas Crush Collection #2

almost three-quarters

Tyler

The Feminazi sister definitely wants me. She’s gushing over the tattoo on my wrist. Imagine how much she’d cream if she saw everything I’ve got inked on my body. Plus, if Daddy says no, I’ll bet she’s just the type to do exactly the opposite. She’s an easy mark, for sure.

However, I’m in the mood for a challenge tonight.

The younger sister is paying me about a half-percent of attention, which is annoying, but also makes me want to get the other ninety-nine-point-five.

Gotta work for it. That’s cool with me. I’m feeling her as the quiet one, the soft one who just wants to go put her fuzzy pajamas on and read a book.

I wonder if she wears glasses? I wear glasses when I don’t have my contacts in.

Maybe it would help if she saw me with them on.

As I watch her, it’s clear this is really the last place on earth she wants to be. I don’t think it’s personal toward me—I just think she hates functions like this. That makes two of us, Smokeshow.

I turn to her. “You look miserable. Can I create a distraction to help you escape?”

She lights up—literally her whole face lights up—and she looks so relieved. “God, yes. I just want to get back to campus. I have so much work to do for my classes.”

“Come on, I’ll walk you out to grab a cab.”

“Oh, no, I—”

“I don’t bite.” Much.

“It is not that,” she says, blushing. "Pam has offered to take us back.”

“Ahh. Well, then, tell me about what you’re studying.” And there is the face I’ve seen a few times in the past five minutes. Boredom. She must’ve been asked this a million times tonight. Idiot. I’m an idiot.

“Art and education, I think,” she answers, though I can tell she’s only being polite.

“What will you do after? What’s your dream job?”

“Oh, I am not sure. I have always liked little children. I think I might enjoy being a preschool teacher, but I also draw and doodle occasionally, so maybe I could teach art.”

Okay, okay, she’s livening up. That’s progress. She must be young, though, if she’s just starting to think about her college major. “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” Please be at least eighteen.

“Nineteen and almost three-quarters,” she says, all soft-spoken and gentle.

She looks like a million bucks...a friggin’ goddess, but technically still a teenage girl.

Damn. That’s pretty young. But it’s over eighteen, so we’re golden.

Game on. I snort, thinking of Kolochev’s demand.

“My father gave strict instructions to keep these two behind the fence, away from the wild animals. That includes you. Go find someone else to fornicate with.” Oh no, my Russian friend. Quite happy with these beauties.

“The almost three-quarters is wicked important, hey?” I give her a smile that could drop panties down the street in the club I was at the other night with Terrence.

She returns the barest hint of a smile and shrugs. Smokeshow is a tough crowd.

“I’m twenty-two,” the sister pipes in. “You?”

“I’m pushin’ twenty-five. And you two are making me feel like an old, old man.”

This makes the older sister laugh, but the younger one looks at Pam as if telegraphing her extreme need to blow this taco stand.

“I’m studying women and gender studies at UNLV,” the older sister is saying. “Getting my master’s degree now, then I’ll go on to get my PhD.”

She keeps talking, as a couple of others have joined the group.

I tune out, honestly, because school was just a means to an end for me.

I got my hockey career out of it, and made it work, but this conversation is not holding me.

I focus on the younger sister’s hair. The way it flows down her back in sexy, sun-kissed waves.

The way it would feel in my hands. God, what was her name?

There’s never any need to bother remembering names, but I should commit Kolochev’s sisters’ names to memory.

I can’t call them buddy or Kolochev. I should make an effort.

“So,” I say quietly to the younger one, “what are your names again? I think I’ve taken too many head shots. Bad memory lately.”

She squints at me in a way that says she sees right through my bullshit. “Zoya. My sister is Irina. I am sure you will not remember in a moment, Tyler Lockhardt. See, I was barely paying attention to you, but I still remembered your name.”

So Smokeshow’s got sass under that gentle exterior.

I like it. I like it a lot. Also? Zoya is a hot name.

Flaming hot. Every bit of this chick is hot, including her total ambivalence toward me.

Just makes me want her even more. I’ll wear her down, just wait.

I am a charming and persistent motherfucker.

I start to come up with something witty to say in response, but Georg’s wife, Pam, squeals in a way that gives me a sense of how dogs feel when a dog whistle blows.

She screams something about Viktor and Scarlett’s baby and goes running across the room like a woman possessed, her arms straight out in front of her.

She literally grabs the baby from Scarlett’s arms, cooing and nearly in tears from whatever delirium takes over a woman when a baby is nearby.

“Christ,” Georg says in a horrified whisper. “What in the seventh realm of hell was that all about?”

“Baby fever, brother,” I answer.

“No way. Pam and I have talked about this a thousand times. We are both committed to a baby-free existence. She just likes holding the babies, and then she likes to give them back. No changing poopy diapers. No having milk come out of her tits. She doesn’t want any of that.”

“Sounds like maybe you just don’t want any of that. And I get it.”

“No, it is mutual,” Georg insists, speaking a bit louder. “We haven’t decided if we want to have children ever. I would be a terrible role model. Why expose an innocent to my level of immaturity and dysfunction?”

Irina snorts, picking up on our conversation. “I agree wholeheartedly.”

“I do not,” Zoya says, her voice soft but assured. “I think you and Pam would be great parents.”

“On what grounds?” Georg asks with an incredulous laugh.

“You are very different than you were even a year ago,” Zoya says.

“You are not drinking. You are stronger on the ice. You have an amazing, smart, educated wife. You both work hard, and you are both committed and loving to each other. You are even helping your sisters further their education. What about any of this seems like it would make you bad parents? It seems like a good home environment for any child, in my opinion.”

Georg’s mouth hangs open. He snaps it shut and rubs the stubble on his chin. I think he might be emotional, the way he looks away toward nothing. Then he shakes his head. “No way. That’s baloney. I’d spawn some sort of holy terror. Or I’d do something dumb to get the kid hurt or—”

“Oh, I see what this is…” Irina interrupts before launching into some psychoanalytical something about Georg and all the reasons he thinks he’d be a shitty dad. Zoya is only half listening—I expect she’s heard all this before—craning her neck to find Pam. I think. Here’s my opportunity.

“Hey, looks like you’re ready to head out. I could walk you back to campus if you’d like?”

She looks over at her brother and sister, now engaged in a heated conversation. Pam is still off gushing over the baby. Zoya bites her lip, hesitates, frowns. I can see the wheels turning as she mulls over my offer. Smokeshow is wavering.

“Yes, okay. I need to get back. Thank you.”

Boom. I’m in.