Page 53 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

How do I answer this question? I take a big drink from my glass before attempting to explain.

“I’m terrified,” I admit after a tense moment of quiet, “but I do have extra locks on the door. Maintenance was far more obliging than I expected. They even put up one of those little security cameras, and still, I’ll spot them lurking around sometimes.

” At least they haven’t touched me. Nor have they tried to break in again.

Thank God. “It feels like a ticking time bomb with no clock on it to me. You know? I just don’t know when the next thing might happen. ”

“I feel…” Mikhail stops before he finishes his thought. He turns the beer bottle around and around in a circle on the bar. “I feel like shit for leaving Vegas and not checking in on you first.”

A surprised laugh bubbles up and out of me.

Mikhail frowns slightly and looks down at his drink, so I put my hand on his bicep.

“No, I’m not laughing at you. I’m—it’s just that you don’t have to feel guilty or protective or whatever, Mikhail.

You’ve helped me so much, and I’m just a random stranger who crashed in on you, and quite rudely, you’ll recall.

You can go live your life. Please, you don’t have to worry about me. ”

“But I do, all the same,” he says, slowly lifting those stunning, deep blue eyes of his to look at me.

Taking a deep breath, I sit up straight in my chair and toss back the remainder of my drink, holding up a finger at William, the bartender, for another. “Let’s change the subject. Enough of my drama. How’s the hockey season going?”

His eyebrows rise while his face contorts in a way that does not indicate that things are great. “It’s weird,” he says after a moment.

“How so?”

“They’re trying some new lineups, breaking up our comfort zones, trying to give other guys more playing time.

And, you know, it’s normal to do that. Most teams make switches all throughout the game.

But with our starters, we have such great chemistry, and we dominate out there.

We trust each other and we win because of that.

So, historically, we’ve gotten the most minutes and didn’t sub out very often. ”

“Until now.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re annoyed you’re not getting as much playing time?”

“Well, our focus on the front line is what’s won us the Cup in the past.” He shrugs.

I lean over and bump my shoulder against his. “You’re a shrugger, you know that?”

He shrugs again and grins. “Sorry,” he mumbles, his leg starting to bounce again.

This time, I put my hand on his upper thigh.

It sends a jolt through my body to touch him, to feel the strength and muscle there.

The idea of Mikhail naked is suddenly the only thing on my mind.

Somehow, though, I manage to clear my head enough to speak.

“You bounce a lot too. Your leg. Like you’re nervous. ”

“I’m not nervous,” he says too quickly. He looks anywhere but at me, finally settling on William, who nods at him and brings him another bottle of beer.

“I caught the game on the telly the other night,” William says to Mikhail, his British accent ringing out over the bar. “You guys aren’t playing as you have in past seasons.”

“You’re telling me.” Mikhail heaves a huge sigh.

“Well, a win’s a win, I s’pose,” William says. “But it’d be a right kick in the arse to lose what you’ve built there. This town’s all aflutter for you boys. Don’t go mucking it up now.”

“I just work there,” Mikhail says with a laugh as he pulls the bottle to his lips.

As William salutes and heads off to help another customer, I say, “You and I live such different lives, you know? I mean, he just walked up to you and knew who you were. This pro athlete, famous guy that people know on sight. They want to talk to you, want to take selfies with you. And I’m just a nobody—well, my life is nothing like any of that. ”

Mikhail’s face goes dark as he rolls his beer bottle between his palms. It’s a few moments before he speaks. “Everyone has problems, you know.”

“Sure,” I say, though I keep to myself the fact that I’d bet my right hand that his problems aren’t nearly on the same level as mine. Money and privilege and status are powerful like that. “What are yours?”

He gives a dark, humorless laugh. “I suppose my daddy issues aren’t nearly on par with you having a crime lord on your ass.”

“Well, I suppose it depends on perspective.”

“How so?” He looks over at me and cocks a sexy brow.

“Well, if your dad is like a pedophile or if he beat the crap out of you, then maybe your daddy issues really do trump my situation with the crime lord.”

“He’s not, and he didn’t.”

I nod, feeling like I’ve hit a nerve. Still, I stick with my original assertion.

Mikhail and I are from different planets.

He’s been groomed to be right where he’s at right now.

And he’s pissed that he doesn’t get playing time, but I’d also bet it has very little impact on whatever big-ass paycheck he gets.

He could probably afford a much nicer apartment than he has.

He’s probably got a financial manager, tucking his money away for a rainy day.

Me? It is a rainy day. It has been rainy for a very long time, and the skies don’t seem to be ready to clear any time soon.

Mikhail has no idea what my life is like.

Which is why, even though I may or may not have imagined him naked on more than one occasion, nothing will ever happen between us.

I know that. Despite my many troubles, I am a realist.

Still, it’s fun to pretend. He’s here to make sure I’m safe. He’s handsome and strong and kind. I feel cute in this dress. And I don’t see any of Sodorov’s goons lurking about. So why not have a little fun for a few hours tonight?

“So, see that guy over there?” I say, changing the subject again as I try to discreetly nod at a rotund man working on one of the digital slot machines.

“The guy with his ass crack hanging out?” He chuckles. “I see him, though I’d rather not have.”

“His name is Brick. No joke. He’s, like, thirty…

moved here from Kentucky or West Virginia.

I guess he had a high school girlfriend come out here for college and he followed her out, only to get dumped.

He’s nice enough, but he talks all the time about how much he hates it here, wants to go back home, and blah, blah, blah.

So, one day he was doing maintenance on one of the older machines—the ones with the levers—and this attractive woman walks up to him asking about the way the machines work.

Are they rigged or are they really random?

She’s all flirty, like she’s trying to seduce him into telling her some kind of deep secret, and he’s getting redder and redder.

Finally, he tells her he needs to get back to work, and she says to come find her if he remembers anything important.

She kisses him on the cheek, and he turns around, bends down, and out slips a huge, loud fart as she starts to walk away. ”

Mikhail’s mouth hangs open. “That is…I don’t know where I thought your story was going, but I’m pretty sure, in my mind, it didn’t involve farting.”

“I know, right?” I smack him on the leg, just an excuse to touch him again. “Poor guy.”

“I’m sure you see all kinds of characters in a place like this,” he muses, his posture more relaxed now that we’ve moved away from the serious subjects.

“That is true. One night we had a woman at the blackjack table who had to be one hundred years old. I’m not even exaggerating.

She was, like, less than five feet tall and she was wearing, I swear, every piece of jewelry she owned.

Like, sixteen necklaces, multiple rings on every finger.

She had both arms full of bracelets. She kept telling everyone this was her last hurrah, and she was going to meet God tonight.

She told people she was getting drunk and gambling all her money away and then she was going to go get a hot call girl to give her oral because she’d always been curious about women. ”

Mikhail nearly spits his beer out at this. He cracks up, his face splitting into a real, bona fide smile. And, my God, it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. If I wasn’t crushing on Mikhail Zelenka already, I certainly would be now.

His smile makes me smile, which makes me giggle, which turns into a whole fit of laughter and a few more stories from my time working here at the casino.

“You know,” I say, a third drink and as many stories later, “I might have said I hate this place on more than one occasion, but there have been some funny things happen here. Some sweet things, too. I’ve seen a couple of people get engaged.

I saw a woman give birth. She was like nine months pregnant and on a hot streak and her water broke.

She told her husband she had plenty of time, still, but she ended up going into active labor in the rotunda out front.

She had a little girl and named her Isla. Totally crazy.”

“Only in Vegas,” Mikhail says. He smiles at me before bopping his fingertip against the end of my nose. I suspect he’s a bit drunk. I know I am. “I like seeing you laugh and smile.”

Something warm pools in my lower belly, the way he looks at me. I meet his gaze, but my eyes move quickly to his lips, which look supremely kissable at the moment.

“I don’t do it very often,” I say. It comes out kind of breathless. “Smile, I mean. It’s been kind of a shitshow for a while. But I’m having fun with you. You remind me that there are good people out there.”

He opens his mouth, and there’s a long moment that stretches between us where I think he might kiss me. I want him to kiss me. Instead, he looks at the tab, pulls out some cash. “Can I walk you home, Reagan?”

Not what I was expecting, but again, I can be a realist. “Sure, Mikhail. That would be nice.”

I get off my stool and wobble a bit on my heels. He holds his hand out to steady me and I take it. He doesn’t let go as we walk through to the front door, out onto the bustling sidewalk foot traffic, all while still holding my hand.

I shiver, the night air a little chillier than usual, and then something wonderful happens when Mikhail drops my hand to wrap an arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his warm, sexy body as we walk.

It feels so good having him close, our bodies aligned to each other, even though I only come up to his shoulder.

“You a little tipsy?” he asks, a lopsided grin making him look rakish and naughty and totally like TROUBLE in warranted all shouty caps.

“I am. You?”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling like he’s had a taste of freedom. He pinches his fingers together. “Just a bit. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve had that much to drink. My nutrition plan and all that.”

“Lightweight,” I say with a hiccup.

“That’s the pot calling the kettle metal, or whatever the saying is.”

This makes us both laugh uproariously as we walk. “Put the kettle to the metal,” I say in response so that we laugh even harder.

“Don’t metal with my kettle,” he answers, grinning. At this point, my eyes are watering from laughing so hard. I haven’t felt like this in a long time—safe and free and, well…happy.

Before we know it, we’re at the apartment building. It’s not until we stand, awaiting the elevator, that he asks, “Do you want to go home? Or would you like to come to my place?”

There is no expectation or implication in his tone. In fact, he seems a bit shy about asking. But when he looks down at me, I see how his eyes darken as he zeros in on my lips, and I know that he wants just what I want.