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CHAPTER TWO

I roll maybe three feet then hit the brakes.

What the fuck am I doing? That man just kissed my freakin’ hand.

I look at myself in the rearview mirror and mutter, “Christ, Maiken. When was the last time a guy looked at you like you were more than just your tits?”

Before I can overthink it, I put the car in reverse, back up, and roll down my passenger window.

"You wanna grab a drink? I know some places where Junior Betterton definitely won't be."

Surprise flickers across Reece's handsome face, followed by a slow, genuine smile that reaches up to his eyes and down to my hoo-haw. "Yeah. I'd like that."

"Well, then get in."

He slides into the passenger seat and his scent — subtle, expensive, with notes of cedar and something spicy — enters the small space with him. It’s his soap, I think. Not strong enough to be cologne. Masculine without being aggressive.

"Nice ride." There’s no hint of sarcasm in his voice as he takes in the worn, sun-bleached upholstery and the dashboard bobblehead of Bettie Page.

I pat the dash. "Bettie's reliable." I pull away from the curb. "Unlike most men I've dated."

He laughs, settling into the seat. "Where are we going?"

"That depends on what kinda night you want. Quiet and sophisticated? Loud and obnoxious? Weird and underground?"

He considers this as we stop at a red light. The neon from a nearby casino bathes his face in alternating red and gold, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones. "Surprise me."

"Ooo. Dangerous words in this town." I'm already plotting our course. "Hope you can keep up, speed demon."

"I'll do my best, dancing queen."

His phone buzzes. He checks it and frowns. "Look, we're definitely heading toward too many drinks to drive. Smart move, we leave your car at your place, and I'll sort a car service for the night. The driver can stick with us, no problem."

"Good plan." I really do appreciate his show of responsibility. "The guy can drop you back at your hotel afterward."

Twenty minutes later, we're parking outside my apartment complex in Henderson. It’s nothing fancy, for sure, just a collection of rectangular buildings with a scummy pool in the center that won’t get cleaned until next spring. I leave my car in my assigned spot.

Reece has already ordered our ride on his phone, so I run my costume up to my apartment then dash back down and slide into the back of the pristine white SUV that’s pulled to the curb.

He gives our driver a generous tip upfront. "We're doing a little Vegas tour tonight. Mind sticking with us for a few hours?"

Our driver — Hector, according to his profile — grins. "For that kind of money? I'm all yours, man."

I take us first to The Wash Up, a speakeasy hidden behind a false wall in a laundromat.

The bouncer recognizes me from the occasional shows I’ve done here and lets us skip the line.

Inside, it's all dim lighting, leather booths, and bartenders in suspenders crafting elaborate pre-Prohibition cocktails.

"First stop on the Maiken Lange Tour of Hidden Vegas." We slide into a booth. "What's your poison, Reece? I’m buying this round."

He tips his chin. "Whiskey."

We order — whiskey and water for him, a French 75 for me, because champagne, of course — and clink glasses when they arrive.

"To new acquaintances," he says, all proper and formal.

I lean in. "To escaping Junior Betterton and his coked-up entitlement."

Reece gives a big nod. "I'll drink to that." He swirls the whiskey, inhales its aroma, then takes a sip. "How many stops are on this tour?"

"As many as you can handle, champ. I figure we've got until sunrise before you turn back into a famous race car driver."

He arches a brow. "Not famous enough for you to recognize, apparently."

I shrug. "I don't follow sports. Too busy working to pay my bills."

"Fair enough." He leans back, relaxing into the booth. "So what else do you do when you're not dazzling audiences at The Golden Oyster?"

"I sew. A lot. I read. Not as much as I’d like.

I teach little children how to point their toes and housewives how to shake their booties.

" I shimmy in the booth, then take another sip of my drink as he laughs.

"What about you? When you're not risking your life on racetracks, what do you do for fun? "

"I'm usually training and doing team PR. The driving is just the visible part. It's a full program: fitness regime, simulator work, endless meetings. Quite knackering, actually." He traces the rim of his glass with one finger. "But when I get free time, I surf. No phone, no sponsors, just water."

"Really? That's cool."

"Natural fit, growing up with summers in L.A." He shrugs one shoulder. "My mother's place is just over the hill from Malibu. Good breaks there."

"A man who surfs." I drop my chin and look at him. "Sexy."

He laughs. "Been called worse things in the paddock." He holds my gaze, and there's that spark again, that invisible current running between us.

Two drinks in and there’s a pleasant warmth spreading through my body. Reece looks more relaxed too, his smile coming easier, his posture less controlled.

"So your mom lives in L.A.?"

“She does. Graham divorced her when we were boys. He proper fucked her over. It took me a while to realize that.” He looks down and there’s that vulnerability I spied back at the diner.

“Well, you were a kid, right?”

"Yeah. Hard not to feel rubbish about it, though.

Graham fed us this narrative that she was mentally unstable, a shitty mother, the whole bit.

Total bollocks. Few years back, I started working with a sports psychologist, addressed some of my own stuff.

I reached out to Mum after that." His fingers tap the table like he's counting those years.

"Best decision I ever made. No question. "

“Sports psychologist?”

“Yeah. I had performance anxiety.”

“Wow.”

He shrugs. "More common than anyone talks about. Twenty seats only. Twenty ."

“Twenty of what?” I don’t follow him.

“F1 drivers.”

“Where?”

He smiles. “Worldwide. Ten teams, two drivers each.”

My eyes widen. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” He sips water. He’s pacing himself better than I am.

“So, yeah, there’s a lot of anxiety to perform well.

Hundreds of millions of dollars, thousands of jobs riding on our performance.

Pressure's unreal. You don’t finish well, the team doesn’t earn points, which means tens of millions of dollars they don’t have next year.

So drivers get replaced, sometimes mid-season.

There’s always a younger, hungrier buck waiting to take your seat. ”

“Damn. I didn’t know that.” I finish my second French 75 and order a Gin Ricky. “I’m mostly competing against myself.”

He considers me for a minute. “Is it hard to do?”

“What? Get naked before a room full of strangers?” I get this question a lot.

“Yeah.”

“No. It’s social commentary, really. Burlesque. It’s about having control of my body, how I use it, who can see it and when and how much.”

He nods. “It’s amazing.” Then Reece meets my gaze. “You’re amazing, Maiken.”

I sit back and smile. “Thanks, Reece.”

We finish our drinks before heading back to our waiting ride.

Hector grins as we tumble into the backseat, both of us laughing at some joke I've already forgotten.

"Where to next, kids?"

I direct him to Tin’s Top Hat, a rooftop bar with panoramic views of the Strip.

More drinks appear, and by now, everything has that soft-focus glow that comes with being nicely drunk.

The night air has a crisp November chill, and the desert sky is a canvas of stars I usually only notice when I go way out past the city's electric glow.

Reece stands at the railing, surveying the spectacle of Las Vegas at night, and I take the opportunity to study him.

There's an ease to how he stands, a confidence that doesn't need to announce itself.

His profile is strong and perfect — a face that belongs on billboards (and probably is, now that I think of it).

What draws me most though, is the way he's been looking at me all night like I'm worth seeing with my clothes on .

He turns and catches me staring. "What?"

"Nothing." I'm smiling. "Just thinking this isn't how I expected my night to go."

"Well. That makes two of us."

We order more drinks — we should probably stop, but neither of us suggests it — and talk about everything and nothing.

He tells me more about the pressures of staying at the top of his sport, about his complicated relationship with Wyn, about the expectations they both face as Graham’s sons.

I share stories of dance competitions, of growing up in Las Vegas as the only child of a single teen mother, of building a life on my own terms.

The next stop is a basement jazz club. I’m pretty shit-faced now, so everything comes in flashes.

Saxophones gleaming under blue lights, my head on Reece's shoulder, his laugh vibrating through my body.

Then somehow we're at Jay-Jay's, a sticky-floored dive with Nevada's best jukebox.

When did we get here? Doesn't matter. Reece's fingers lace through mine as we share a microphone, bellowing "Don't Stop Believin'" while the regulars cheer us on.

At Sugar Night, we share a warm chocolate croissant. Reece wipes a smear of sweetness from my lower lip, and his touch zings down my spine to my crotch. The world isn't just spinning, it's dancing, and we’ve taken the lead.

Hector waits patiently, scrolling on his phone, occasionally offering us water.

“Final stop,” I announce as our faithful driver pulls up to Midnight Quarters, a 24-hour arcade just past the Strip.

The sign’s flickering, the building looks like a time capsule from 1991, and there’s a suspicious amount of neon.

“Nothing says ‘wasted Vegas night’ louder than drunk Mario Kart at 3 a.m.”

Reece lights up like I just handed him a trophy or some shit. “You’re joking.”