I tap accept, and Thayer’s husky voice filled my ears. “Sutton?”
I glance at Garrett, then step into the hall, which is freezing compared to our steamy room. Goose bumps rise on my skin. Water pools at my feet. “What?” I snap impatiently.
There’s a pause. “You sound angry,” Thayer says.
“Gee, I wonder why?” I retort. “You call me and tell me you’re gone but won’t explain where you are. And then some girl laughs in the background, someone who’s your friend, who can know where you are, and—”
“I told you, Sutton, it’s just not something I can explain right now,” Thayer interrupts. An edge creeps into his voice.
“Whatever,” I whisper.
Suddenly, the door to our private room opens, and Garrett pokes his head out. “I’m going to raise the temperature in here, okay?”
I turn back to Garrett, giving him a big smile. “I love it hot,” I say loudly, not covering the phone.
Garrett gives me a thumbs-up and closes the door again.
“Who was that?” Thayer asks, the suspicion weighty in his voice.
“Oh, just a friend,” I say. “I have to go. See ya!”
And then I hang up, just like he hung up on me. I saunter back to the treatment room, lowering myself into the extra-hot water with a little gasp. Garret reaches out an arm to help me in.
“Were you and your mom fighting?” he asks. “You look kind of flushed. And I heard you yelling.”
I wave my arm dismissively. “Oh, it’s nothing. You know, she’s just, um, a little weird about gambling and stuff,” I say, thinking fast. I brush a stray lock of hair from my forehead. “She doesn’t want me to get arrested.”
“Antigambling? That’s so . . . parental.” Garrett moves toward me with a twinkle in his eye. He wraps his arms around me and leans so that his lips are close to my ear. “I say we gamble up a storm tonight. Roulette. Five-card stud.”
“What about . . . strip poker?” I tease.
Garrett looks like he’s going to pass out from excitement. “I’m game.”
“What Mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” I murmur, turning my head to kiss him once more.
There are worse things in this world than the prospect of getting up close and personal with Garrett’s super-toned body.
As for Thayer, well . . . I guess we’re both making new friends, aren’t we? He’ll just have to deal.
7
LUCK BE A LADY
“Last roll, teams!” Madeline calls out a few hours later as we’re standing at the Venetian craps table. It’s hazy and dark inside the casino, and the room is a blur of ringing bells and flashing lights. Half-naked waitresses displaying miles of spray-tanned flesh walk trays of cocktails up and down the floor, and every few minutes a cheer erupts from a table as someone strikes it big.
Mads, Char, Laurel, and I are dressed in candy-colored party frocks and our highest heels, and Garrett and his two buddies were smart enough to bring along jackets to wear over their oxfords and jeans. A huge crowd, decked out in gowns and diamonds and sharp-looking suits, stands around us, watching. The croupier, who has slicked black hair and wears an immaculately fitting tuxedo, hands over a pair of red dice.
Well, he doesn’t hand it to me, but to a college-aged guy named Sam with a buzz cut, narrowed eyes, and beer breath.
With the dice in his palm, Sam moves closer to me. Maybe a little too close, but whatever. “Do your stuff, little lady.”
I close my eyes and blow softly on the dice, wishing I knew a good-luck voodoo incantation. Sam grins, then shakes the dice in his cupped palm. They clink together musically. I meet Laurel’s eye across the table. “You’re so going down,” I mouth.
For our second challenge, Laurel and I are facing off as “lucky dice blowers” to see whose player can win biggest. Yeah, yeah, technically, craps is a total game of chance, but I like to think that I have something to do with the way Sam is wiping the floor with Laurel’s choice of craps player, an older, overweight dude who sort of looks like the dad from Family Guy.
My overt victory totally makes up for the fact that with each roll of the dice—and bottle of Corona—Sam has inched closer and closer to me. A couple times, I’ve even felt his hand on my butt. I can sense Garrett looking at me, his face turning redder and redder, but I keep shooting him “it’s okay” glances.
As Sam shakes the dice, Char checks her watch. “When can we find Channing Tatum?” Char read that he was in town, and she’s completely obsessed with stalking him.
The croupier hands a pair of dice to Laurel’s guy, whose name is Darrel—or Derrick—I’m too bored with him to remember. Laurel leans over to blow on his dice, too, giving him a good peek at her cleavage. “Good luck.”
The players move their chips onto the appropriate pass line bets, which, from my crash course in craps from Garrett, mean that they are betting that their roll will win. Darrel-Derrick shakes the dice in his sweaty palms. He lets them go, and they tumble onto the table. Laurel holds her breath. Sam moves even closer to me. Every head around the table swivels to watch as they land.
The croupier gives a swift nod. “Snake eyes!”
I make a fake-sympathetic face at my sister. “Aw, better luck next time.” That won’t be too hard to beat. I glance at Sam. “Go for lucky seven,” I say, winking.
He gives my butt a quick squeeze. Ugh. I can’t wait until this challenge is over. “You’re my lucky charm. Let’s do it.”
He puts all his chips on seven. Laurel smirks at me, knowing this is a huge risk. But here, with this crowd, it’s go big or go home.
The dealer nods, tugging at his clip-on bow tie. Sam shakes the dice vigorously, then lets them go. As they fall to the table, he puts an arm around my shoulders, pulling me against him. We’re so close his cheek stubble scratches the side of my face. Garrett shifts again, and his hand curls into a fist.
The dice settle. The dealer examines them. I hold my breath, my heart pounding hard.
“Big red!” he pronounces. The dice read four and three—seven.
A roar of excitement explodes around the table. I don’t have time to savor the crushed expression on Laurel’s face, though, because suddenly Sam is lifting me off my feet, twirling me in an exuberant circle.
“We did it!” he exclaims, his breath hot on my cheek. He tightens his grip on me, and his hand slides farther and farther down my back until it’s brushing against my butt.
No, thank you. “Um . . .” I press back from his chest, trying to get away. “A leetle too close, my friend.”
Sam drops me, but he looks annoyed. “Honey, I let you blow on my dice. The least you can give me is a little kiss.”
I try to laugh him off, but suddenly Sam is lunging for me, his lips puckered. A moment later, Garrett comes into view, his face red and splotchy, and yanks Sam away.
“Get your hands off of her,” he growls. He winds his arm back like he’s going to throw a punch.
“Whoa.” Sam steps away. “Easy, dude. What are you, like, twelve?”
Garrett steps forward, his nostrils flaring. “I’m older than you think, dude.”
Just as he’s about to throw himself at Sam, a meaty hand clamps down on each of their shoulders, and a beefy security guard looms over us. “Neither of you wants to do this in here,” he says curtly. “You’re both out.”
“Are you kidding me?” Garrett smashes his glass of club soda to the ground, sending a spray of ice across the floor. People pause from their slot-machine trances. Players at a nearby blackjack table whirl around. Sam gathers his chips from the table and steps away, staring at Garrett like he’s insane. I look at Garrett, too, my heart pounding quickly. With his flared nostrils and wild blue eyes, he does look a little unhinged.
The security guard grabs Garrett by the arm. “I’m dead serious. If you don’t want to get arrested for disorderly conduct, you’ll leave. Now.”
Garrett’s jaw tightens and he clenches his fists at his side, almost like he’s going to deck the security guy, too. Then he exhales and succumbs. “Fine,” he mutters. “Sutton, I’ll text you.”
Tucker and Marcus follow Garrett out of the casino. Sam and Darrel-Derrick wander off in the opposite direction. Laurel’s eyes are wide. Madeline’s blink rapidly. Charlotte seems embarrassed, like she’s seen this before. Her words swirl back to me: He’s a ball of moods since that stuff with Louisa.
But whatever. It’s nice that Garrett stood up for me. Would Thayer have? Probably not. All he does is run away.
I saunter toward the bar, suddenly in desperate need of a drink. “Put that in the Google doc, girls,” I trill. “It looks like round two goes to me.”
“She’s right,” Mads says, following behind. “Round two of the Sudden Death Tournament definitely goes to Sutton.”
“I think she should get points deducted for all of the drama,” Laurel says primly. “That was embarrassing.”
“I think I should get points added,” I snap. “When was the last time a guy defended any of you from a random perv?”
Laurel straightens up, pushes her hair over her shoulder. “Just wait until the next challenge, Sutton,” she announces. “I’m going to kick your butt.”
“We’ll see about that,” I say, leaning forward to order my drink. Tonight is just the beginning of my lucky streak. And the beginning of the end for my sister.
8
GIRLS GONE WILD
After the casino, the four of us decide to get some air and walk down the strip. I have no idea where Garrett has gone—he’s not answering his phone—but maybe that’s okay. It’s probably better if he blows off some steam on his own.
My phone buzzes in my bag, and my heart leaps. Maybe it’s Garrett—or Thayer. But when I slip it out of my clutch, it’s just my mom, texting to check in. I swallow my disappointment. I haven’t heard one word from Thayer. Nothing since I hung up on him at the spa. No worried text about the “friend” I was with. Does he just not care anymore? Are we truly . . . done?
As we walk down the outdoor overpass of the Venetian’s breathtaking man-made canal, I soak in the carnival of Las Vegas at night and try to revel in my victory, but I’m just cranky and annoyed. Forget about Thayer, I tell myself over and over, but it’s not really that easy.
Next to me, Mads is quiet, too. The stack of slim gold bangles on her wrist brushes against my hips as we move. She stares blankly at the New York-New York Roller Coaster as we pass.
“What’s up?” I ask her, low enough that Charlotte and Laurel, who are ahead of us, watching a street performer who randomly transforms from a roller-skating robot into a monster truck, can’t hear.
She casts her gaze toward the sidewalk. “Nothing.”
“Come on.”
She looks at me. “I’m just thinking about Thayer. I hope that wherever he is, he’s okay.”
Guilt smothers me like a blanket. I hate that Thayer has even put me in this position. “I’m sure he is,” I say.
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