Rough and Tumble (7 page)

“I'm not making you do anything. But I will say this . . .” He smiled. “If you were to go there with me, I could find it in my heart to negotiate with you about how long this date will be lasting.”

She seemed disappointed that she'd overlooked that detail. “How long
will
it last?”

“I was thinking you'd be with me 'til dawn.”

She gaped at him again. But the more he thought about it, the more he liked this idea. Taking her to the Rough & Tumble would mean scoring stud points for days. And who knew what else he could talk her into out there?

Yup, this was getting better and better, because nothing was going to happen in
this
bar. He could sense it.

A tug-of-war played on her face before she blanked her expression again. “I have a compromise in mind.”

Better and better.

She continued. “If I were to go to that saloon with you, I would stay for one hour only, and that would knock off Arden's debt to you entirely.”

He didn't react, but she had to be bullshitting. An hour?

Then her complete meaning came through: this deal was a shortcut to ending her commitment to him, and the fact that she wanted out so soon bit at him.

Before he could answer, she'd grabbed another cocktail napkin and a pen from her purse, writing out her conditions.

“For shit's sake,” he said under his breath. “Wouldn't you just take my word for it if I agreed?”

She kept writing.

He stiffened in his seat. “I always keep my word, Molly.”

The seriousness in his voice made her stop writing, and she put the pen away, her document unfinished.

Then she nodded. “I keep my word, too. It's only that I don't know you well enough to be sure about anything you tell me.”

“Then if I accept your conditions, you can text your friends. Let them know where you're going and when you'll be back. Take a picture of me for their files in case I kidnap you and live up to all your sterling expectations of me.”

He'd sounded bitter, and he hadn't meant to. Since when did he care what anyone thought about him? Growing up, he'd gotten through five foster homes without caring, and he'd only really cared about anyone once in his life before she'd broken him apart. Care wasn't worth shit.

The princess must've seen something genuine in him, because she softened her tone. “I know you wouldn't kidnap me or anything.”

That weakness he'd felt before returned full force, sympathizing with her, but he killed it. All he wanted was to get her out of this manufactured, calm environment for some good times. Or did he want to take her to the R&T because her fish-out-of-water discomfort would give him a rise? Either way, he was damned sure he could persuade her to let him have more than an hour with her at the saloon.

He got out of his chair, letting her choose whether to leave or stay, and when she stood, too, his heart did something stupid: it knocked against the walls he'd put around it a long time ago.

“An hour at the Rough and Tumble,” she said, taking out her phone and texting. “Arden better appreciate this.”

And that was the reason she was going—for Arden.

But Cash was a man who always took more than what he could get, whether it was in a game or with a challenge like Molly.

***

The summer night air nuzzled Molly's bare arms while they waited for the valet to bring Cash's vehicle around to the front of Caesars Palace. A huge fountain splashed in happy, fluid rhythm as hotel guests unpacked and packed their luggage into their cars while, next to her, Cash sat on a low marble wall, looking out of place next to the people in their snazzy Vegas wear and college students in their shorts, flip-flops, and plaid shirts.

She had to be nuts, completely nuts, to be doing this. Sofia's texts even said so. But Molly had never been this wonderfully crazy in her life, and her adrenaline was flying around, animating her.

Just an hour
, she thought. It'd be an adventure. And that's why she'd come to Vegas, right? Besides, she had a plan: when she got to the Rough & Tumble, she'd check in with Kat the bartender, a fellow woman, and keep in touch with Sofia and Arden the whole time. Soon enough, she'd have Arden's debt cleared and a story to tell, as Cash had said.

Also, she had pepper spray in her purse that Sofia had taken from the glove compartment of their car, so there was that, too.

When a shiny, sleek black vintage car pulled in front of her and Cash, she blinked. This was his?

“Told you,” he said. “Not a biker.”

He looked smug as he slipped the valet some money and a ticket then opened the car door for her.

The inside seemed so dark, like a room full of seductive surprises. A blue glow emanated from the dashboard, adding to the allure.

Taking a breath, she slid inside, and he closed the door behind her.

It smelled good, like beaten, smoky leather. Like Cash smelled. She ran her hand over the seat, seeing that he'd spared no expense on this toy. Everything was so pristine and classy that he didn't even have anything cheesy hanging from his rearview mirror.

She knew he was a drifter who went from one place to another. Was this the closest thing he had to a home?

After he got in, she grabbed the seat belt. When he didn't make a move to do the same, she cleared her throat.

He looked at her, and she indicated the belt.

Laughing in that shredded velvet way of his, he said, “First you won't let me smoke and now this?”

But he strapped in anyway.

“It doesn't smell as much like smoke in here as I thought it would,” she said as he pulled forward.

“Nah. It's too much work to clean if I smoke in here. This baby deserves some good treatment after all the years she's survived.”

He skimmed a thumb over the steering wheel, and a jab of lust so sharp ripped through her clitoris that she almost gasped. Her heart jackhammered, her adrenaline spiking her like the kind of needles an addict would use to mainline a guy like this.

Damn, she was in trouble. What was she doing here again?

As he drove to the boulevard, with neon competing for attention all around them, she reminded herself that she'd be with him for only an hour. It was for Arden.

She fumbled her phone out of her purse and noted the time. Thinking twice, she also set the alarm.

His laugh was serrated. “That's right. Time this up to the second.”

In the lounge, he'd seemed serious about telling her he was a man of his word, so she rethought her approach, canceling the alarm.

“Sorry,” she said. “I live by the clock. Numbers are my thing.”

“Not tonight,” he said. “You're gonna forget all about order and numbers.”

She rolled her eyes. His cockiness made her want to smack him, but it was in a way that made her pulse race. It didn't help that there was nothing in the space between them except for what felt like a minefield of sexual tension.

In spite of the traffic, he was casually steering with one hand, draping his other arm—the one nearest to her—on the back of the seat. She could all but feel his fingers on her skin and wished that she'd picked out a blouse that had sleeves for tonight. But, as it was, she'd selected the most I-am-not-a-sex-object clothing she'd packed for the trip. And that wasn't saying much since Arden had convinced her to be as slutty as possible. Which wasn't very.

By the time they turned onto the interstate that would take them south to Rough & Tumble, the silence in the car was gnawing at her, and she indicated the radio, which he'd obviously upgraded.

“Music?” she asked.

“I kind of like the awkward silence, myself.”

Hah, hah.

He continued. “There're a few things I need to tell you about what'll be at the saloon.”

“You already warned me that it's a den of iniquity.”

“That's a good start,” he said with a grin.

Oh God.
Was this where the trouble would begin? Maybe she should've listened to Sofia and Arden saying to stick to the hotel, but nooo. She'd had to take a shortcut, whittling the “date” down to an hour in Rough & Tumble.

He touched a finger to her shoulder, and the contact was like a brand, searing into her. She grabbed the side of her skirt that he couldn't see.

“I've got a friend or two who usually show up on Jell-O Fight Night.”

Oh, yay.
They'd get some gooey porn in while they were at it.

He continued. “They're going to take a particular interest in you. They're unapologetic womanizers, so ignore them.”

She should've moved away from his finger, but she didn't, and when he kept brushing her skin, need rolled through her.

“What're their names?” she asked.

“Bennett Hughes is the first. He slums it at the R and T, and that'll be obvious by the cut of his clothes. The guy's estranged from his family. A real rich family. He looks preppy and just like Prince Charming, but don't give him anything to be charming about.”

If she didn't know better, she would've thought Cash sounded a tad territorial about her. God help her, but that was yet
another
turn-on.

“The second calls himself Gideon Lane, and he's a bodyguard by profession—sometimes to celebrities who roll through town, sometimes to men you don't ever want to associate with. Everyone else calls him the ‘quick-draw cowboy' because he's so fast at attracting women. He's racked up the most numbers in the room.”

“Numbers?”

“How to be delicate about this . . .” He paused, then went for it. “He's nailed the most women.”

“Oh.” The tires whirred over the road, the headlights beaming through the darkness. “That honor doesn't belong to you?”

“I'm doing my best to beat him.”

He traced his finger down lower, toward the crook of her elbow, where she'd dabbed soft perfume earlier. Could he smell it? Did he like it?

When he swept his finger there, she flinched, moving her arm away.

He chuckled but didn't say anything. He only turned on the CD player, which was primed with a bluesy album she didn't recognize. But she liked whatever it was—slow and easy, mysterious and rough-edged, like the man sitting next to her.

And when they reached the Rough & Tumble, where a crowd spilled into the road and the sound of a down-and-dirty song hit the air, they pulled into a parking space a block away from the saloon, near the closed diner.

He helped her out of the car, her hand in his. She stumbled as her high heels dug into the gravel, and he tightened his grip.

Warm, calloused . . . so nice. She didn't want to take her hand out of his. But she did, because she wasn't here to be seduced by him. She had ten thousand dollars to erase from the books.

She smoothed out her skirt and walked ahead of Cash, trying not to trip all over the place in her heels. Trying to be ladylike. But when they reached the saloon door, the sign that'd caught her attention this afternoon shouted at her.

Beware! Cheap Talk & Loose Women are Permitted in this Establishment.

A thrust of excitement made her open the door, but what she saw inside stopped her right at the threshold.

Molly was getting pretty used to being blown away by everything related to the Rough & Tumble, but this was something else.

Along with the slicing ceiling fans, the harsh amber lights, and a raucous bluegrass country song from the band in the courtyard, two women were fighting in a wading pool. Molly had known about Jell-O Fight Night, but it'd been an abstract idea, like hearing about a flight to the moon or reading about Armageddon.

But this was madcap reality.

Orange goo dripped down their hair, faces, limbs, and all Molly could really see were big boobs and sticky T-shirts until . . .

As she focused on the women's aged faces, she took a step back over the threshold, right into Cash's chest. And that made her startle even more, propelling her forward into the saloon rather than out of it.

“What's wrong?” Cash asked in her ear, buzzing it. “Haven't you ever seen GILFs go at it?”

She didn't need to ask what a GILF was—Grandmother I'd Like to . . . well,
make love
to. MILFs were evidently so yesterday.

“They're really . . .” Molly searched for the definition. She'd been doing a lot of that lately.

“GILFy?” Cash laid a palm at the small of her back, ushering her to the side of the door as some patrons tried to stumble their way outside. “That's the point. These two are long-retired showgirls who usually get a kick out of taking on challengers, but it looks like they threw down with each other tonight.”

His hand on her back warmed her, making her feel like he was made entirely of sparks and he was sizzling right through her skirt and blouse, right into her flesh. She wanted to lean into him, press against him, feel his muscles, take in all his electricity.

Instead, she steadied herself on her heels as one GILF flipped the other to her back, pinning her. The men around them yelled and clinked beer bottles. Behind the bar, Kat was rushing around like a fury, pouring drinks while taking orders. Two more bartenders were on shift, too.

Molly's plan had been to buddy up to Kat so she could make contact with the one person she'd already met here and felt comfortable with. But there was no chance of that right now, because the place was full of men and women who normally would've made Molly cross to the other side of the street.

Bikers—real ones, judging by their leather cuts with scary patches on the back—and scrubby men who looked like they might be packing blades. Women with big hair and handcuff belts. And they were all checking her out like she was a poodle who'd wandered into a pit bull convention.

As she froze in place, Cash slid his hand from her back to her hip. Claimed. And, at the moment, Molly truly didn't mind the He-Man vibe of his gesture.

The GILFs climbed out of the tub as an MC with a straw cowboy hat called for someone to challenge the winner. Molly sent a slow look to Cash.

“Don't you dare volunteer me,” she gritted.

“What makes you think I'd do something like that?” He had a shine in his eyes that didn't exactly engender trust.

She sharpened her gaze at him, and he gave her that grin that never failed to spin her right round.

As if to reassure her that he had no ill intentions, Cash steered her toward the bar, where the smells of leather and hops overwhelmed her. A hole opened up when a guy in a trucker cap who smiled at her with silver teeth left with his drink.

This might've been the worst idea she'd ever had.

Cash guided her between a punked-out woman with rainbow-streaked hair and piercings and a man in a gray Stetson, weathered denim jacket, and black square-toe boots that were scuffed and well used, too. He was lean in a way that made Molly think he'd do well in an old-time gunfight out on the dusty street, but it was his eyes that caught her—as light brown as the whisky she'd been having all day. He blended without blending, except for that gaze and a dark mark below his cheekbone that wasn't quite a mole. A burn of some type?

He thoroughly considered Molly with an once-over, but Cash didn't let that go on for long.

“Keep your eyes to yourself,” he said above the music and crowd noise.

The cowboy leveled a look on Cash that made Molly wish for a hole to open up in the ground. Was there going to be a fight? They'd just gotten here and already . . . Armageddon.

Then the cowboy broke into a wry smile, and Cash laughed, bending to Molly's ear again. “This is Gideon Lane. Gideon, this is Molly.”

Oh, thank God.
She recognized the name from the ride over. The bodyguard. The “quick-draw cowboy.”

With Cash behind her and Gideon next to her and the bar closing her in, it felt like she was between a rock and two hard places. Still, she was as polite as could be.

One hour and counting, then she'd be out of here.

“Hello,” she said, not knowing what else to say besides,
So, what woman-number are you on tonight?

Gideon flicked a glance at Cash, and Molly had the feeling it held all kinds of messages, most of them having to do with the question of why he'd brought a woman like her to the R&T.

When he spoke, it was with a rich twang. “Good to meet you, Molly. First time here?”

“And the last.” She laughed like they were at a beachside happy hour. It didn't fit in at all.

He smiled at her effort. “I was going to comment that you didn't seem to be from these parts.”

“You'd be right about that.”

Down the way, a girl in tight jeans and a glitzy tank top with
Vegas
studded on the front had jumped on the bar and started gyrating to the music. A cheer went up from a few bikers, who patted one of their buddies on his back.

“Damn,” Gideon said. “There go the free drinks for the night.”

Molly straightened her blouse at the reminder that someone had coerced a new girl up on the bar to dance and he'd have his booze paid for.

When the girl began to roll up her top, teasing the bikers, Molly turned away. The atmosphere closed in, and she could feel eyes all over her, as if she—and all the other women here—wasn't a person but an object. A female who should be dancing on the bar or wrestling in Jell-O. A thing to be cheered on.

She didn't belong here, not at all.

Kat had already noticed Cash, and the bartender paused only a second to recognize Molly before nodding at her and wrangling those drinks. Meanwhile, Cash brought his hand up from her hip, up her back, to her neck, his long fingers nestled in a sweet spot. A mighty flush swamped her. Had it just gotten ultrahot in here?

He touched her like he owned her, but with all the intrusive gazes, she was actually good with that, even when Gideon held back a knowing smile and drank from his bottled beer.

Someone ran into Cash from behind, pushing him into Molly and pressing her into the bar. She looked up to see another man with his arms playfully locked around Cash's and Gideon's necks.

“The boys are all here!” said a blond with a sun god's smile. His blue eyes gleamed, his hair catching the light in the room. “Hey, who you got hiding there, Cash?”

Almost reluctantly, Cash maneuvered Molly so that the new arrival could see all of her. His fingers were still on her neck, light and warm, stroking her skin ever so slightly.

His.

Before Cash even introduced Bennett Hughes, she knew who he was. It was in the tailored khaki pants he wore, along with the long-sleeved fine-linen shirt he'd rolled up to the elbows. Mostly, though, it was the Rolex on his wrist, which looked real, not like a knockoff.

As Bennett took stock of her, he hesitated to say anything else. He didn't have to say she wasn't Cash's type. But he recovered nicely, taking her hand and kissing it.

He smiled up at her. “Everyone calls me Ben.”

Gideon chuffed. “That's not what I hear.”

Cash shook his head. “Me, too. I've heard some women call you things I can't repeat in front of our present company. Hey, man, don't you have some other party to crash?”

“Not on Jell-O Fight Night.” Ben was scoping out the crowd, his smile growing as he fixed in on a cowgirl with a jeans skirt up to her cha-cha, plus some huge jugs. “Wish me luck?”

Gideon dryly said, “Like you need it.”

Ben waggled his eyebrows and flashed his smile at Molly again. “I never take my luck for granted.”

And he was off. At the same time, Kat put two drinks on the bar—a whisky and a beer—then breezed away.

Cash used his finger to slide the whisky to Molly, as if he was tempting her with it.

“You're going to get me drunk again,” she said.

“Hair of the dog, right?”

Ah, what the hell?
They were well into the hour she owed him, and she could nurse this the rest of the time.

When she sniffed it, Gideon gave her another droll look, probably thinking she was a total amateur.
Well, bingo.

Cash leaned over her to toast her glass with his bottle. “To the hair of the dog.”

Gideon added, “Or just to dogs.”

No doubt there was a hidden meaning in there—was he calling Cash a dog for bringing someone nice like her here? But she was already drinking her whisky. Cash had bought her the good stuff again.

She remembered the big tip he'd given the waitress at the Seahorse Lounge. A gambler. Did he blow all his winnings on good whisky and women until he hit it big again?

He ran his hand down her back, taking his time, and she gulped down the whisky, feeling it warm her throat, her chest. Her
everything
. When he settled his fingertips at the base of her spine, she realized it was because he was urging her away from the bar.

“Nice meeting you,” she said to Gideon over her shoulder.

He tipped his hat to her, but there was already a woman sidling up to him, giving him the once over. He only went back to drinking, as if he didn't notice her.

As Cash led Molly toward the courtyard, the band's music got louder. Her heels gave her some more height, but she still had to raise her chin to talk to him, and he leaned down, his hair tickling her ear. It smelled like clean shampoo and not so much like smoke. Had he taken a shower for this “date”?

Another shiver. Another jab of need.

“You shouldn't have worried about your cowboy friend with me,” she said. “He was nice enough.”

Cash gave her a yeah-right glance.

“What?” she asked.

“That's how Gideon works.” He was closer to her ear now, his lips brushing it. “He starts off nice and disinterested, then before a girl knows it, she's in his bed.”

She'd bet it was the same for Mr. Beauregard Cash Campbell, too . . . but without the nice and disinterested part.

In the background, cheers went up for the new Jell-O wrestlers. Next to the door that led outside, Ben was in the corner with that cowgirl he'd targeted. He was toying with the lacings on her bodice, sweet-talking her. Molly could tell because the woman was laughing and batting her eyelashes. And, what do you know, she was wearing his Rolex. Did he give them out like candy?

The door was open, letting in warm air along with the music. As they walked into the courtyard, Molly saw that it wasn't as crowded here; the band had some women in front of the small stage dancing and undulating with beers in their hands, plus a few people lingering on benches. Two women were even grinding against each other in front of a biker wearing a blue bandana on his head and sitting on the rim of the fire pit, leering at them. Or maybe he was leering because there was a lady next to him who had her hand down his pants, rubbing him.

Molly halted when she saw them. She recognized the biker; he'd been at the Rough & Tumble earlier, palling around with Arden and the teddy bears before the poker game. He was dirty and grimy, and she'd been relieved when he hadn't joined the game.

She turned around, mostly because of the hand-down-the-pants scenario.

Cash grabbed her arms. “Whoa.”

“You don't see that?” she said over the rip-roaring song.

“Jimmy Beetles getting a hand job? Nope. Don't see it.”

If the inside of the saloon wasn't her scene, then that was a million times truer out here. It wasn't that she was offended by all the sex and lust being front and center, it was just that . . . Hell, she was a little more low-key about this stuff. She was
normal
. She liked her porn to come in art films and saucy books with gray-toned, suggestive covers, not in her face.

Cash obviously knew this, so had he brought her here because he thought that, under her buttoned-down blouse and pencil skirt, she was ready to break out of her mold? Or was he playing a huge joke on her for the hell of it?

She flipped open her purse, accessing her phone to see the time. Only twenty minutes down. Crap.

“Hey,” he said, closing her purse for her, and none too gently, either. “You're still mine for the time being.”

“I'm not yours.” She'd said it loud, over the music and, of course, that's when the band stopped.

The last word still rang in the air as the group took a break between songs. All the while, Cash stared at her with those green eyes. They bored into her like a drill trying to find its way to her center.

What he didn't know was that he was already there, digging until he was touching a part of her that made her want to sigh and throw caution out the door, groaning and giving in, reaching up to bring him down to her so his mouth could crush her lips and she could finally find out what it was like to kiss him.

She should've stopped at whisky number one today. Why hadn't she?

He leaned down to her so no one else would hear him. “For the rest of the hour, you're
all
mine. You signed a napkin saying so.”

If she'd had the napkin with her and not left it back in the hotel room, she would've ripped it right up and told him to take her home. But, genius that she was, she had nothing. Not even a ride out of here.