End of the Innocence

Chapter 22

Alexis leaned forward, critically studying her eyes in the small mirror set into the back of her locker. Her eye makeup was smudged, a bit of black traveling out of its typical territory. She yanked a tissue out of its holder and dabbed at the spot, glancing down at her phone briefly. It sat, silent, in the outer pocket of her purse. As it had all night. She had heard the news, they all had. Brad was in town, and he was bringing her. Little Miss Virtuous. A girl who would never, ever, be everything that he would need. But she had known, had seen it from the look in his eyes when he’d been with her. When he had gone upstairs to VIP and watched her with Montana, his expression different than she’d ever seen. He had denied it, had tossed off her concerns without a second thought. But she had known. She could always see her demise before it came. She closed her eyes briefly, thinking of that night. When he had left Miss Virtuous downstairs and went into the office with her.

She closed her eyes and her head fell back, her back arching, body open to him. He reached forward, running his hands possessively down her body, wrapping his hands around her waist. He gave one long thrust, burying himself completely inside her, the depth causing her to gasp in response.

Fucking had always been Brad’s strength. The ability to electrify her body and give her exactly what she wanted, when she wanted it. His sexuality was a fire run out of control, stealing the breath and passion of any women who dared to stand too close to the flames. Fire. You couldn’t control a fire. A fact his new fiancée would learn very, very soon.

♦♦♦

Alexis had loved Brad De Luca from the first moment she saw him. Walking down the plush hallway of the Bellagio, chanting a room number in her head to keep from forgetting it. 2314. 2314. 2314. Her palms were sweaty, a common occurrence at this stage in the game. The unknown was the worst. Not knowing who would be behind the door, what he would expect, how badly he could, possibly would, hurt her body. All she knew, all she needed to concentrate on, was that he was a paycheck, and that she was there to please. Then he opened the door, and everything sane exited her mind.

He opened the door fresh from the shower, the clean scent of soap and male practically knocking her back into the hall. He had buttoned up half of his shirt, the unopened buttons offering her a peek into tan, ripped perfection. Dark brown eyes regarded her carefully, traveling down her body before returning to her face.

She shifted uncomfortably, tugging the hem on her dress slightly before striking a pose against the doorframe. “May I come in?” she asked, using the husky voice that seemed to appeal to men everywhere.

He was different, taking a step back and studying her silently without speaking, buttoning the remaining buttons on his shirt before beginning with the cufflinks. “Are you lost, or have you been sent by the hotel?”

She ignored the pit in her stomach and grinned breezily, walking past him into the room and reclining onto the couch, her legs on full display, body curved in a way that made every asset count. “You can thank Blake for me.” He shut the door and walked over, continuing to work on his sleeves while frowning down on her. He stood close, close enough that his scent invaded her, and she looked up at him, deciphering the expression on his face, one somewhere between irritation and concern. Not the look men typically carried. Greed, arousal, excitement. Those were the looks she created, the reason her new job seemed destined for success.

“How old are you?” He frowned.

“Eighteen.” Twenty.

He walked away, entering the suite’s small kitchen and opening the fridge. She took the moment to breathe deeply, wiping her hands on the fabric of her dress and willing her confidence to return.

A water bottle, the hotel’s brand, drops of condensation dotting its round landscape. He held it out, taking a seat, not on the couch as she had hoped, but in the chair next to her. She accepted it warily. “Thank you, but I’m not really thirsty.”

“I’d offer you something stronger, but given your age ...” He laughed when her eyes regarded his skeptically. “What’s your name?”

“Alexis.” Sarah Hinkle.

He raised his eyebrows at her answer, speaking in an unhurried manner. “Blake hasn’t learned me yet. Once he does, he will realize that I prefer companions of the unpaid variety. That being said, I’m sure you are expected to stay up here for a certain period of time. How about we spend that time talking? Are you hungry?

Gay. The man was gay. She almost laughed as the realization hit her, a burst of relief pouring through her insecure body. She fought to hide the reaction, straightening out of her ridiculous pose and nodding gratefully at him. “A little. Some food would be nice.”

Her answer pleased him and he stood, grabbing a room service menu off of the side table and passing it to her. “Great. Look that over. I was going to head out for dinner, but I’ll eat here with you. You can head downstairs after that.”

He moved to the bar, pouring himself a drink and returned with the phone, pressing an extension and holding it to his ear, shooting her an inquisitive glance. She quickly skimmed the menu, picking out the least expensive item. “Chicken ceasar salad, dressing on the side. And a Diet Coke, please.”

He placed the order, stacking two appetizers, a few side items, and two desserts onto it before ending the call. They sat there, in silence, and she braced herself for whatever was next.

“So ... Alexis. What’s your real name?” His legs slightly spread, he leaned back in the chair, head relaxed against the headrest, his position as unobtrusive as humanly possible, yet ridiculously tempting as it stretched his pelvis and flat stomach before her, like a clothed buffet just waiting to be devoured.

She hesitated, eyes fighting to stay on his face and then, much to her surprise, her mouth opened, and the truth spilled out.

Fifty minutes later, a white fluffy robe surrounded her—the garment retrieved from a closet and thrust at her by a disgruntled Brad. “Put this on,” he had ordered. “Otherwise you’ll ruin your dress, and I’ll fail miserably at trying to avoid staring at your body.” She had smiled slightly, working her way into the robe. She had been wrong. Gay didn’t occupy a single corner of this man’s universe. She didn’t know why he wouldn’t touch her, didn’t know how—when sexuality reeked from every bone in his body—he managed to converse, laugh, and question her without taking it to the bedroom. She had tried, three times during the meal, to move the evening in that direction, but had been met only with polite resistance. She still knew nothing of the man, of his intentions, history, or relationship status, but he now knew almost everything about her. From her awkward beginnings, to her move to Vegas, to the first few weeks of this new, lucrative job.

He had disapproved, his brows knitting together in concern. “There are plenty of other jobs on the Strip. Waitress, bartend. Anything but this.”

He didn’t understand. Didn’t realize that her sights were set on far more than sweaty encounters with faceless men. She didn’t want to slave away for pennies and live in a tiny shithole apartment in North Las Vegas. She wanted the glitz and the glam of the Strip, and to experience it on the arm of a wealthy man. She wanted the easy lifestyle, the limos and the clothes, the stack of credit cards, sparkle of diamonds, confidence of a kept woman. This was her way to get there. With every hotel door that opened, she had one more chance. Maybe this was her chance, he was her Richard Gere, and this was her Pretty Woman tale.

“Sexuality is my talent. You wouldn’t understand, but this is my best plan.” She looked down as she said the words, realizing, too late, that she had scarfed down an easy two thousand calories, inexcusable in her line of work.

“So strip. At least then you have security and guidelines. This work is too dangerous, you have very little control.”

He hadn’t understood, and the look he shot her at their parting was one of disappointment and worry. And his handsome face, towering over her in the foyer of that luxurious suite, imprinted on her mind for the next three weeks, came to her in the dead of night, when the day was over and she slipped under cheap sheets, ready to sleep away the day’s memories. She had left her number, scribbled with a girlish script on a pad of hotel paper. And nightly, she had prayed for a call. But the phone never rang, and as the days passed, the memory faded, until his face no longer came to her when her eyes closed at night.

♦♦♦

Six years later, and she was still checking her phone for his damn call. The irony was not lost on her, and she slammed the locker door shut with more vigor than was necessary. She used to think it was fated, her leaving the escort game to go into stripping, her journey ending at this club, Saffire’s gold-encrusted elegance that would later become the property of Brad De Luca. Now, with the club ownership change, it seemed like a cruel joke from whoever was upstairs, life a jerky puppeteer game that had contorted her directly into the hands of Miss Virtuous. She envisioned the young brunette deftly manipulating the puppeteer handles, and her face twisted in anger.