Page 119 of My Favorite Holidate
I expect him to follow me there but he doesn’t.
As the aftershocks ripple through me, he eases out, unties me, and flips me over in seconds. He pushes my knees up to my chest and settles between my legs, looking down at me like a man unleashed. Like a man who thinks I’m his.
He fucks me like I am his.
And he feels like mine as his body jerks, shakes, then stills before he collapses on me with a smoky, soulful, “You.”
I don’t know what will happen tomorrow. I don’t know what will happen when we leave these cabins. But for now and the next few days, I think I like this filthy Christmas magic.
I like it more than Christmas revenge.
Later, when we’re cleaned up and sliding under the covers, I say, “It really doesn’t matter that you can’t sing.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you fuck like a rock star.”
In the morning as sunlight streams through the window, I expect Wilder to be off buying a new hotel or striking a clean-energy deal on a Sunday morning.
What I don’t expect is him to grab his ringing phone from the nightstand, while grabbing his clothes, and answering, “What’s wrong, Victor?”
A chill sweeps over me. That’s his dad’s friend.
38
SOME KIND OF METAPHOR
Wilder
Victor’s name on the screen alone sends a flash of fear through me, so I brace myself for bad news as I snick the door shut.
“Hey,” I say as I yank on jeans and shoes, then jerk the phone away from my head to pull on my sweater, nearly getting my arm stuck in the neck. “What’s going on?”
“Just wanted to check in,” he says in his diplomatic way as I beeline to the living room.
“Thanks. I’m okay.” When I reach the sliding glass door, I jerk it open and head onto the deck, then move past small talk to get to the heart of the matter. “What’s going on with Dad?”
“Just wondering if you’ve heard from him?” Victor asks as I pace across the deck in the cold of the Evergreen Falls morning. It’s chilly since it’s late December, but this was never going to be a warm and fuzzy call anyway.
“No. I haven’t heard from him,” I answer, but I’malways ready for bad news when it comes to my father. To hear he hurt himself. He lost stomach-dropping amounts of money. He’s in jail. He’s dead. “I take it this means you haven’t?”
“It’s been a few days. But last night I got word from my friend Diane Diamond over at Desert Springs Casino that he got caught counting cards.”
I groan, dragging a hand through my hair. “Are you kidding me? He’s cheating now?”
Victor sighs, long and resigned. “If you believe what they say.”
He’s a nice friend. That’s kind of him, to not crucify him without evidence. That’s friendly of him, to hedge his bets. But I believe what they say. It’s exactly what Dad would do. “Let’s assume it’s true for now. What does this mean exactly?”
I should know since I got started in the hotel business in Vegas. After I invested well in some startups, I had enough capital to bulldoze some of the shitty, rundown hotels in Vegas and build big, beautiful ones. I got my start by razing the kind of places where my dad plays cards. I’m sure there’s a metaphor there. A childhood wound I’m trying to heal from. Right now, though, I just want to know what the fuck is going on.
“It means he’s not welcome at Desert Springs anymore,” Victor says. “And you know how people talk.”
“Yes, I do.” Casino managers will tell other casino managers, and that’ll make it harder and harder for him to play. Which means he’ll probably become even more desperate. Which means who the hell knows what he’ll do to get his fix? “Give me a shout if you hear from him. I can try him as well. Maybe he’ll pick up if I call.”
“That’d be good. Why don’t you give it a shot?”
“I can do that,” I say. At least it’s something. “I’ll call his apartment complex and see if he’s at his place.”