Screwed In Sin City

“You were just…” She scoffs, shaking her head so hard that a few of the tied-up st

rands come loose, cascading down onto her bare shoulders. “Geez, you can't possibly believe that.”

“You're right, I don't.”

“Smartest thing you've said yet, Derek.” She spits my name out like a curse word, turning away from me to head back toward the gate that leads toward the hotel rooms.

I watch her leave, mesmerized by the sway of her hips. “Don't you want to know what I do believe?” My voice matches the edge in hers, and it's enough to stop her in her tracks. She doesn't turn around, though.

After a beat, I hear, “Enlighten me.”

Her tone emboldens me, and I pull my towel from the nearby lounge chair before closing the distance between us in a few wide steps. The pool water has dripped off my shorts enough by the time I speak that there's a small puddle beginning around my feet. “I believe,” I start, ducking my head down to force her to look at me. “That something happened last night. That, while it started out as me simply dancing to the beat of a really great fucking song, it quickly became something that neither of us quite know how to handle.”

She juts her chin out, narrowing her eyes. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“I call bullshit.”

“You can call whatever you want, but that doesn't mean I have to agree with you. It also doesn't mean that I have to stand here and listen to the lies you’re telling yourself, and essentially trying to tell me.”

She sidesteps around me again, and this time I'm prepared to let her leave. But, in my own true fashion, I make sure that I'm going to have the last word.

“If you think I'm lying, then prove it.”

“Look, I just want to get through this weekend, then go back home to Ohio and pretend I never met you.” Her hand is on the gate latch, and despite her frigid words, I feel a wave of smug satisfaction when she stops again, turning to glare at me icily. She rolls her eyes. “Fine. I can't even imagine what you're going to suggest this time.”

But she doesn't look away, and she doesn't push the gate open. It's a small victory, but a victory, nonetheless.

I offer her a crooked grin, and take a slow, hesitant step forward, feeling as though I'm dealing with a skittish wild animal that could be spooked at any moment. “Tell me your name,” I instruct her.

“That's it?” Her forehead crinkles in confusion, and it's an expression that I find surprisingly adorable given the circumstances.

“It's a start.”

She doesn't speak for a moment, obviously wondering what my game plan is, but finally the answer to the question that's been weighing on my mind since last evening is finally answered. “Josie,” she says. “My name is Josie.”

“Well, hey, Josie. It's good to formally meet you.”

She immediately scoffs again, and whirls around back toward the gate.

I'm afraid I've lost her this time, and in a moment of sheer panic, I blurt out, “Go out with me, Josie.”

The bright-eyed, black-haired woman before me stops mid step again, her book bag banging haphazardly against her hip with each jerky movement. “You cannot be serious,” she exclaims.

“Serious as a heart attack, Josie.” I quickly realize that, now that I know it, I can't seem to get enough of having her name roll off my tongue. “Just once,” I add. “That's all I ask. And if I'm wrong, and there's nothing between us like the chemistry I'm so convinced played a role during last night's little dance number, then you can chalk it up as one of those things that happens in Sin City that you never have to speak of again.”

Not for the first time, she looks like there's a war battling within her, trying to decide whether to give in to me or slap me for such a suggestion. “Unfortunately, your little stunt last night is something that I'll never live down because my friends were there to witness the whole damn thing.” There's obvious disdain in her voice as she explains. “Not to mention, I don't date strippers, not even in Vegas.”

It's my turn to wrinkle my forehead, narrowing my eyes as I match her defensive stance. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but that sounded just a little bit judgemental to me.”

“Call it what you want,” she snaps. “I just call it like I see it.”

“What you see and what the truth really is are almost never one and the same,” I bite out.

The sudden edge in my tone catches her off-guard. She at least has the decency to look ashamed, even if only slightly. “I'm sorry,” she says. “I wasn't looking to offend you, but—”

“Don't worry about it. It seems that I offended you last night, and you've done your best to offend me today. Let's just call it even.”

I have to admit that it stings a bit knowing she sees me as nothing more than a man who takes off his clothes for money, which actually isn't quite the truth, but her blatant disgust for my choice of profession only makes me want to prove her wrong about me even more.