Sinning in Vegas (Vegas Morellis 2)

My purse is on the countertop beside the sink. I open it and draw out my phone, opening my messages and starting a text to Sin.

“I hate Rafe. Come get me before I kill him in public.”

The message makes me feel a little better, but I backspace all of it. Obviously I can’t send that.

I type a new message, this one reading: “Is your house still equipped for a live-in hostage? Are you taking applications? I have references.”

I don’t delete that one, but I don’t send it, either.

The bathroom door swings open and I automatically shuffle over to the next sink as a woman with a brisk walk approaches the counter. I don’t look directly at her, so I don’t realize it’s the waitress—not the whore waitress, but the one who remembers my drink order from two months ago.

“You okay?” she inquires.

Avoiding her gaze, I nod my head and look in the mirror. I need something to do, so I reach into my handbag, depositing my phone and drawing out a tube of lipstick. Uncapping it, I run it over my lips, smacking them together and flashing her a smile. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“You don’t have to bullshit me,” she says. “I’m like a priest at confession; whatever you say goes into the vault and doesn’t come back out. If you need to vent, go for it.”

“I’m honestly fine. No venting needed. Just rethinking every life decision I have made over the past couple weeks, no big deal.”

The dark-haired waitress leans against the wall, nodding her head. “Understandable. I’m not privy to all the details, but between the tug-of-war with Rafe and Sin when he brought you to dinner and Miss Cotton Candy’s sudden appearance, it seems like Rafe is being a pretty enormous shithead.”

“Miss Cotton Candy?”

Nodding decisively, she says, “Marlena. Don’t worry about her. Dump a glass of water over her head and she’ll disintegrate. She’s boring as fuck; she just has Bambi eyes and a nice ass. I don’t think he’ll cheat, he just… he’s a flirt. I don’t think he can help it. I don’t think he’ll ever stop. It’s just a part of who he is. Always has been.” Her gaze drops to my stomach. “Are you pregnant?”

My eyes widen at the boldness of her question, but I detect a faint hint of resignation, too. I’m not entirely sure what to make of it, but there’s little point denying it. “Yeah.”

She nods. “Kinda figured when you stopped drinking alcohol and Rafe became a raging douche nozzle. He doesn’t want kids.”

I’m not sure how I should feel about the authority and familiarity with which she speaks about Rafe, like he’s a topic she has spent an enormous amount of time studying, and now she is the leading expert on the subject. “Yeah, I kind of picked up on that when I told him I was pregnant and he threw me out of his house.”

Grimacing, she says, “Ouch.”

“Yeah,” I mutter.

“He’s a really big dick sometimes. Not usually. This is not… I don’t know how long you’ve known him, but this is not how he is all the time. It’s just that sometimes he gets mean when something happens that throws him off, something he wasn’t entirely prepared for. Or if he gets bored and feels stuck. Or when his heart is broken. Okay, so there are a few scenarios during which he becomes a major asshole.”

Turning my back to the mirror, I lean against the sink and look her over. There’s a pink tint to her cheeks, a faint reddening around her ears. She’s pretty—not sex-pot pretty, like so many of the women Rafe surrounds himself with, but comfortably pretty. She looks no-nonsense and authoritative in her severe black button down and slacks, but she seems nicer than she looks—even as she tells me what a giant douche Rafe can be, I hear a silent “but” coming.

“But,” she finally says, crossing her arms over her chest, “Rafe can also be really,

really great, and he is so much of the time, it makes it easier to handle him when he sucks. He’s a guy; they all suck from time to time. At least when he sucks, you know he’ll come out of it. Rafe’s shitty side is like a storm that always clears up. He doesn’t stay a massive douche for long, and if you let him know he’s hurting your feelings, you’ll get more of a response. If he thinks you can handle yourself, he’ll let you, but if you express that you need him to be nicer to you, he will. I made the mistake of thinking he would respect it more if I held my tongue and kept a stiff upper lip, but I was wrong. He doesn’t value that. If you open up to him, he’s just… a waterfall of understanding. He’ll stop being a dick, all you have to do is ask—and I know, you shouldn’t have to ask, it should be a given, but… it’s just how he operates. For all that Rafe notices, the man closes his eyes to what’s right in front of him if he doesn’t want to see it. He’s really not a horrible person, though, I swear. I know it might feel that way to you right now, but… he isn’t. He’s really great.”

“You like him.”

It’s not a question because I’m not a moron, but she shakes her head, looking at me like a deer caught in the headlights. “What? No. Of course not. I mean…”

Offering a smile, I shake my head. “It’s fine. I wasn’t accusing you of anything. In my experience, every woman in this damned city likes Rafe, so… I won’t scratch your eyes out, no worries. How long have you known him?”

“Four years.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Four years?”

She shrugs, glancing down. “Just working here at his restaurant, we’re not best friends or anything.”

“Are you one of the three women in the city he hasn’t slept with?”

Smiling helplessly—like it’s adorable instead of gross—she nods her head. “I am one of those three, yes. It’s an exclusive group. We have membership cards. Meet-ups the second Friday of every month. It’s just me and two cat ladies. We have fun.”