Submitting in Vegas (Vegas Morellis 3)

Prologue

Virginia

Memories.

For most people, memories are generally pretty pleasant, barring the obvious and perhaps traumatic exception. Little snippets to tuck away in the mind to recall special moments, until inevitably most of them fade away.

Mine don’t fade away.

I can still recall in crushing detail the time I was dumped for a middle school cheerleader. I remember the shirt he wore, how scrawny his legs looked in his khaki cargo shorts. I remember how much gel he had in his hair and what it smelled like, and I remember the despair of my 12-year-old self that the love of my life was dumping me (I was dramatic, okay? I was 12) right before the winter formal.

I remember everything about the night of the formal, right down to the songs that played while I was in the gymnasium. I remember my burgundy dress and the way it clung awkwardly to my developing breasts. I remember the metallic strappy sandals that my mom paid $14 for at Walmart because I thought they would look so cool, I remember that I put on too much blush—rose silk, the wrong shade for my complexion anyway, but my mom didn’t know anything about make-up so she didn’t know to warn me. I remember the painstaking effort I put into getting ready and doing my hair, I remember the disappointment of realizing there were only sparkly silver flakes trapped in clear liquid, and my nail polish was not the metallic color I thought it would be when I applied it.

I remember how none of that mattered anymore when I got to the dance and the first thing I saw upon entering the gymnasium was him dancing with her. I remember how much prettier her hair looked than mine, how much prettier her dress was, how much prettier she was. She wasn’t wearing blush because her mother knew she didn’t need it. I remember the pain and embarrassment, I remember feeling like an unlovable clown. I remember hiding out in the library until it was all over so I could go home and pretend to my mom that all the effort we put into that night wasn’t wasted so I could spend five minutes at the dance and the rest of the night crying alone in a room full of books.

I remember every single second of that night as vividly as I remember my shower this morning, and it was over a decade ago.

I remember everything. It stopped being nice a long time ago; now it’s just damned annoying.

I remember the face, the dress, the shoes, the smile of every woman Rafe has ever brought through this restaurant. I remember when I didn’t care, and boy, was that nice. Of course the lethal Vegas playboy with his easy charm and his effortlessly seductive smile tickled my interest—I mean, I liked playboys when I was 12, and how much game can a 12-year-old really have?—but I learned to avoid those sorts of guys, even if they don’t commit crimes for a living. They contribute way too many painful reels to my memory library.

The problem is—and this is a strange and unique problem to have with him, I realize—that every single memory in my library containing Rafe Morelli is a good one. Even the ones of him in his booth with the parade of random women. I don’t focus on them, I focus on him. I catch his jokes and charming conversation in passing, see that gorgeous smile stretch across his face. Rafe has the best smile. He doesn’t just smile with his mouth. It starts there, but then it takes over his whole face. No matter where I’m at, no matter what I’m doing, all I have to do is pluck a memory of Rafe’s smile out of the vault and my insides soften. His smile, even in my memory, is contagious, and I can’t help smiling, too.

My first memories of Rafe are ordinary. I knew who he was when I applied for the job at his restaurant, but I certainly didn’t look at him in a romantic light. He was a bad guy, after all. Back then, that still mattered to me. Not in a personal way, just in the sense that I had a societal responsibility to condemn the men who made their fortunes from the misfortune of others. Mobsters were cretins, leaches, scumbags. Just because he had a pretty face didn’t mean he didn’t have an ugly heart.

I hadn’t given up dating at that point, and I had a boyfriend—not that it mattered. Rafe was hardly knocking down my door. He was friendly to me when I crossed his path, but he is blessedly professional enough not to hit on waitresses at his own restaurant, so I was an asexual object, as far as he was concerned.

None of those casual memories were his first impression, though. Those are throwaway memories—or, they would be, for someone with the ability to throw memories away. Despite his role in the world at large, despite even what I already knew about him, Rafe Morelli’s first impression in my memory will always be of him as my hero.

My breath hitches pitifully as I stare at the screen of my cell phone, waiting for a response from that cheating little weasel I call a boyfriend. I didn’t think I would be experiencing a traumatic break-up during my dinner break, but as the crate I’m seated on presses marks into my ass, as I listen to the sounds of the kitchen operating normally outside this little supply corner, I know it can’t be put off just because it’s inconvenient. My pride may be battered, but it still calls for Nate’s blood—now, not later.

The bitch tagged him in a photo. He sneaks around behind my back with some harlot while I’m working a double shift to pay our rent, and I find out in a tagged picture along with everyone else on his friends list?

My mind drifts to the humiliation I’ll face in front of our mutual friends. Do they already know? I noticed one of them liked one of her photos from a week ago. Have they met? Do they like

her more than me? Am I the last to find out that my boyfriend is already in a new relationship? How could he do this to me? That asshole swore he loved me, and this isn’t even something you do to someone you like. I know people fall out of love, but I’ve seen no evidence of it in my own relationship. Sure, things have been a little boring lately, but that happens in long-term relationships. I guess I have been busy working extra shifts, but only because his incompetent ass can’t handle more than part-time work while we’re in school.

I guess he could, since he clearly has time to cheat on me with this bitch.

I pull up the picture again and my face crumbles. I need to stop looking at it. I don’t even need to look at it because it lives in my memory forever now.

God, the cruelty of that knowledge. I’ll never be able to shake it. I’ll never forget how much this hurts. I’ll never be able to forget the way the sun hits her blonde hair and makes it look pink in the photo, the easy smile on her pretty face, or the adoring look on his.

He doesn’t look at me like that anymore, but I remember when he did.

Break-ups are so, so hard for me, because I remember every last detail. It’s hard to accept that things you believed in, things you felt… they expire, like a loaf of bread.

For some people, I guess. Not for me. I have so many memories of Nate being good to me, and it is uniquely easy for me to stay in love with someone who has been mostly good to me. I can relive what made me fall for them at will, replay the highlight reel of our relationship when things get tough. Revisiting those memories brings back those feelings like it just happened, even if it has been much longer. Even after the excitement has fizzled and there are less good times, I can still look at the man I love with the same starry eyes I had on the best days of our relationship, if I choose to.

I need to just give up men altogether. They are not worth this. I’m so much happier when I’m single and there is no one to tank my emotional well-being.