Submitting in Vegas (Vegas Morellis 3)

Rafe hesitates, then walks out of the back room and leaves me here all alone.

I try to figure out how I’m supposed to go home after this. Home to our apartment where I’ll see all his things, where I’ll be haunted by visuals that are already assaulting me—our first night together in our new place, curled up on the couch. We’re both broke, so we can only afford one lamp for the big living room. It’s so dimly lit, and somehow I fell in love with the charm of it. Everyone struggles while they’re still in school, it didn’t matter. It was our first place. This was where we would begin building our future.

It meant so much to me, opening my life up to someone that way, and clearly it meant so little to him.

I look up as Rafe strides back into my little nook of sadness.

“All right, you’re clearly not all right,” he states, coming to a stop right in front of me. “Why don’t you talk to me abou

t what’s going on? Talking might help.”

“It won’t.”

“Why don’t we give it a shot?” he suggests. “Boyfriend problems?”

I nod my head. “Something like that.”

“What’d he do?”

I look up, smiling faintly. “What makes you think he did something? Maybe I did.”

“Well, you’re the one crying, and he’s the one out living in his life with someone named Alison Marie, so I clicked together the pieces. Trust me, you’ll feel better if you get it all out.”

“Sounds like you’ve pretty much worked it all out,” I tell him. “My boyfriend—whom I live with, which is wonderful—is out with some stupid girl while I’m here at work, and I found out about it because she tagged him in a mushy post. He’d be sorry, but apparently he’s too happy to mean it.” A sound bursts out of me, half laugh, half sob. “So, there you go. You’re caught up. I want to die. The end.”

“Jesus Christ, he said that to you? What a prick.”

“Yep. Right? How fucked up is that? Sorry, you’re—I shouldn’t say fucked up.”

“Hey, it’s fucked up,” he says, his charming smile coming easily. “I know it probably doesn’t help right now, but he sounds like a piece of shit. I also have a good bit of experience with girls who go by two first names and spend that much time on their eyebrows, and let me tell you, he is not going to have a good time.”

“She’s pretty,” I murmur, hating how wounded I sound.

“No, she’s not,” he says dismissively.

“Really pretty. Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying,” he insists. “If I know one thing, it’s beautiful women. She’s common. Nothing special. Your new ex-boyfriend is an idiot.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t go through all her photos like a psycho masochist. I can show you, if you want. She’s fucking pretty.”

“I don’t need to see more pictures. I’ve seen all I need to see. Forget about her. She doesn’t matter. Neither does he. Kick him to the curb. You’ll find someone better.”

I shake my head, not so much in disagreement, just confounded by the bullshit of my life right now. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming. There’s a picture of them together a month ago. A month ago. She didn’t tag him in that one so I didn’t see it before, but… I mean, it was out there in the universe. They were together a month ago, and every night he just came home like… like everything was fine. He blindsided me. How did I let that happen?”

Rafe kneels down in front of me now, drawing the pocket square out of his suit pocket and handing it to me. “It happens to the best of us,” he says gently. “I’ve been cheated on, too. Didn’t feel great. Look at me, still here. You’ll survive.”

I roll my eyes, looking up at him as I dab the cloth under my eyes. “Who would cheat on you?”

Rafe smiles faintly and shrugs. “Some people just aren’t made for fidelity. They get bored, they move on. That’s life. It’s not the end of the world, just the end of that relationship. Guess what? There are plenty more out there. You’ll be sad for a while, then you’ll be okay, and eventually you’ll be with someone a hell of a lot better than this moron. You’ll be glad he weeded himself out of your life.”

“Maybe,” I murmur, noncommittally.

“Take my word for it,” he says with undue confidence—but so much of it, I can’t help believing him.

He’s just being nice. He doesn’t know me. He’s seen me in passing a few times at the restaurant, and now he’s forced to deal with this sobbing, emotional mess because the man needed to grab oil for a fryer. Poor guy.

Nodding my head, more to free him of the obligation of standing here offering me comfort than anything, I say, “Yeah, you’re right.”