“Thanks.” I take a sip of my drink and let her hand stay where it is because, what does it matter anymore? The brunette leans in, whispers something in my ear about her hotel room and what she’d like to do to me in it. Months ago, I would have taken her up on it without a second thought.Months ago, I was a different person.
I pour them both champagne. I smile and laugh at things that aren’t funny. I let them touch my arm, my shoulder, my thigh. I perform the version of Fish that everyone expects because this is what I do. This is who I am. The playboy. The revolving door. The fun one. The one who doesn’t care. The one who never gets hurt because he never lets anyone close enough.
Except you did. Once. And look what happened.
The brunette leans in again, and this time she kisses my cheek, lingering, her lips warm against my skin. I don’t flinch. I don’t pull away. I let it happen because feeling nothing is better than feeling what I’ve been feeling.
That’s when I see her.
Collette.
On the dance floor with the girls, wearing a tiny black dress that makes my chest constrict. She’s dancing, head tilted back, arms in the air, laughing at something Marlowe is saying, and she looks free, happy, and beautiful. For one second, I forget she’s the reason I can’t sleep. For one second, she’s just the woman I love, moving through a crowd, lit up by Vegas lights, and the sight of her makes every other woman in this room disappear.
Then she looks at me.
Across the club, through the crowd, her eyes find mine, and the laughter dies on her face. She sees the blonde pressed against my side. She sees the brunette’s hand on my thigh. She sees it all, and something passes across her face that I recognize because I wore the same expression, it’s the same one she gave me at the gala.
I miss her. It’s like I am missing part of me.
Collette looks away first, turns back to the girls, and dances harder, drinks faster, laughs louder. I watch her pretend she’s fine, and I know she’s pretending because I’m doing the same thing three meters away.
“You okay?” the blonde asks, running her finger along my jaw. “You seem distracted.”
“I’m good.” I drain my glass and pour another.
An hour later,the brunette pulls me off the dance floor toward a quieter corner of the club. She’s pressed against me, her arms around my neck, her mouth close to my ear. She’s been working up to this all night, and I’ve let her because I’m testing myself. Testing whether I can still do this. Whether the old Fish is still in there somewhere.
“Come back to my room,” she murmurs against my neck.
Do it. Say yes. You’re single.“I …” My eyes drift across the club. Collette is gone from the dance floor. I scan the room, the bar, the booths. She’s not there. She must have gone.She left because she couldn’t watch you anymore.
The brunette kisses my neck, and I close my eyes and try to feel something.Anything.Her mouth is warm, she smells expensive, her body is pressed against mine, and I feel absolutely fucking nothing.
“I can’t.” The words come out before I decide to say them.
She pulls back, confused. “What?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” I untangle myself from her and take a step back. “You’re gorgeous, and I’m sure you’re incredible, but I just … I can’t.”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry.” I shove my hands in my pockets because I don’t know what else to do with them. “Have a good night.”
I leave her standing there and push through the club toward the exit. The air outside is warm, Vegas warm, and the strip is blazing with lights and noise and people who are having the time of their lives. I stand on the sidewalk and breathe. I hate myself for not being the man I used to be. The man who didn’t care. The man who took beautiful women home and didn’t think twice about it.
That man is gone. Collette St. Pierre killed him, and he’s not coming back.
My phone buzzes.
Evan: Where are you?
Fish: Outside. Needed air.
Evan: Alone?
Fish: Yeah.
Evan: Good. Stay there.