“Hey,” she purrs, leaning close enough that I catch the scent of vanilla and ambition. “If you’re bored later, I could keep you company.”
It’s smooth. Polished. Rehearsed.
An easy yes. A guaranteed distraction. No strings, no complications.
Six months ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated.
I gently remove her hand from my shirt.
“Not tonight,” I say, and I mean it.
Her smile flickers—surprised, maybe even insulted—but she recovers fast.
They always do.
There’s another DJ.
Another producer.
Another spotlight somewhere in this room.
She drifts away.
I stand there for a second, realizing something uncomfortable.
It’s not that I can’t have whatever I want.
It’s that I don’t want any of it.
My phone buzzes again.
I step out onto the balcony for air.
Vegas glitters beneath me like a promise that never delivers.
I pull out my phone and scroll to Nathan’s number.
We’re not best friends, but we’ve known each other long enough. Shared enough green rooms and bad decisions.
I hesitate.
Then I text him.
You still in Hammonton?
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Yeah. I live here now. Why?
I watch the Strip pulse below me.
Because I’m thinking about coming to visit.
There’s a pause this time.
You sure you’re ready for small-town Jersey, Mars?
I stare at my reflection in the balcony glass.