Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Missouri?” Tanner repeats, like it’s the most exotic place he’s ever heard. “Never been, but I bet it’s wild.”
“Oh, it gets wild,” says the bride-to-be, finger pointing in Tanner’s face, her engagement ring catching the light. “We just need some entertainment tonight.”
Tanner places a hand over his heart. “Entertainment’s my middle name.”
I snort. “Pretty sure it’s Anthony.”
“Don’t ruin the magic, McAvoy,” he mutters out of the side of his mouth.
The women giggle, clearly charmed, and one of them drapes an arm over Tanner’s shoulders like they’ve known him for years. They look ready to let him ruin at least half their evening plans. Maybe even their marriages.
“Where are you taking us?” the bride asks, batting her eyelashes, her eyes cutting between me and Tanner.
“Wherever there’s good whiskey,” he fires back, flashing that movie-star grin that’s gotten him into and out of trouble.
I shake my head, watching it unfold. Tanner doesn’t chase calamity, it chases him, wearing heels and a sash. The girls laugh, one snapping a photo with her phone, flash cutting through the haze of neon. Behind them, slot machines scream and clatter and the house keeps smiling.
It’s Vegas and it always wins.
Tanner hooks his arm around both women and throws me a look over his shoulder. “Come on, Grizz! Missouri doesn’t bite—unless you ask nice.”
I grin despite myself. “You go ahead, Casanova. I want a quiet, early night.”
“Suit yourself, Grandpa,” he says, already leading them toward the bar. “Just don’t wait up.”
I watch him disappear into the blur of light and noise, the Missouri girls in tow.
Same old Tanner. Always the showman. Always the storm.
But for me, right now, I need air. And food.
I slip out of the noise and into one of the hotel cafés tucked between the casino floor and the lobby. The place is half-empty, blessedly free of smoke since the casino is the only place it’s allowed. There are a couple tourists nursing hangovers with greasy fries, a blackjack dealer on break scrolling his phone, and two older women clearly here on vacation.
I order a sandwich—turkey club, no side—and sink into a booth that’s too bright for the mood I’m in.
While I wait, I scroll aimlessly through my phone. Stats, messages, nothing that sticks. I expected Daisy to have reached out as night descended, but nothing.
I can’t stop replaying last night—that moment outside the Dallas club, Daisy standing there, eyes wide after I snapped. The words I threw at her were raw, ugly, maybe even unfair. But she remained there anyway. She didn’t flinch and more importantly, I saw no pity in her eyes. She just… saw me.
It’s been gnawing at me all day. Why did I share that with Daisy? Most people know when to back off. They learn early that I’ve got walls topped with barbed wire. They get close enough to get burned once, then they keep their distance.
But Daisy Turner? She prods and she pushes when she shouldn’t. And worse—she looks like she actually cares.
That’s the crux of what’s been needling me all day. Not her questions or even the memory of what she dragged up. It’s that look she gave me. It was as though she wasn’t afraid of what she found underneath.
The thought makes me uncomfortable in a way no fight ever has.
The waitress slides my plate in front of me. “Anything else?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m good.”
I wolf down the sandwich in a few bites, more out of restlessness than hunger. The food tastes fine, but I barely register it. My thoughts are too loud, a jumble of Daisy’s voice, my father’s face, the sound of Tanner’s drunk laugh echoing in the back of my skull.
When the plate’s empty, I toss two twenties on the table and climb out of the booth.
The air outside the restaurant is cool as night falls. I shove my hands in my jacket pockets and start walking, anywhere that’s quieter than my head.
The Strip is mayhem disguised as magic, which is the perfect distraction. Every block is some new imitation of a dream, a city pretending to be another city. Venice, New York, Rome. It’s all neon and illusion, and somehow it works. The lights blur together until you can’t tell what’s real and what’s performance.
I walk past a fake pyramid, an indoor jungle, a replica of the Colosseum. People stagger past me with yard-long margaritas, laughing like tomorrow doesn’t exist.
Then I see it.
The Eiffel Tower.
Or at least the Vegas version of it—half-sized, over-lit, trying its best. Still, it stops me in my tracks and I study the steel frame that rises toward the desert sky. I stare for a long moment, hands in my pockets, that strange ache stirring in my chest.
Without really thinking, I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts until I land on the name of the one person who would appreciate this.