She wanted another drink.
“I said, can I help?”
She shook her head. The world shook too. The dizziness spun her around, dragged her stomach to her feet. The buzzing in her ears finally blocked out all the words she refused to hear, and a dark fog crowded her vision. She opened her mouth-
And threw up all over the famous man’s leather boots.
She felt better. Empty. And that meant she could start all over again. She held out her glass, slurred out the words.
“Fill ’er up.”
“Fill ’er up,” Miranda told the man with the ladle. The hot fudge sauce came pouring down over four scoops of coffee mocha ice cream with chocolate chips, rainbow sprinkles, Heath Bar crumbles, sliced banana, almond crumbles, Oreo wedges, and three Reese’s peanut butter cups. Miranda stuck a cherry on top.
Then she dug in.
She sat at an empty table, hunched over her tray, and shoveled the food down her throat. She should, more than anything, put the spoon down, stand up from the table, and walk out of the buffet; she should prove Harper wrong, once and for all. But her fingers still gripped the spoon and the ice cream still filled her mouth, sliding down her throat though she barely tasted its sweetness or noticed the cold.
And when it was done, she would have more. She would pile her tray high with black-bottom brownies, cream-centered doughnuts, oversize peanut butter cookies, chocolate truffles, vanilla wafers, raspberry sherbet, apple pie, strawberry shortcake, rice pudding, Oreo cheesecake, cherry tarts, and a chocolate souffle.
She would stuff it in, wash it down, smear her face and hands with chocolate, drop crumbs all over her lap, keep her head down to avoid the stares. She would curse Harper for driving her to a piggish extreme, and then she would curse herself for her weakness, her disgusting desires, and the bottomless hunger that showed no mercy and had no end.
And when she stopped, sick and bloated but still starving, still empty, and still alone, she would hate herself even more. She would feel the fat surging under her skin like an insect infestation. Her stomach would twist and spasm and her body would scream in protest, until she submitted to the inevitable.
She would lock herself in a dirty stall. Pull her hair back into a sloppy ponytail. Lean over the toilet bowl. Promise herself this was the last time. And then stick her finger down her throat.
She could see it all playing out, just as it had too many times before. But even that wasn’t enough to make her put the spoon down. Not as long as she could still picture Kane’s face or hear Harper’s voice.
She knew she would eventually have to figure out what to do next, and face up to her life-and her problems. But in the meantime, she would chew and swallow, chew and swallow, until mouthful by mouthful, she filled herself up.
Blondes and brunettes, C-cups and D-cups, strippers and hookers, showgirls and show-offs, the menu was complete, and available a la carte or as an all-you-can-eat buffet. Vegas wasn’t picky, and neither were its women.
But Adam’s appetite was gone. He felt gutted, wrecked-like this place had chewed him up and spit him out.
Harper had walked away from him; a moment later, Beth had run. And he’d let them both leave. Because he was an idiot-and now he needed to fix his mistake. He needed to find them.
One blonde, five foot four, bright blue eyes, and snow-white skin.
One brunette, wild curly hair with reddish streaks, a wicked smile, just the right curves.
Two women who wanted nothing to do with him. Lost amidst a sea of others who couldn’t get enough.
“Don’t look so sad, sweetie.”
“Want me to cheer you up?”
“Sure I’m not what you’re looking for?”
“I’m all yours, baby.”
But he didn’t want her. He didn’t want any of them. He waded through the redheads, threaded his way through a cloud of blondes, strained to see over the Amazonian warriors of a women’s basketball team, all outfitted in lime green tank tops and short-shorts that hugged their tightly muscled thighs.
They were barely people to him anymore, just a moving mass of soft parts and honeyed voices. And yet he watched them all, because somewhere in the crowd of hair and lips and chests and hips, he would find something he recognized-maybe a strand of silky blond. Maybe the curving corner of a smug grin, or a pinkie with a razor-thin scar from a sixth-grade art project gone awry.
They were out there, somewhere, one running away from him, the other running away from everything.
There were hundreds of places they could hide; millions of faces to sift through. And he didn’t even know where to start.
He knew he’d been dealt a bad hand-but everything was riding on this one, and he wasn’t about to fold.
“Fold.” Kane threw his cards down in disgust and moved along to the next table. The games blurred together, and still, he played-he bet, he checked, he passed, he raised, he called, and he lost.
His head wasn’t in the game.
He tossed a few chips on the blackjack table. “Hit me.” A five of clubs slapped down on the table. “Hit me again.” A nine of hearts. “Again.” Jack of spades.
Bust.
She meant nothing to him, he told himself. Or at least, nothing much. She was just a girl, an automatic no-value discard in the poker hand of life. He wouldn’t let himself get fooled into caring, not again. It was a sucker’s bet-the house always won, and losing hurt.
It was why he loved to watch the high rollers throwing their thousand-dollar chips down and walking away with a wink and a shrug. Nothing broke them, nothing even dented. Because they never let the game matter. The good ones chose their table carefully, played the odds, risked only what they could afford to lose, and ditched a cold deck without looking back. It was the only way to play.
“Hit me,” Kane said again as the dealer shuffled through a fresh deck. Queen of hearts. “Hit me again.” King of spades.
Bust.
The best players-the counters-could play several games at once, shifting their focus from one to the other, never letting the money ride too long or leaving while the deck was still hot. Kane did the same thing-just not with cards.
He kept his options open, and his women wanting more. He could spot a winning bet from a mile away, recognized every tell, knew when to smile, when to kiss, when to get the hell out. He could lay down his money and spin the wheel, because with nothing invested, he had nothing to lose.
And so he never lost.
Miranda should be no different. She was, in fact, that most elusive of bets: the sure thing. She knew his game all too well, yet still wanted to play. Because, like the worst of gamblers-like the degenerate losers who stayed at the table as their chips disappeared, waiting in vain to throw that lucky seven and shooting snake eyes every time-she had hope. She expected the next hand-
Which should have made it incredibly easy for Kane to clean up, and that was the problem: Beating Miranda-
