Bare Knuckle: Vegas Top Guns, Book 5 (26 page)

History suggested she shouldn’t trust streaks of luck. She was in a shit stop of a hotel, where the cheap weekly rent made up for the rust-tinged water and rattletrap AC. She’d bought an extra set of padlocks for the window and door, but it was better than crawling home. Mal was out of the question, no matter how easy that would’ve been—a step backward.

Eric…she wouldn’t bring it up, not with how good it felt to be together. He’d have to ask. She wasn’t going to seduce her way into an arrangement with him as she had with men in the past. Whatever he’d opened up in her was beginning to feel like all or nothing. Compromising with regard to something so important would only be selling herself short.

Maybe she was finally beginning to see that. Scary. But it was about damn time.

So she sprinted off the bus and down the street. Her portfolio banged against her leg, and her backpack kept a chugging rhythm as she hoofed it. Some dive joint, he’d said. She was disoriented being so far off the Strip. What was Vegas without the lights and glitz? It was only another city. And what was she in amongst it without that same glitz?

Don Giovanni
, that’s what.

It was obscene how badly she couldn’t wait to tell him. No one else knew. No one else would care. Even Mal might tip her head sideways before giving Trish the smiling equivalent of a pat on the head. She was so proud of herself she could spit. Sharing that with Eric would be a minor but welcome miracle.

Louie Paul’s Diner.

She could smell the grease from two doors down. How was she going to get out of this one? She had a show in eight hours, and no amount of sucking in her gut after a cheeseburger would keep her costume from ripping at the seams.

But oh, it smelled delicious.

She wiped a sheen of sweat from her forehead, smoothed her unadorned hair and pushed inside the darkened diner. Though she’d pictured ’50s cool and Marilyn Monroe, it was more like an Irish pub. She could use a little of Marilyn’s confidence these days. Trish knew better than to think the troubled woman had possessed a single clue on leading a happy life. At least Trish was old enough to see those facts, when she hadn’t been able to as a child.

Amid the shadows, in a rear booth, she found Eric. He wasn’t lounging. He didn’t smile when she slid in across from him. Only a nod.

Damn, his face was sorta…wrecked. Black and blue ringed one eye, and his lower lip was split and swollen. Nothing in his posture invited closeness. He had practically wrapped himself in barbed wire.

“Hey,” she said anyway.

Only then did he seem to shake out of his funk. “Hey. Oh wow. Glasses?”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Trish grabbed them off her face and shoved them into her backpack, not bothering with the protective case. “I was running late.”

He frowned. “From an audition?”

“No.”

Interest sparked in his eyes, the first since she’d arrived. “Oh, class?”

Do-or-die time. She placed her hands in her lap and squeezed her fingers into knots.
He’s not Mama. It’ll be different.

“Yeah, for set design. Entertainment finance was this morning.”

“Um. Damn. Finance?”

She smashed her lips together and pulled away from the table.

Eric reached out. “Give me your hand.”

With reluctance, she untangled her death grip and slid it into his care.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean…Christ, how that sounded.” He gave her fingers a reassuring pulse. “Look. I’ve always known you had a different fire in you.”

“Uh-huh. Barbie doll?”

“Okay, not from the start. I’m a dipshit.”

She smiled. A storm of tension in her chest dissipated like so many dark clouds. “Only sometimes.”

“And you’re a goddess. A flexible Southern blonde with glasses?” His expression eased into heart-melting territory. “I never stood a chance.”

A waitress delivered menus and ice water. She winced when she saw Eric’s face, then departed without a word. Trish tried to see what the woman must’ve seen, but came up with half an impression. Maybe to strangers, he really did look beastly. Trish saw the earnest interest layered over his battered features…and the way he melted her heart.

“So, tell me.”

“Set design.” With those two words, the rest came streaming out. All her plans laid bare, when before they’d talked only in generalities of her studies. Finally she had someone to entrust them to, no matter the future. “Maybe I’ll want to be on the other side of the curtain. One day. I love the lure of the spotlight. But God, Eric, I’ve spent more than twenty years under the lights. It’s drying me up inside.”

“But it’s more than that. What happened? Patricia, you’re practically glowing.”

“Only because I ran for the bus,” she said with a grin.

“You take a bus? No car?”

“I choose to deflect in favor of the good news.”

He sighed. “Fair enough. For now.”

“I’m good.
Really
good. Today my set design for a modernization of Mozart’s
Don Giovanni
was given top marks in my class by two independent design professionals. Not only my professor. He treats me like a treasure, but maybe that’s because he’s a single mid-forties male and I’m, well, me.”

“But this is different,” he said quietly. “And you know it.”

She was beaming like an idiot. Didn’t care. “Yup. Actual pros who know the industry inside and out. They judged my design without ever having laid eyes on me—only what I could imagine and articulate, not shimmy.”

“You have the design on you?”

“A copy. The original is on campus.”

She sounded so different, even to her own ears. Pride and hope. The staggering weight of wanting a new dream so badly was heavy to bear.

Eric nodded once then nudged a menu forward. “Here. Figure out what you want and you can show me.”

“Show you my design.”

“Yup. And no fruit cup or some shit for you. Meat. I mean it.”

“Eric…”

“Nope. Not having this argument. I love your body.” His eyes narrowed, sharpened with desire. “
Love
it. But you work too hard. I know how many calories it takes to do all you do.”

It was her turn to sigh. The menu was laminated, covered with grease sheen. Pictures of the food had lost their color. One particular description made her mouth water. Her stomach twisted with hunger. The fact Eric kept shooting her near-anxious glances, as if he knew she’d cop out, made up her mind. No fries, but she fully intended to snatch a few of his. This was a special day.

The waitress returned. She carefully avoided looking at Eric’s face, which made Trish want to shake her.
Don’t you
see
him?

Eric ordered a double mushroom and Swiss burger. With fries. She grinned. Mission accomplished. Then he turned to her. “Well, showgirl?”

“Deluxe grilled cheese and a diet Coke.”

Eric flipped open his menu and scanned the list. He actually laughed. “Three kinds of cheese on Texas toast,
with
bacon? Damn.”

The waitress, who was far too old to wear an insolent expression, only shrugged and took the menus.

“Happy?”

His grin hadn’t shifted. “Yes. Now, your design.”

With curiously shaky hands, she rifled through her portfolio for the backup copy she’d made on the oversized Xerox in the student union. No way was she letting something so important out of her hands without a backup. Or six. Her Photoshop files were in so many safe places, as if she could protect her dreams that way.

She handed it over. Eric didn’t let it touch the table, which bore the same sheen of grease as the menus. Making out his expression was tougher under his injuries, but she recognized that focus. That intensity. Only, she’d rarely seen it directed toward anything but her or the results of their photo sessions.

“So you had to know the opera first?”

“Inside out.”

“And some vision of how to translate that to modern day.”

“Uh-huh.”

“While making it accessible to an audience?” He shook his head. “Damn, Trish. This is… I’m speechless.”

“C’mon, you usually are. Nearly.”

He lifted his gaze. “How about fucking impressed? That help?”

She practically bounced in her seat. “Thanks. You’re the first person I’ve told.”

“Really? What about your mom?”

“Oh hell no. She’d rather me pose nude.”

Aw, damn. That was too far. The conversation had been going so well that it felt rude to shut up for a few minutes, but Trish didn’t know how to smooth that comment into oblivion. She was grateful for the surly waitress’s return with the plates of steaming, absolutely sinful food.

Eric handed back the drawing before they tucked in. “I’m glad you told me. I’m proud of you.”

“Will you be upset if I’m not quite sure what to do with that yet? I’m still getting used to praise without my tits involved.”

“Take your time. I won’t change my mind.” A smile tipped his beautiful lips—beautiful despite the damage from the fight. She was floored by the gut-deep fear she’d suffered while watching the beating he’d taken. Bruises and hisses of pain had followed afterward in the locker room. A man with more pride and less affection would’ve kept it from her. Instead he’d let her in. A measure of trust.

She tried to savor her indulgence, but a gnawing bite of apprehension had settled in her stomach, alongside the grilled cheese. He was
unusually
quiet.

“Tasty?” he asked.

“Fantastic.” Before he could probe any deeper, because she knew he would, Trish changed the subject. “How’d it go with your boss?”

He grimaced then inhaled through his teeth. Whatever brave front he was putting on regarding his injuries was simply that. A front. “Not well. I told him about my brother’s rehab. All but begged him for another chance.”

“Did he agree?”

“Yup. Barely. I get one more fight. I’m off flight rotation until it’s done.”

“Oh, Eric. I’m sorry.”

That grimace returned, although she didn’t know why. “Forget it.”

“Will you have enough?”

“Should be, if I max out my savings.” He shrugged. “Maybe my Camaro. I don’t need…” A heavy shake of his head…then a full retreat. He sat back from the table.

Trish blinked rapidly. To be cared for so much—what would that be like? She knew full well how much that car meant to him. No one put eight years of love and attention into a project and sold it without heavy regrets. Without being out of options.

She knew that feeling, at least. She also knew his pride was a mile high, and she so easily read all his no-go signs. In an odd way, she was happy he’d revealed this much. It wasn’t lowering her expectations. She was beginning to know the difference. This was more like how he’d let her settle into his praise for her work.

They both needed time. Years of duck and cover were hard to undo.

His phone rang. He flinched then covered the reaction with a fake smile. Didn’t matter. It faded as soon as he checked the caller ID. “I gotta take this.”

Without another word, he slipped from his bench and walked toward the men’s bathroom. He didn’t go in. Instead he stood in the relative privacy of the alcove. Trish watched. His body language snapped tense as a stake. She shoved away her half-eaten grilled cheese and sipped her Diet Coke. Had to be his commanding officer or his brother. Considering the fold of his shoulders and the anxious way he drummed his fingers on his thigh, she guessed the latter.

It was probably too much to hope that he’d share the details. Trish took a deep breath and packed up her stuff. Everything was running behind that day. She needed to go. Another audition. Dan Flowers had followed through, securing her a by-invitation audition at the Paris. She’d worked with the up-and-coming producer years earlier and had manipulated him hard—smiles at industry events, thank-you cards when he introduced her around, a kiss on his cheek when last they’d parted—to keep her in the forefront of his mind.

Too good to be true, but she’d give it all she had.

Frankly, after losing her agent, she’d been lucky to find the opportunities she had. Pam technically represented her for another two weeks, but it turned out former directors and casting agents had spread the word. They took her to be a hardworking, dependable asset. Staying off smack helped. And not getting pregnant. But it was nice anyway. A better reputation than she’d assumed she had.

Plus she needed to be gone when Eric returned to the table. He’d be closed off and unwilling to talk. She knew that much. Better to call an end to this strange attempt at a date. Protecting her bubble of happiness was hard enough already.

After finding a pen in her backpack, she grabbed a napkin from the dispenser.

Gotta scram. See you tomorrow? Backstage. XOX

Trish

She laid a ten-dollar bill on the table. With a wave that he may or may not have caught, she kept her steps even, not rushed, as she left the diner.

The cooler October air was no relief; she was too worked up. She walked more slowly to the bus stop. Thoughts…a complete jumble. She tightened her grip on her portfolio, trying to ground herself. Her fallback. Her safety net. She would make it work.