I can’t stop watching her. Stalker.
I love the way she holds herself, and the smooth way in which she moves that rockin’ body to the beat. When she smiles, it’s golden. When she looks in my direction it’s the only time that my mood improves.
I don’t wanna talk with random people or, for that matter, anyone else. Anyone except her. We can talk about anything. It can be as stupid or as serious as we want. I must admit though, it took a bit of time to get up the courage to talk to her today, because the images of her on that mechanical bull are still ingrained in my memory. I took those memories with me into the shower last night and tried desperately to get them out of my head as I came like a freight train. It didn’t fucking work.
Later in the evening, after a few more hours in the pool, Brett walks up towards me with a brunette with massive tits and an equally big arse tucked under his arm. I know for a fact he recently got engaged. He certainly doesn’t give off the ‘I’m taken’ vibe the way he carries on around other women. It’s typical behaviour of the arsehole that he is. I really feel sorry for his girlfriend. Does she even know what she’s getting herself into with this guy? What woman in their right mind would commit to that?
Brett and the brunette are both drinking margaritas. By the sway of his step, I’d say he’s pretty much wasted. Hopefully that means he’ll fuck off to bed soon, so I don’t have to put up with the look of him. Thank Christ he booked his accommodation last minute so he’s not in our room. I’d probably end up shaving his eyebrows off in his sleep.
“What’s up, De Luca?” he says, as if we’re mates. The chick does this stupid thing with her lips, making her look more duck than human. I guess the intelligent ones know to steer clear. This girl? Not so much. I couldn’t even be fucked asking for her name because really I don’t care, and I doubt Brett does either.
“Just takin’ in the Vegas sunshine,” I say, hoping he realises from my tone that I’m not interested in chitchat with him.
“You want a drink?” he asks.
“Nah, I’m good.” I look around, desperately trying to gain the attention of someone, anyone who can save me.
“Not drinking today, huh?”
I’m not even gonna answer that. Clearly he’s been watching me, otherwise why would he say it in such a demeaning tone?
“Don’t be such a pussy, De Luca. As if you can stop yourself.” This horrid cackle of a laugh escapes him. Fuck, I hate this cunt. “Man up and have a drink. You and alcohol are inseparable.”
Is he right? Can I give it up forever?
“I don’t need you fuckin’ telling me what to do, fuckwit.”
“Oooh, a bit testy, are we?”
“Testy enough to re-arrange your face.”
“I haven’t forgotten about Nowra, you know. You almost broke my nose.”
“It hasn’t made any difference to the way your face looks. It’s still fucked. Besides, your pretty fiancée is still on the scene, so I don’t think it’s anything to blubber about.” I stare daggers at him and then at the girl.
“You’re getting married?” she says in a high-pitched voice. With a hard shove to his shoulder, the girl storms off.
“Well done, dickhead,” he snarls.
“Maybe you should go home before you catch a case of raging STDs.”
“I’m not done here. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, and whether it’s her or some other bitch, one way or another I’m getting some action. There’s plenty of pussy round here anyway; some rather nice-looking bridesmaids too, if you ask me.”
Motherfucker. He did not just say that. I need to control this rising urge to flatten him. As much as I hate him, this piece of work isn’t gonna see how much he’s riling me up.
“No one asked you a goddamn thing, fucker,” I say, as calm as I can.
“Maybe you should go have a couple of shots, De Luca. You’ll be a hell of a lot more fun to be around. You’re dragging this soirée down.”
I grind my teeth in my jaw and swiftly turn and walk. I’m done with this piece of dog meat. If I stay here any longer, my fist will get a workout on his freckled face, and that’s not fair to Jones or April. I’m being the bigger person here and walking away.
Taking long strides, I approach Jones. “I’m goin’ back to the hotel.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, need to get out of here before I do something I regret.” Like smash Brett’s face until he resembles the elephant man.
“No worries, bud,” he says as he hugs me and slaps me hard on the back. I slap him back just as hard, and he growls, “I think we’ll be another hour or so at this rate. You good?”
“Yeah, fine. Live it up, bachelor boy.”
When I get back to the hotel, I’m alone. All the other boys are still partying on. Thank fuck I don’t have to put up with Brett anymore tonight. He was that close to wearing my fist. Any other time I probably would have hit him, like if I was drunk, but then he probably wouldn’t have said anything. I hate the bastard anyway. Any chance he gets to point out that I’m dirt he revels in.
I crank up the air conditioning, strip down to my boxers, and wander over to the fridge for a cold bottle of water. Fucking Vegas dries me out like no other place I’ve ever been to.
There’s a loud rattle as I pull the small fridge open. A small bottle of Grey Goose Vodka rolls onto the carpet and nudges at my feet.
Oh, fuck. Why not throw yourself at me, you wicked bitch.
I pick it up and survey the bottle. We’re inseparable. Brett’s words haunt me, and that stupid fucking cackle.
I won’t be able to give it up cold turkey and abstain forever. I know myself. I’m too weak when it comes to the booze. It’s been twenty-four days since I’ve had a drink. I’ve surprised even myself, but this is in my blood. I’m following in my father’s footsteps. He couldn’t fight it. What makes me think I’ll be able to?
Sober for the rest of my life is not likely, but what I can do is take it slow. I can have the odd drink here or there, otherwise I’ll be laughed out of fucking town for not being sociable … or a real man. Blokes drink beer, rum, whatever. It’s an Australian tradition, and doing what I do for a job, there are always plenty of celebratory drinks. We work hard and we reward ourselves, and occasionally write ourselves off. Granted, I’ve taken the latter too far on too many occasions.
I twist open the vodka bottle, and take a whiff. There’s the subtle scent of alcohol, luring me to taste it. I know how smooth it is when it rolls down my throat. I know how fast it kicks in my stomach and warms me from the inside.
Just one and then I’ll go to bed. Just one to take the edge off.
I put down the bottle and slide over a short glass. The liquid glugs into the cup as air rushes into the bottle.
I reach for my phone and dial the number … before it’s too late.
“I need you,” I choke out.
“I’ll be there in a minute. I’m about to get in the lift,” Suds says, her tone abrupt.
“Quick.”
“Rocco, grab the room key and meet me out in the hallway, okay?” Her voice is calm, yet I sense the urgency. I know what she’s doing, and it’s a smart play. Get me as far away from the problem as possible.
I put down the glass and swipe the key from next to my wallet. “I’m heading out now,” I inform her, and then hang up.
I take slow steps towards the elevators. Each step is one away from the bottle, and one towards Soph.
The lift dings, and a panting, slightly flustered Soph rushes out. She’s got a loose white sheer thingy over the top of her swimmers with a small bag dangling from her shoulder. Her hair is wild with sunglasses pinned to the top of her head, and she’s wearing thongs. I’ve never been more excited to see her in my life. It dawns on me now that I should’ve put some clothes on.
“This is quite a way to be greeted when you get out of the elevator,” she says, and gives me a quirky smile as she looks me over.
I glance down at my boxers, which are currently housing a decent-sized semi. My cock never understands that there’s a time and a place for that. Clearly, Suds has that effect on me. The only time I’ve been hard today I’ve been around her … not the hoard of bikini-clad chicks by the pool.