As I stare into his eyes, I feel a little stirring between my thighs. One I’ve not felt in way too long, especially considering my line of work.
I’ve never before written an older man, younger woman, age gap story and this could work.
The arrow of my mouse hovers over his face. “He’s perfect,” I mutter to myself. For the book, I mentally amend.
He owns Vegas, Baby, the swankiest place on the strip, Las Vegas’ most prestigious hotel and casino. He’s the perfect billionaire hero to be the inspiration for my next book.
I need more than just a picture if I’m going to write a bestseller. I need to be knee-deep in the trenches. I need to see the lights, to feel the energy.
To live the lavish night life of the strip. But that life is expensive, and all my cards are maxed out.
I don’t need to be the part; I just need to act the part. To rub elbows with the rich people of the Vegas scene, do some people watching, get some motivation.
There’s always the nickel slots.
I rush around my apartment, scrounging up change. I find a five-dollar bill in the bottom of my discarded black purse that I wear out on dates; it’s not had much use in the past year. A roll of quarters in my top dresser, and a myriad of loose change in my kitchen drawers and the pockets of my discarded jeans.
When I add up my findings, the total is almost twenty dollars. I won’t have money for dinner tonight, but it’ll buy me one drink and an hour of slots.
Now, for the outfit. What can I wear to inspire my most romantic mind? My pen name is Scarlet Rose. Why not play on that? I choose a dress, red and short.
I shower, shave, and blow dry my hair into soft curls.
Shimmying the dress over my hips, I take a look in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed pink from my shower, my soft blonde curls just brush my shoulders. Not too bad for a twenty-three-year-old romance author who hasn’t been laid in twelve long months.
The irony of my profession and lack of love life is not lost on me.
Slipping into my clearance rack high heels to add a few inches to my height, I fluff up my curls, hoping to keep them for a few hours at least. Waving my hand in front of my face, I clear the air. Leaning into my mirror, I apply a little sparkly gold shadow, a few coats of mascara, and the very last swipe of my Big Apple Red lip gloss.
“Time to go to Vegas, Baby.” I wink at myself. I toss the bills and coins into my bag, throw it over my shoulder, and strut out to the parking lot to find my car.
Unlocking the tiny red sedan, I crawl behind the wheel, tossing my purse into the passenger’s seat beside me.
Sticking the key into the ignition, I murmur, “Come on, old girl. You can do it.”
Pushing my fears away, I shake my head. “Tonight, this madness ends.” Desperation fills me. I so want my words to be true, to unlock my heart, my mind, and make the romance flow from my fingers.
Maybe it’s going to take a little more than inspiration. Maybe, just maybe, it’s going to take a little firsthand experience to warm the cockles of my mind and wake up my cobwebbed vagina.
Maybe… I need to get laid.
How does one super shy, clumsy girl with a dorky sense of humor track down a one-night stand?
All the men I’ve been with were college boyfriends, our romance blooming out of late-night study dates. Or, up to a year ago when the men completely ran out, blind dates were set up for me by Sarah, my publisher, her intentions being to keep me lubed and ready to write.
As I drive down the street, the lights get brighter and more plentiful as I near the strip. My nerves double. I remind myself I’ve got this — red dress, killer heels, and my hair is behaving tonight.
I can do this. I can lure a man for sex, then write a kickass scene about it, thus throwing myself back in the writers’ ring.
Vegas, Baby, in bright neon lights, looms ahead of me.
Waving ‘no thank you’ to the valet parking attendant that approaches my car, I pull past the entrance, parking on the street.
Teetering on my heels, I make it to the grand front door. The doors swivel open and I step into another world. Red carpet, bright lights, elegant gowns, dark suits.
It’s perfect.
I make my way to the bar, ordering a Sex on the Beach, the perfect drink to begin my mission. Taking a sip of the fruity beverage, I let the rum slide down my throat, warming my insides.
I park myself in a seat where I’ve got a good view of the room, right near the slot machines. I slide some coins into the slot and begin to play.
I pull the handle down, watching the pictures as they roll by. Lemon, Cherry, Dollar Sign. In between pulls, I gaze around the room, taking in the couples, heavily made-up women hanging on the arms of wealthy men. I’m not here to play slots. I’m here for inspiration.
My eyes are riveted up front at a flash of red. A group of women as tall as Amazonians on their spiky, red-bottomed heels, breeze past the attendants, all edges and curves, dressed like models strutting the catwalk during fashion week.
All eyes in the room are on them and mine are no exception. They make their way past me, leaving me in a cloud of perfume and hope. There’s no way this large group of beautiful women, dressed to the nines, hair and makeup professionally done, rocking Louboutin’s won’t lead to something exciting.
Cherry, Cherry, Cherry.
There’s a dinging sound and coins flow from my machine. Oooh. I’ve won! It’s not much, but I open my purse, scooping every single coin inside. I can’t get distracted, though. I’ve got a purpose, and something tells me I’ll find my inspiration if I follow those red-bottomed shoes.
I straighten my purse strap on my shoulder, the bag now pleasantly heavy, and I follow the women.
They’ve all got insanely long legs and four-inch heels, and I struggle to keep up with them. They exit the floor, turning down a hallway and then disappear into a hotel ballroom, the door shutting behind them without a sound.
I have to know where they’re going.
Pushing my hand against the white, swinging door, I peek behind it. The women are forming a line, taking plates, helping themselves to what looks like a buffet of amazing food. My stomach growls. I’m starving.
Would they notice one more, slightly shorter and curvier, girl in their midst?
My growling stomach spurs me on. I’ll just slip in, grab a bite to eat, and absorb some of this sexy energy they are oozing.
I slide behind a woman with ice blonde hair down to her waist, her hourglass figure wrapped in a shimmery gold dress, and I grab a plate. There’s shrimp, thin slices of braised beef, green beans with slivered almonds. I take a few bits of everything that looks good to me, carrying my heavy plate in my hands.
I look around at the tables dotting the room and lose my nerve to stay. I’ll just sneak back to the slots with my free dinner. This is free, right? Not exactly stealing. As I make my way to the back of the room, a smooth arm covered in jangling bracelets grabs my elbow.
Busted.
Shame covers me like a blanket as I prepare to explain myself. I look up to find a woman so beautiful, my jaw hangs agape. Her mocha skin is shimmering with a fine dusting of gold glitter. “Don’t leave, silly. The conference is just getting started. You can eat with us.” She flashes me a perfect, pearly white smile, tugging me over to a round table.
The seats are already full of exotic, gorgeous women. I take the only open one, sliding in next to my new friend. “Thank you,” I say, popping a piece of bread into my mouth.