Save Me, SEAL Page 2

  “Have any of you ever been to Vegas?” Sledge asked.

  “Christina has been to California. None of us have been to Las Vegas.”

  “What would your dad say?” he asked.

  “About what?”

  “About you and your girlfriends coming to Vegas for New Year’s Eve.”

  “It would be a hard sell. And unless I hit the lottery in the next few days, it wouldn’t matter what he said anyway.”

  “I hit the lottery when I got this job. Talk to CC and Taylor. If your folks are okay with it, I’ll cover your flights. We had one of our big players cancel and that leaves a high-end suite sitting empty. I can put you and your friends in it.”

  I read the new message from Sledge several times to be sure I’d understood him correctly.

  “Still there, Ambrose?” he asked.

  “Sorry! Yes, still here! Just in shock. Are you seriously inviting us to Las Vegas?”

  “I don’t want to twist your arm…”

  “Excuse me while I hyperventilate. I have to call CC and Taylor. And go beg Dad. Thank you!”

  “Don’t thank me yet, girl. Thank me when you see me.”

  “It’s a deal! I’ll let you know something when I do.”

  “Good talking to you,” Sledge replied.

  I signed off and immediately rang Christina and Taylor to get the ball rolling. I figured Taylor could get permission the easiest of the three of us; her parents were always simplest to convince when we wanted to do something crazy. Christina was 50/50, I figured. I had Daddy wrapped around my little finger, and I knew just how to bat my eyelashes to maximum effect.

  My ace in the hole was his relationship with Sledge. He’d just be jealous he wasn’t going with us to hang out with his buddy.

  3

  After discussing the trip with Sledge over the telephone, my father relented after his initial refusal. Taylor got the all-clear, as I anticipated. Christina’s dad had to be broken down, piece by piece. He went from a flat “No” to saying he’d think about it, to agreeing only if he came along to chaperone, and then eventually giving in and agreeing to let Christina go. By the time everybody was on the same page, it was December 30th.

  We all wished we’d had time to upgrade our wardrobes from frat party chic to Las Vegas Strip-ready, but we’d had to make do with what was in our pitiful collegiate wardrobes. We still packed suitcases so heavy each one took two of us to lift them into the back of Taylor’s dad’s SUV. Some heavy-duty flirting with a chubby 40-something guy at the ticket counter got them put into the plane without an extra charge for their weight.

  We were giddy on the flight, the first time on a plane without a parent for any of us. The veneer of stylish sophistication we’d hoped and planned to exhibit dissipated once we realized the whole thing was really happening. As we watched D.C. disappear beneath the clouds, high fives were exchanged all around.

  “Remember, ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’. Right? We are going to have fun. And to get you two uptight bitches laid,” Christina, sitting on the aisle, said as she raised her Sprite can in the air.

  “Vegas on New Year’s Eve?” Taylor gazed at something neither CC or I could see. “Yeah, that’s got a certain ring to it. What the hell. If the right guy comes along, I might leave my V card behind in Sin City. Why not? This is a once-in-a-lifetime deal.”

  “If we can just pry Ambrose off Sledge long enough to meet some guys, that is,” Christina joked.

  “Whatever,” I replied. But, yeah, I couldn’t lie, I was looking forward to seeing him. Much more than I was in meeting some tourist douchebag in Vegas for the New Year’s Eve party.

  None of the flight attendants fell for our charms, since the only guy among the crew was undoubtedly gay, and none of the women seemed to be, so we had to settle for Cokes and Sprites with a distinct lack of Jack while on our flight.

  Our thumbs got intense workouts on the plane, and by the time we crossed the Mississippi River, any friends or followers we had on social media had to be sick to death of our constantly-updated “Vegas diaries.”

  A middle-aged guy in a suit across the aisle from CC seemed perturbed with our laughter, but we were on our way to Las Vegas. What did he expect? He looked like he’d be most at home attending a mortician’s convention.

  A group of college guys toward the back of the plane were so rowdy they made us look like church ladies, though, so I didn’t feel too bad for the undertaker.

  The sun had just set over the Las Vegas valley when we arrived, and the sight took our breath away. Everything was black for miles and miles, and then an explosion of color appeared.

  The passengers, who’d become more subdued once the flight passed four hours, all came to life at once. People crowded to the windows, taking pictures and pointing out landmarks. Our approach afforded us a panoramic view of the Strip, and we tried to pick out the Sirocco, the hotel owned by Sledge’s employer, from among the dizzying spectacle.

  The Luxor pyramid, with its spotlight blasting skyward, was easiest to distinguish from a distance. Our eyes scanned from there, and as we got closer we picked out the dancing waters in front of the Bellagio. Sirocco was right across the street, a gleaming red monolith. We squealed when Taylor first pointed it out.

  The hustle and bustle inside McCarran Airport blew our minds. Within fifteen steps of our gate, we encountered our first slot machines. We’d been warned by Sledge that although we might be able to drink, that being underage and gambling wasn’t a risk worth taking. We stopped long enough to watch a blue-haired lady pull a handle and stand up with a shout as three diamonds lined up on her reels. We didn’t stick around long enough to figure out how much she’d won, but the number in the bottom right hand corner of the screen just kept going up, up, and up.

  “She’s my hero,” I whispered to CC as we walked away, toward luggage claim.

  At the bottom of the elevator, we spotted a man holding a sign that read “Wellington.”

  We approached and I introduced myself. A small badge on the lapel of his black suit read Felix above the logo for the Sirocco resort.

  “Ladies, welcome to Las Vegas. Your luggage will be taken directly to your suite, if you’ll step right this way, I’ll show you to your car.”

  Christina made eye contact with me and we shrugged and stifled giggles.

  We walked past a long line of miserable-looking people lugging suitcases and waiting for cabs and shuttle busses, and directly to a waiting gold Range Rover. The night was cool, but not cold, comfortable enough to be outside at midnight the next night if the weather held. Felix put our carry-ons in the back and helped us inside.

  “Ambrose, everybody in that line was watching us. Looking at us like we were, I don’t know, Fifth Harmony or the Kardashians or something,” Taylor remarked as we settled into our seats. “I could get used to this.”

  Christina reached across and high fived Taylor, and then I joined in celebrating the absurdity of three girls from Little River, Virginia, being treated like movie stars in Las Vegas.

  The Range Rover glided out the back of the airport. “Traffic is pretty bad; the town is getting crowded. I’ll take you down the backside of the Strip so you can see the lights. First time here for all of you, right?”

  In unison we replied that we were all Las Vegas virgins.

  Even from behind, the hotels we passed were jaw-dropping. Mandalay Bay, Luxor, New York New York, a giant Ferris wheel, City Center, Bellagio, it was endless. We went stereotypical Vegas, opening the sun roof and standing up with our heads popped out like periscopes on a submarine.

  The wind whipped through our hair, and we laughed and screamed as horns honked and guys in passing cars and walking by called out to us. Our vehicle stood out, even among all the fancy supercars and limos cruising the streets around the Strip.

  “This is fucking amazing!” screamed Christina at one point, and we all agreed. Felix reached the north end of the Strip and crossed Las Vegas Boulevard, taking us back do
wn the other side of the street, but not down the Strip itself, which was in a state of complete gridlock.

  He expertly navigated side streets to give us optimal views as we continued to mostly move, and we ultimately pulled into what I’d come to learn was called the porte-cochere of the Sirocco.

  The Sirocco was majestic, a sweeping expanse of red with lights of soft gold sweeping across the exterior at regular intervals to simulate a dust storm.

  Just off to the side of the entrance, half a dozen sports cars were lined up, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and others none of us could identify as anything other than expensive and sexy.

  Speaking of sexy, as Felix came around to open the door for us, a man approached our car who took my breath away.

  Shane Hammer. Sledge.

  He wore khaki pants and a blue V-neck sweater that clung to his pecs and biceps as if it were made of spandex rather than soft cashmere.

  He grinned broadly, a smile the likes of which I’d never seen cross his stony face.

  He looked good. Damn good.

  He extended his arms wide like wings, and the three of us walked into his embrace. After the hug, he stepped back a moment to size us up, and he looked impressed.

  “I didn’t know Christina, Taylor, and Ambrose had older sisters,” he joked. “I was expecting college girls, not grown women.”

  “It’s really us. We aren’t babies anymore!” Christina piped up, doing a pirouette which made her short dress twirl.

  “Not babies, but not twenty-one. I hope I don’t have to remind any of you. I want you to have as much fun as humanly possible, but keep it legal. Let me show you the Sirocco. Felix will have your stuff sent up to your suite.”

  We followed Sledge into the casino, which stopped us in our tracks. It was a cacophony of sound and lights, a whirlwind of activity. I spotted what I later learned was a blackjack table where the players included a couple who had just been married, still dressed in a tux and gown, right next to an old man wearing a bathrobe while in the company of a girl who looked young enough be his granddaughter, who was practically spilling out of a dress that appeared to be three sizes too small.

  CC and I made eye contact and laughed in bemusement. We might not be able to drink, but the people watching promised to be top shelf.

  Sledge walked us through the casino, pointing out various clubs, restaurants, and shopping options. We took an escalator up to the second floor. There was a smaller casino there, for “high rollers,” as Sledge put it, and the spa, where he informed us we’d be treated to VIP packages the following afternoon.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked us as we approached a quiet area away from the bells and whistles of the casino. An unremarkable door with a small placard that read “Frank’s Table” was behind Sledge, past his left shoulder.

  We’d only had pretzels on the plane, so I was famished. CC and Taylor nodded their agreement.

  “Good. I think you’ll like this.”

  He opened the door to a narrow hallway which led into a room with a long, mahogany bar and a small dining room done in dark wood and comfy chairs. None of the pretentious fanciness I’d have expected from Las Vegas fine dining.

  “This is the private side of our 5-star restaurant, Frank Schmidt’s.”

  “He’s that guy on the Food Network!” remarked Taylor. “He’s so hot!”

  Sledge laughed. “He’s so married, too. His regular restaurant has been booked for months for New Year’s weekend. Only invited guests can get a table in this room. There are no menus, not that I could probably pronounce anything on it if they had one.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Hammer; ladies. Right this way.”

  A maître d’ showed us to a round booth facing toward a window I somehow hadn’t noticed before. We had a perfect view across the street of the Bellagio’s fountains and the mobs of people and bumper to bumper traffic outside. I sat across the table from Shane, with Taylor next to him and Christina closer to me.

  “Will it be crowded like that tomorrow night?” Christina asked.

  Sledge looked outside and chuckled. “Not at all. Way more crowded. They’ll close the road to cars in the early evening and it’ll be wall to wall people, from what I understand. They’ll have fireworks at midnight. It’ll be complete chaos.”

  Our meal consisted of course after course of small dishes, each more delicious than the last. A different wine was served to complement each plate, and Sledge made it clear that we were only to drink under his supervision, but that we could have as much as we were comfortable with.

  The main event was a fish I’d never heard of, and it absolutely melted in my mouth. The conversation was light and easy, with Sledge answering questions about Las Vegas when asked, but more often enjoying his food and letting the three ladies at the table do the talking.

  My attention was drawn to the scene on the street, but more than once I glanced back across the table to make eye contact with Sledge. He sat with his hands folded below his chin as he chewed, his eyes narrowed and locked on me with the slightest hint of a smile. Christina and Taylor were both busy with their phones and didn’t, at least I hope they didn’t, notice the way he was looking at me.

  The last time he’d stared at me like that had been moments after we slow danced until he throbbed against me. I was flustered and hot then. Likewise, now.

  I squirmed under his gaze, at first fearing something was wrong, that maybe I looked ridiculous to him dressed up like a grown woman when he’d known me my entire life and probably still thought of me as a little girl.

  But his eyes told a different story. When his attention wasn’t required by one of my friends or the waiter, he was locked on me. I could tell he appreciated the depth of the cleavage afforded by my dress.

  When Taylor asked the waiter for directions to the ladies’ room between the fish and dessert, I considered going with her and CC, but his force of will kept me at the table. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to. His eyes gave the command.

  Once they were out of earshot, he spoke to me in his deep, gravelly voice.

  “Ambrose, that dress is… well, I’ll just say that if your dad wasn’t your dad and I saw somebody looking the way you do in that dress…” He smiled broadly and looked out at the fountains.

  I was wearing a clingy blue maxi dress that was straight from my closet, comfy for the plane but dressy enough to get away with eating in a nice restaurant. A small, flimsy white sweater covered my shoulders. I thought I looked nice enough, but I hadn’t dressed to impress. Certainly not a man like Shane Hammer.

  Emboldened by the wine, and comfortable enough with Sledge to joke with him, I feigned innocence and let my arms close in on my breasts to push them up and together.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is, if you look like that tomorrow night, they won’t need to put up any barricades to stop traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard,” he replied.

  I rolled my eyes at him. “Don’t forget, I’ll be with Christina and Taylor. I’m invisible to most guys when I’m around them.”

  “To stupid college kids, maybe. You appeal to the connoisseurs, I assure you.”

  “Isn’t that just another word for old guys?” I joked.

  “Guilty, as charged.” He showed me his palms in surrender. He shook his head. “I shouldn’t be saying this stuff to you. I’m sorry. You’re just… you’re beautiful, Ambrose. Even more so every time I see you.”

  An awkward silence sat between us. I wanted him so badly.

  “Thank you so much for this trip. It’s the coolest thing any of us have ever done,” I took a sip of my wine, suddenly anxious.

  “It’s all for you,” he answered. “I’m glad they’re enjoying themselves, too, but I wouldn’t have gone to this trouble for anyone but you, Ambrose.”

  Just then, CC and Taylor arrived back at the table, and the moment was lost. I got up to let them back in, and we each sampled a trio of small desserts, a cheesecake, a raspberry torte, and a dark chocolat
e mousse. By the end, I felt food drunk along with the wine buzz. I couldn’t wait to get to our room, unless an invite to join Sledge at his place was forthcoming, which, sadly, seemed unlikely.

  We left the restaurant and took a short walk to a set of elevators. Sledge produced a key card and swiped it inside the elevator, granting us access to the higher floors. He passed out a card to each of us, and we were lifted to the top of the hotel tower.

  The floor where we got off contained only four suites, and when he opened the door to ours, our collective jaw dropped.

  The sunken living room was easily triple the size of the large dorm suite we’d lucked into back at school, with a television that wouldn’t suffer at all if compared to a movie screen.

  Christina and Taylor squealed (there had been a lot of squealing this trip) and ran through the suite, exploring the bedrooms and the balcony, which afforded the same view as the restaurant, albeit from a significantly steeper angle.

  I stayed next to Sledge, my body wanting to be close to his.

  “Go with your friends. Check out the room,” he instructed, and his hand found the small of my back to guide me in the right direction. When I didn’t immediately follow his command, his hand dropped to my ass and gave it a pat. I gasped and looked back and up at him. Rather than move my feet, I leaned forward and held the railing in front of me.

  In no time at all, he took the hint. With my friends on the balcony, out of earshot, he gave my ass a second pat, a little harder, and let his hand linger for a moment. I dropped my head between my shoulders and tightened my grip on the railing.

  The third time he smacked my ass, it was with authority. His open hand covered my left cheek, and then he pulled it back and delivered a quick, sharp blow.

  I whimpered and rolled my hips against his hand, which he left right where it was.

  I was being naughty, and I didn’t care. I was drunk. In Las Vegas. And the sexiest man I’d ever known had his hand on my ass.

  With CC and Taylor busy Snapchatting our view, he leaned down close to my ear, the hand on my ass sliding down the back of my left thigh, mercifully covered by the dress.