Page 65 of The Emerson Effect
I don’t know what’s going to happen when this little weekend trip is over. I’ve been trying not to think about it. But if I get my way, what we’ve started won’t end here in Vegas. I’ll find a way to make it work.
“Oh, my God,” Twila gasps as the elevator doors open, revealing the dance club.
We step out, then pause, looking around in awe.
There are aerial acrobats spinning and flipping between long sheets of fabric that hang from the ceiling. As the heavy bass of the music thumps against my chest, I watch delicate soap bubbles float around the large space before popping against the sweaty skin of people bumping and grinding in the center of the room. Groups of people sit on oversized couches around the perimeter of the dancefloor, and there’s a long bar that spans the entirety of the back wall.
Taking Twila’s hand, I head in that direction. Her eyes are wide as she takes in all the sights, and while she’s distracted, I quickly order two frozen margaritas from the bartender. Twila points out one of the acrobats rolling herself up in a long sheet of fabric hanging from the ceiling, then stiffens when the woman seems to let go, twisting and tumbling downward until she stops herself on a dime.
“She’s insane,” Twila says with a laugh.
“Or incredibly talented,” I counter, and she shakes her head.
“No one is denying her talent, but how many times did she fail and fall before she got it perfect?”
“I’m sure they practice with a net, or something,” I say, and she nods as she watches another performer swing through the air.
I pay for our drinks when they arrive, and while Twila’s still distracted, I pull out my phone and film my hand as I pick one of them up and hold it out in her direction. When she sees what I’m doing, her face lights up with laughter, and she shakes her head as she accepts the margarita.
I stop recording and pocket my phone before picking up my own drink. I hold it aloft for a silent toast, and Twila clinks the rim of her glass against mine.
“I swore off margaritas after I messaged you the first time,” she says before taking a sip.
“Why’s that?” I ask. “Nothing but good came of it, right?”
“True,” she says, grinning, “but it still doesn’t change the fact that tequila is the devil. It makes me do things I probably shouldn’t.”
“I’m glad you did,” I say in a low voice, and she nods in agreement.
“Me, too.”
We people-watch while we finish our drinks, then Twila pulls me out onto the dancefloor. The warmth of the alcohol in my stomach spreads to my extremities before flowing back into my chest. My heart pounds with the exertion of dancing and with the joy of being here withher.
No one has ever made me feel this good before. This happy.
After a couple of songs, Twila taps her throat and mouths, “I’m parched,” so we head back to the bar for another drink. We stick with the margaritas, letting the frozen concoction cool us down from the inside.
We dance some more, and Twila’s body rubbing against mine leaves my mind blank. There are no thoughts. Just feelings. I skim my palms down her arms and back up again, then circle them loosely around her neck before leaning in to peck a kiss against her mouth. She kisses me back, licking a stripe along my sealed lips before dancing out of my grip with a laugh.
I follow her off the floor and back to the bar. She surprises me by ordering four tequila shots, foregoing the mixer, altogether. I shrug and go with it, especially when she pours salt into her palm, holds it out to me, and clenches a lime wedge between her teeth.
I lock eyes with her as I lick the salt from her palm, and she shivers. I throw back the shot, then press my lips to hers as I take the lime from her mouth. Pulling back an inch, I bite down, letting the acidic tartness wash away the burn of alcohol.
Twila readies and takes her first shot without my help, then we both down our second ones together. A pleasant buzzvibrates in my bones, and I ignore the little voice in my head that tells me I should slow down. It feels too good.
We head out and dance for a while longer, our movements slower and less intentional as the alcohol loosens our muscles. Twila presses up against me, and her hand slips between us to brush over the bulge in my pants.
I catch her wrist with a laugh, pulling her hand up to kiss her knuckles. She grins and nods, catching my drift. We’re public figures in a packed club. Anyone could be filming us, and the last thing we want to end up on BingBang is a shot of Twila drunkenly groping me on a crowded dancefloor.
She can grope me any way she wants the second we’re safely behind the doors of our suite.
Twila motions toward the bathrooms, and I nod before following her off the floor. I wait by the restroom’s exit while she uses the facilities, and when she comes out, we head to the bar again. Twila orders another round of shots for us, but this time she asks for two glasses of water, as well.
“We need to stay hydrated so we don’t feel like hell, warmed over, in the morning,” she explains, and after we throw back the shots, we chase them with the water.
“Oh, my God! Twila and Emerson! It’s GreeneHouse, guys!”
We turn toward the shouting to find a woman in a white dress, a short veil, and a sash that reads, “Bride.” Behind her are a group of ladies, all wearing various shades of purple and lavender, wearing sashes with funny sayings on them.
