Page 6 of Truth or Tequila (Grand Slam 1)

Chapter Three

sophie

“That one—right there. Let her in.” A stout man, wearing all black, is pointing at me. His lips are tight and his eyes are squinted into slits. He’s pissed about something.

One of the hotel security guys unhooks the barrier rope, grabs my elbow, and pulls me through. He pushes me toward the man in black.

“I’m Joe. My client wants you let into the bar,” he says, not looking at me. He’s reading something on his phone.

“Hi Joe,” I say, laughing. “Who’s your client? The guy who just walked in? Honestly, I have no idea who he is.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s why he noticed you.” Joe looks up at me briefly and then looks back down at his phone. He has no interest in me, except as a potential conquest for his client. I’m guessing Joe plays pimp for him all the time.

“Uh, just so we’re on the same page, I have absolutely no interest in meeting your boy.”

He laughs and finally focuses on me. “How do you know my boy has any interest in meeting you?”

I stare at him for a second. “Look, I’m beyond late for my best friend’s bachelorette party, so I appreciate you getting me in, but if there are strings attached, I’d rather stay out here.”

“No strings,” he says, motioning me to go ahead of him. “I’d prefer you stay away from my client. He doesn’t need the distraction right now, and you’re just his type.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s his type?” I say, rolling my eyes. “Women who are oblivious to him?”

“Exactly. And all this doesn’t hurt.” He waves his hand up and down my body. “Promise me you’ll ignore him if he starts sniffing around tonight.”

“Promise. I have no interest—”

Joe grabs me around the shoulders with ninja-like reflexes as I trip on my dress and almost faceplant on the stairs. He steadies me while I try to get my sandal untangled from the hem.

“You have a little pre-party before you headed this way?” he says, raising his eyebrows.

“No, I’m not a big drinker. I just can’t walk in long dresses for some reason. I’m not sure why I wear them. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I don’t wear them much myself,” he says as he starts guiding me to the VIP area.

The bar’s at the back of the hotel right off the beach. It’s protected from the public boardwalk by a row of massive palm trees. The strings of white lights wrapped around their trunks make it hard for fans and paparazzi to get clear pictures of the celebrities as they enter the bar.

I see a bunch of heads poking through the trees as we walk to the entrance. They’re holding their phones out and yelling for us to look their way. I don’t know who they think I am. I can’t imagine why they’d want a picture of me. It’s horrifying—especially for my introverted brain. Joe doesn’t seem to notice. I guess he deals with it a lot. The bouncer at the roped entrance nods at Joe as we walk through.

“All right,” he says, still looking at his phone. His total indifference toward me is impressive. “You’re in. My job’s done here.”

“Thanks for getting me in,” I say, looking back at him as I walk away. “I’ll see you around.”

“I thought you promised that I wouldn’t see you around,” he says, pointing at me. “You’re a distraction, remember?”

“Right. Right. Forget we ever met.”

“I wish I could,” he sighs, “but I have the feeling we’ll be seeing each other again.”

I watch him walk up the stairs to the VIP deck that’s one level up from the main patio. He makes his way through the crowd until he gets to the center. Joe’s client is walking up to the most visible, high-profile table. Everyone on the patio’s looking up—taking pictures of him. He looks down for a second and then does his best to ignore the people yelling at him from below.

I stand on my tiptoes to get a better look. I’ve never seen him before. He might be an actor, but he’s probably an athlete. He’s huge—well over six feet with a massive, muscly body. His arms are particularly nice—busting out of the sleeves of his fitted white T-shirt. Really, everything’s nice—the arms, the chest, the shoulders. It’s all good. And his hair’s falling down his neck in messy waves. I’m thinking about how I’d like to run my fingers through his curls when a shrill scream breaks me out of my trance.

“Sophie!” I look across the patio to see Savannah standing on her chair—waving her arms over her head—like she’s trying to guide a plane into its gate at the airport. When I wave, she rolls her eyes and plops down on her chair.

She’s right underneath Famous Guy’s table. I look up at him again. Joe’s leaning down, saying something right into his ear. When Joe moves back, Famous Guy turns around and looks toward where I’m standing. He looks right at me. I pretend I don’t see him.

As I start weaving through the tables on the lower deck, some guy grabs a handful of my dress and pulls me back toward him.

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