“What?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “That’s so weird, that guy over there, he looks like Pike.”
“Pike . . . Pike Greyson?” I ask, whipping around. “Where? I don’t see him.”
Stella grips my head and points it in the right direction, to a man sitting in the corner of the bar, by himself, hovering over a plate of nachos, with a beer in one hand and his phone in the other.
“That’s not Pike,” Greer says. “Sure looks like him, though. Maybe that’s his doppelganger.”
“No, look, aren’t those his tattoos?” Stella asks.
I’ll be the judge of that.
I’ve stared at Pike Greyson’s tattoos far too many times. Whenever I’m visiting my brother or the girls at their school, I just so happen to run into him while pretending to get lost in the halls of the school. Unfortunately for me, he’s the most closed-off man I’ve ever met, and even a blatant flash of my tits wouldn’t attract his attention.
For the record, I’ve never flashed him, that was me just trying to prove a point.
I give the man a good look but can’t quite see his tattoos in the restaurant’s lighting. One of those dim places, you know, setting the mood. Normally, I relish the feel of mood setting, but right now it’s more irritating than anything as I try to get a good look at the man who doesn’t seem to know I exist.
“The light in here is terrible. I can’t tell,” I say.
“It’s Pike,” Keiko says casually while polishing her fork with her neck napkin. She’s awake now?
“How do you know?” I ask.
“The sturdy and muscular silhouette leads me to believe he has the same proportions as Pike. The dark stout in his hand also lends to the conclusion that this is Pike if you combine his silhouette with the fact that he sways toward a girthier beer. Also, prior to our jaunt, I retained the knowledge that he’s here in Las Vegas attending and participating in a celebrity golf tournament. Furthermore, I know for a fact he’s inhabiting this hotel.”
“Wait, what?” I ask. “How do you know that?”
“He told me,” Keiko says casually.
“When did you talk to Pike Greyson?” I ask, whispering so he doesn’t hear us, in case it is him.
“I converse with him quite frequently. He has a thirst for science and will often visit me in my lab.”
Am I hearing this correctly? Keiko Seymour, my robot friend, has a . . . camaraderie with Pike? Pike Greyson, the man who barely even looks at me despite my blatant attempts to flirt?
“You’re kidding,” I say.
Keiko huffs. “I find it particularly odd that you would assume I enjoy ‘kidding’ on such matters. What a blatant waste of time.”
A waste of time is actually what I’ve been doing these last few months, skirting around the man when I could’ve gone to a pillar of source: Keiko Seymour.
The minute I laid eyes on Pike Greyson and heard his delicious accent, I knew . . . I just KNEW I had to get to know him, and when I say “get to know him,” I mean “get to know him in bed.” It’s been more than a dry spell for me. And if I really think about it, I haven’t had good sex in . . . oof, I don’t even know how long. Men who cheat are such bad lays. They only cheat because they can’t keep their partner satisfied, and said partner grows insanely bored. So, it’s my turn for some fun. Trust me when I say I have zero desire to be in any sort of relationship right now. Not right after a divorce. Nope, I want to live freely, do as I please, answer to absolutely no one, and have sex . . . ALL OF THE SEX.
“You have an in, Keeks,” I say with excitement.
“Are you referring to a resting establishment for travelers? A bed and breakfast, perhaps? Although, an inn is vastly different with food preparation. Whereas a bed and breakfast suggests just that, bed and breakfast, an inn will offer all three main courses to their customers, but—”
“Not an actual inn,” I say, trying to hold back my irritation. “Not a building, but like . . . you know, an in.” I shrug my shoulder, attempting to tell her exactly what I mean.
“I fail to recognize what you are saying to me, and your body language is throwing me off. Is there an arachnid tantalizing your bare shoulder? Why are you lifting it?”
“Ew, is there?” I ask, swatting at my arm and shimmying.
Stella stills me, and through a smile, she says, “I think Cora is trying to say that you know him better than us, and since she finds him attractive, you could possibly help her. Am I right?”