How in the hell could I be so stupid? Surely they sent me a notice that I ignored.
Did I mark it as a spam email? No, that’s dumb. There’s no way they sent the only notice of my visa expiring as email, right? It had to come with the rest of the snail mail. Which, of course, I have no respect for, whatsoever.
Gah. Why am I so cavalier about dumping junk mail in the garbage? I should save every goddamn piece of paper that deigns to bestow its presence in my mailbox. I should file it by date, chronologically, in a, like, supersized filing cabinet with reminder alerts on my phone to check every folder each month. I should pay attention to my freaking life’s documents and, I don’t know, get a safe-deposit box like a real adult.
Well, it doesn’t matter now, Dais. It’s too late. You just single-handedly fucked your career.
“Now, Daisy, where were we?” Duncan is back, and he’s all up in my personal space, smiling and grinning and showcasing all the emotions that I am not feeling right now.
He reaches out to slide my hair behind my ear again, and the urge to run is so fucking strong that that’s exactly what I do.
I fucking run.
Away from Duncan.
Away from the big party that Damien and Thomas are throwing for their staff, at which my presence is absolutely expected.
“Daisy!” Duncan’s voice is behind me, but I don’t stop.
Out into the casino area, I run as fast as my feet will take me. And I’m not stopping until I run out of oxygen or break through the time-space continuum and land a couple of months in the past—whichever comes first.
Flynn
At a little after eight, I take a right into the Wynn’s entrance and head toward the main valet.
Of course, I have no plans to let some twentysomething dude hop onto one of my favorite possessions and park it for me. Just give me the valet ticket, and I’ll park my own bike, thank you very fucking much.
The valets are a little busy, and I ease the throttle to a stop as I step my right foot onto the pavement and wait patiently behind the line of cars.
Phone out of my back pocket, I check the screen to find a few missed text notifications from my brothers, finally awake from their afternoon drunk-naps, most likely asking me my ETA so we can start with the late-night portion of the slop-fest. Seeing as I’m here and I’ll be inside soon enough, I don’t bother with a response.
Once we finished with brunch and blackjack and headed back up to the penthouse suite we rented for the weekend, those bastards passed the fuck out in the middle of trying to make plans to go to the pool.
And, like the mom who gets out of the house the instant her husband gets home just to get some peace and quiet from the kids, I took that as my cue to get a little fresh air and open road on my bike for a couple hours.
Comparing my adult brothers to children might seem harsh, but anyone who witnessed Ty’s big lap-dance debut in the middle of a Las Vegas strip club for a half-naked stripper named Sapphire while Jude and Remy threw dollar bills at him would strongly agree with the sentiment. Though, it should be noted, Jude had blindfolded himself by that point in the night, and his dollar bills were landing on a table of college guys who gladly pocketed the cash.
The line of cars edges forward, and I ease my bike up after I slide my cell back into the pocket of my jeans.
“Oh my gosh! I’m sorry!” A female voice grabs my attention, and I glance toward the entrance doors of the Wynn to find a blur of wild curls running like a banshee. She bumps into several people trying to get outside, and more apologies blurt from her lips as she almost takes out an older gentleman wearing a cowboy hat.
The man is none too pleased, but his annoyance doesn’t stop her. Out onto the pavement of the driveway, she stumbles a bit on her sky-high heels as she continues her fast-track path to who knows where.
And it’s then I recognize who she is—the beautiful woman from the slot machine this morning. The one Ty saluted and gave a five-hundred-dollar chip to.
She comes to a halting stop in the center of the entrance driveway, in the middle of cars and only a few feet from my bike, and looks around maniacally with her big green eyes.
What is she doing?
Aesthetically, she’s still downright fucking beautiful and dressed in the kind of clothes that ooze sexuality and a good time.
But mentally? She now appears to be a quick step away from out of her fucking mind. Her breaths come out in harsh pants, and she chaotically brushes pieces of her wild mane of curls out of her face.
“You okay?” I find myself asking, and she snaps her eyes toward mine.