"Floosy is not an old term," I protest. "It's...okay, fine, it's an old term. But it never goes out of style."
"So Gaige is hooking up with floosies," Daniel says. "And maybe your boss, judging by your reaction."
"Can we talk about something else?" I ask. I don't want to think about Gaige anymore. And I definitely don't want to think about whatever he and Chelsea are doing in Vegas. I'm sure the liquor is flowing like water, and Chelsea is doing exactly what she did with him in the office, her hand lingering too long on his arm. Except this time she's probably wearing some skimpy dress and he's all over her. I shake off the feeling of disgust I get when I think about the two of them together.
"You're a little touchy about this," Daniel says, studying my expression. I avoid looking at him, grateful when the waitress interrupts us with our checks.
"What?" I ask, after she leaves.
Daniel shrugs. "I've never seen you so touchy about someone before," he says. "You're not into him, are you?"
"Don't be ridiculous," I say, forcing a laugh. "That would be insane. Of course I'm not into him. I don't even like him."
"Sure, doll," he says, still looking at me. "Whatever you say."
Thump thump thump thump. The pounding of the bass in the club vaguely matches the throbbing of my head. I should be fucking ecstatic, sitting in the VIP section of one of the hottest clubs in Vegas, getting paid to hit on hot girls and drink only the most expensive liquor. Chelsea isn't even glued to my side like I thought she'd be. As much as I know she'd be all over me in a heartbeat if I gave her the green light, she's also all about business and she knows that it's good for business for me to be picking up chicks. It's all about the motherfucking brand.
The problem is, all of this is for show. I still have my boot on, which gives me a great excuse for sitting here with my leg propped up instead of having to fake being into this whole thing. And I'm drinking club soda instead of liquor. I haven't even banged a single model in the bathroom.
Gaige O'Neal, sober and celibate. Hell really has frozen right the fuck over.
Maybe I'm having a stroke or something. Personality change is a symptom of stroke, isn't it? Or I have a brain tumor. I make a mental note to talk to my doctor when I get back to Dallas: "Doc, I'm feeling different from my usual whorish self. I think I might be ill." It's a perfectly legitimate concern.
The girl on my right paws at me, leaning over, her long brown hair grazing my arm, and for a second when I glance at her hair, I'm reminded of Delaney.
As if I could forget Delaney. She's been running through my head since we left Dallas. Last night, I threw my phone in the bottom of my bag and watched TV in the hotel room until I passed out, just so I could avoid thinking about her and where she was going dressed the way she was. At the fan event today, I could have sworn I even saw her in the crowd.
Maybe I do have a fucking tumor.
"I'm not wearing panties." The girl has to yell it into my ear, despite being so close to me I can feel her lips against my skin. I look down at her, letting my gaze linger on her long tan legs and her short-short white dress. The dress with no panties underneath.
"Maybe next time," I say. Part of me thinks I should say yes. What I need to do is take that girl in the bathroom and fuck her up against the bathroom stall. I could shake myself out of this slump.
Except it's not as much of a slump as it is the fact that my thoughts are preoccupied with Delaney.
The girl slides her hand over my chest, and I push it away, careful not to be too forceful. I want to fling it off me, get her disgusting paw away from me. But Gaige O'Neal doesn't do that. Gaige O'Neal is always up for a good time.
She leans in closer. "I'm up for anything," she says. "Anything."
I groan. Normally, I'd be all over this. The girl is hot – she's tall, thin, looks like she stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine, and she's offering anything. Anything is exactly what I like to hear.
And I'm turning it down?
Something is definitely wrong with me.
I break down and text Delaney.
Have you used it yet?
It's not more than a minute before she responds.
Of course not.
Then, a second later, she sends another text:
Obviously, I built a shrine to it in my room.
I'm sure Delaney was so embarrassed by it that she has it stashed away somewhere in the room where no one would ever find it. Under her bed, maybe, or in the closet. She's private like that. She embarrasses easily. I used to love getting a rise out of her, watching her blush when I'd say anything even remotely sexual to her. Innuendo used to make her face turn pink. It's still just as fun getting under her skin.
Aw, he's meant to be touched, not to be put on a pedestal.
Chelsea catches my eye from where she sits at the other side of the VIP area and glares at me, then looks at the phone. It's business, I mouth, and she shakes her head. Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'm supposed to be partying, doing shots off the taut little abdomens of college girls.
The phone buzzes again and I click on the text.