Kya
I clutched my silver purse, instead of hiking up the straps of my dress again. The doorman eyed my cleavage before he searched the list again for my name.
"Kya Allen. Go on inside. Have some fun for me," he said.
I felt his eyes roving up the backs of my legs to the brief skirt of my black dress. It was almost a relief when a gaggle of ultra-blonde girls bounced up to the front of the line and the doorman turned his lascivious eyes on them. I felt like a ragdoll next to their plastic perfection.
The Vegas nightclub was full of bright and sparkling women, all teetering high on impossible stilettos. My red snakeskin heels were sexy, but at least an inch too short. Between my short shoes and my black dress, I stood out against the tall, sequined, platinum crowd like a sedan at the racetrack.
Ridiculous, I thought. As if I wanted to blend in with the mindless crowd gyrating to the never-evolving club beat. I was only there to find a client and get a new endorsement deal signed. The location just solidified the fact that my new client was not my kind of guy, but this was business and I could take care of business anywhere.
I strode up to the bar and was surprised how fast I was served. "If you order a real drink, it’s on the house," the bartender said.
"How about a whiskey and soda," I said.
"Thank God. I was hoping you weren't a Cosmo or umbrella drink." He grabbed a bottle from a high shelf and smiled as he poured it. A spritz of soda and he slid the drink across to me, holding it so our hands touched. "These big fight promotion gigs are not really my scene. I just needed the extra shift. How about you?"
"Not at all," I said. "I'm here for work, too."
"Then, you come back and find me when you want to take a break." The bartender smiled, and I saw a dimple flash in his cheek.
Feeling warmer from his smile than the whiskey, I turned to take a lap around the pulsating club. It really was not my scene, either, but my boss had insisted I branch out into a new sport. All I knew about Mixed Martial Arts was what my boss had told me in one of his lightning fast meetings.
"It’s a sport full of meteors, not like your satellite golfers," my boss James Cort had said.
"Don't we want satellites? They orbit regularly, make us steady money," I had told him.
"No, yes! I'm telling you you've got those. Now what you need is one fresh star about to explode. You sign him cheap and then we make bank all the way to the top of his career. Fast and big returns." My boss had jumped up from his desk and spun his computer monitor towards me. "Fenton Morris. About to dominate MMA Fighting. Go to Vegas and get him before he gets the title."
I had stood up too, long ago accustomed to the frenetic management style of James Cort. "Mixed Martial Arts? I'm better suited for country club sports – you said it yourself. If you want me to branch into extreme sports, I could maybe tackle downhill skiing or ski-jumping."
"Yeah, I bet all those trust fund boys love you at the chalet," my boss had said. "Don't take that the wrong way, that's why I hired you. No, screw that. I hired you because you're a great salesperson, and I'm sick of seeing you take the low-hanging fruit. Give yourself a challenge and get me Fenton Morris."
It was not so much the challenge as the obscenely big bonus James offered me. Peddling vitamin supplements was not the career path I had dreamt of. But he was right, I was good at my job. If I landed the MMA fighter, not only did I get a wad of cash that could cover the closing costs on a new house, I got a shot at a brand name account. No more traveling, no more hunting down clients. A brand name account meant an office and a team of my own.
I scanned the undulating dance floor and looked for my new client. How hard could it be to sign a MMA Fighter? Fenton Morris got hit in the head for a living, surely I could get him to sign a piece of paper and be on my way back to Chicago. My house closing was days away and I was not a fan of Las Vegas.
Then, I spotted the man I had been sent to sign. He stood at the railing just above the dance floor. His light blue shirt was unbuttoned low, and dark curly chest hair showed through. A matching shadow of stubble darkened his throat and jawline. Compared to the slick and tan crowd of Vegas guys, Fenton Morris was a man. He wore black pants instead of carefully faded jeans, and his crisp blue shirt was unmarked by graffiti labels or prowling tigers.
A wave of heat blasted over me and I felt my cheeks get warm. I blamed my empty whiskey and soda, but decided I better get another one before I talked to the black-haired man at the railing. He surveyed the crowd with a bored scowl that prickled my skin with nerves and excitement. I definitely needed a drink.
I walked around to the side bar behind where Fenton Morris stood. Tearing my eyes from his hard, wide shoulders, I flagged down the female bartender. She scowled at me.
"And whatever she wants, too," the man next to me told the bartender. She smiled at him, but rolled her eyes when I ordered another whiskey and soda.
"Thanks," I said. The man looked as if he just stepped out of a catalog spread. I imagined him with a sweater tied around his shoulders and he how would laugh as a golden retriever brought him a tennis ball. Wait, no, not tennis. He looked familiar, but under the laser lights of the nightclub, it was impossible to place him.
"Put her drink on my tab," a rough voice said.
I turned around and stepped back, my spine hard up against the bar. Fenton Morris' blue eyes blazed down at me and despite the comparative modesty of my black dress, I felt stripped naked. The slow smile on his lips was hypnotizing as I stared.
"You've been looking for me," Fenton said.
My nostrils flared. "Arrogant."
"Is he bothering you?" my all-American neighbor asked.
"I might be arrogant, but I'm not wrong," Fenton said. His eyes stayed on me. "Tell him."