Page 10 of Notorious

We walk out of the bar shoulder to shoulder, out onto the Las Vegas Strip.

It’s a cold October night, and the desert doesn’t hold the heat this time of year. That doesn’t stop people from wearing very little. We don’t get far before we see showgirls in G-strings and pasties, their huge feather headdresses and lack of clothing attracting all kinds of attention.

“You ever seen a show like that?” I ask, indicating them with a nod.

Kurt shakes his head. “Not too interested in …” He trails off, waving his hand vaguely. I get distracted by that hand. What would it feel like on me?

“Women?” I ask.

“Yeah. I’ve got plenty of female friends, and I love them. But I don’t wanna stick my dick in one. Just men. And with them, I prefer to be on the bottom.”

I laugh for real, because Kurt has good manners and looks polished. Hearing him say something so crass hits my funny bone.

Also, okay. Saliva floods my mouth as I picture him spread out naked before me. My toppy self’s even more interested in him.

“What about a male strip show?” I ask. “Ever been curious about one of those?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. Those kind of things feel fake to me. Like people are just doing it for the money. If someone ever performed like that for me, I’d want it to be because they like me. Not because of my wallet. But maybe I’m too much of a stick-in-the-mud.”

I wanna move closer to him. “Sticks in the mud are okay in my book.”

“And I realize I’m being hypocritical, because I say that and yet you should see the amount of porn subscriptions I have,” he says. Then his eyes widen.

“No judgment from me on that,” I say, holding my hands up. “For obvious reasons.”

Kurt smiles, and it relaxes something inside me. The violins get a little quieter.

Since he sat down next to me at the bar, I haven’t been berating myself. Instead, I’ve been interested in figuring him out. So I’m grateful for the distraction.

Even if I don’t deserve it.

Anywhere but in Vegas, two men in tuxedos—me especially tall and in my cowboy hat—out together would be quite the sight. Here, we blend in with the bachelorette parties and college benders going on all over the place.

Supercars stuck in traffic rev their engines as we keep walking, listening to a busker play the saxophone and watching people hand out cards to the closest brothel.

One offers me a card, but I thank him politely and decline. “Not so interested in women, I hope y’all don’t mind.” I take Kurt’s hand and squeeze it for emphasis.

A zap of electricity passes through us at the connection point. Damn.

Kurt looks down at our joined hands and doesn’t pull away. The promoter doesn’t miss a beat, saying, “We’ve got men, too.”

“Thanks anyway,” I say, and tip my hat, keeping hold of Kurt.

We don’t get far before we have to stop and talk with a woman walking a German shepherd puppy with a leather collar. Or, well, maybe I’m the one who has to stop for every good dog—which is all of them. After getting the owner’s permission, I crouch down and scratch the puppy behind the ears. “You’re such a good … girl?”—I look up at the lady, and she nods—“… good girl, aren’t you?” The puppy licks my hand, and a true chuckle escapes me.

“I swear that dog is smiling at you,” Kurt says, a hand over his mouth as he tries to hide a grin.

“Dogs are good for what ails ya,” I say and thank the lady for letting me say hi. Then I take Kurt’s hand again—and feel another frisson of energy pass between us.

Kurt and I walk inside the next casino we reach and are assaulted by all the noise from slot machines and craps tables packed with people trying to win. With alcohol still coursing through my veins, the scene is blurry but manageable.

“Fascinating. All these folks trying to get one up on the house, even though the odds are stacked against them,” I murmur into Kurt’s ear, and he shivers as my lips brush his skin.

That’s even more fascinating.

“Vegas is powered by unfounded optimism,” Kurt says, looking around. Scantily dressed people wearing lots of sparkles sit next to people wearing sweats and T-shirts who might’ve been in their seats for a week.

“That’s a good observation,” I say. “But is there such a thing as founded optimism? Or—sorry, I’m drunk. I mean, justifiable optimism. Is it ever justified to be optimistic?”

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