Table Of ContentTable of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
I'll Say Anything
by
Danielle Bourdon
Published by Wildbloom Press Copyright © 2014
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or
occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously.
Dedicated to the readers Thank you so much for all your support!
Chapter One
“I dare you.”
Those are the three words that got me into this mess. I've never been able to
turn down a dare, and my roommate, Jasper, knows it. He says my automatic,
knee jerk reaction came built into my DNA. So there we were, staring at each
other across our retro-red kitchen table as the hour ticked closer to three. That
was the magic hour. The time set for my interview. The one Jasper goaded me
into and that I was now starting to regret.
“I still think you should wear something more...more...appropriate,” Jasper
said with a glance at my outfit.
Looking down the front of my body, I assessed the situation: newer jeans
with wear in all the right places, suede belt, and a matching suede vest the color
of a newborn fawn. It looked all right to me. I met Jasper's critical gaze with an
arched brow. “What do you mean, more appropriate? It didn't say to come
decked out in diamonds and pearls.”
Jasper pulled the bright pink paper closer and followed along with a finger as
he read. “The flyer says, Woman needed to decorate the arm of local bachelor
for city event. Clothing provided. $300 for three hours of work. See there? That
word 'decorate'? I'd at least wear a dress of some kind if I were you.”
“Jasper, you know I don't own a dress.” For two days, that damn flyer had
become the bane of my existence. Ever since Jasper had found the casual
advertisement on the employee cork board at work and brought it home to show
me. That was the same day he elicited the dare.
“You have to have something in the closet. A skirt, even? Come on. I've seen
you in a dress before.” Jasper speared a hand into his hair, leaving the light
brown layers askew in the aftermath. He wore it short, but not short enough to
prevent his bangs from falling rakishly across his brow. Male models in
prominent designer ads had that kind of hair, the kind women wanted to run their
fingers through. A thoughtful expression cut across his angular features, pulling
at the small white scar slicing his right eyebrow in two.
With my elbow braced on the table, I pointed a finger at his face and said,
“When was the last time? I can see you thinking about it, trying to remember.”
He snapped his fingers and pointed back at me. “That waitress job. The one
you kept for three days until you quit. You had to wear that short black skirt and
the blood red corset.”
“That wasn't a dress. That was a torture device.” I'd hated that job with a
passion. Waitressing wasn't my thing. Not old enough to serve guests liquor, the
obstacle had put a damper on which guests I could take orders from.
“It was still a skirt.”
“It was a scrap of material pretending to be a skirt,” I argued. And I was
right. The tiny black skirt had barely covered the important things. It was still
somewhere in our two-by-four closet, snuffed out by scads of denim and cotton.
“Hardly appropriate for an interview like this. Besides, it says right there that
they provide the clothing. As long as they see I have some kind of shape, who
cares what I wear?”
Jasper exhaled and folded the flyer.
“What?” I knew that look. The exasperation that wasn't really exasperation.
Jasper was trying not to laugh.
“You. That's what,” he said.
“What about me?”
“You're wasting time. Don't miss the interview.” Leaning back in his chair,
he sprawled out, crossing his long legs at the ankle and his arms over his chest.
He too wore denim, a bit baggy through the thigh and tapered over a pair of
construction boots. The plain white tee shirt covering his chest had several
grease smears near the collar and hem. Another streak of grease colored the
smooth line of his jaw.
“No, you don't get off that easy. What's so funny?” My pointing hand
dropped to the table. I didn't want to look at the clock, didn't really want to go on
the interview no matter how much I needed the money. It was an easy three
hundred bucks, though, I argued with myself. Three hundred bucks that could go
into the kitty toward our new business.
“You could always walk in there naked. Then they'd really see what kind of
shape you have,” he retorted with a bad-boy gleam in his eyes.
I snorted a laugh. “I might not have much up top, but I've got an ass that
belongs on a runway. Go ahead, deny it.”
Jasper cringed, recoiling like the thought of looking at my ass physically
hurt. “Hey now. Hey. I wouldn't know since I've never looked. And no,” he said,
pushing up from the chair, “I'm not looking now.”
Watching with no small amount of amusement, I wadded up the flyer and
threw it at his head. It pinged off his shoulder as he walked across the small
apartment toward a door in the living room wall.
“Always did have a bad aim.” Taunting me, he disappeared through the open
door and closed it with a decisive bang. He shouted a muffled reminder. “Don't
be late!”
Our apartment, a one bedroom wonder converted from a corner of the
attached garage, served its purpose—but just barely. Jasper and I, friends for
years, shared the queen bed in the only bedroom and jockeyed for time in the
miniscule bathroom. Our décor was a mélange of garage sale, thrift store and
hand-me-downs. The cherry red kitchen table with its shiny silver trim,
reminiscent of something you'd find in a soda shop in the fifties, was my favorite
piece of furniture.
The saving grace was the double-stall garage that Jasper and I rented from
our landlord. There we worked on cars, saving as many pennies as we could in
the hope that one day, we could afford to open a real mechanic shop. It had been
our dream since childhood.
Getting elbow deep in grease right now sounded wonderful. Having our own
garage sounded wonderful, too, which meant dragging my backside to the
dreaded interview. The money was too good to pass up. I made a whopping
eight-dollars-and-fifty cents an hour at my current job, requiring many hours and
lots of headaches to equal what I might earn in one short evening. Rising from
the table, hitching my jeans an inch higher on my hips, I headed for the front
door.
Ten minutes later, ensconced on one of the buses running through the city, I
was on my way.
*
The sights of the Las Vegas strip occupied me during the ride. As the
scorching desert heat pervaded the interior of the bus, leaving a faint sheen of
sweat on my brow, I studied the outline of a pyramid, the faux cityscape of New
York and a fake Eiffel tower. I preferred to examine the showy architecture
rather than the myriad collection of occupants making their way to and from
whatever destination held their fancy. There were always three kinds of people
using the public transit system: those new to Vegas, dazzled by the thought of
jackpots and glitzy shows, and the wizened regulars, senses dulled by the hectic
pace, the reality that Sin City wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Then there were
the Disillusioned. The ones who started out with pocketfuls of money on Friday
and were spending mortgage payments and college funds by Sunday. Hollow-
eyed, distraught and depressed and down on their luck, they were the ghosts with
shifty gazes and hunched shoulders, wishing for one more chance to win back
the life they'd just lost. Off the beaten path, trash littered the sidewalks and those
less fortunate hawked everything from tee shirts to fifteen minutes in the back
seat of a beat up car. Vegas was a great place to live—if you kept a realistic
perspective.
Jasper and I had moved here a little over a year ago, when he was twenty and
I was nineteen, after Jasper's return from a year away at college. We were kids
with a plan and the energy to put it into action. Too young to gamble, we felt
secure in the knowledge that we could work and save, promising ourselves never
to become one of the Disillusioned. There is much to love about this glamorous
town, and so far Jasper and I had followed our plan to a tee. When we weren't
working on cars for extra cash, Jasper had a job as an usher at an exclusive club
and I worked at a local souvenir shop, a job I loathed with every fiber of my
being.
All that was about to change. Next week on August twenty-fourth, I'll turn
twenty-one. The day I hope to get a better job at a casino, one making tips to
supplement a regular paycheck. My one attempt at waitressing had failed
spectacularly—I wouldn't be applying for that kind of job again. Olympus, one
of the newest, biggest and most elaborate hotel-casinos in Vegas was currently
hiring, and I already had an appointment.
That was me, Finley Carson, moving on up in the world.
After four stops and a delay in traffic, I got off the bus and made my way
along the sidewalk, dodging people while I aimed for the doors of an upscale
restaurant sitting just off the strip. It was one of those buildings with smoked
glass windows, potted palms and charm for miles. The late afternoon sun glinted
off brass fixtures, the one-hundred-five degree heat turning the metal handle into
a hot brand that burned my palm when I turned it. Sucking in a last, lung searing
breath, I stepped inside. A cool blast of air washed over me like a tsunami,
ruffling the ends of my hair. I'd chosen to wear the tawny mass long and straight,
thinking it made me look older.
Booths—the kind with real leather and high dividers that allowed for a
modicum of privacy—lined two long walls. A few tables sat in a hop-scotch
pattern through the rest of the open space, situated near lush plants that obscured
diners from view. Straight ahead, a hostess stood behind a tall podium, menu in
hand, a perky smile on her face.
I remembered that smile well. The one I had to use in my old waitressing job
come hell or high water. Smile, smile, smile.
“Just one tod--”
“I'm here to see Tyler,” I said, cutting to the chase and putting us both out of
our collective misery. The hostess paused, lips shaping an 'oh' of understanding.
The quick once over she gave my attire made me wonder if Jasper hadn't been
right after all. Maybe I should have picked up a cheap little dress for the
occasion. I'd rather gag than wear them, though, so I satisfied myself with my
outfit and followed the hostess to the left. The restaurant turned out to be bigger
than I initially thought. Passing by at least fifteen booths and tables, she led me
up a short flight of stairs and took another left turn. Here, the booths were more
elaborate and private, set apart from the rest.
Tyler must do all right for himself, I thought.
All the booths were empty save one. The hostess arrived at a U-shaped
design with a vacant chair near the end of a glossy table. Four men waited,
sprawled out in various stages of relaxation. Three with brownish to dark hair,
one a dirty blonde, all dressed in casual but expensive clothing. Designer brand
clothing, I noticed. The only reason I paid any attention was the big deal Jasper
made out of my own outfit. Now I was suddenly clothes conscious when I didn't
typically care about brands and designers. None of the men present seemed to be
much older than their middle twenties.
I hooked my thumbs in my back pockets and smiled at the quartet. “Hi, I'm
Finley.”
The hostess departed while the men's attention swerved and landed smack on
me. Their jovial banter came to an abrupt end.
“Oh, right. You're the three o'clock, friend of Jasper's. Sit down, please,” one
of the brown haired men said, gesturing to the chair.
I had the strange impression that the men were silently laughing at me,
though I couldn't say why. Maybe it was the twitch of the blonde's mouth, or the
exaggerated exhale of another.
It didn't matter. I was here for the easy three hundred dollars.
Taking the seat, I scooted it closer to the end of the table and hooked my
ankle across my opposite knee. When I realized I was slouching too much, I sat
up a little straighter. Some habits died hard. I was that girl who sat atop fences,
straddled chairs backwards and slouched when I sat. Today I needed to be less
like a tomboy and more like a lady.
“Finley Carson,” I said, confirming my name as well as my appointment.
“Nice to meet you. I'm Tyler.” He paused to point out and introduce the
others. Joshua. Dalton. Landon.
“Nice to meet you, too.” I didn't offer my hand. Neither did they, and I
couldn't be sure if that was a good or bad sign. They were Jasper's co-workers,
so perhaps the men felt right at home, disinclined to stand on ceremony. Which
was just fine with me.
