promise.
At some point, that highly marketed and oft quoted phrase "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas" was whispered in the darkness. And it did (until it didn't). It was slurred with a resigned sigh and a wink and smile, with unfamiliar touches and tentative glances between them that grew more sure and bold as the night went on. It became a promise and a bond, a way to lie and a way to justify their actions.
What happened in Vegas, stayed in Vegas. Until it didn't.
fate.
She hated conferences. She hated having to uproot herself for a week to go to a city she really had no interest in visiting, to meander amongst vendors and corporate shills, and listen disinterestedly to overpaid speakers who she could talk circles around if she had the chance (and she would, soon enough). This week, she was in Las Vegas, which seemed thrilling in concept, but in reality was far from it. She was trapped indoors, avoiding the blistering heat and sun that her English skin wasn't made for (though she had to admit that she tanned nicely), and if one more overconfident pharma rep tried to lure her to their booth, she might scream.
That was how she found herself retreating to a small room off the main hall, in search of cooler air and less crowded space. She needed the safety and comfort of being alone, which was why she was mildly disappointed to see someone already in the room, leaning against the wall beside the door, swirling the contents of a half-empty plastic water bottle in one hand.
She gave him a little self deprecating smile without really looking at him, and made a show of whipping out her phone to check her messages. Avoidance was the goal here. She just needed enough time to calm down, collect her thoughts, and venture back out onto the convention floor.
"I hate these things too." A warm baritone voice, a warm British voice. She immediately looked up and met his kind eyes. Dark hair framed a round face, with an unruly lock that kissed his forehead.
"You've come a long way then?" She cocked her head to one side, emails and messages forgotten.
His smile was genuine, his expression disbelieving and joyous at the same time. "Just from San Francisco," he said. "By way of Sheffield a few years ago. You're a long way from Yorkshire, though, if I'm hearing correctly?"
"You are," she replied with a wide smile. "By way of London."
As fate would have it, in a city filled with travelers and dreamers and revelers, she found herself in the company of the one proper Englishman (Irish-Scot-English, he later emphasized, in that order, with a smattering of Spanish privateer's blood).
And that was how it started. By the end of the afternoon, she knew everything and nothing about John Bates, and she told him what she would let him know. And sometime around ten that night, when he escorted her back to her room like a proper gentleman, with a hopeful wish that they may see each other the next day, she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him into her room, pressing her mouth against his hungrily.
She didn't see (or she chose not to see) the pale, waxy flesh circling the third finger of his left hand, and he apparently didn't catch the image of a smiling young man on her phone when it silently rang for the fifth time that evening (and for the fifth time, unanswered) before she turned the phone off with a roll of her eyes and an apology.
Soft touches and nervous laughter, heavy breaths tinged with the mutual tang of perhaps a little too much alcohol from the hotel bar, the excitement of someone new and rather pleasant to look at, who was wholeheartedly dedicated to the task at hand, made for a passionate night. Again and again, with stamina that surprised them both, they lost themselves in each other. Eventually, they exhausted each other, and fell asleep, limbs entwined (and had she known him a bit longer, she could say she felt loved).
awakenings.
When she opened her eyes sometime mid-morning, his side of the bed was empty. She swallowed a mouthful of cotton and fuzzy memories and shook her head at his absence (what did she expect, after all?). Then she heard the quiet closing of the door to her room and awakened fully. Turning over, she was met with a pair of hazel eyes and a kind smile, a hundred questions behind them.
John (that was his name, right? John.) offered her a tray from room service and a proper breakfast. It was awkward, to say the least, to sit on the bed with him, wrapped in nothing but a robe, sharing breakfast and occasionally stealing bacon or fruit from each others plates, but it was what it was. A one night stand that they mutually enjoyed, followed by farewells in the morning. At least it was to be a good parting.
Their conversation was light and non-committal, until she looked across the last of her coffee at him and said, "I have no regrets, you know." (not with the way he had taken her over the edge again and again and made her feel worshiped and adored)
He smiled and sagged his shoulders in relief. "Me either," he replied (not the way she looked at him like he was the only man in the universe). The worry lines around his eyes gave way to happy ones, and before long, her robe was discarded and his already wrinkled shirt gathered more creases on the floor. There was no haze of alcohol this time, no fear of inadequacy, just contented sighs and pleasured moans, and when they finished…
leaving.
John lingered perhaps a beat too long as they kissed over the threshold of her hotel room door before spinning on his heel and walking away slowly, with a hitch in his gait and a smile thrown over his shoulder.
Anna closed the door and leaned heavily against it, fingers pressed to her lips, before she rolled her eyes and sighed wistfully. She took a much needed shower, letting her hands linger in places that had been so wonderfully tended the night before.
She remembered to turn her phone on afterward and rolled her eyes at the dozen missed calls and text messages. She deleted them without reading and sent a single reply.
changed my mind. don't want to work it out.
what changed? was his reply minutes later.
Anna tapped the side of her phone with her finger before sending two last words.
I did.
suspicion.
He didn't find the business card that Anna had slipped into his jacket pocket with her mobile number and a smiley face scrawled on the back.
His wife, however, did find it.