The Pact Read online

  Gwen: How is Vegas, darling?

  I’ve known Gwendolyn Ross since I was a fifteen-year-old lifer in the foster care system and she took me in. She’s pretty much the only family I have, but she’s more of a best friend than a mother figure. Still, I’m not entirely sure where I’d be without her.

  Me: It’s fabulous. How’s your Saturday going?

  Gwen: Also fabulous. And Sunday is looking to be the same. I have an art class in the morning with the girls and a brunch date with David around noon.

  Me: David? I take it you’ve found a new flavor of the month?

  I grin over her always-busy social calendar. It’s honestly one of my favorite things about her.

  She doesn’t let life lead her; she leads her life.

  Gwen: He’s a pepper-gray stallion who always picks up the check. Who knows? I might even let him entertain me for two months instead of one. ;)

  I shake my head on a laugh.

  Gwen has never been married, and besides taking me in when I was fifteen, she’s never had any kids. But her dating life is always thriving, and it’s certainly far more entertaining than mine.

  She may be in her sixties now, but the woman never has any issues finding new men to date. She just never keeps them around for long.

  Me: Okay, Miss Thang. I better get back to my work party. Phone chat soon?

  Gwen: Of course. Call me when you make it safely back to LA. Kisses, darling.

  Before I slide my phone back into my purse, I pull up my email inbox to see if Frederick sent any of the photos he took at the Malibu beach house my way. To say I’m proud of what I created for the interior of that unspeakably gorgeous home would be the understatement of the century. Looking avidly through my inbox for the picture proof in the middle of the party so that I can avoid chitchatting with random strangers for the time being is merely a bonus.

  For the last month, I’ve put my heart and soul into that space. Every single detail was meticulously chosen to create an airy, relaxed, sophisticated atmosphere that will make wealthy home buyers drool over the idea of living there.

  I slide my finger down the screen to refresh my emails, but unfortunately, when five new emails populate the screen, not a single one of them is from Frederick.

  Sheesh. It’s like he’s taking the weekend off or something.

  Most of them are the usual spam everyone gets for giving stores their information for those stupid rewards cards that do jack shit. But one email in particular stands out like a boner in a pair of skinny jeans.

  From: U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS)

  Subject: Urgent Update Regarding Work Visa Lapse

  My heart starts to pound furiously in my chest as I tap the screen to open the email, and a sick, cloying feeling immediately takes up residence in my throat. No, no. Surely I’m misreading the subject.

  I click furiously and swallow hard as I wait for the interior of the email to load on the Wynn’s sluggish public internet. My spine curls over on itself, and I lick my lips roughly. When the message finally loads, I’m not the least bit comforted by the words inside.

  Daisy Diaz,

  We are writing to inform you that, as of forty-five days ago, your work visa has expired, and the USCIS Los Angeles field office has not received Form I-765 for an extension.

  Holy fucking shit! My work visa is expired?! It’s… No. It can’t be. There’s no way I’ve been in LA for over a year…

  What month is it? I know it’s past Valentine’s because I did that whole singleton Chinese food thing while watching Jennifer Garner lose her shit on Jessica Biel’s piñata. And my neighbor Batshit Bob puked all over our hallway on St. Paddy’s Day, so it has to be at least late March.

  Shit. No. I’m in Vegas for the Vegas thing, and that’s an April thing…meaning… Oh my God, is it April?!

  Oh God, oh God, no.

  You are no longer permitted to work and live in the United States. If you would like to extend your work visa, you will have to submit Form I-765. Average processing times are twelve to fourteen months.

  Oh my God. Oh, holy hell.

  I can’t even finish reading the rest of the email because my heart is pounding so hard in my chest it’s making my vision blurry, and simple tasks like breathing feel impossible.

  You have seriously fucked up big-time, Daisy.

  The room feels as if it’s closing in on me, and my breaths are harsh, pathetic little pants of distress.

  My fucking work visa has expired, and I’m pretty sure I’m the only one to blame.

  Considering you’re supposed to send in a yearly extension application to keep it active and you’ve been in LA since February of last year, it’s safe to say you are to blame.

  How in the hell could I be so stupid? Surely they sent me a notice that I ignored.

  Did I mark it as a spam email? No, that’s dumb. There’s no way they sent the only notice of my visa expiring as email, right? It had to come with the rest of the snail mail. Which, of course, I have no respect for, whatsoever.

  Gah. Why am I so cavalier about dumping junk mail in the garbage? I should save every goddamn piece of paper that deigns to bestow its presence in my mailbox. I should file it by date, chronologically, in a, like, supersized filing cabinet with reminder alerts on my phone to check every folder each month. I should pay attention to my freaking life’s documents and, I don’t know, get a safe-deposit box like a real adult.

  Well, it doesn’t matter now, Dais. It’s too late. You just single-handedly fucked your career.

  “Now, Daisy, where were we?” Duncan is back, and he’s all up in my personal space, smiling and grinning and showcasing all the emotions that I am not feeling right now.

  He reaches out to slide my hair behind my ear again, and the urge to run is so fucking strong that that’s exactly what I do.

  I fucking run.

  Away from Duncan.

  Away from the big party that Damien and Thomas are throwing for their staff, at which my presence is absolutely expected.

  “Daisy!” Duncan’s voice is behind me, but I don’t stop.

  Out into the casino area, I run as fast as my feet will take me. And I’m not stopping until I run out of oxygen or break through the time-space continuum and land a couple of months in the past—whichever comes first.

  Flynn

  At a little after eight, I take a right into the Wynn’s entrance and head toward the main valet.

  Of course, I have no plans to let some twentysomething dude hop onto one of my favorite possessions and park it for me. Just give me the valet ticket, and I’ll park my own bike, thank you very fucking much.

  The valets are a little busy, and I ease the throttle to a stop as I step my right foot onto the pavement and wait patiently behind the line of cars.

  Phone out of my back pocket, I check the screen to find a few missed text notifications from my brothers, finally awake from their afternoon drunk-naps, most likely asking me my ETA so we can start with the late-night portion of the slop-fest. Seeing as I’m here and I’ll be inside soon enough, I don’t bother with a response.

  Once we finished with brunch and blackjack and headed back up to the penthouse suite we rented for the weekend, those bastards passed the fuck out in the middle of trying to make plans to go to the pool.

  And, like the mom who gets out of the house the instant her husband gets home just to get some peace and quiet from the kids, I took that as my cue to get a little fresh air and open road on my bike for a couple hours.

  Comparing my adult brothers to children might seem harsh, but anyone who witnessed Ty’s big lap-dance debut in the middle of a Las Vegas strip club for a half-naked stripper named Sapphire while Jude and Remy threw dollar bills at him would strongly agree with the sentiment. Though, it should be noted, Jude had blindfolded himself by that point in the night, and his dollar bills were landing on a table of college guys who gladly pocketed the cash.

  The line of cars edges forward, and I ease my b
ike up after I slide my cell back into the pocket of my jeans.

  “Oh my gosh! I’m sorry!” A female voice grabs my attention, and I glance toward the entrance doors of the Wynn to find a blur of wild curls running like a banshee. She bumps into several people trying to get outside, and more apologies blurt from her lips as she almost takes out an older gentleman wearing a cowboy hat.

  The man is none too pleased, but his annoyance doesn’t stop her. Out onto the pavement of the driveway, she stumbles a bit on her sky-high heels as she continues her fast-track path to who knows where.

  And it’s then I recognize who she is—the beautiful woman from the slot machine this morning. The one Ty saluted and gave a five-hundred-dollar chip to.

  She comes to a halting stop in the center of the entrance driveway, in the middle of cars and only a few feet from my bike, and looks around maniacally with her big green eyes.

  What is she doing?

  Aesthetically, she’s still downright fucking beautiful and dressed in the kind of clothes that ooze sexuality and a good time.

  But mentally? She now appears to be a quick step away from out of her fucking mind. Her breaths come out in harsh pants, and she chaotically brushes pieces of her wild mane of curls out of her face.

  “You okay?” I find myself asking, and she snaps her eyes toward mine.

  She stares at me like I just asked her to solve an advanced calculus problem, and I lift the visor up on my helmet to repeat my question. “You okay?”

  She shakes her head and digs her teeth into the meat of her full, red-painted lips. But just as she opens her mouth to respond, a man in a well-fitted suit comes bursting out of the entrance doors, yelling, “Daisy!”

  The beautiful but possibly insane woman shuts her eyes on a heavy sigh, and by the sag in her shoulders and frown on her lips, I have a feeling she’s the Daisy he’s calling for.

  “Daisy! Honey! Wait up!”

  “Fuck,” she mutters, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out Crazy Daisy wants nothing to do with this guy.

  Maybe he’s the reason for her abrupt departure and reckless sprint out of the casino?

  This guy could be her boyfriend. Fiancé. Husband. I don’t fucking know what. But whoever he is, she wants distance. That much is apparent.

  And even though I’m supposed to meet my brothers at one of the Wynn’s bars in about ten minutes, the urge to help her is too strong to ignore.

  It’s a rare thing for a guy like me, to be honest. I don’t meddle in other people’s shit, but the panicked look on her face makes me want to give her the escape she needs.

  But before I know it, before I can even offer the help, she takes it for herself.

  One leg over the seat of my bike and her arms around my waist, she leans into my back harshly and declares her intentions without pause. “I need a ride.”

  Daisy

  I wait there, shaking and quivering as I cling to this stranger’s back like an uninvited monkey. He seems paused in time, a boot to the ground to hold the bike steady, and his stormy blue eyes fixate on me over his shoulder.

  Gah. I need this more than I need the air in my lungs, and the thought that he might deny me makes a knife cut at the sensitive lining of my stomach. Frankly, I need a lot more than a ride to fix this monumental fuckup, but I can’t think in sweeping measures of time—I can only consider right now, this moment, and how glorious the feel of a cool wind blowing on my flushed face will feel. In fact, I’m truly surprised at how much I like the idea of hopping on the back of a complete stranger’s bike altogether.

  “Please,” I say then, the shake in my voice apparent to even my own ears.

  I can only see his intense—and eerily familiar—blue eyes through the flipped-up dark screen of his black helmet, but the combination of those mesmerizing eyes and his visibly fit body that’s currently clad in dark jeans, black boots, and a James-Dean-Rebel-Without-a-Cause-style black leather jacket, he’s…pretty damn enticing. If all the women in the world combined their fantasies of the quintessential bad boy to experience hot and wild fun with, this guy would be the poster child.

  “Daisy, what are you doing? Come back inside!” I glance over my shoulder to see Duncan standing at the entrance doors of the Wynn, and a sigh escapes my throat.

  I have nothing against Duncan Jones, but also, I don’t want anything to do with him. Especially right now. I have no actual concrete reason for this internal response, but it’s undeniable. He’s the very last person I want to deal with.

  I look back toward Mystery Guy, and he slides his helmet off his head, and I don’t miss the stark reality that the rest of his face is the same caliber as his eyes. Strong jaw, sexy, full lips, this guy could actually have given James Dean a run for his money back in the day. And when you add in the perfectly messy dark hair that sits on top of his head, it’s almost too much to comprehend.

  Goodness, where did he come from? A fucking fantasy?

  And then it hits me. He’s the guy. The silent, mysterious man who commanded his drunken, five-hundred-dollar-chip-bestowing companions without even a word.

  “I know you,” I announce. “Your friends chatted me up this afternoon at my slot machine. One even gave me a five-hundred-dollar chip.”

  “My brothers, actually,” he corrects.

  His brothers? No wonder all four of them were insanely attractive. Only strong genetics could make something like that happen.

  “Put this on.” He turns his body enough to hand me his helmet, and then he kicks his heel down to throw the motorcycle into gear. “And hold on tight,” he adds quietly, and I don’t hesitate to obey, sliding the helmet over my head and wrapping my arms around his firm waist once again. The material of his black leather jacket is rough against my forearms, but for some reason, I don’t hate the sensation.

  Just as the engine revs, I look toward the entrance again and spot Duncan standing there with wide, shocked eyes. And before he can even open his mouth to say something, Mystery Guy releases the brake, cranks the throttle, and we’re off on a slight jolt.

  I grip my arms tighter around his abdomen as he weaves us in and out of the Wynn’s valet traffic, and it doesn’t take long before we’re taking a right onto the main road of the Las Vegas Strip and heading toward the unknown.

  Holy hell. What have I just signed up for?

  Flynn

  Unsure of where my unexpected passenger wants to go or what has her so worked up that she hopped on the back of my bike, I pull into a gas station about a mile off the Strip. Once I pull my Harley to a stop, she eases herself off the saddle.

  My helmet is off her head a few moments later, and I don’t even try to be inconspicuous as I watch her wild mane of curls fall past her shoulders and the green of her eyes shimmer beneath the obtrusive neon lights of the gas station.

  Daisy. I silently test her name in my mind. Oddly enough, the name matches her to a T. Beautiful, but also a bit wild. I sense she’s the type of woman who is full of surprises.

  Frankly, I’m just happy it was me sitting at the entrance and not some deranged psychopath looking for a vulnerable victim.

  Her energy is manic as she paces the pavement next to my bike, her teeth sinking into the flesh of her soft red lips repeatedly. I avert my eyes briefly and focus on cutting the engine and popping out the kickstand of my bike, and it’s only then, after being divested of the weight of my scrutiny, that she finds the will to speak.

  “I’m…uh…Daisy.” Her words grab my attention, and I look up to find her holding out a petite hand toward me. “Daisy Diaz.”

  I consider her closely before taking her small hand in my own. Mine envelops hers easily, and I think the feeling must make her nervous because she starts babbling again before I give her my name.

  “So…I’d like to make it clear that I’m not the type of woman who just hops on random guys’ motorcycles. Not usually, anyway. I guess you could say I’m currently in the middle of a bit of a mess and was overwhelmed, and you sitting
there was an escape option I couldn’t resist.” She looks up toward the night sky and sighs. “God, what is wrong with me?”

  Obviously, I, personally, have not a fucking clue what’s going on with her.

  “I probably seem nuts, don’t I?” Her green eyes meet mine. “Like a total lunatic. I mean, who does that? Who just sprints out of a work party and hops on some complete stranger’s bike? Holy moly, I’m totally losing it!”

  She turns on her heel and begins to pace in front of me. After a few groans and even more sighs, she eventually stops and turns to face me again.

  “You don’t say much, do you?”

  The assertion is obvious, but her comfort in voicing it is much less so. Most people are afraid of me—something about the silence makes them think I’m based in sin. I raise my eyebrows, and she sighs briefly before mixing it with a laugh.

  “That’s…that’s good. You don’t ramble in circles like me, which I have to tell you is not always convenient.” Her words are open and honest, and by the giant smile on her face, it’s obvious she is mostly just amused with herself than anything else. “It can get you into some real pickles, actually, and I’ve got the stories to prove it. Some real foot-in-the-mouth scenarios, you know?”

  I smile. I can’t fucking help it. There’s something so purely honest about her. It’s endearing.

  “I bet.”

  She nods enthusiastically as if I’ve just delivered a moving address to the nation. “Exactly! You get it. So, you don’t have an obsession with hearing yourself speak,” she states, and I nod. “That’s freaking admirable. All the men I’ve ever known in my life are blabbermouths.”

  “The guy back at the casino?”

  Her brow furrows in confusion. “What guy?”

  “The guy you were running from.”

  “I wasn’t running from—” She pauses midsentence, and her eyes go wide for the briefest of moments before a shocked laugh jumps from her lips. “Oh my God, no. I wasn’t running from Duncan. I might’ve abruptly sprinted away from him while he was doing his usual flirting routine, but I definitely wasn’t running from him. He’s just a coworker. Nothing more than that.”