Page 9 of Keep Vegas

“Tony.”

“Makenzie.” He shoots back.

I tell him, “Thank you, I’m having a really good time with you.”

“We haven’t even done anything yet.”

He kisses my hand, and we stop in front of an elegant building. He pulls me to him.

I fight my heart from showing too much expression on my face. I ground myself in his beautiful blue eyes. “You’ve done more for me in a week than pretty much anyone I know.”

“Girl, you crazy. What the fuck are you talking about? I do lick a mean clit, but—”

I put my fingers on his lips. “Let’s just say, I don’t usually get taken care of. I’m not usually the one who gets heard in the room if I’m not on top of a table screaming for attention. And you see me, and it appears you like me.”

He takes my hand and places it to his heart. “I haven’t begun to take care of you the way you deserve. Because, girl, your little witchy soul sees me too. I’m under your spell and I’m not looking to break it. Now, let’s go in here and run up my parents’ Amex.” I grin.

He pulls me up the marble staircase, and it’s like stepping into a fairy tale with crystal chandeliers and an ornate golden lobby filled with plush green velvet furniture. When people dream up where rich people eat, this is it. Holy shit, I’m out of place.

I don’t make eye contact with anyone so I won’t know if they’re looking at me. I don’t know which fork, spoon, or teacup to use. I thought we would get a burger or some street food before clubbing. I understand food you can eat with your hands. This is another level. A man steps to us after Tony gives his name. He takes Tony’s coat, and I panic. I’m about to light this joint up. When that soft, stunning, megabucks old-timey chandelier light hits my dress, I will end up blinding someone. Like when your phone catches the sun and momentarily flashes your field of vision. But I’m about to fucking blind the entire waitstaff and patrons.

“Mr. Ladd, follow me, please.” Another guy comes out of nowhere. There are like forty people standing around in black-and-white outfits. The women are stunning and look like they know not to wear a short skirt to a fancy place. But I couldn’t have imagined this kind of fancy.

The man whisks my coat away, and I’m standing with a tiny piece of aluminum foil wrapped around my middle. I kind of wave to everyone as they take notice. Tony is oblivious and takes my hand. He kisses my cheek.

We’re both helped into a chair, and I immediately put my napkin on my lap, all spread out, to hide how far up my skirt is riding. I’m a freaking teenager with this hooker dress on, smiling at our personal waitstaff of forty people. It’s like Downton Abbey introducing the staff to the guests. Tony’s pushed back from the table with his legs crossed while they speak. I’m clutching my purse and scoot underneath the tablecloth as far as I can. They’re still introducing themselves. There’s one called the bread steward, one in charge of wine, and another is our main waiter. Whatever the hell that means.

A woman steps to me and smiles. “Mademoiselle Preston, c’est pour votre sac.”

“Qu’est-ce que ? En anglaise, s’il vous plaît.” I doubt if I heard this woman correctly.

“Mademoiselle Preston, this is a shelf for your bag.” Nope, I heard her correctly. She’s kneeling at my side, taking my small clubbing purse and placing it on the tiny bench.

I lean over to her and say, “And if my earrings get a little heavy later, is there a shelf for them?” She laughs lightly and says, “No, but there’s a golden bowl for them.” Then she winks.

A mini cart full of all kinds of tiny breads and rolls arrives. Tony smiles and gestures to me. “Pick your bread.” I point at one and then realize the man who brought the cart is still speaking about each individual roll. He talks a lot about gluten and spelt. I glance around, and people are noticing I don’t belong here. Or it’s the vibe I’m throwing off. Panicked, poor teenager in a dish towel. That’s the right vibe for this place, right? I don’t want Tony to be upset or kicked out of here, so I’ll keep it under wraps. A couple of small rolls are placed on my plate. I search for butter, and another man appears with different pots of varying colors of yellow spread. He explains that each roll is paired with a specific regional or compound butter. What the fuck? Tony doesn’t even think it’s fucking weird that someone is buttering my bread. Tony scoots his chair in, thanks the men, then chomps on his bread.

“What looks good?” I pick up my menu, and I’m baffled. I keep turning it over, then whisper across the table. “What’s with the name and date on this? And where are the prices?”

“I told them your name. The menu changes daily, hence the date. And the prices aren’t listed.”

“Then how can I identify what’s good?” I’m so out of my league here.

He laughs and I pretend it was a joke, but seriously, if it’s not expensive, how do I know what’s supposed to be their best thing? And what the fuck is a langoustine? I’m fucked. I’m going to embarrass the hell out of him. This is terrible. I don’t even know what half of these foods are, let alone if I like them. I pull my dress down again and pull the tablecloth a little to try and cover my thigh. I sip my water, and Tony looks at me.

“Ok, what the hell is going on? You’re all jumpy.”

“Just excited to be here. This is so decadent and lovely.” My voice is high-pitched and I’m sure it projects desperately trying not to freak out.

A waiter I haven’t seen before appears with two plates of tiny bits of food. Almost looks like someone ate half an appetizer. He explains that it’s an oyster something, a bit of roe, and a frog leg. And I’m out. Not doing it. Can’t do it. Frog leg. And which one is the fucking frog?

He walks away.

“I didn’t order this, did you?”

“No, it’s an amuse-bouche.”

“Gesundheit,” He laughs, but we need to leave now. This isn’t us, or it certainly isn’t me.