Page 36 of Keep Vegas

“You need to tell him you’re going to be a doctor.”

“At this part-time rate I’ll be a doctor when I’m forty. That’s eleven years from now.”

“Exactly!” she says with way too much excitement. “And you get to be a doctor for sixty years! That’s a good deal.”

Always the optimist. I exhale and look at my texts.

T: Gotcha now.

MAK: I guess you do.

T: Nice feet.

MAK: Thanks. I only bring them out on special occasions.

T: Thank you.

MAK: For my feet?

T: For letting me in.

Oh shit. I did not do that. I will not do that. I have to do that. Should I do that?

I have to tell him.

tony

Ineglected to tell her the full extent of my father’s threats and conditions. It’s killing me but I can’t be with someone else while in the middle of a custody battle over my couch. And my parents will disown me, the company stock will freaking bottom out, and the lovely third Mrs. Ladd will get a boon of a payout.

Laura should walk away with $248,900.26 worth of jewelry and clothing as well as 3.4 million. I’m an idiot, but I’m not stupid. Not a dime more, and I’m on the straight and fucking narrow until this is all settled.

Alerts from multiple trash paparazzi sites pop up with pictures from Vegas. The pictures have been circling for two weeks now as I’ve avoided my father. It’s all typical thirty-year-old birthday stuff with the dudes. I’m usually only in them if I’m with a woman, making deals, or fall-down drunk. But Law and Robbie cut a big shadow, and when we’re all together, the paps can’t resist. Not even my own media company can stop them. I posted a picture one of us from dinner then I leveraged the coverage. It’s clickbait to get them to the Ladd Media site so we can remind them I’m basically launching an online, multi-platform cooking network in the coming months. I’m not too proud to whore out my own birthday party.

The steakhouse where we ate is hosting our launch podcasts. I’m swallowed up right now in all the moving parts of this thing and apparently my entire career hinges on its success. If it works, then the bullshit can fade away and I can see if Mak is something.

We weren’t publicly photographed, thank fucking God. I can’t stop thinking of how she smelled, fit in my arms, and made me feel. I’m a whipped, spell-bound pussy boy. And I’m all about her pussy, so this divorce needs to be fast-tracked. I glance at my reflection and restyle my hair. It’s pulled back with product but not stiff. It’s got the wave in it I like, and I’d give it an eight out of ten today, and sometimes, that’s the best you can hope for. We’ve texted with some frequency lately and I like it.

TONY: I’m going in. And I’m wearing the yellow tie he hates.

MAK: Who is this?

TONY: Your knight in shining armor.

MAK: Thought you were a king?

TONY: Can’t I be both?

MAK: I’ve learned in life—you don’t get both. Choose and live with the consequences.

TONY: That’s a little loaded for 9:00 a.m. EST and 6:00 a.m. your fucked-up time, but I’ll take it.

MAK: YELLOW 4 EVA!

MAK: I LOVE YELLOW.

TONY: He hates it.

MAK: All my underwear is yellow.