I'm still seeing trails when I leave the deejay booth, and Mickey walks me to the waitress station at the bar.

"Was it as good for you as it was for me?" He pulls off his gloves, and I give him a thumbs-up as I catch my breath.

"Your skills will be legendary."

"Do you want something from the bar?"

"I could go for a Coke."

He snaps a light on one of his gloves and uses it to gesture to a waitress heading toward us. Her tray is piled with fluorescent ice cubes, and she smiles at him as she leans into his ear. Whatever she says has him smiling back. When he orders my drink, she glances over his shoulder, taking in all five foot five inches of me, including the heels. It's just a soda, lady. Don't give me that I know you're not twenty-one look.

She slips behind the bar and Mickey turns his attention back to me, folding his arms across his chest like he's been tasked with an interrogation. "So, you and Clutch go way back, huh?"

It's a reasonable question. I was the only girl following Clutch up the stairs, but I'm wondering what makes him ask. Clutch and I never got friendlier than a hug. "Not too far back. I don't even know his real name."

"Well, he seems to know a lot about you. He told me you're old Vegas."

I'm not old anything.

"He's caught a few of my gigs. He's good about promoting local talent."

"Well, I heard you've got a ton of it. He says you sing like an angel."

"Clutch exaggerates."

"His name is Aaron...for future reference."

The waitress hands me a soda and gives Mickey something in a glowing test tube that probably isn't as harmless. They delve into conversation while she loads her tray with fresh drinks, and I scan the club for Presley and Loki. I'm probably already on Presley's shit list for abandoning her on the dance floor. As I sip from my plastic cup, I feel the eyes of a dark-haired stranger on my back. I turn to acknowledge him.

Batman returns.

Smiling, I offer a two-finger salute. I'm so high from post-performance hormones that his come-hither eyes don't even phase me. Did I piss him off when I left him on the dance floor? Guys get their egos bruised easily. Currently, he's got a blonde chick chatting him up, a cigarette slid between her dragon lady nails, her red lips moving as she speaks close to his ear. He doesn't appear to be listening to her. His target is short and stacked.

Batman says something before abandoning dragon lady at the plexiglass wall, and her lips curl into a pout as he walks toward me. Brilliant. Let's piss off the girlfriend, too.

"You seem to have celebrity status around here." He lifts the collar on his trench like he's trying to hide a hickey. His skin is tan, but it's natural not bottled. His features scream Ben Barnes. It's the eyes. No, the lips.

Damn.

"Sure. One of a million." I swig my drink, trying to look casual, but my nerves are tweaking.

"Shouldn't that be one in a million?"

"That'll come later, after I make my first million."

"And how do you plan to make it?" His eyebrows crank up like he's suggesting something totally out-of-the-question.

"A little singing. A little tinkling on the ivories."

He smiles and bobs his head like he just won a bet with someone. "I had a feeling there was more to you than impeccable dance moves. What's your name?"

"Melody, but everyone calls me Mel."

"Have you had much exposure, Mel, besides giving lip service to deejays?"

And there it is. The question I have to give my lame answer to. But exposure is exposure. "I've played a few venues here and there. I performed at this year's Fourth of July concert at Planet Hollywood. Right now, I'm working a regular Sunday gig at Fire in the Hole on Lady Luck Way. Mostly covers: Beatles, Eagles, Steely Dan. I've written a few of my own, but they're not ready for prime time."

Cool your jets, Mel. You're rambling.

"Steely Dan? I like them. I'm looking for entertainment for a party my family is throwing next weekend. Do you keep a recording on you?"

Shit! My demo.

"Sadly, in my haste to catch my ride, I forgot to grab it. I've got a recording on my phone, but it might be hard to hear over the chaos."

He jerks his head toward the elevator room. "You can give me a live demo in one of those elevators. It'll be quieter."

His smile could melt a Mona Lisa ice sculpture, but I'm not falling for it.

"You're cute and all, but I'm not climbing into an elevator alone with you. I'd be happy to mail you a CD." I'm having a hard enough time not being suspicious of the fact that I've run into the guy three times tonight. I glance down the bar. Where the hell is Loki? He could be my backup. "If you give me a second to find my friend, Loki, the three of us can share an elevator."

He chuckles. "Are you talking about the tall Korean guy who looks like he wants to rebrand Kiss?"

Apparently, Batman has been paying attention. "He's half Korean. And he also plays music."

"So, you're a duo?"

"No. We don't duo."

He nods and scans the club like he's helping me look for Loki. While he does that, I get lost in the curve of his manicured face. Is that a cleft hiding under his goatee? He's definitely over twenty-one.

"Here comes your musician friend." He points at Loki, who is sprinting toward us like a father who has just spotted his lost child.

"Here you are," Loki pants. "It's after midnight and we were supposed to do a group text. But you never . . ."

I pat his arm. "Geez, Loki. I was just up in the deejay booth. Didn't you see me?"

"Of course. Everybody saw you, Mel." He glances at Batman. "So, is everything okay here?"

"You're timing is perfect, actually. I forgot my CD at home, and I need a bodyguard for a demo in the elevator."

"A demo for who?" Loki and I both look at Batman, and I realize I don't even know the guy's name.

"My name is Hart," Batman says.

Loki's wearing a funny look, like he thinks I've left my brain at home. What he doesn't know is that I rarely pass up an opportunity. At the worst, I spend a few more minutes in the presence of hotness. I grab Loki's arm before he has a chance to question my motives and drag him toward the elevators.

I probably look desperate as I glance back to check on Hart. He's right on our heels, slipping through the crowd like smoke. There's something about him that screams con-artist and something else that keeps me hopeful. Typically, I'd be shaking like a Volkswagon with a crappy clutch, especially if I think someone is legit. But the stunt in the deejay booth really boosted my confidence. Hopefully, it's not wasted on this slick-haired cutie.

We arrive at the elevators and Hart grabs one as it empties. The three of us step in, the door shuts, and Hart presses the stop button before the elevator has a chance to move.

"Okay, Mel. Let's see if you can sing as sweet as you dance." He leans against the mirrored wall, while Loki stands like a statue, staring at me with those ginormous blue eyes. My legs stiffen like cement and so does my throat.

Crap.

Maybe I'm not feeling as confident as I previously thought. What kind of acoustics does an elevator have? Will I sound like a basset hound in a bathroom? I take a swig of soda, hand it to Loki, and close my eyes so I don't have to look at myself in all these damned mirrors.

I choose my go-to song, Tequila Sunrise—the one I've been known to repeat in my sleep. Thankfully, the silver-plated elevator doesn't screw up my voice, and I focus on hitting the notes, ignoring the thumping bass outside the door. I manage to pull off a flawless demo, despite the knot trying to strangle my throat. When I finish the last verse, I open my eyes. They're both staring. Well, Loki is staring. He doesn't come to my gigs, so I think I just impressed the hell out of him.

"That's a killer voice you've got," Hart says.

"Mel comes from a musical family. Her grandpa is Charlie Grecco, a Vegas icon." Loki reveals my life story like he's my agent or something.

"Is that so?" Hart reaches into the pocket of his trench and pulls out a business card and a pen. He writes something on the card and hands it to me. "This is my cell number. Not many people have it and I'd like to keep it that way. Call me before Wednesday if you're interested in performing for a private party at The Wynn Hotel next weekend."

He presses a button on the elevator and the door slides open, letting the bass in. Then, without a backward glance, he's lost to the flashing lights. I clutch the small slip of paper to my chest, waiting for my heart to stop thumping. Was it a good omen that our paths crossed three times tonight? Could this be my golden ticket? Hart never said he was a talent scout, but I never asked either.

Before I let myself get happy, I glance at the card, hoping it will give me a clue. Next to the phone number is a single printed word—Hart.

So not helpful.

https://youtu.be/1K0N7UaZpz8