5. Kurt

Tonight's so fucking surreal. It started with me (badly) wooing donors for my political campaign, and now I'm curled up in a semicircular Naugahyde booth with my absolute favorite porn star.

Who's so much more than that. He's charming and sweet. While he has undeniable sex appeal—that face, that height, how muscular he is—that's not what's most attractive about him. Plenty of people are good-looking. He's got something inside that pulls me to him like a magnet. I succumbed to his siren call when I watched him on-screen, but in person he's irresistible and overwhelming.

He feels a little dangerous, too. He's carrying a gun, but I'm not nervous about it. I think it's just part of his cowboy persona—hat, boots, gun, drawl.

Velvet's—er, Johnny's—strong arm is flung over my shoulders, holding me securely to his side like he doesn't want anyone here to think I'm available. Fine by me. A thrill passes through me at how easily he claims me.

I snuggle into him, noticing his thick thighs against mine, the bulge under his fly, his flat stomach. His left hand toys with a drink, while every once in a while the fingers of his right trace circles on my shoulder or bicep. His hat sits on the seat next to him, and when he talks, his lips brush my skin, making me flush.

My nerve endings are going wild, wanting more, more, more. It doesn't help that we're surrounded by sex—gyrating hot men, guys kissing in booths, some really seductive dancing off to the side. None of it compares to the big guy I'm plastered to.

I think he likes me, too. He's leaning into me because this place is loud, but I love it. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and it's distracting. He's holding me close, his touches lingering.

He's not trying anything, though, which is a bummer.

But we're sitting close to each other, and the solid warmth of his body feels like home on this cool night. Even though we're inside, the doors are all open—which is a good thing, because it'd be stifling otherwise.

"You're so damn hot," I blurt. The latest drinks are getting to me.

He grins, squeezing me to him. "So are you, precious."

I can't seem to stop my mouth from drunkenly asking, "Do you want to fuck me?"

Johnny's face gets serious, and he turns to face me more squarely. He runs a finger down my cheek. "Yeah." His voice gets husky. "I really do, but I have rules, and that means not fucking you when you're intoxicated."

A thrill passes through me at his admission. "I'm not that drunk. Am I? Okay, that's the alcohol talking, which probably proves your point. But you're just so…" I shiver. "I want you so bad. What about a little bathroom blow job?" I whine.

"Nope." He says it with a smile, but he's firm. "Later, maybe. When the booze wears off." His deep voice drops even lower. "I want you, too."

"Fine," I grumble. But then I return his smile. "I do have to take a leak, though. I'll be just a sec."

He nods as I get out of the booth. On my way to the bathroom, I look over my shoulder, and his eyes are tracking me. Like he's got my back, even though I know he's gotta be as drunk as I am—he was slurring his words when I first met him.

When I return from the sticky, dark, but functional bathroom, a guy in booty shorts and a hot pink fishnet shirt is hovering over Johnny, who looks a bit uncomfortable. My blood heats with possessiveness that I shouldn't feel about a man I just met, until I realize the guy's asking for an autograph. Johnny signs a napkin with a polite smile as I sidle up beside him, and he immediately tugs me close.

"Thanks, Velvet!" the guy coos. "You're my favorite."

The fan takes off, and I ask, "How often do you get recognized?"

"In LA? Not that much, unless I'm in WeHo or Silver Lake. In a place like this? I'd bet more than 90 percent of them know who I am."

And sure enough, the dancer must've spread the news, because five minutes later, there's a line of people wanting to take photos with Velvet the Cowboy.

"Want to go to another bar?" I ask, after he poses for the tenth photo.

He nods. "Sorry 'bout this."

"No worries." I kiss his cheek. Then I halt. "Oh my god, I'm sorry. Is kissing part of your no-no list while drunk?"

Johnny gazes intently at me. "Kissing ain't on the naughty list. I just don't wanna do more while in-tox-i-cated." He says the word slowly like he's mulling it over.

I swallow hard, staring at his lips. Wondering what they would feel like on my skin. Wishing I could make the first move. "Good to know."

He slowly looks me up and down, checking me out as much as I'm checking him out. I hold my breath.

Finally, he nods. "Let's go."

"Come on." I get up from the booth and offer my palm, which he takes.

We set out together into the increasingly chilly night, and Johnny keeps his arm around my shoulders as we walk down the crowded downtown thoroughfare. People separate around us so we don't have to break apart.

Johnny's cowboy hat shields me from the wind as he cuddles his cheek against the top of my head, and I get a whiff of his delicious scent—like cloves and orange. Spicy and sweet.

This man. He's real. He's not just on my screen.

And he's with me. No one else. I pull my shoulders back and puff out my chest. "Where'd ya get the name Velvet?" I ask.

"Joel McCrea movie from the 1950s. It was the name of the bad guy in the movie, but I thought it was cool."

"It's so cool," I gush. "You have the coolest name. I've always thought it was special. I've always thought you were special."

The alcohol is making me blabber way more than I usually do. I'm not hating it, though—the freedom to say whatever the hell I mean for once.

After we stop at a sidewalk bar for two more shots each, the night starts getting very, very fuzzy.

I'm aware of lights—the kind on a dance floor. Strobe lights. Pink and yellow and blue and purple. I like Johnny's face in all of them, but when the clear white light is on him, he looks rugged and handsome, and I think about the way he gazes at men when he fucks them, and I wish that could be me. Lights from phones and people taking selfies with Velvet. I might be in some of them.

The soft fabric of his jacket against my cheek when we dance to a slow song. His rough hand in mine. The way I slip on ice from a discarded drink and he holds me up so I don't fall.

Bitter alcohol. I'm not even sure what I'm drinking anymore. Only that it keeps me going.

The odors of cologne, cigarettes, spilled drinks, vomit, and weed. The vapes smell sweet. But plenty of people still smoke weed the old-fashioned way, and at some point, someone hands me a blunt. I don't often indulge, but I take a hit, and it burns down my throat. Johnny does, too, and I'm mesmerized by the way his meaty chest expands as he inhales.

He blows out a plume of smoke and passes me back the blunt, and between us, we finish it off.

The night was already muzzy, but now it's tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. I'm not out of control, I tell myself. But the world doesn't look quite the same way that I'm used to, and I'm pretty sure I'm wrong about still being in control.

I'm holding Johnny's hand, and I like the way it looks and feels in mine. Since he's an actor, I'd have figured his hands would be soft, but they aren't at all. He has calluses. Maybe from working out? Because you don't get muscles like he has naturally.

Or do you? Maybe real cowboys do it roping cows or whatever.

"Are you a real cowboy?" I ask.

Johnny's lips brush against my temple as he murmurs, "Yes."

"It's not just a porn name, is it?"

"It's a porn name, but I'm really a cowboy," he assures me.

"How did you get these calluses? Roping horses?"

"Not anymore. I lift weights."

"Do you like horses?"

"I do," Johnny says. "Very much."

"Did you grow up on a farm?"

He stills. After a moment, he says, "Yes, till my mama couldn't work there no more. She was the cook for a big ranch."

He opens his mouth to maybe continue, but then he stops and doesn't go on.

And I suppose he doesn't have to. There's no reason why he needs to tell me his life story.

I open my mouth to say this. That he doesn't owe me anything, and that I'm sorry I pressed. That I can be pushy when I really want something.

That I really want him.

And somehow he leans down, and I reach up, and we're kissing. A drunken, high, sloppy kiss. While the world's fuzzy, this kiss is coming through loud and clear. My body's lighting up like it's one of those fireworks displays that goes off sequentially, the electricity sparking from where our lips meet down my spine and onward to my legs, my arms. I'm alive.

Our lips are magnetized, tongues reaching into each other's mouths, teeth clacking.

I grunt and wrap my arms around his neck, and he pulls me closer, holding my ass securely as our lips press together harder and our tongues dance more. I'm trying to climb him. To wrap my arms and legs around him. To be one with him.

He smells so damn good.

He kisses like a dream.

He tastes like weed and liquor, yes, but also like some kind of arousal drug. I want him.

I've always wanted him. When I watched him on the screen, I wanted him.

But now, in the middle of Fremont Street, with people and lights and noise and smoke and smells everywhere, my world narrows down to the freckle at the corner of his eye. The slight rasp of his stubble against my skin. His subtle cologne. His hot tongue inside my mouth. His bittersweet taste.

I fucking love it.

And the way his biceps squeeze me to him. The way his hands knead my ass cheeks. The way he sounds as he groans into my mouth.

I have just enough self-control to understand that I'm in public and shouldn't drop to my knees.

But I want to. I want to suck his cock. I want to see all of him.

He's so dominating right now. I want him to dominate me.

I want to fuck him and mess around with him and keep kissing him.

I've always liked the man he is on-screen.

I like him even more in person.

"We should go find a room," I murmur in his ear as he sucks on my neck. I'm getting so hard that if I were sober, I'd be embarrassed. But I'm not, so I'm not.

It's late.

We're drunk. Lights flash around us.

"Okay, darlin'. If that's what you want. But we're still not fucking when y'all are drunk. We're … we're drunk." He's slurring, but it comes out firm.

I pout and put my hands on my hips. "Is this because you don't know me?"

"It's my rule. For everyone."

"Whoever has you for real," I say, "has a true treasure." I think about it. "So you're saying, even if I were yours, you wouldn't fuck me when I'm drunk?"

"Yep. I'd want you to remember all of it."

"I'll remember it," I insist. Even though minutes have slipped away tonight that I'm sure are lost forever. That I don't and won't remember. "What if we go back and sleep and then wake up and fuck?" I ask.

Because I want him so badly. I don't know when I'm ever going to have another chance to be with my hotter-than-the-sun crush. And he's just so sweet, besides.

"Yes, precious. That's okay." He yawns. "Sorry, darlin'. I was up early. Guess I'm a little tired. Wanna head back to the Strip?"

"Sure."

"Share a Lyft again?"

"Sure." I look around drunkenly. We can't get a car here. They aren't allowed in the pedestrian area. "We need to get to a place where they can pick us up. Then I'll order a ride."

We head in what I'm pretty sure is the right direction, but stop at a place selling shots and each take two more because the buzz is wearing off.

Then, when we're almost to the street, we pass a twenty-four-hour wedding chapel, its doors open and the wedding march playing loudly from speakers. A group of ten people walk out, and a happy couple is kissing on the steps.

"Oh my god," I whisper. "Look! We should do that!"

"Get married?" Johnny's eyes are wide as saucers, even though they're reddened by alcohol and smoke. "Why?"

"When in Vegas! Come on, Johnny Haskell. Marry me."

"Are you serious?"

I nod.

"Why?" Johnny asks.

"I like you. And we're in Vegas! We'll be married, and then we can have our wedding night, and you can fuck me anytime you like."

He widens his stance. "Darlin', I've fucked plenty of men without being married to any of them."

"But I want you to only fuck meeee," I slur.

His eyes latch onto mine. "You've never fucked me. What if I suck?"

"I hope you do suck," I say, and waggle my eyebrows, which makes him chuckle.

And he relents. "I guess, if this is the last night of my life, I might as well get hitched," he mutters, low but audible.

What does he mean? This isn't the last night of his life.

Maybe he's talking about living each day to the fullest, and all that, because you never know what'll happen.

I learned that lesson with Andrei.

What's he doing in my brain? No, drunk brain. No!

I don't know why I'm so insistent on us getting married. Except that I want to lasso Johnny. Strap him to me and keep him. I like being in his presence. I like the way he lights me up. I want to be with him.

It's not just like or want—it's an overwhelming need. I need this man. I must have him.

I walk triumphantly into the wedding chapel holding his hand. Velvet the Cowboy is mine, motherfuckers. Although, if I'm marrying him, I should only think of him as Johnny.

Johnny Haskell is mine, motherfuckers. That sounds better.

Inside, the chapel is … okay. Chipped paint and white decor. Lots of silk flowers. It's fake nice. Not real nice.

But a wedding is an excellent idea. In fact, it's the best idea I've ever had.

People ask us questions. We answer them. We sign documents. We buy rings. I think I maybe pull out my credit card. Someone holds up a camera, and we smile.

And then we say, "I do."

We kiss, and it's as electric as the one earlier. Maybe more so, because I knew it was coming.

More photos.

And when we pile into a Lyft to go back to Johnny's hotel room, I almost immediately fall asleep in the car.

He's shaking me awake, and I'm stumbling out into the night.

An elevator door.

The lurch of the elevator moving.

The hallway holding me up.

Johnny's hand on mine.

He fumbles for a key and lets me into a room.

I take off my clothes.

And bed.

Bed looks very good.

I don't remember anything else.