Loving and Loathing Vegas by Lex Chase Page B

contemplate the parameters of his wager. He stepped to the corner booth and looked outside the windows.
    Tez was a dark-sky town, not that it mattered much—even the streetlights only had the power of a sixty-watt bulb at most. And Eaven’s lights poured out over the empty streets like a soft golden nightlight.
    He nodded to Jackson. “If you win, we close Eaven for every holiday and go on vacation.”
    “Every holiday?” Jackson asked. “Even the bullshit ones like President’s Day?”
    Vegas nodded, grinning confidently. “Even Arbor Day.”
    “Shit,” Jackson hissed, brightening. “That’s some pretty high stakes.”
    Vegas shrugged. “It’s a high-stakes gamble. It’s how I roll.”
    Jackson crossed his arms and frowned. “And you always win. Deal’s off.”
    “That’s because I cheat,” Vegas said firmly. “No cheating this time. Fair and square.”
    Jackson scratched his chin. There was a certain sincerity to Vegas’s tone. Did he really mean business?
    “And if I win—”
    “Here we go…,” Jackson groaned.
    Vegas batted him on the back of the head in retaliation. “If I win, we close Eaven every holiday, including the bullshit ones like President’s Day and Arbor Day, and keep paying penance.”
    Jackson scowled. “How the hell is that a win for you? We still close the diner.”
    Vegas hooked a thumb toward the kitchen. “Because you’re going to clean the grease traps.”
    Nausea hit Jackson like a tsunami of stomach acid in the throat. He gagged under psychological suggestion. “How can you even enjoy the spoils of your prize?” Jackson asked. Surely Vegas had an underhanded plan.
    Vegas frowned, his eyebrows drawing together in that sexy, authoritative way. “Because you need to be taught a lesson in humility.”
    Jackson’s rag hit the floor as his jaw dropped open. Who did he have to hit with a bus to be taught humility by the dirtiest incubus to waltz out of the Seventh Circle? Vegas couldn’t really mean grease traps. He more likely meant trussing up Jackson like a Thanksgiving turkey and beating his ass as red as a red velvet cake.
    “Hey!” Vegas snapped his fingers in front of Jackson’s face. “Are you here right now?”
    Jackson stammered and shook his head. The fight to dismiss his delicious fantasies failed when Vegas made a pointed glance at Jackson’s half arousal filling his jeans.
    “It’s not what it looks like,” Jackson grumbled. “We’re living Viagra, you know.”
    Vegas snorted a chuckle, dismissing the awkwardness. Walking around with hard dicks in plain view was never an issue for either of them. Seventh Circle had always been “clothing optional.”
    “Fine,” Jackson spat. “What’s the bet?”
    Vegas remained silent for irritatingly dramatic effect. His grin widened with amusement, and Jackson’s cock wilted with annoyance.
    “Well?” Jackson asked, gesturing for Vegas to spit it out.
    Vegas put up a finger between Jackson’s eyes. “Wait.”
    Jackson blinked, going cross-eyed at the digit. The diner clock ticked off thirty more seconds. The neon signage flickered outside. Jackson chomped on his lower lip.
    Vegas smirked, his green eyes sharp and dangerous. “We have to fall in love.”
    The last thing Jackson remembered was the heavy thump on the back of his head from hitting the lunch counter, and his world went dark.
    “Hey,” Vegas’s voice drifted through the darkness.
    Jackson felt a rhythmic poking of flat metal at his chest. He groaned and swatted weakly. His fingers brushed against Vegas’s hand.
    “Jackie? Did you die?” Vegas asked in a baby-talk tone before poking again.
    Jackson snapped awake, jerking into a ramrod-straight sitting position. He snatched the offending metal thing out of Vegas’s hand. A spatula. He glared at Vegas. “I’m alive,” he said, and it almost came out as a condemnation. “Regrettably.”
    Vegas patted Jackson’s hair like a kitten. “But I’d miss you,” he said, pouting his