(If you missed last week’s post on the adventures of erotic historical romance author Delilah Marvelle, click here.)
When I found Delilah I knew the evening wasn’t over. After all, we’re talking about Ms. Marvelle!
The two of us crossed the bridge away from the hotel-with-the-bar-that-served-the-evil-absinthe. All the while she gushed about her *awesome* experience. Bartender . . . Other dudes . . . Learned a lot . . . Research . . . Everyone so nice. . ..
Me: Glad you had a good time. Watch your step.
Delilah (looking at the stairs like it was the most brilliant thing she’d ever seen): I want to go for a run. Let’s go for a run! Now!
Me: Not a good idea.
Delilah (pouting): Why not?
Me: It’s the middle of the night, the strip is packed, and we’re not in running gear. We need to wait ‘til morning.
Delilah: We could change.
And that was pretty much the tone of the conversation, which included her hitting me up to go dancing, or to head to another bar. All this wrapped around exclamations of how *amazing* she felt. And giggles. Lots and lots and LOTS of giggles.
Glad one of us felt that way. I just wanted to get her back to the room.
We finally entered the casino doors to our hotel, so I thought we were in the home stretch. Not quite.
Now, it probably wouldn’t have been such a surprise if I’d actually visited the casino at night, but did you know half-nekkid girls dance on these elevated stages on the casino floor? Even in six-inch heels their legs were right about eye level with dudes (and dudettes). How were Blackjack players supposed to concentrate on their cards? No wonder the casino raked it in.
I stared. Couldn’t help it. Unfortunately, neither could Delilah.
Delilah (pointing as she made a beeline away from me): I want to dance with them!
Me (grabbing her hand and practically dragging her): I should let you. Then I could take pictures and post them. But there’s a good chance you’ll get arrested. We need to get you to the room.
That dragging thing? Did it the entire way through the casino. Along with some serious whining about just wanting to have some fun. Seriously.
Once in the elevator, she insisted on pushing the button for our floor. I figured it was harmless.
And then a pleasant, elderly gentleman entered the elevator. You know the kind. Like a grandpa with kind eyes who’d play ball, and make you peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and tell you all about the old days. Got that picture?
Delilah (to same gentleman): What’s your room number?
Gentleman (Pauses. . .. Absorbs her question, then turns me): Gee, they usually ask you what you’re doing tonight, first.
Me (cringing): Yeah. Sorry about that. She’s not well.
Delilah (laughing so hard she’s doubled-over): I’m fine, I’m fine.
Sure. About as fine as propositioning grandpa. Thankfully, our floor was before the other guy’s.
At the end of the night, I finally got her to bed. Took away her phone for a bit so she wouldn’t drunk-post anything. That was a trick and a half. She giggled like a child then finally, finally went off into la-la land looking ever-so-innocent.
So much for her being a grown-assed woman who could take care of herself. . ..*sigh*
Any guesses how many bags of Peanut M&M’s that Jessica Adams, the heroine in my debut book, MERGER OF THE HEART, would’ve consumed? Here are your choices:
Although I gotta admit I’m curious about absinthe, about what Delilah thought was so *amazing* about it. Since I’m headed back to Vegas later this year, I wonder if curiosity will override my good sense? Any bets out there?