Page 10 of Betting on her Best Friend
So this is what hell looks like.
Shaking his head, he turned his back on the gaudy spectacle and strode into the revolving doors. The registration area was backed up with a half dozen lines. He didn’t want to wait forever just to find out where he needed to go, and Alyssa’s phone was going straight to voicemail.
Instead, Dylan stepped onto the carpet of the casino and searched for the first person who might be able to point him in the right direction.
Bingo.
Standing by a blackjack table was a Black man in a black suit who carried himself as though he owned everything his eyes landed on. No, not owned, Dylan realized. Protected. Like a fierce knight guarding his majesty’s kingdom. And somehow, the fact that he couldn’t be any taller than five seven didn’t diminish his badass appearance.
“Excuse me,” Dylan said. The man, whose name tag read McGill-Pit Boss, turned those piercing brown eyes on him in a way that made Dylan want to get to the point. “Can you point me in the direction of where the romance convention is taking place?”
McGill raised a sharp brow toward his shaved-bald head as he gave Dylan a quick once-over. Dylan shifted in his work boots and forced himself not to glance down at his dirty jeans and dust-streaked, black Aleksander Construction T-shirt.
“Up the escalator,” he said in a clipped tone. “Second-floor ballroom.”
Dylan nodded his thanks and wound his way through the slots to the tile floor and the double set of escalators by the registration area. Both sets were packed with people, so he was forced to stand still for the endless journey to the second floor. Impatient to find Alyssa, he glanced at the screen on his phone and cringed at the digital 9:27 screaming back at him.
A year later, he finally reached the second floor and possibly another dimension. It was like stepping outside of a black and white farmhouse into the Technicolor rainbows of Oz.
Ninety-nine percent of the people on this level lacked a Y chromosome and came in all different shapes, sizes, ages, and colors. A group of women walked by wearing strange outfits that looked like they couldn’t decide if they should attend a ball, work on a railroad, or challenge someone to a duel with pistols.
A closer look revealed many of the women wore costumes, but he couldn’t see any sort of theme or pattern. Did romance readers dress up as their favorite characters like the people who went to comic cons did? If Alyssa was made up as some fictitious character, it would take him even longer to find her. By then, she could be itch-free, courtesy of some asshole with strong aversions to wearing shirts or even his own body hair. His heart picked up a beat and so did his legs. He needed to find her, fast.
Every time he saw the back of a blonde with long hair, he expected to find Alyssa. But each time he tapped someone on the shoulder, he’d been disappointed when they turned. One time, it’d actually been one of the cover models. The guy tossed his hair behind his shoulder and winked suggestively. Dylan mumbled an apology and made a hasty retreat.
Finally, he noticed a commanding woman in her seventies, her gray hair smoothed back into a perfect roll, pointing and handing out orders to staff members as easily as he did on his jobsites. Maybe she could tell him where the night’s big event was being held so he could look for Alyssa as people walked in and out. He’d probably have better luck that way than walking around playing a real-life version of Where’s Waldo?
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m trying to find the big event for tonight’s conference.”
“You must mean the Welcome Party, but I don’t see your registration badge.”
That must be the name tag pouches hanging around everyone’s neck. “I’m sorry, I just got in so I’m not exactly sure—”
“Oh! No, I’m sorry. I completely forgot that my assistant told me one of the models had a delayed flight. I’m Patricia, the hostess. Come along, I’ll show you where the dressing room is.”
Patricia slipped her arm through his and led him through the crowd as she glanced at her watch. “Nine thirty. Well, the party started at eight, but better late than never.”
Dylan knew he should say something. He should come clean about his identity because somewhere out there was the real model arriving on a delayed flight and then Dylan would be discovered as a fraud. But what if this was the only way he could get access to the convention? He supposed he could wait until the next day when registration opened again. Then he’d have one of those badge thingys and be allowed in anywhere.
But by then Alyssa could be having breakfast in bed with Fabio Junior.
Fuck. That.
Patricia opened a door to a small conference room that had been turned into a pseudo-dressing room. Men’s clothes and gym bags were scattered across various chairs. A full-length mirror was turned on its side and propped on a long table against the wall. Hair products and makeup were lined up in groups on the table in front of chairs.
Dylan was lost. “Now what, ma’am?”
“Oh, sorry. Your costume is hanging on the rack over there, and you can use the mirror to get yourself all gussied up.” She pinched his cheek like his grandmother often did, then spun on her heel and clipped over to the door. “Once you’re ready, just go through that other door and you can slip into the party with no one the wiser.”
In the next moment, Patricia breezed out of the room and left him isolated in a room with man makeup and… Dylan crossed the room to the rack with the lone costume. Oh, hell no. A Tarzan costume? He might as well cut his balls off now because there was no way his dignity or male pride would survive wearing that in public.
Suddenly, a woman’s squeal cut through the din of muffled voices near the door that led to the ballroom. The murmurings of a man and their joint laughter followed. An image of Alyssa on the other side of the flimsy partition being fondled and cajoled into another man’s bed set his teeth on edge.
To hell with his pride. He’d be the best goddamn Tarzan this conference had ever seen until he found his “Jane” and cut her night—and her quest—short. Then, in the privacy of her room, he’d give her exactly what she wanted: excitement, passion, and multiple orgasms. Batteries not included.
* * *
Dylan?Alyssa’s heart skipped a beat as she glimpsed a familiar head of sandy hair over Mark the Booty Call’s shoulder before he darted out of her line of sight. She scanned the crowd as Mark droned on about his latest photoshoot in Maui, desperately searching for her best friend. Coming up empty, she realized how ludicrous the idea was that Dylan would be there. Her eyes—or the lemon drops—were playing nasty tricks on her. The last place she’d ever find Dylan Aleksander was at a romance convention.
