Eve
YOU SEE THAT big pink RV parked next to Lake Mead? That vehicle screams look at me. I painted sparkly rainbows and unicorns on both sides, along with my business name. Perfectly Princess Parties. The bling is great advertising, like driving a moving billboard around Las Vegas.
I put the princess in party—there isn’t a five-year-old girl (or boy, frankly) in Vegas who doesn’t believe I’m made of awesome. I specialize in birthday parties—we’re the precake entertainment. We’ve got the dresses, the sparkle and the attitude to keep our audience riveted and wanting to be us when they grow up. Eventually, at some point between five and twenty-five, those same girls will realize it takes more than a dress and a crown to rule the universe, but the fantasy’s fun while it lasts. And yes, I’m cynical. You meet more frogs than princes in my business. Ever notice how there’s an overabundance of amphibians in every fairy tale—and a corresponding drought of royal suitors?
It’s a numbers game.
Since it’s about a million degrees in Vegas today, we’re holding our monthly company meeting lakeside. Despite being as manmade as most Vegas attractions, the lake’s gorgeous. After running through our bookings for the next month and brainstorming new party ideas, we’ve vacated our temporary boardroom (the picnic table underneath a particularly gnarly Joshua tree) for a well-earned swim.
I float in the lake, trying to pretend I’m not still thinking about our financial bottom line and how to drum up more business. Income-wise, we haven’t hit survival levels yet. I tilt my head back, and everything’s better in my relaxed, upside-down world. My three part-time princesses may moonlight as showgirls on the Strip, but they’re paying their bills. Our singing dragon doubles as an Elvis impersonator. He’s crooning the King’s finest to my accountant. Everybody’s taking a moment to let loose just a little and enjoy. We’re going to get there eventually—there being financial security, fat 401Ks and permanent employment.
In fact, the only person not here? Rocker. My business partner and baby brother swore he’d meet us here, but he’s once again failed to make an appearance. He’s busy at an auto body shop where he does custom paint jobs. Plus, he rides with the Black Dogs MC. He swears the motorcycle club is completely on the up-and-up. According to him, the stuff you see in the TV shows or read about on the internet is 98 percent crap and untrue.
It’s the other 2 percent that worries me.
My baby brother now stands a whopping six feet two inches tall. I practically raised Rocker after our parents flaked out on us, and I did the best I could. Money and education—those two things keep you safe, get you out of the lousy neighborhood and into the good places. The princess party business is our first-class ticket out of East Las Vegas to somewhere else. Somewhere safe. I may not know much about clubs or colors, but I do know that bikers are the opposite of safe—and Rocker’s been acting secretive.
A splash sounds somewhere south of my feet and someone tugs on my toes. “Cavalry’s here.”
I sit up fast, butt bumping on the bottom of the lake. Carlie laughs, but she’s already staring up the road, longing painted all over her face. My brother turned out to be hot and the bad-boy-biker thing is just the cherry on the sundae as far as some of my employees are concerned. Carlie starts finger-combing her hair and plumping her boobs up in her teeny-tiny bikini top—a definite Rocker alert.
Sure enough, a big, shiny, way-too-loud Harley approaches our temporary campsite at Mach Seven speed. Rocker drives too fast. He also brakes too late and too hard, his tires sending up a cloud of dust as he stops next to the RV. I wade out of the lake, grab my towel and brace myself for the excuses. He’s endlessly creative when it comes to explaining his absences.
“Looks like I’m late to the party.” A charmingly rueful grin curves Rocker’s mouth. Objectively, I see exactly what makes Carlie daydream about my brother. Dark blond scruff shadows killer high cheekbones and his hair falls around his face in wicked disarray. His legs straddle the bike, encased in worn denim and ending in a pair of impressive black motorcycle boots.
He hops off the bike and sweeps me into a bear hug, grinning down at me. This is why I can’t stay mad at him—no matter what we’ve done or how infrequently we see each other now, he’s always glad to see me. He loves me, and he’s not afraid to let other people know it. Carlie practically swoons behind me as he plants a gentle kiss on my forehead. A guy who’s not afraid to admit his feelings is a prince and is just as rare.
“Fashionably late, Rocker?”
He flicks my nose lightly. “I got held up. Club business.”
It’s always club business with him. “I needed you here.”
He makes a show of looking around the site. “Looks like you’ve got everything covered.”
Uh-huh. We’ve had this conversation before, and it does not improve with age. “We’re supposed to be partners.”
“I’m the silent partner who provided the start-up cash. You provided the brains.”
He gives me another easy smile, but I can tell he’s done discussing this. He’s got a point, too. I need a squeaky-clean image to appeal to the mom crowd—so by hanging back, he’s actually doing me a favor. Plus, if I push him too hard, he’ll just get back on his bike and leave. So I cave.
“You look tired.” This isn’t a polite lie on my part—there are purple shadows beneath his eyes and his pretty face is slightly worn.
“Club’s keeping me busy.” His tone makes it clear that this is another conversational no-fly zone.
“You know you have a job with me anytime you want it.” We’ve had this conversation only about a million times, but it bears repeating. I will always be here for Rocker.
He tilts his head at the RV. “You really see me driving around in that thing?”
“What’s wrong with the Princess Mobile?” Admittedly, the gas mileage sucks, but she gets us where we need to go, she’s great advertising and she has honest-to-God turrets. Pop that sucker up and I can play Rapunzel on demand. It holds my costumes and props, and it gets my princesses from one party to the next.
Rocker’s just starting to list all the reasons a pink ride isn’t his thing when his phone goes off. He looks down and then disappears briefly to take the call.
“I have to go,” he says, sauntering toward me.
Yeah. Color me shocked.
He pulls me into a one-armed hug. “Be extra careful for me, Evie girl?”
“I’m always careful,” I tell him, and sadly, it’s the truth. I’m a color-between-the-lines girl—he doesn’t need to worry about me.
“Promise me,” he insists and I think he’s actually serious.
“You want to be more specific?”
He curses. “Evie—”
“Does