On the Way Down

Chapter One

"Be nice to people on your way up because you'll meet them on your way down." –Wilson Mizner

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Like most of my questionable life choices, the overnight trip to Vegas masqueraded as a good idea at the time.

"What isn't fabulous about this plan?" Ava, my best friend, asked me two days ago after she suggested going. "We get out of L.A. for a night and finally catch Torin's band. You've been saying how much you want to see them play for ages, and you haven't left your condo in weeks."

She was right on all counts, and especially the part about me being a recluse. It's what I do when I'm neck-deep in research for a new novel. Ava knows this, and it drives her bananas when I decline her invitations for weeks on end, but she understands why I do it and loves me anyway.

I owed her a night out, though. Countless hours of holing up at home with only my laptop and news articles about a murder case for company also had me starting to climb the walls. So I said yes, and now here we are in Sin City, smack in the middle of casinos and chaos.

It still seemed like a good idea as recently as three minutes ago, when Ava and I abandoned our blackjack table in The Auriga and headed for Nebula, the casino's hidden speakeasy where our friend's band has a standing Saturday night gig. It hit me then, as we glided past the cacophony of clinking poker chips and whirling slot machine chimes, that I'm in this for the long haul tonight. Me, the sleep fanatic who's usually watching TV or reading a book in bed by ten o'clock. Torin's band doesn't go on until eleven-thirty, and he already texted Ava about the after party at his house when they're done.

The bar had better have energy drinks to keep me standing.

"Ava Sinclair plus one."

The doorman checks a list and unhooks a rope to let us inside a room that looks like a cozy café adorned with a starlit ceiling, flickering candles on each table, and twinkling fairy lights in every corner. I'm confused when we walk past people sitting at tables, since the café is small and there's no stage in sight, but Ava appears to know where we're going. We follow someone to a door marked as a supply closet. It turns out to be the entrance to a small enclosure outside of another metal door that's opened for us a moment later.

"Isn't this great?" Ava's hazel eyes sparkle as she nudges me forward.

I step inside a lounge decorated with dark wood, tufted velvet sofas, ornate chandeliers, and a starlit ceiling like the one in the café. A crowd has already gathered at the bar on one side of the room, and another one is forming in front of the empty stage.

"Hold us a spot near the front," Ava says. "I'll get our drinks."

"I don't drink when I'm writing a book," I remind her. "It disrupts the flow."

"You aren't writing a book tonight. You're in Vegas, at a bar, enjoying life."

She winks at me and takes off before I can ask for something with caffeine in it. I resign myself to a single drink and make my way to an unoccupied spot close to the stage.

"Delaney Sharpe," a familiar voice booms from behind me. "How did Ava manage to drag you out of L.A.?"

Torin sweeps me into a hug the instant I turn around. "Didn't she tell you I was coming?" My words are muffled by his shoulder.

"She did, but I had to see you here with my own eyes first. It's been forever." He loosens his hold and takes a step back, his gaze sweeping over me. "You look amazing, by the way."

I'm not sure how my current vampire ways of staying indoors all day, tapping at my keyboard, and barely letting my skin see sunshine have led to a compliment about my appearance, but I'll take it. I did at least make an effort to add curling-iron beach waves to my normally straight blond hair, and I let Ava talk me into wearing a short silk skirt she just happened to bring with her. The knee-high black leather boots I'm wearing also snuck along for the ride to Vegas, since Ava grabbed them from my closet when she came to pick me up this morning and declared herself my stylist for the day.