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wearing right now alarmed her. Good, she said cautiously. There s something you want to tell me,
isn t there?
She had no idea what it could be, but it was definitely not that Elton John tickets were up for grabs
in the lobby.
Joe sighed, flipping his cigarette into the ashtray by the front door. You know how the game
works, Suzanne, so you remember you have to take it with a grain of salt and just ignore it.
Ignore what? This was not reassuring, and her mouth felt hot. There must be buzz about her being
in Vegas with Ryder.
That racing gossip blogger, the one who goes by that stupid name Tuesday Talladega, has a post
up about Ryder. Joe shoved his hands in his pockets. Normally, I wouldn t say anything, it s just a
bunch of bullshit gossip, but with everyone in town for the awards ceremony . . . well, I figured you d
want to know what people are saying.
Thanks, Joe, I appreciate it. Though he hadn t told her what people were saying. Not a good sign
at all. Have a good night.
Yeah, you, too. Joe waved and moved off.
Suzanne walked into the hotel, glancing around for the business center. Spotting the concierge
instead, she asked him to direct her, and five minutes and an impatient elevator ride later, she was in
front of a computer looking up Tuesday Talladega s blog.
What she saw there had the words on the screen blurring in front of her angry eyes.
The subject header for the blog entry was Manwhore Alert: Ryder Jefferson Back in Action.
Suzanne gripped the mouse tightly and forced herself to keep reading.
Below that was not one, but three pictures of Ryder at various locations around the Wynn hotel,
clearly at different times, most definitely with different women.
Number two driver Ryder Jefferson takes girl number four to his favorite hot spot in Las Vegas,
the Wynn Hotel, which, of course, is all on the corporate sponsor s dime. Must be nice to have
your bimbo du jour at your side at no cost to you, though you d think even he would try a little
harder to at least pretend these are something more than meaningless hook ups with women who
make drift-wood look intelligent. Our advice to you, Mr. Jefferson, is to mix it up. With all the
hotels in Vegas, surely you can choose a different one for each of your extremely romantic trysts
in Sin City.
But that would mean he d have to foot the bill himself, wouldn t it?
Then below that there was a picture of her with Ryder, arms around each other in the lobby of the
hotel. It was taken yesterday, given her outfit.
The nausea hit Suzanne like a cannonball to the gut, and she took short shallow breaths, afraid she
was either going to faint or throw up.
The latest woman to accompany him is his ex-wife, Suzanne Jefferson, nee Hickey (I can see why
she kept the married name, I mean, dude, Hickey?) in town together for Champions Week. Not
known for getting along in the best of times, this sudden tender reunion has a lot of heads
scratching and the media scrambling for the details of their prenup. Turns out the alimony ran out
in October, which only goes to show you that money and sex do make the world go round and keep
our lives as spectators all that much more entertaining.
She s a little bit country, he s a little bit rock n roll, folks, and one of stock car racing s most
famous couples is back in action.
Cue the karaoke and the chocolate fountain, and let s hope this race lasts longer than their first
time on the track.
That bitch. That lower-than-a-snake-belly blogging bitch. How dare she say that Suzanne was
dating Ryder for his money? That was the last reason in the world she would be with any man.
Then there was Ryder. Where the fuck did he get off taking her to the same goddamn hotel he d
taken other women? The only thing that would be worse would be if he d taken those sluts to the
Bellagio where she and Ryder had honeymooned. If that were the case, then Suzanne would have had
to cut off his junk and have fed it to the white tigers.
As it was, she just still might.
Suzanne started to read the comments people had posted in response to the blog, but after seeing
people write that she was an idiot and/or a gold digger, she just closed the window on the screen and
pushed the chair back. She was no gold digger, but she was an idiot. Tears streaming down her face,
she ducked her head and fast-walked to the elevator, praying it would be empty.
It wasn t, and she had to pretend there was something in her eye for the elderly couple gazing at her
in concern. When she finally got to the haven of their room, Suzanne went for her empty suitcase and
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