Bender (Vegas Venom Book 4)

Two Years Later…

Mare, my makeup artist, makes one last touch-up before standing back to admire me. “Girl. You look flawless. This might just be some of my best work ever.”

It’s amazing to be surrounded by this kind of positivity day in and day out. Back when I was trying to break into the industry, I had people make judgments about me all the time, and plenty of them were happy to voice their opinions right to my face.

You’re too fat. You’re too short. You’re not pretty enough.

Too fat for who? Too short for what? Who gets to decide who’s pretty and who’s not? I’ve never subscribed to traditional societal standards of beauty, and I still don’t. Sure, fatphobic haters panic when they’re forced to acknowledge that people with my body type even exist, but that’s not my problem. I’m hot as hell, and I know it. More importantly, I’m a good person with an engaging personality. People will either come around or they won’t. In the meantime, I get to flaunt my stuff in the name of all the bigger girls who, like me, don’t see people with their body types being celebrated on the regular.

Mare places one fingertip under my chin and guides me left, then right. “You’re up. Get out there and slay.”

I hop to my feet and turn to face the mirror. Mare is amazing. Instead of caking my face with eyeshadow and bronzer, she’s gone for a minimalist approach that leaves my skin glowing all while highlighting my best features. My eyeshadow is the Vegas Venom’s colors to match the product line we’re launching at this show.

I don’t work for Coach B exclusively anymore. In fact, I’m out in Vegas for more than just this show that’s focused on launching this new NHL line. The athleticwear brand is co-run by my sister-in-law, Phoebe McKay. The plus-size arm of the company, Coach B+, is her brainchild, and it’s where I got my first big break. My career took off at the same time that the company did, and that was no coincidence.

I admire myself in the mirror one last time before I take my place, waiting for my cue. Excitement builds in my stomach and then spiderwebs to all of my limbs. The crowd applauds and screams a few times for the models already walking as I shake out my arms at the elbows. Since my lunkhead brother is practically hockey royalty, I’m the finale of tonight’s unveiling, and I’m looking forward to strutting my stuff.

Sienna, the last model who’s wearing clothes featuring the main product line, walks back off the runway. Then she fist bumps me for good luck as she passes, and it’s showtime.

With one of my favorite positive anthems blaring, “High Hopes” by Panic at the Disco, I sashay out toward my first mark underneath the bright spotlights, working every inch of these track pants and matching zip-up sweatshirt. The audience consists mostly of hockey players, their plus-ones, and the investors and staff affiliated with the Vegas Venom, a team owned by Dante Giovanetti. I haven’t spent a lot of time in Vegas yet, but I recognize plenty of the players from various events and games my brother Silas has dragged me along to.

Speaking of Silas, he’s in the front row, next to his wife Phoebe. Their little boy, Austin, claps when he sees me, all sparkling eyes and chubby, smiling cheeks. The cutest tiny human in the history of the world loves his auntie. I blow him a kiss as I prance by.

And, like a total weirdo, the man sitting next to Phoebe leans over to snatch my kiss out of the air, like a die-hard fan diving to catch a fly ball at a baseball game. I’m not the least bit surprised to see that the weirdo in question is Marco Rossi. He makes a big show of kissing his palm—where my kiss landed, I guess?—and then waving as if he doesn’t even have bones in his wrist.

Silas leans to one side to size Marco up, then catches my eye. With one lift of his eyebrow and a tilt of his chin, he manages to convey, Is this guy a problem?

I love my big brother for a ton of reasons, but this is one of them. Ever since I was of the age where men could bother me… bully me… he’s made it his mission to protect me.

Not that I need protection from Marco.

The man’s strange for sure, but I think he’s more awkward than anything. English isn’t his first language, and he’s not familiar with American norms. We’ve crossed paths a couple of times, and ever since our first encounter where he watched Stella Beck shoot a classy nude of me for her coffee table book, he’s been panting after me. I don’t mind his kind of attention. It’s clumsy, but from what I can tell, he’s sincere. For sure, I don’t get any true crime vibes from him.

So instead of siccing my big brother on the man, I choose Marco as the focus for my big reveal. I bend toward him and unzip my sweatshirt while giving him a saucy wink. To his right, Anders Beck elbows him and shouts something in his ear, but Marco’s eyes are glued to my zipper as it slides down. His mouth hangs open. The poor guy is practically drooling. Maybe Italian dudes aren’t indoctrinated since birth to be fatphobic because Marco’s admiration is real.

I pull my zipper down the rest of the way and shrug the sweatshirt off to reveal the Venom-themed sports bra beneath. I drop my sweatshirt on the floor right where I’m supposed to, then turn my back to Marco. When I glance over my shoulder, his eyes bulge in their sockets and his hands are clasped beneath his chin in delight. I wink at him as I slide my thumbs under the elastic of my sweatpants and, with one quick yank, pop the snaps holding the sides in place. My track pants fall away to reveal the matching leggings beneath. The ones that perfectly hug my heart-shaped ass in a fabric caress.

The audience goes bananas, laughing and clapping as I strike a pose at the end of the runway, blow Marco his own kiss, and make my way backstage again. Mare and Sienna greet me with squeals and hugs.

“I think you gave that one guy a heart attack!” Sienna squeals. “His eyes got so big! And I swear I could see his pulse throbbing in his throat. You go, girlfriend! Way to work what the good lord gave you!”

I love my job. I love being a brand ambassador for this company. Walking in shows like this that feature models of all races, ages, sizes, and abilities really warms my heart. I feel like I’m going to be a part of changing the world of fashion in a positive way.

I can’t believe that there was a time when I almost let the haters scare me away from letting my light shine while I live my best life.

* * *

“I can’t believe that you did a striptease in front of my son,” Silas gasps when I rejoin him. Dante has organized a catered cocktail hour following the show, and my perpetually hungry brother’s not one to turn down snacks.

“Oh, please.” I swat Silas on the shoulder even though he’s almost a foot taller than me. “I didn’t show anything, and the kid spends half his day with boobs in his face anyway.”

Phoebe snorts at this assessment, so of course Silas has to double-down. He bends over to whisper something in her ear, no doubt a commentary about how he’d love to spend his days in a similar manner, and Phoebe flushes beet-red.

“So,” my sister-in-law asks in a voice loud enough to raise the dead, “have you figured out where you’ll be staying in Vegas?”

“Yeah, I just found a place in the same building as Sienna. I got a month-to-month lease, so I could extend it if I need to.” I indicate my fellow model. “We’ve worked together a couple of times, and she knows her way around Vegas. It’s centrally located, but most importantly, safe.”

Silas points a warning finger at my nose. “Don’t get into trouble while you’re out here. Because I know you, little sister. You’re trouble with a capital T, so just know that I’ll be on the first flight out here if I get wind of any shenanigans.”

I wave his hand away. “Are you really going to warn me about the dangers of Sin City, big brother?”

Silas responds, but I’m distracted by the sound of my name coming from a cluster of men over by the dessert table. My heart skids, slamming into the back of my ribcage.

“It is her! Madison! I am telling you about her before, remember?” Marco is surrounded by a trio of his teammates. His accent would stand out in a crowd, but his decibel level means that people in the next hotel can probably hear us. He’s practically shouting. “I think maybe I will never see her again, but here she is. And is she now as I am telling you? So… ample?”

Silas’s head whips around, and Phoebe’s does too. Even baby Austin gives Marco a side-eye albeit while drooling into his meaty fist. My family will go to bat for me if they think I’m being degraded in any way, which warms my heart. Apparently, they haven’t figured out that he’s harmless yet.

“Dude, shut up,” Anders Beck hisses. I’m friends with his wife, and he knows Silas from way back. “You can’t shit-talk people like that.”

“There is no shit in my mouth!” Marco insists, tapping his chin with his fingers. I’m pretty sure that’s a swear in ASL. “Do I say this wrong, Latham?”

Judging on reputation alone, I’m not sure Latham Newberry is the best target to offer advice for that particular question. The guy he points to holds up both hands. “Probably. How about you stop talking and we call it a win?”

“No, there is a word. A good word.” Marco can’t let it go, and I feel like I’m watching a train wreck. Fascinated and more than a little intrigued, I can’t look away. “Cash, what is the word for a woman who is…” He waves his hands to indicate a generous figure, then puffs his cheeks and makes a noise like he’s blowing a raspberry.

“Is he insulting her?” Silas hisses to Phoebe out of the corner of his mouth.

His wife shrugs. “Could go either way. This kind of reminds me of how you acted when we first met.”

Silas presses one hand to his chest and gasps dramatically. Over in Marco’s group, the fourth man just shakes his head.

“Voluminous?” Marco suggests.

“Dude,” Latham pleads, “just stop. You’re not doing yourself any favors. I don’t want to have to scrape you up off the floor when Silas pummels you into mincemeat.”

Marco waves his hands in the air. “I am trying to compliment! I am saying she’s so—”

“You mean voluptuous,” the fourth man says. He’s huge, with arms like stovepipes, but his hair and beard are peppered with a bit of gray.

“Si!” Marco claps his hands, then throws his arms wide as if preparing to envelope the man in a hug. “Cash, grazie amico mio!”

“Only your roommate,” Cash says, shuffling out of reach.

Marco pouts, but when he twists my way and sees my family staring at him, his face lights up. “There she is! Ciao, my Botticellian beauty, my Venus Rising from the Sea!” He sails toward me, and my eye twitches. “Ah, we meet again. I feel my heart might not be able to take such an excitement.”

“Um?” I squeak.

Silas moves to block his way at the same time that all three of his friends grab Marco and pull him back. We have a little audience now, all of whom seem personally invested in the drama unfolding in the middle of the ballroom. Eyebrows are raised. Phones are out. Chuckles are barely being contained. A huge-lipped, huge-haired, huge-boobed woman wearing next to nothing who is obviously a puck bunny talks about putting this up on the Marco blog.

The man has his own blog?

“Latham,” Anders says as he clamps one hand down on Marco’s shoulder, “could you please take Marco to get a drink?”

“I am not thirsty,” Marco whines. Then his eyes sweep over me, and he reconsiders. “Or am I? Perhaps I am thirsty for you, my modern-day Simonetta Vespucci!”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but judging by his expression, this is supposed to be another compliment.

“Please shut up,” Latham says. “I am literally begging you.”

“I am wooing!” Marco complains. “The woo woo is bueno, non?”

“No bueno.” Silas eyes up the other players. “How drunk is this guy?”

Cash grunts and taps his roommate on the chest. “Sadly, he’s sober.”

Anders nods in agreement. “I regret to inform you that he is like this all the time. However, it’s totally golden retriever energy. Spastic, but harmless.”

Marco wiggles away from them. “What? I am talking plain. Direct, like you tell me. Do not beat the bush, you say.” He turns to me. “Apparently, in US, bush beating is bad. You do not want to see what we do to olive trees.”

“I can only imagine,” I murmur. Is this guy for real? Even though my cheeks flame a bit with heat, I have to admit I find him and his antics kind of cute. At least he isn’t lukewarm like most dudes nowadays. You know the kind. They communicate in short bursts of testimonials about themselves, state their incessant and unreasonable demands of all women, and never ask you a return question. After a few hundred rounds of that nonsense, you want to delete all the dating apps for about the hundredth time.

Behind him, Cash snorts and mutters, “Beat the bush.”

Latham glares at him. “Dude. Don’t encourage him.”

Cash shrugs and points to Marco. “He said it.”

“What is funny about this bush?” Marco asks.

“We can stop talking about the bush,” I say, my voice rising above the din. “Or lack thereof.”

Every guy’s face flushes scarlet, including my brother’s. “I would pay money to unhear that,” he groans. “I feel like someone poured bleach in my ears.”

“I’m so sorry about this,” Anders says. “Guys, take him away before Miss McKay is forced to talk to the front office about him.”

Cash and Latham each wrap one of their arms around one of Marco’s and turn him around to frog-march him toward the bar. “Goodbye, Madison!” he calls over one shoulder. “I am hoping we can meet again very soon!” He blows kisses in my direction until he’s swallowed by the crowd.

Silas, usually my staunch defender, looks from me to Anders and back. He opens his mouth, but before he can intervene, Phoebe takes him by the arm. “Austin needs a diaper change,” she says. “And I want to get some of those coconut shrimp before they’re gone.” She steers him away, leaving me with a deeply apologetic Anders.

“I’m so sorry about him,” Anders sighs, flicking his wrist through the air. “He’s a good guy, I promise.”

“By slutty NHL-standards, or…?” I trail off, waving one hand in a circle to encompass the other possibilities. “Give it to me straight, Beck. Since my brother is Silas McKay, I’m not ignorant of what goes on with professional athletes. I know firsthand there are some I should avoid like the plague. And some that have the plague, if you catch my drift.”

Anders runs a hand down his beard. “Honestly, I’m not sure. He talks about his experience with women, and I’ve seen him date a time or two since he’s been here, but I’ve never seen him flirt like this before.”

My eyebrows climb toward the ballroom ceiling. “You call that flirting?”

He laughs and shakes his head, glancing in the direction that his friends disappeared. “Touché. In his defense, English isn’t his first language. Maybe not even his second. I just wanted you to know that I think he means what he’s saying. Or, you know. What he’s trying to say.”

“You’re trying to be his wingman?” I size Anders up.

“I’m trying to be his brand ambassador.” The man looks pleased with himself.

I have to laugh at that. “Make your pitch, then.”

“I like Marco, if that means anything to you.” Anders’s smile fades. “I mean it when I say he’s a good guy. I’ve known Rossi ever since he got here. I was one of the first people to meet him when he was fresh out of customs—”

Marco appears at Anders’s elbow as if summoned by magic. “As is customary.”

“Oh, good,” Anders deadpans, “you’re back. This will definitely help your cause.”

“I come in peace!” Marco insists, making a vee with his fingers. “You and me, Madison, imagine. We will bury the hatchet.” He makes another complicated hand gesture.

Latham and Cash return, this time with their friend Noah Abbott in tow. “Sorry we lost him,” Latham pants. “He gave us the slip. Seems pretty determined this time.”

“And I think he just gave me the hand signal for motorboating,” I observe.

“Of course, he did,” Latham groans. “We made the mistake of taking him to a strip club once. Some of us are not allowed back.”

Marco holds his hands up for silence. “Amici, it is my turn to speak.”

Cash rolls his eyes and mumbles, “Lord help us.”

Marco either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care. He fixes his attention on me and presses his hands over his heart. “Madison, you are voluminously talented at the runway traveling. You are my polpetta. My meatball. Tasty. Spicy.” He sighs dreamily and grins at me. “Let me be taking you on one date.”

All of the guys turn to me with these eager and almost pathetic expressions, awaiting my verdict. I haven’t been taking him seriously, mostly because I assumed that he was just messing with me. I’m not sure what to make of the fact that he seems totally sincere, but truth be told, I wouldn’t mind getting to know him better. Maybe if the two of us talked one-on-one for a while, I could figure out what his deal is. He’s easy on the eyes, that’s for sure, with jet-black hair, dancing hazel eyes, striking features, muscles upon muscles, and a charming smile with a dimple in one cheek.

I’m a sucker for dimples. They’ve always been my downfall.

I hold up a single finger. “One date. That’s all I’m agreeing to.”

“Ah!” Marco sucks in a breath and slaps both of his palms to his cheeks, then whirls to Cash. “Did you hear! Terosa mia said that she will go with me on one date!”

Cash rolls his eyes toward the heavens. “I heard her.”

Marco fumbles in his pocket for his phone, which he thrusts toward me. “Your numero, please? I nail this down immediately.”

“Talk about desperate,” Cash mutters.

I type my number into Marco’s phone, then text myself from his messenger app. Part of me is wondering what’s wrong with me for agreeing to this, but I’m still giddy from the show, and I’m curious. What’s Marco like when he’s not surrounded by his friends? How much of his attempts at flirting are bravado? Does he have a serious side?

I hold his phone back out to him. “Let me know what you have in mind. I’m going to mingle and see if I can find my friends.”

“Si, okay, a presto!” Marco waves frantically as I beat a hasty retreat across the ballroom. I can only imagine what his idea of a first—and very possibly last—date might be.

If nothing else, it’s guaranteed to be an entertaining experience.

And since I’m new in town, it doesn’t hurt to get to know people who I know won’t hurt me. Because if they even tried, Silas would open a can of whoop-ass on them.