Loving and Loathing Vegas by Lex Chase Page A

time. We’re damned healers!”
    Vegas pursed his lips as he peered at Jackson. “You got that last bit from that Channing Tatum movie.”
    “Vegas! Work with me,” Jackson snapped. “Do you even feel what it’s like walking around as living Viagra?”
    “Of course I do.” He fixed Jackson with a dour look. “Because. Duh.”
    Jackson slowly rocked his hips in the customary motion. “Don’t you want your own holiday feast? We could eat our way through Santa Fe in singles looking for a good time for the holidays.”
    Vegas crossed his arms. “Grindr is not a damned menu. They’re humans. You need to respect them.”
    Jackson threw up his hands. “Why are you so impossible?”
    “How’s the counter looking?”
    Jackson made an overdramatic sigh and made another pass on the immaculate counter.
    One thousand and four.
    Pots and pans clattered, and the stream of water hissed from the kitchen—Vegas starting yet another round of washing already clean pans.
    One thousand and five , Jackson counted. He looked over his shoulder, watching Vegas in the pass-through. His face heating at how Vegas’s shoulders flexed under his tight shirt. His jeans low on his hips and frayed at the pockets, the denim dappled with stains from an array of grease, ingredients, or whatever else missed his chef’s apron. It baffled him how Vegas could get so damned dirty, yet look flawless, as if he meant to do that.
    The human world had softened Vegas. He’d adapted better than Jackson had. He fell in love with the quaint, quiet charm of Tezcatlipoca, and Jackson didn’t argue. Their super in the Seventh Circle was a bit of a prick.
    Jackson had picked up on Vegas having a thing for the bubbly redheaded guy who ran The Charms of Zephyr, a hokey New Age charms and crystals place. Over a Fourth of July bar-b-que, the guy revealed he was truly an alien from an ancient galaxy. And that was their cue to pass on the wine coolers and fireworks and make for the quickest exit.
    For Jackson, the guy was a big bucket of nope . But he knew Vegas was still sweet on him.
    They stayed friends. Awkwardly and pretending they’d never heard about his xenomorph heritage. But friends all the same.
    Vegas absolutely spent more time in the shop than he should have. Always special-ordering shit that was nowhere near authentic. Like wine coolers made with the tears of angels. Fuck if humans knew where to get genuine seraphic anguish. It was probably fucking tap water from Wisconsin.
    Jackson polished the aluminum edging on the counter.
    One thousand and six .
    He really was Sisyphus. Doomed to a worthless cause.
    He watched Vegas happily clean the pots, rinse them, and then clean them again.
    Dammit. Why did he have to be so gorgeous?
    Tall, blond, piercing green eyes in that “Top 10 Sexiest Chefs in the World” way, and a megawatt smile that could light up the Vegas Strip. Which was why he chose the name for himself when they arrived. Vegas looked the part of a high-roller and dripped with himbos when he took the casino for all it was worth. He showed everyone a good time.
    A real good time.
    But Jackson wasn’t prepared for when Vegas made a vow of celibacy.
    An incubus.
    Made.
    A vow.
    Of celibacy.
    And he decided to move them out to the middle of nowhere to make goddamn pie.
    Jackson went along with it, hoping that one day, just one day, Vegas would finally notice his incubi roomie wanted to be way more than just a roomie.
    Jackson had no idea what sex between two incubi would even be like. Would the world explode? Would he explode?
    But he’d seen what Vegas was capable of in the sack.
    And what a way to go.
    One thousand and seven .
    “Okay,” Vegas said, his voice gentle but sudden enough to startle Jackson out of his illicit thoughts. “I’ll make you a bet.”
    “Yeah?” Jackson grinned. When they had done their whirlwind casino tour, bets with Vegas were always good. In many, many ways.
    Vegas slipped out of the kitchen, seeming to