CHAPTER THREE
RILEY
Time zones confuse the s**t out of me, especially when my internal clock is on ranch hand time—up at the ass c***k of dawn and in bed before midnight. I left at four, was on a three-hour flight, and landed at five.
After we grab our s**t, Diesel and I make our way to the hotel. Instead of renting a car, we use a shuttle to drop us off on Las Vegas Boulevard. I’m in awe as I look around at the buildings, bright lights, and all the tourists strolling the sidewalks. I can’t f*****g wait to go out tonight.
“Aw s**t!” Diesel says, beaming. “We’re gonna tear this place up. Ooh wee!” he yells, bringing attention to the two of us, not that we needed any. Considering we’re both wearing cowboy boots and hats in the middle of the busiest street in Vegas, we’re doing just fine
