The Stand-In

Chapter 1: Neon and Nervous Energy

The email landed in my inbox with the innocuous subject line: "Action Required: Velocity Conference Logistics." Velocity was the ridiculously named annual user conference for EngageFlow, the marketing automation platform that Lucy practically lived in and I begrudgingly administered. Usually, this email meant booking a block of dreary hotel rooms near the convention center in some forgettable mid-tier city. This year, however, the location was Las Vegas.

My first thought was a reflexive sigh. Vegas. Three days of forced networking, stale conference air, and pretending to be fascinated by roadmap presentations. My second thought, however, was Lucy.

"Did you see the Velocity email?" Her message popped up in Slack almost instantly. Lucy had an uncanny sixth sense for anything EngageFlow related.

"Just opened it," I typed back. "Vegas, huh?"

"I know! Wild. Chris is bummed he can't make it work, schedule-wise. You?"

"Same boat. Jennifer has that big charity gala planning committee thing she's chairing. No way she can bail."

A beat of silence, then: "Well... at least we'll have each other? Misery loves company?" Followed by a winking emoji.

I smiled faintly. "Something like that. Company expense account in Vegas isn't the worst kind of misery."

And that was that. Simple, practical. The way things always were between Lucy and me. We were work friends, colleagues who genuinely got along despite the decade separating us and our fundamentally different roles in the small ecosystem of OptiSource Software. We navigated the choppy waters of software integrations and marketing campaigns together, a reliable IT-Marketing duo. We talked almost every day, shared office gossip, occasionally grabbed lunch.

But lately, something had shifted, subtly, almost imperceptibly, and entirely within the confines of my own head. It started a few weeks ago, on one of those rare days when the usual lunch crew had scattered, leaving just Lucy and me to wander down to the Thai place on Pike Street. Walking back, sunlight glinting off the Seattle drizzle, I'd noticed the looks. Not just the appreciative glances men always gave Lucy -- she was, objectively, stunning in a way that seemed almost effortless -- but the secondary looks directed at me. A flicker of envy from a guy in a suit, a nod of grudging respect from another walking past with his own, much plainer, companion. They thought we were together. And a weird, illicit little thrill had shot through me.

My wife, Jennifer, is attractive, smart, successful. We have a comfortable life. But Lucy... Lucy turned heads in a way that rearranged the air around her. That day, walking back from lunch, I'd felt a ridiculous, borrowed sense of pride. And later, alone at my desk, the fantasy had begun to spool out: What if? What if I was the guy lucky enough to be on the arm of someone like Lucy, someone who commanded that kind of attention just by existing? It was a harmless thought experiment, I told myself. A mental vacation from the comfortable predictability of my life. I had zero intention of ever letting it bleed into reality. Our friendship was easy, uncomplicated. Why ruin it?

The flight to Vegas was predictably mundane. We talked work strategy for the conference -- divide and conquer the sessions, compare notes, identify actionable takeaways for our small team. Lucy meticulously planned which vendor booths she needed to hit for competitive intel, while I mapped out the technical deep-dives I could probably tolerate. She was ambitious, laser-focused beneath her easygoing exterior.

"Okay, schedule," she declared, pulling up a notes app on her phone as the plane began its descent over the sprawling, glittering grid of Vegas. "Conference sessions don't really kick off until Wednesday afternoon. So, tonight is fun night. Maybe hit a show? Or find a good bar?"

"Sounds like a plan," I agreed. "Tomorrow morning we can maybe sleep in a bit, grab a late breakfast, hit the pool if it's not offensively crowded?"

"Perfect. Maximize relaxation before the EngageFlow onslaught."

The taxi ride from the airport was a sensory overload -- flashing lights, towering hotel facades, the sheer, unapologetic excess of the Strip. Our hotel was one of the newer, sleeker ones, all gleaming chrome and abstract art. Check-in was smooth, and the desk clerk informed us our rooms were adjoining, separated by a connecting door. "Convenient for colleagues traveling together," she'd said with a practiced smile. I nodded, trying not to read anything into it, while simultaneously noting the tiny spark of something -- awareness? potential? -- the information ignited in my chest. Stupid.

We agreed to meet downstairs in an hour after freshening up. I dropped my bag in my room -- spacious, modern, impersonal -- and splashed water on my face. Looking in the mirror, I saw the same Sam I always saw. Thirty-three, starting to see faint lines around the eyes, hair still mostly black, build leaning more towards 'desk job' than 'gym rat'. Decent looking, Jen always said. But not the kind of guy who usually walked into a room with a woman like Lucy. Except tonight, apparently, I was.

When I met Lucy by the elevators, I had to recalibrate. Gone was the business-casual attire of the office. She wore a dress the color of a deep sunset, a silky material that clung just enough to outline her slender figure. It wasn't scandalously short, but it was definitely shorter than anything I'd seen her wear before, showing off long, toned legs. Her hair was down, cascading over her shoulders, and her makeup was subtle but enhancing, making her large eyes seem even more captivating. It wasn't an outrageous outfit by Vegas standards -- far from it -- but on Lucy, it was magnetic.

"Whoa," I said, hopefully sounding more appreciative-friend than leering-colleague. "Someone's ready for Vegas."

She laughed, a light, easy sound. "When in Rome, right? Besides, my Canucks are playing game three tonight. Gotta represent, even if it's just finding a sports bar."

"Lead the way," I said, falling into step beside her.

As we walked through the opulent casino floor towards the upscale sports bar tucked near the back, I felt it again -- that subtle shift in the atmosphere around us. Heads turned. Men paused their conversations, their eyes lingering on Lucy. And then, those secondary glances flicking towards me. Not hostile, more curious. Assessing. A few even held a hint of that same envy I'd noticed back in Seattle. The feeling it produced in me was a confusing cocktail: pride, definitely, a strange sort of proprietary amusement, but also a deepening unease, a guilt that felt sharper here, amplified by the neon and the proximity and the damn sunset-colored dress. She belonged to someone else. I belonged to someone else. This was just... borrowed light.

The bar was buzzing, screens flashing highlights, the low roar of conversation punctuated by cheers and groans. It was sleek, more lounge than dive bar, with plush seating and expensive-looking cocktails. We scanned the room and spotted two empty stools at the polished mahogany bar.

"Perfect," Lucy declared, sliding onto one.

I took the stool next to her, the subtle scent of her perfume mixing with the bar's ambient aroma of expensive liquor and air conditioning. She immediately craned her neck to find a screen showing the hockey game, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"Okay, puck drops any minute," she said, her focus absolute.

I flagged the bartender. "What can I get you?" I asked Lucy, turning towards her.

She glanced away from the screen for just a second, giving me a quick, dazzling smile. "Surprise me," she said, before her attention snapped back to the pre-game commentary.

I ordered her a spicy margarita -- she liked things with a kick -- and a dependable old-fashioned for myself. As I waited, I leaned back slightly, observing. Observing Lucy, absorbed in the game, her profile sharp and lovely against the flashing lights of the bar. Observing the bartender, whose professional demeanor didn't quite mask his appreciative glances. Observing the two guys sitting a few seats down, whose conversation had stalled as they openly watched Lucy.

This was Vegas. This was Lucy in Vegas. And this was me, sitting beside her, feeling like an imposter in a fantasy I hadn't realized I'd bought a ticket for. The drinks arrived, and I slid hers over. She murmured thanks, her eyes still glued to the screen. The game was starting. This was going to be an interesting three days.

Chapter 2: The Honey Trap

The hockey game raged on the screens, a flurry of skates, sticks, and occasional brawls. Lucy was utterly captivated, reacting to every near-miss and bone-jarring check with groans or sharp intakes of breath. Her spicy margarita sat mostly untouched beside her. I nursed my old-fashioned, my attention divided. Part of me watched the game, trying to follow the puck's frantic journey. The other part, the larger part, watched the room watching Lucy.

I mentally categorized the glances. There were the quick, appreciative drive-bys. The longer, more assessing stares. The subtle nudges between groups of guys, their eyes flicking towards our section of the bar. I wondered idly how many assumed we were a couple out for the night. The wedding rings we both wore might suggest that, glinting under the low bar lights. But then again, Lucy's intense focus on the game, almost to my exclusion, probably argued against it. A couple on a date usually, well, interacted more. Maybe they pegged us correctly -- colleagues unwinding after a travel day. At least, I mused with a grim sort of humor, her clear disinterest in me probably eliminated the less savory Vegas assumption: john and hooker. A small mercy.

The ambient noise, the flashing screens, the sheer Vegas-ness of it all started to feel a bit overwhelming. Plus, I should probably check in back home.

"Hey," I leaned slightly closer to Lucy, careful not to invade her hockey bubble too much. "I'm gonna step outside for a few minutes, make a quick call home. It's kinda loud in here."

She tore her eyes from the screen, looking momentarily guilty. "Oh! Right. Good idea. I should probably check in with Chris too." She glanced back at the TV, where a penalty was being called. "You know what, I'll just shoot him a text. Don't want to miss anything crucial."

I chuckled. "Texting your husband while the game's on? For shame, Lucy. Where's the dedication?"

She swatted playfully at my arm. "Hey! Multitasking. Go make your call."

I slid off the stool and navigated through the throng towards the exit, pulling out my phone. Outside, the desert air was surprisingly mild, carrying the distant sounds of traffic and casino chimes. I found a relatively quiet spot near a water feature and dialed Jennifer.

The call was brief, standard check-in stuff. How was the flight? Settled into the hotel? Yes, Vegas is Vegas. How was her committee meeting? Productive but draining. Love you, miss you, talk tomorrow. Five minutes, tops. Nothing earth-shattering, just the comfortable cadence of a long-established marriage. Hanging up, I felt a familiar pang of affection mixed with the vague restlessness that had been simmering lately. Shaking it off, I headed back towards the bar.

As I neared the entrance, I saw my stool was no longer empty. Two men, probably mid-forties, dressed in slightly-too-tight designer shirts and radiating an air of practiced confidence, flanked Lucy. One was leaning in, gesturing animatedly, while the other surveyed the bar with a proprietary air. Sharks circling. I felt a surprising spike of irritation. Couldn't a woman watch a hockey game in peace?

I picked up my pace. Just as I reached them, Lucy looked up, her eyes widening slightly as she saw me. Then, a flicker of something -- calculation? Mischief? -- crossed her face.

"Honey!" she exclaimed, her voice carrying easily over the bar noise, bright and maybe a touch too loud. "There you are! I was wondering where you got to."

Both men straightened up, turning towards me with expressions shifting from predatory interest to surprised appraisal.

Lucy beamed at me, then turned back to the two men, gesturing towards me with a proprietary flick of her wrist. "This is my husband, Sam," she announced, putting a subtle but definite emphasis on the word husband.

My brain took a nanosecond to catch up, the unexpected "Honey" still echoing. Then, instinct kicked in. Play along. Protect the flank. I slid smoothly back into my spot, putting a casual arm around the back of Lucy's stool, a gesture I'd never normally make.

"Sorry, babe," I said, pitching my voice to sound relaxed, familiar. "Just stepped out to check in with... Jennifer." Shit. Wrong name. My mind raced. "My sister," I added quickly, hoping it sounded plausible. "You know how she worries."

Lucy didn't miss a beat. "Oh, right! How is Jen doing? Tell her I say hi!" she chirped, selling it beautifully.

The two businessmen exchanged a look. The air of conquest visibly deflated from their postures. One offered a tight smile. "Well, uh, nice meeting you both. Enjoy the game." They melted back into the crowd as quickly as they had appeared.

Lucy watched them go, then turned back to me, exhaling a small sigh of relief mixed with amusement. "Wow. Thanks for the save. They were... persistent."

"No problem," I said, feeling a surprising jolt of satisfaction. The protective instinct, the quick thinking, the successful execution of the lie -- it was unexpectedly fun. "Guess the ring isn't always enough of a deterrent in this town."

"Apparently not," she grimaced slightly. "Honestly, it gets exhausting sometimes. Maybe we should just... keep this up? For the night?" She gestured vaguely between us. "The whole 'Honey' thing?"

A slow grin spread across my face. "You want me to pretend to be your husband for the evening?"

"Just as a defense mechanism!" she clarified quickly, though there was a playful glint in her eye. "Makes it easier to just enjoy the game and the night without constantly fending off... well, them."

"Alright, Mrs. Miller," I said, leaning back slightly, adopting a mock-serious tone. Lucy's maiden name. She laughed.

"Okay, maybe not that far. But yeah. Deal?"

"Deal," I agreed. "Anything for my darling... wife."

The rest of the evening shifted into a strange, exhilarating performance. Lucy's team scored, and she instinctively grabbed my arm, cheering. I put my hand briefly on the small of her back as I leaned in to hear something she said over a particularly loud goal horn. Another hopeful suitor drifted near, and Lucy leaned into my side, whispering conspiratorially in my ear about a terrible call the referee made, her hair brushing against my cheek. Each touch, each shared glance designed to project marital bliss to onlookers, sent a jolt straight through me.

On the surface, I was just being a good friend, helping her navigate the occasionally predatory waters of a Vegas bar. I was having fun playing the part, enjoying the quick wit required, the shared secret. But underneath, something else was churning. The fantasy I'd kept confined to the corners of my mind was suddenly playing out in real time, fueled by her proximity, the scent of her perfume, the feel of her hand briefly on my arm. The feigned intimacy felt dangerously real. I was acutely aware of the smooth skin of her shoulder near mine, the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed, the undeniable fact that sitting here, pretending to be her husband, felt intoxicatingly good.

I took a deliberate sip of my old-fashioned, the burn of the whiskey a welcome distraction. I was enjoying this far too much. The twisted part wasn't just the lie we were telling the room; it was the lie I was telling myself -- that this was just a game, just a practical solution.

I glanced at Lucy. She was back to watching the screen, biting her lip during a tense moment. Was this purely an act for her? A convenient shield? Or did she feel even a flicker of the electric current humming between our barstools? Was she aware of the way I looked at her when she wasn't watching?

Probably not, I told myself firmly. She was happily married. She loved Chris. This was just... Vegas.

But as she leaned over again, her shoulder pressing against mine as she pointed excitedly at a replay on the screen, the question echoed, refusing to be silenced. What exactly was she thinking?

Chapter 3: The Competitor

Nature called, as it inevitably does after an old-fashioned or two. Excusing myself, I navigated back through the lively bar towards the restrooms, leaving Lucy momentarily unattended amidst the neon glow and the roar of the hockey game. The brief walk was a chance to clear my head, to tamp down the unexpected buzz the 'husband' charade had ignited. It's just a game, I reminded myself, splashing cold water on my face in the blessedly quiet restroom. Helping out a friend.

Returning a few minutes later, my eyes scanned the bar for our spot. And stopped. My earlier amusement vanished, replaced by a familiar, unwelcome prickle. Someone else was talking to Lucy. Another man.

This one wasn't like the aging businessmen from before. He looked closer to my age, maybe late twenties, early thirties. And he was... well, damn. Tall, easily six-foot-four if I had to guess, with broad shoulders filling out a well-fitted casual shirt, dark blonde hair, and piercing blue eyes that seemed to catch the light even in the dim bar. He leaned casually against the bar next to Lucy, one arm resting on the mahogany, gesturing towards the screen with his other hand. Handsome didn't quite cover it; he had the easy confidence and movie-star looks that made guys like me feel instantly... average.

More importantly, unlike the previous suitors, Lucy wasn't just tolerating him; she was actively engaged. Laughing, nodding, pointing at the screen herself. They were deep in conversation, an easy back-and-forth that radiated genuine connection, centered entirely on the game flashing above them. My protective 'husband' instinct surged, ready to stride over and reclaim my territory. But I hesitated. This felt different. He wasn't just leering; they were talking. Charging in like a jealous spouse would make me look ridiculous, possibly even reveal the flimsy nature of our charade.

Taking a breath, I pasted on a relaxed smile and approached, deliberately keeping my pace casual. "Having fun?" I asked cheerfully, directing the question mainly at Lucy but angling my body to include the stranger.

Lucy jumped slightly, turning towards me. For a split second, she looked flustered, caught off guard. Then, recovering smoothly, her 'wife' persona snapped back into place, albeit a little less theatrically this time.

"Sam! Hey! This is Kyle," she said, gesturing towards the newcomer. "Kyle, this is my husband, Sam." Again, that slight emphasis on husband.

Kyle turned, his blue eyes crinkling in a friendly smile. "Sam, nice to meet you," he said, extending a large hand. His handshake was firm, confident. "Hope you don't mind me chatting up your wife here. We just discovered a shared passion," he gestured towards the hockey game, "though she's tragically misguided in her team allegiance."

"Ah, a man of taste," I replied, playing along, shaking his hand. "I keep trying to tell her that."

Kyle chuckled, a warm, easy sound. "See? He gets it." He then surprised me by gesturing to the empty stool next to him, farther down the bar. "Grab a seat, man. Or here," he shifted slightly on his own stool, creating just enough space for me to slide back into my original spot between him and Lucy. It was a smooth, non-territorial move.

"So," Kyle continued playfully, turning back to Lucy, "as I was explaining before your better half arrived, the Canucks' defensive strategy is fundamentally flawed against a team with this kind of speed on the wings."

Lucy rolled her eyes dramatically and grabbed a wadded-up cocktail napkin from the bar, tossing it lightly at Kyle's chest. "Oh please! You're just biased because your team got knocked out a round ago!"

Kyle caught the napkin easily. "Doesn't mean I can't appreciate superior gameplay when I see it," he retorted with a grin.

They continued to debate plays and players, their banter quick and knowledgeable. Kyle, despite the initial introduction, didn't seem remotely bothered by my 'husband' status. He wasn't hitting on her, not overtly anyway. He just seemed genuinely happy to have found another serious hockey fan in a Vegas sports bar. The conversation flowed easily between them, full of team stats and player names that went completely over my head. I felt like a third wheel at my own fake marriage. It was awkward, listening to them connect over something I had zero interest in.

Lucy seemed to notice my silence, or perhaps the logistical awkwardness of them talking hockey across me. She glanced around the bar, spotting a small, recently vacated high-top table in a slightly quieter corner nearby.

"Hey, look, a table!" she announced. "More space. Should we grab it?"

My internal alarms pinged. Moving to a table meant losing the strategic advantage of me sitting directly between them at the bar. It implicitly dissolved the 'barrier' aspect of our charade. But refusing would seem churlish, possessive. And honestly? Sitting here listening to intense hockey talk wasn't exactly riveting. Plus, despite my initial reservations, Kyle seemed... alright.

"Good idea," I said, standing up. "I'll snag it."

I secured the table, and we relocated, grabbing our drinks. The seating naturally arranged itself with Lucy and Kyle somewhat facing each other, able to maintain their hockey debate more easily, while I sat slightly to the side. The dynamic shifted subtly. The need for the performative 'husband' act dissipated.

To my surprise, Kyle made a point of drawing me back into the conversation during lulls in the game. "So, Sam, you guys here for a conference too?" he asked. Our cover story had evolved to married plus working together, it seemed more natural to keep up the facade.

"Yeah, software thing," I replied. "Velocity Conference. You?"

"Different one," he said. "National Sales Expo over at the Venetian. Less exciting than hockey playoffs, let me tell you." He had a self-deprecating charm that was hard to dislike. We chatted for a few minutes about work, the joys of corporate travel, the absurdity of Vegas. He was personable, engaging, and didn't treat me like an obstacle. Against my will, I found myself actually liking the guy. He seemed like a genuinely good-natured, charismatic person.

I reassessed the situation. Maybe my initial suspicion was unfounded. Maybe this ridiculously handsome stranger really was just thrilled to find someone -- anyone -- to talk hockey with. Lucy certainly seemed to be enjoying the expert-level banter, her eyes bright with competitive energy. Our 'marriage' was still the established fact in Kyle's mind, a passive background detail, but we weren't leaning into it anymore. It wasn't necessary.

As the final period of the game wound down, the tension ratcheted up, both on screen and between Lucy and Kyle. Their playful arguments intensified.

"Alright," Kyle declared, leaning forward. "Put your money where your mouth is, Mrs. Canucks Super Fan. Ten bucks says your team doesn't get another goal."

Lucy narrowed her eyes, a competitive fire lighting them. "You're on, salesman," she retorted. "Prepare to pay up."

They shook on it, a quick, firm clasp of hands that lingered just a fraction of a second too long. Or maybe I was imagining that part.

The game ended. Lucy's team lost in a dramatic overtime finish. She groaned, slumping slightly in her seat. Kyle whooped quietly, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.

"Well," Lucy sighed, pulling her wallet out. "A bet's a bet." She handed him a ten-dollar bill.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Kyle said, pocketing the cash with a flourish. "Maybe you'll pick the right team next time."

"Don't count on it," Lucy shot back, though the sting of the loss was already fading, replaced by the lingering energy of their interaction.

The night was winding down. The bar was thinning out. But the air around our table still felt charged, buzzing with a new, complex dynamic. My fake wife had just lost a bet to a handsome stranger I actually kind of liked. And I wasn't sure how I felt about any of it.

Chapter 4: The Permission Slip

The hockey game was over, the bet settled, the adrenaline slowly ebbing from the air around our small table. But a different kind of energy lingered, thicker and more complex. Kyle was charming, Lucy was flushed with the competitive spirit (and maybe a couple of margaritas), and I... I was adrift in a sea of conflicting currents.

"So," I ventured, trying to inject some normalcy back into the situation. "Night's still relatively young. Keep things going?"

Lucy looked at me, her expression unreadable for a moment, a flicker of something cryptic in her eyes. Then she nodded slowly. "Yeah," she said, her voice quieter now. "Yeah, I think we should."

Kyle grinned, radiating effortless enthusiasm. "I'm game for whatever you two have in mind."

An idea sparked, born partly of genuine curiosity about their plan and partly from a sudden need for a moment alone, a chance to process the weirdness of the last hour. "Okay," I said, pushing my chair back slightly. "Why don't you two figure out the next move? I'm going to head back to the bar and settle our tab. Be right back."

I walked away, leaving them leaning slightly towards each other over the small table. A wave of something akin to happiness washed over me. Regardless of where the night went from here, playing the protective 'husband', bantering with Kyle, seeing Lucy enjoying herself -- it had been genuinely fun, an unexpected detour from my normally predictable life. I consciously tried to push aside the persistent, unwanted images of Lucy that kept flickering at the edges of my mind. She's not interested in you, I told myself firmly. She probably wasn't even really into Kyle, just the hockey. They were bonding over sports, that's all. Shared interests. Right?

Paying the tab took longer than expected; there was a minor dispute about a drink charge with the group next to us that the bartender had to sort out. Glancing back towards our table, I saw Lucy and Kyle still talking. From this distance, I couldn't hear them, but their postures seemed... intense. Leaning close, heads tilted together, speaking quietly but with animation. Or maybe I was just projecting.

Tab finally settled, I decided a quick detour to the restroom was in order. Give them a little more time to finalize whatever plan they were hatching. As I washed my hands, the strange unreality of the evening settled over me again. Playing husband, the handsome stranger, the easy camaraderie mixed with undeniable undercurrents. Vegas, man.

Returning to the table, I sensed an immediate shift in the atmosphere. The easy banter was gone, replaced by a palpable tension. Kyle looked slightly awkward, while Lucy seemed keyed up, almost vibrating with nervous energy.

"Everything okay?" I asked, sliding back into my seat.

"Yeah, man, all good," Kyle said, pushing his chair back. "Actually, it's my turn to hit the facilities. Looking forward to hearing the plan when I get back." He gave a tight smile and headed off.

The second Kyle was out of earshot, Lucy turned to me, her eyes wide. She took a deep, shaky breath, as if steeling herself.

"Sam," she began, then stopped, started again, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Okay. I need to tell you something. I... I want to sleep with Kyle tonight."

The statement hung in the air, instantly vaporizing any lingering theories I had about innocent hockey bonding. My brain felt like it short-circuited. The first coherent thought that surfaced, bizarrely, was: So much for the camaraderie of sports fans.

"Wah-?" It was all I could manage, my voice barely a croak.

Lucy leaned forward, talking quickly, her words urgent, desperate to finish before Kyle returned. "Look, I know this sounds crazy. But I've only ever been with Chris. Since freshman year. And I love him, I really do, but... I'm curious. Just... curious what it would be like. With someone else. Just once."

I nodded numbly, trying to process the torrent of information. My mind felt like a pinball machine, thoughts ricocheting wildly. Lucy? My shy-around-me colleague? My friend?

"I've felt this way for a while," she continued, her voice low and intense. "This curiosity. But I never thought I'd actually... you know. I wasn't planning anything for this trip, I swear. But then we're here, in Vegas, where nothing feels totally real anyway. And Kyle... he's gorgeous, obviously, and he's nice, and he doesn't live anywhere near Seattle. It's like... the universe just handed me this perfect, consequence-lite opportunity on a silver platter. It feels like the best shot I'm ever going to get, Sam. And I want to take it."

Her explanation, laid out so baldly, sounded disturbingly logical in its own twisted way. The anonymity of Vegas, the fleeting nature of the encounter, the physical attraction. It made a perverse kind of sense. I nodded again, still struggling to form a coherent response.

Lucy's expression shifted, becoming plaintive, pleading. "But I need your help. Two favors."

I braced myself.

"First," she said, meeting my eyes directly. "You can never tell Chris. Ever. Promise me."

I winced internally. This felt like crossing a significant line, becoming an active participant in deceit. But looking at her desperate face... "Okay," I heard myself say. "I promise."

"Second," she took another breath. "You need to tell Kyle it's okay. That you... give permission."

"Permission?" I echoed, completely blindsided. The charade. Our stupid barroom lie. I'd almost forgotten about it in the face of her confession.

"Yes! When you were paying the tab, I sort of... propositioned him." Her cheeks flushed slightly. "He was definitely interested. Eager, even. But he stopped short. Said he couldn't, not without knowing you were cool with it. He kept saying he 'doesn't mess with married women' and didn't want to cause problems in our 'marriage'."

"But... why not just tell him the truth now?" I asked, confused. "Tell him we're not actually married? That it was just a joke, a way to fend off guys?"

Lucy shook her head vehemently. "No! Don't you see? He'll think it's weird! He'll think we're weird. Like we're setting him up for something, some kind of scam, maybe? He'll just walk away. I know it. This only works if he thinks you're okay with it. The cool, understanding husband."

My head was spinning. This was spiraling into absurdity. Just then, we saw Kyle weaving his way back towards our table through the thinning crowd.

"Sam, please," Lucy whispered urgently, her hand gripping my forearm. "Are you in? Will you do this for me?"

Conflict warred within me. This was wrong on so many levels. Enabling infidelity, lying to this guy I actually kind of liked, feeding my own complicated feelings... But looking at Lucy, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and desperate hope, one thought drowned out all the others: My friend needed something only I could provide. She was asking for my help.

"Sure," I said, the word feeling heavy and strange on my tongue. "Yeah. I got your back."

Relief flooded Lucy's face. She squeezed my arm quickly. "Thank you," she breathed, just as Kyle arrived back at the table.

"So," Kyle said, sliding back into his seat, looking expectantly between us. "What's the verdict? Where's the night taking us?"

I took a deep breath, feeling like I was stepping off a cliff. "Lucy, uh, brought me up to speed," I began, trying to sound casual, maybe even a little blasé, like this was the most normal conversation in the world. "And yeah. It's all good. I'm... I'm on board." I forced the next words out, the weirdness coating my tongue. "Honestly? I think you two should go for it. I want you to."

The sheer absurdity of saying that aloud almost made me laugh, or maybe cry. I wasn't just friend-zoned; I felt like I'd been teleported to The Twilight Zone. Only in Vegas, I thought wildly. Definitely only in Vegas.

Kyle's eyebrows shot up. He looked from me to Lucy, a slow smile spreading across his handsome face as he registered my apparent blessing. "Wow. Okay. Well... alright then." He seemed genuinely relieved, maybe even impressed. "We are all gonna have a good time tonight, I promise." He glanced between our faces, perhaps sensing the residual nerves humming beneath the surface. "Hey," he added, leaning in slightly, lowering his voice. "Just so you know, try to relax. I'm not trying to brag, but this isn't... totally uncharted territory for me. I was in a similar situation once before, so I kinda get how this can work, keep everyone comfortable."

He paused, then looked directly at me. "You, uh... you want to be in the room? Watch?"

The question hit me out of left field. Watch? Watch Lucy, my colleague, my friend, the subject of my recent, confusing fantasies, sleep with this charismatic stranger I just met? Without thinking, without pausing, the word jumped out of my mouth.

"Yes," I said firmly. "Yes, I'll definitely be watching."

Shit! Shit! Shit! My mind screamed the instant the word was out. Why did I say that? What is wrong with me? Across the table, Lucy shot me a look that could have melted steel. Her eyes clearly mirrored my own internal panic: What the hell are you doing, Sam?

Kyle, oblivious to the silent, frantic exchange between us, just nodded thoughtfully. "Okay, cool. Whatever makes you comfortable, man." He hesitated for a second. "I mean, if you'd rather, we could always switch things up... make it more of a regular threesome?"

"No!" Lucy interjected immediately, sharply, before I could even process the suggestion. "No. Sam is watching. Only watching. That's it."

"Got it," Kyle said easily, unfazed. "Watching only. Loud and clear." He looked between us again. "So... your room or mine?"

Lucy glanced at me, then back at Kyle. "Our rooms," she said. "They're right upstairs."

Kyle looked momentarily confused. "Rooms? Plural?"

"Yeah," I jumped in, improvising wildly, trying to cover the slip. "We, uh, got adjoining rooms. Just in case." I lowered my voice conspiratorially. "You know, in case I changed my mind about watching. Easier exit strategy."

Lucy sent another frustrated glare my way, hidden from Kyle's view. She forced a smile. "Right. Adjoining rooms." She pushed her chair back, a strange mix of determination and apprehension on her face. "Alright then," she said, her voice attempting a lightness it didn't quite possess. "Let's see where the night takes us."

Chapter 5: Lobby Logic

The walk from the pulsating energy of the sports bar back towards the main hotel lobby felt surreal. Each step echoed slightly on the polished floor, a counterpoint to the frantic drumming in my own chest. My pulse thudded in my temples, a heavy bassline beneath the surface noise of the casino floor we skirted. Was I actually going to go through with this? Watch Lucy -- my Lucy, the one I saw every day, the one who starred in those harmless fantasies I'd cultivated -- have sex with Kyle, this impossibly handsome stranger who radiated charm like a heat lamp? The thought was simultaneously terrifying and intoxicatingly electric. I risked a glance at Lucy walking beside me. Her jaw was tight, her eyes fixed straight ahead, resolutely avoiding mine. She was definitely still upset about my impulsive agreement to watch. Kyle, flanking her other side, seemed oblivious or perhaps adept at ignoring the tension. He kept up a stream of light, easy small talk about Vegas shows and overpriced drinks, clearly trying to diffuse the nerves he likely sensed. He really is good at this, I thought, a grudging admiration mixing with the general chaos in my head. Smooth. The thought immediately spiraled: I wonder if he's equally skilled in bed? Is he... well-equipped? My brain, clearly off its leash, galloped into territory it had no business exploring. Stop it, Sam.

Just as we passed through the grand entrance doors into the slightly calmer, more opulent atmosphere of the hotel lobby proper, Kyle's phone let out a distinct, custom ringtone. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and grimaced.

"Ah, damn. Work," he explained, already angling towards a quieter alcove near a towering floral arrangement. "Sorry guys, gotta take this quick check-in. Boss's orders. Promise I'll shut it right off after." He gave a reassuring smile and stepped away, his voice dropping into professional salesman mode.

The moment he was out of earshot, Lucy whirled on me, her frustration boiling over. She didn't yell, but her voice was sharp, punctuated by a light punch to my upper arm.

"Dude! Seriously? What is wrong with you?" she hissed, her eyes flashing. "I absolutely do not want you in the room while I'm having sex! What were you thinking?"

My mind scrambled, desperately searching for an explanation that didn't paint me as a complete and utter creep. The truth -- that a dark, voyeuristic curiosity had momentarily overwhelmed common sense -- was definitely out. I needed something else. Something... noble?

"Lucy, listen," I started, trying to sound reasonable, trying to convince myself as much as her. "Okay, look. Chris... your husband... we're not friends, really. I've only met him a couple of times at company parties. But I will see him again. And I'm going to have to look him in the eye, knowing this... keeping this secret. And I'll do that. For you." I took a breath, leaning into the manufactured justification. "But I wasn't just going to let you disappear into a hotel room with some random stranger in Vegas, no questions asked. Kyle seems cool, totally charming, yeah. But so do a lot of predators, right? I know it sounds weird, maybe overprotective, but I feel like... like I owe it to Chris, in a bizarre way, to make sure that if you're going to do this, you're at least safe while you do it."

Did I believe it? Maybe partly? The protective instinct felt real, even if the logic was stretched thin. It sounded better than 'I kind of wanted to watch'.

Lucy stared at me, her anger momentarily replaced by surprise, then consideration. She chewed on her lower lip for a second, tilting her head as she processed my words. The anger in her eyes softened.

"Okay," she said slowly. "Okay, I... I see what you're saying." A small smile touched her lips. "That's... actually really sweet, Sam. In a completely messed-up, Vegas kind of way. Thanks for not just being a creep." Relief washed over me, potent and immediate. But then her eyes lit up with sudden realization. "But wait! Two rooms! Adjoining rooms, remember? You can hear everything! I'll be perfectly safe with you right next door, listening in like a weirdo guard dog, instead of actually in the room watching like a... bigger weirdo!"

She was right. Of course, she was right. The adjoining door. In my mental spin cycle, caught between excitement, fear, and the scramble for an excuse, I'd completely missed the obvious flaw in my own 'safety' argument. I didn't need to be in the room.

"You're right," I said, forcing myself to sound relieved, maybe even slightly sheepish. "God, you're totally right. Adjoining rooms. Okay. Plan B. I'll be next door. Listening post established."

"Great," Lucy breathed, genuine relief flooding her own features. "Thank you." She hesitated, then added quietly, "And look, I'm sorry I put you in this position. Asking you to lie, getting you involved. You're being a really great friend tonight, Sam."

Her words landed with unexpected weight. Guilt pricked at me sharply. I'd almost damaged this friendship, this easy camaraderie we shared, just for a cheap, voyeuristic thrill. She thought I was being noble, protective. The gap between her perception and my initial, selfish impulse felt vast and uncomfortable.

Lucy must have seen the conflicting emotions flicker across my face. "What's wrong?" she asked, her brow furrowing slightly.

I forced a smile, pushing the guilt down. "Nothing's wrong," I said, aiming for sincerity. "Just thinking... I'm glad we're here for each other, you know? Navigating the Vegas craziness together."

She nodded, accepting my answer. "Totally. Can you imagine if I'd come on this trip with Sharon from Accounting? Or oh my god, Felix?"

I laughed, the sound genuine this time. The image of Felix, our perpetually awkward and overly enthusiastic colleague, trying to navigate this situation was ludicrous. "Yeah, guaranteed I'm a better wingman than Felix would have been. He'd probably offer Kyle a detailed analysis of EngageFlow integration points."

Lucy giggled, and the tension that had vibrated between us finally seemed to dissipate, replaced by a sense of weary camaraderie. A wave of relief washed over me. Okay. This was manageable. I didn't have to watch. My friendship with Lucy seemed intact, maybe even strangely strengthened by the shared absurdity. Everything is going to be okay, I thought, trying to convince myself. It's all working out as it should.

Just then, Kyle rejoined us, conspicuously holding up his phone to show us he was powering it off. "All clear," he announced with a grin. "No more interruptions. Ready to head up?"

Lucy nodded, pointing towards the bank of elevators across the lobby. "Fifth floor," she said.

I reached out and pressed the 'up' button, the small light illuminating above it. The doors slid open with a soft chime. We stepped inside, the three of us, ready to ascend into whatever the rest of this bizarre night held. I took a steadying breath and waited for what came next.

Chapter 6: The Morning After

A tentative knock echoed from the adjoining door, pulling me from the numb, sleep-deprived haze I'd been wallowing in since returning to my room. I scrubbed a hand over my face, feeling the rough stubble and the grit of sleeplessness, and pulled the door open.

Lucy stood there, looking surprisingly put-together despite the circumstances. She wore soft grey sweatpants and a plaid flannel shirt open over a plain t-shirt, her hair pulled back loosely. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in my appearance -- still clad in the wrinkled clothes from the night before, hair askew, probably looking as rough as I felt.

"Whoa," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "Rough night?"

"You could say that," I managed, my voice gravelly.

"I knocked when I got back," she continued, shifting her weight. "Well, after Kyle left. Must have been around 3:30. You didn't answer, so I figured you were dead asleep."

I shook my head, leaning against my side of the doorframe, suddenly feeling intensely weary. "Nah, I wasn't here when he left."

Lucy frowned. "You weren't?"

"Nope," I sighed. "Look, I heard you guys come in... heard some talking, laughter. Then things got quiet for a bit." I hesitated, the memory acutely uncomfortable. "And then... I heard, uh..." I cleared my throat, avoiding her eyes. "Heard you. Moaning."

Lucy winced, a flush creeping up her neck. "Oh god. Sam, I'm sorry."

"No, it's... whatever. But yeah," I admitted, "that was... weirder than I expected. A lot weirder." The sounds through the thin hotel wall had been both intimate and alienating, sending my already jangled nerves into overdrive. "Anyway, after that started, I figured my 'listening post' duty was kind of redundant. Kyle thought I was here, right next door, so you were technically 'safe' by that logic. Seemed like the perfect time for me to make myself scarce."

"So where'd you go?" she asked, curiosity replacing her embarrassment.

"Downstairs," I said. "Hit the casino. Played some truly terrible blackjack, fed a few twenties into a slot machine that hated me. Just needed... noise. Distraction." I ran a hand through my hair again. "Oh, and I called Jennifer."

"Called Jen? Wasn't it like, one in the morning back home?"

"Yeah, way too late," I admitted. "So I did the 'oops, butt-dial' thing. Pretended I had no idea how the phone called her, acted surprised she picked up. Quick 'love you, miss you, phone must be acting weird,' and hung up."

Lucy smirked faintly. "Smart. God, this place is making us way too good at lying."

"Tell me about it," I agreed grimly. "Anyway, after the casino failed to bankrupt me, I just... walked. Went down the Strip, popped into a couple of other casinos. Just walked and thought. Watched the late-night degenerates and the early-morning cleaners. Took in the sights. Didn't get back here until maybe ten minutes ago. Haven't slept a wink." I finally met her gaze. "So, how about you? How was... your night? And you absolutely don't need to give me any details I wouldn't want to hear through a wall."

Lucy shrugged, looking down at her socked feet for a moment before meeting my eyes again. "Ehh," she started, then amended it. "It was okay. No, it was... good, I guess? Just..." She trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Not what you expected?" I offered gently.

She nodded, relief flickering in her eyes at finding the phrase. "Yeah. Exactly. It wasn't... life-changing. Or anything close." There was no starry-eyed wonder, no giddy excitement. Just a quiet, almost flat assessment.

A wave of unexpected relief washed over me. "Good," I said. "I'm glad."

Lucy looked at me, a questioning tilt to her head, clearly unsure what I meant.

"Look," I elaborated, leaning forward slightly, my voice low and earnest. "If you ask me, Luce, you've got a pretty great life back home. A really great life. I'd hate to see anything... change that. Especially not for something that was just 'okay'."

She held my gaze for a long moment, considering my words. Then, a slow, thoughtful expression dawned on her face. She nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement.

"Yeah," she said softly, a hint of realization in her voice. "I think you're right, Sam." She looked around my impersonal hotel room, then back at me, a newfound clarity in her eyes. "Maybe things are right just the way they are."