“You make one hell of a hostess, Barton,” she said as she moved to accept her freshly refilled glass of vodka and take a long drink, as ordering pizzas was apparently thirsty work. She ran her tongue over her lips, feeling the slight tingle and burn of the alcohol, and smiled at him. How long had she known Clint? For years, that much she knew, but the exact number was vague and just out of her reach, as so much in her memory could be. If he looked any older than he had the moment she’d first seen him, she could not make out the differences just then, and had to wonder if she ever would. Clint would always be Clint, her best friend and unlikely savior, and in bearing both those titles he had taken on some sort of immortality in her mind. Dangerous, but true all the same.

“I’m not sure,” she said as she moved to sit down on the floor next to where he’d been seated earlier, a wrinkle appearing between her brows. “If it is some sort of New and Wild Vegas, it’s similar enough to regular Wild Vegas that I’ve yet to notice the difference. Granted, I usually just go there to line my pockets and don’t bother to discuss Elvis with anyone, but it’s something to look into when we go.”