by Liz Maverick
By the time the tournament was called for the day, it was evening. Marianne had no idea how many hours she’d been sitting there, but it was definitely in the double digits. She looked at her dwindling chip stack and slumped back in her chair. What a horrible day. An “off day,” as Beefy Guy had called it, didn’t even do it justice. She should be thrilled just to still be in the game, thrilled to be coming back for day five, but there was no thrill at all.
The only thing worse than losing was playing badly enough to lose and having it all televised on ESPN; Marianne had earned her “Dead Money” moniker all right: lots of cash, little chance.
Tears pricked at her eyes. Marianne swallowed them back. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. Rather, maybe it didn’t look that bad.
She glanced over her shoulder, saw that none of her friends were there watching, and then remembered exactly how she’d left things with Donny. Except that he wasn’t supposed to realize that they’d broken up for good and Marianne needed him, now, more than ever.
She sat there at the table, very still as she looked at the meager chip stack in front of her. She didn’t want to get up and admit that the day was over and that this was all she had to show for it.
Instead she just signed her chips back in with the official, collected her things, and stood up. Her head ached. She put her hand to her forehead, swaying a little.
Suddenly Peter was at her side, slightly out of breath. “Sorry, I had to take a phone call. . . . Aw, come on, Marianne; it’s not that bad. You’re still in the tournament. Making it to the final day is huge.”
“You don’t understand. I was horrible. I was horrible and it’s almost all over.”
“Well . . . that’s . . . true.”
Men. They never knew what to say. “When it’s over I have to go back,” Marianne tried to explain.
“But you have to go back to work anyway. So, yeah.”
Marianne reeled around and grabbed with both hands, clutching his collar. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to go back!”
Peter took her by the elbow and steered her to the side, where, ostensibly, she could rant with a little more privacy.
She started to cry. Turning red from embarrassment, Marianne put her head down and mumbled, “I’m going to go upstairs.”
He put his fingers under her chin and lifted her head up. “Marianne, why don’t you let me take you out on the town tonight? We’ll get all dressed up and make a big night of it. You’ve been living and breathing this tournament so much that it’s beginning to seem like . . . everything.”
He was right. It did seem like everything. Marianne looked up at Peter gratefully and nodded. “I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”
Bijoux was in the room when Marianne got back up there. “Where’s Donny?” Marianne asked petulantly. “Seriously, where is he?”
“You told him to be gone by the time you were done today. Remember?”
Marianne stared at Bijoux, hearing the words but not really comprehending that Donny would actually leave. Rather, of course he would leave, given their argument . . .but he wouldn’t actually leave leave . . . would he? “He’s never around when I need him!”
“He was around when I needed him. He went to the business center. He’s going to call me about his plans tonight. I have no idea if he’s catching a plane, or what.”
Suddenly, Marianne had just had it. She’d had it with the games. She’d had it with making herself crazy. She remembered how serious she’d felt about ending things with Donny just this morning and how she was already making it just another cycle. Not this time. She was supposed to be the one to break the cycle. The details of their morning conversation came flooding back into her mind and she refused to let herself care whether he got on a plane or not. “I’m busy tonight. Peter’s taking me out.”
Bijoux looked up in surprise. “I figured you’d want to make an early night of it. Tomorrow’s going to be a big one.”
Marianne shrugged it off and went into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. She stared in the mirror feeling total panic welling up inside her. I don’t want to go back to my old life. I don’t want to go back to being that person in that job in that life. And I won’t keep running in circles with Donny.
Bijoux leaned against the bathroom doorjamb. “What’s wrong, Marianne? We should be thrilled you’ve gotten all the way to the last day. Do you realize what an accomplishment this is? We should be jumping up and down and squealing like we did when we first got here. This was supposed to be fun.”
The phone rang in the other room. Marianne glanced at her watch. “I need to get ready to go out. If it’s Donny, tell him I’m not here.”
Bijoux glared at her in the mirror and disappeared. From the other room Marianne heard her on the phone: “Hey, Donny, what’s up? Uh-uh. She’s . . .”
Marianne mouthed the word out at the mirror.
“Out,” Bijoux said.
Marianne nodded her head and turned the shower on to drown out the rest of the phone call. When she finished and turned off the water, Bijoux was still on the phone.
“Did they say when they’d be back?” she was saying. “When they find inner peace? I see. Yes, that could take a while. Shit. So, they didn’t leave any extra credit cards or . . . well, any stacks of money or anything? I see. Okay. Well, thanks, then. Good-bye.”
Marianne came out of the bathroom just as Bijoux hung up. She hesitated, then asked, “You low on cash, Bij?”
Bijoux shrugged casually. “Oh, there’s just some confusion with my credit cards.” She punctuated her statement with a nervous laugh.
Marianne studied her friend’s face. “If you want to borrow—”
“Oh, God no. It’s not a big deal.” She forced a smile. “I have all that cash from craps.”
“Okay. Well . . . you just let me know.” Bijoux shrugged and started flipping through a magazine on her bed.
Marianne dropped her towel on the ground and put on a fabulous pink bra and panty set that Donny had bought her after one of the times when they’d gotten back together. The weirdness between her and Bijoux from the morning hadn’t gone away and could not be ignored. She put on the going-out clothes Bijoux had picked out and arranged on the bed for her while she’d showered. Then, wearing one shoe, Marianne limped over to where her friend was pretending to read, sat down, and waited.
Bijoux sat there, chewing her nails, and finally blurted out, “I’m scared. My credit cards are maxed out and the ATM ate my card. I borrowed money from Donny and paid him back after gambling like a lunatic at craps and getting very lucky.” She swallowed hard, her voice cracking as she blurted out the rest in one breath: “I don’t know how I’m going to live without my money, and I don’t know why I can’t find someone to love me, much less someone who can afford me.”
Marianne put her arm around Bijoux’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “First of all, you will find that guy someday. I promise. And second of all, I want you to know that if I had that kind of money, I’d give it to you. And in the meantime, what’s mine is yours. You know that.”
Bijoux looked at her and smiled for real. “I know. And I adore you for it. But you don’t even have close to what I need, so there’s no point in bankrupting you for pocket change.”
The girls shared a laugh.
“And as for the guy . . .” Bijoux started.
“Do you mind my going out with Peter?” Marianne asked suddenly. “Sometimes I think you do. You say you don’t . . .”
“Stop right there. I see right through you,” Bijoux said gently. “Don’t use me as an excuse not to go out with Peter. If Donny stays, I’ll hang out with him tonight so he’s not alone. You need to move on already.”
Bijoux put her hands on Marianne’s shoulders, flipped her around to face the mirror, and pointed at the lipstick sitting on the bureau. “Apply and resume course. You have a date. Go forth and date. Do not fall back into the Donny quagmire.”
�
��I can’t believe you haven’t found someone wildly in love with you yet. Your massive vocabulary makes even me a little hot.”
The two of them started laughing and Marianne knew they were going to be okay.
“Apply . . . and resume.”
Picking up the lipstick, Marianne bent toward the mirror and just stopped, looking into her best friend’s eyes in the mirror’s reflection. “I don’t want to go back to all of that, Bij. I can’t take it anymore.”
Bijoux teared up unexpectedly, but blinked it back in time. “Then just decide. Go forward. Just say, ‘This is it.’ ”
“This is it,” Marianne whispered.
Bijoux nodded and cleared her throat. “If we don’t stop talking about this, we’re going to both mess up our makeup. Here, finish up with the lips, and I’ll show you how to do that cool thing with the false eyelashes.”
chapter nineteen
Peter was true to his word, from the red rose at the start of the night to the bottle of champagne at the end. Even the way he looked at her as she came back towards him from the ladies room was having the excellent effect of distracting Marianne from the earlier stresses of competition.
His gaze swept from the tips of her strappy sandals to her silk Pucci-inspired ruffle-bottom miniskirt, up past the slice of skin peeking out at the abdomen and over the tight-fitting combination lingerie/tank layers where he lingered over her cleavage before they locked eyes.
He left a hot, delicious flush on her skin. The kind of sensation guaranteed to make a girl forget about a crappy day at the poker tables.
“You look fantastic,” he said as she sat down again.
Marianne smiled. “I borrowed it all from Bijoux.”
“It looks great on you.”
“You’ve seen me dressed up before.”
“Not for me.”
She cocked her head and studied his face. Peter looked very upscale-L.A.-goes-to-Vegas in a nice suit saved from being too formal by a Swingers-esque shirt with a funky collar. With his blond hair and blue eyes, he was almost too pretty, more Bijoux’s type than hers, really, but still good enough for any girl to gamble on.
Bijoux was so right. Don’t mess this up.
It had been quite a while since Marianne had enjoyed a full-scale night out like this. Cocktails to start, a little wine with the tasting menu and a bottle of champagne with dessert. She may have been exhausted from the competition, but her sense of fun wasn’t stunted in the least. And Peter was certainly a worthy companion.
“I love this,” she said, looking around the restaurant. “I love being out of the office. I love being in the tournament. I love wearing Bijoux’s fabulous clothes and being on ESPN and not having to wake up at seven in the morning every single weekday. I love knowing that there are people who do this professionally. They don’t have schedules. They don’t have to play when they don’t want to. They travel around to different places. And oh, my God . . . can you imagine having a job where the primary verb used to describe what you do is ‘play’?”
“Funny.”
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking lately that my lifestyle’s been just a little too unstable. Traveling around to different places so much can make it difficult to have a relationship,” he said.
Marianne met his eyes. “Let’s get out of here.”
“We just ordered more champagne.”
“We’ll take the bottle. Let’s go breathe fresh air.”
The champagne arrived, Peter asked for the check, and Marianne stuck the champagne bottle behind her back and marched toward the exit with it after they’d paid. “Come on. Let’s make a break for it.”
She hit the down button on the elevator and looked mock surreptitiously over her shoulder, the champagne bulging noticeably out of her clothing.
“You act like you’re doing something naughty,” he said.
“I am. I’m staying up late on a school night.”
Peter’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure this is a good idea? You’ve got to play tomorrow.”
Marianne frowned. What’s with the mother act? “Stop being such a goody-goody. You’re supposed to encourage my outrageous behavior. I’ve been obsessing, and I need some distance. This will be good for me.”
Peter shrugged and held the elevator door open for her. In the elevator Marianne took a swig of champagne, then passed it to Peter, who did the same. She had it back under her jacket by the time the elevator hit the ground, and they left the casino for the Strip outside.
The fresh air felt nice and cool against Marianne’s skin. The farther she walked from the casino, the freer and happier she felt. There were people everywhere, dressed for the evening, ready for fun. The upbeat vibe of a city just beginning to get started was contagious.
“Where do you want to go?” Peter asked.
“Wherever our feet take us.”
He held out his arm, she tucked hers in his, and they marched off down the Strip with the bottle of champagne swinging from Marianne’s grip. Every casino was lit up to the maximum possible extent. “Take my picture!” Marianne yelled, running away from Peter to pose in front of the Eiffel Tower.
Peter pulled his camera out and snapped a shot as Marianne modeled with her arms outstretched, the bottle spilling forth bubbly.
“Stand up on the riser,” he said, snapping more shots.
More champagne for both of them, and then it was, “Let’s go to the Aladdin!”
More camera angles, shots, Marianne posing on various structures, running from place to place, nearly out of breath, her neck aching from staring up at the glitter and hum infusing the night sky.
Peter started shouting posing instructions, playing photographer to Marianne’s model as they ran up and down the Strip, weaving through mobs of tourists, dodging the flyers thrust at them from strip-club purveyors, leaping by the opening doors of limousines and taxicabs lining both sides of the street, and stopping in front of the most outrageous monuments the casinos had to offer. Bally’s, Paris, Aladdin, the MGM, turning up again on the other side of the street to New York-New York, Monte Carlo . . . . . . and a dead stop at the Bellagio.
Marianne ran to the ledge overlooking the water at the Bellagio casino and clasped her hands. The Bellagio fountains had just started, kicking up majestic waterfalls in a choreographed display as the most romantic-sounding tenor kicked in from hidden speakers.
The champagne was kicking in, too, in the most marvelous way. Marianne felt delightfully muddled. She climbed up on the ledge and raised her arms out at her sides. “I don’t feel like Marianne tonight! I’m someone else!”
“Marianne, get down,” Peter said from behind. She looked over her shoulder. His face was a mix of concern and admiration.
“No,” she said, turning around and picking up one foot. “Take my picture.”
He hesitated.
She reached down and removed her shoes, swinging the stilettos dangerously around in one hand as she picked her foot up again and balanced, her ankle shaking as she swayed on the ledge. “Take my picture. I dare you.”
Peter raised his camera and took the shot. Marianne posed again, nearly losing her balance. “Take my picture.”
He took another picture. “Take another one.” He did. And suddenly he just started snapping away as Marianne twirled and posed and mugged on the ledge.
“That’s great, Marianne. Keep going. You’re fantastic,” he called out.
She turned too suddenly then, and staggered back, then forward; Peter ran up and caught her by the waist, pulling her off the ledge and against his body.
Still giddy from the most recent glass of champagne, Marianne let her brain switch to autopilot. She wrapped her arms around Peter and allowed herself to indulge. He pressed her against the concrete and kissed her madly as a light mist from the fountains dampened the back of her neck. Champagne lust on a Vegas night. Didn’t get any better than this. She pulled him even closer to her, sneaking her hands under this clothes and igniting her o
wn desires with the heat coming off his skin.
He must have been feeling something similarly intense, because he tore his mouth away from hers and said with a minimum of slurring, “Marry me.”
“It’s Marianne, silly.”
Peter laughed and ran his finger over her lips. “Marry me, Marianne. Let’s just do it. Let’s be wild and crazy and just do it!”
“If you ask me again, I’ll know you’re serious and I’ll take you up on it. Don’t ask me if you don’t want me to call your bluff.” Marianne pushed away and leaned against the stone railing, taunting him with her smile. The opera music swelled and then faded away, and the water slipped into the lake almost as suddenly as it had started.
In the shocking new silence, Peter raised his camera for a close-up. “Marry me, Marianne. Give me the big ending to the story.”
I don’t want to go back. Old job, old boyfriend, old life. I can change things in an instant. I don’t have to go back. Go forward. Marianne stared into the camera lens, her body still buzzing with want. “Yes, let’s,” she said. “Let’s be wild and crazy and do things we don’t do. Let’s be a pair of someone elses tonight.”
He took the picture and then lowered the camera. “Let’s,” he said rather urgently, then wheeled around and stepped out into the street, full-on New York–style, arm out, whistled loud and clear, and hailed a cab like there was no doubt the very next one was theirs. And it was.
It pulled up and Peter leaned down to the open window. “We’re getting married. Take us where you take people in this town to get married.” He opened the car door and ushered Marianne inside.
The cabdriver seemed a little blasé for Marianne’s taste, threatening to quash the swashbuckle of the moment by saying, “There’s not just one place. There’s lots of places.”
Peter crushed a twenty-dollar bill into the cabbie’s hand. “Take us to the best one. And take the long way.”