The waiter picks that moment to bring my waffles, which my mother looks at and wrinkles her perfectly proportioned nose that matches Sam’s. Only Sam’s is natural and Mother’s is due to a never-ending bank account and a highly skilled plastic surgeon.
“Mary, do you have any idea how many calories are in that?” she asks.
“A lot,” I say sulkily, taking a huge bite. God, at least I hope there are a lot.
Mom gives me a frown, which I’m sure Dr. Gregorson will be ironing out later.
“So, Mary,” Sam says. “Since we’re getting married (God, I wish she’d stop saying that word!), like, totally soon, I was hoping you’d be my maid of honor?”
I nearly choke on a bite of strawberries and whipped cream. She wants me in a god awful bridesmaid dress too? This day keeps getting better and better.
“Well, I don’t know, I mean…”
But as I look into her eyes I suddenly feel like a heel. I mean, she is my sister after all, and even if I think she’s making a mistake (a huge, colossal mistake) I have a blood commitment to at least pretend to be happy for her.
“Of course I will, Sam,” I say, pretending my little heart out.
Sam jumps up from her chair with a squeal and hugs me so hard I think my ribs might break. For a brief moment I forget my loathsomely single life and am caught up in the Super Sam giddiness.
A very brief moment.
Until Sam sits back down and my mother turns her unnaturally beautiful face toward mine and asks, “And who will you be bringing to the wedding?”
The Black Widow strikes again.
* * *
“Ella it was horrible. It was like being in a shark tank.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Ella clucks sympathetically.
I shuffle my feet as I walk through the east fork of the mall, wishing I’d worn my sneakers instead of the low heeled sandals currently breeding a blister on my right heel. Ella and her baby entourage, in a giant stroller, are at my side as we make our way toward my much needed chocolate fix.
“You should have seen the two of them,” I say. “I mean, my mother actually hugged Sam. And Sam, well, let’s just say I am seriously P.O.’ed.” As in Perky Overloaded.
“I’m sorry, Mary.”
“She’s getting married in a church,” I say sulkily. “I was going to get married in a church.” I know. I’m being a jerk again. My little sister is getting married for God’s sakes. I could show a little support, a little enthusiasm.
Then again my little sister is getting married. And I’m supposed to bring a date.
“I’m supposed to bring a date.”
“Oh, I could set you up with someone,” Ella exclaims, her eyes lighting up.
Just then Twin Number One starts fussing in his stroller, throwing his binky at Twin Number Two, which sets him off too, and Ella turns her attention to the munchkins.
“I could set you up with one of Brad’s friends from the clinic,” Ella continues, clearly enamored with the idea. She picks up Twin Number One, handing him something that looks like biscotti, which he quickly puts in his little mouth, gumming away happily.
“Thanks Ella, but…”
“But what?”
“I just… I don’t know if I’m ready for dating again. I mean, I just broke up with Brandon.”
“Six months ago,” she reminds me as she puts the baby back in the stroller and gives Twin Number Two a biscotti too.
I hear my stomach growl, and realize I didn’t actually eat any of my waffle at brunch. Somehow my mother’s evil calorie counting eye made me lose my appetite.
“Do you have any more of those?”
She gives me an odd look and says, “They’re teething biscuits.”
“I’m starving.”
Ella pulls out another biscotti for me too. Crunching on it, we make our way down the mall toward the Godiva store.
Chocolate. That’s what I need. Chocolate, the one true love that never lets me down, never disappoints me, and never expects me to wear a Super-Sam perky bridesmaid dress.
And that’s when the most horrible thought of all occurs to me. I have to squeeze into a bridesmaid dress and stand up in front of all my friends and family beside my size two sister.
I look down at the spread of break-up flab that’s somehow settled onto my mid section. Though I can’t actually see as I walk down the mall with Ella, I have a sinking feeling that my rear end has sustained a post relationship hit as well.
“Ella, I have to squeeze into a pink bridesmaid dress.”
“They tailor those, you know. They’ll make it work.”
Okay – the way Ella looked down at my ass when she said, “they’ll make it work,” is so not encouraging.
“Ella, give it to me straight. How much post Brandon weight do you think I’ve put on?”
Ella pauses in her stroller pushing. I can see the mental wheels running behind her pale blue eyes. “Not that much.”
“I said give it to me straight.”
“Okay, about ten pounds.”
I groan. Shit. It’s worse than I thought. We continue walking, and I’m now suddenly self-conscious about being seen going into the Godiva store. I’m sure people will stop and stare at the gargantuan woman gorging herself on yet another chocolate self-pity treat.
“If you’re really worried about it, come to the gym with me next Friday,” Ella says.
Great. My favorite place.
“Fine. What time?” I ask.
“I’ll pick you up at two. And you know,” she says giving me a sideways look out of the corner of her blue eyes. “I really could set you up with someone fabulous.”
“I don’t know, Ella…”
“I’m not saying you have to jump into anything serious. But think of the look on your mother’s face if you really did show up to the wedding with some great guy on your arm.”
The terrible thing about having such close friends is they always know your weaknesses. It would be pretty fantastic to show the Black Widow I could find some really amazing guy who wouldn’t end up on her who’s-who list of Mary’s failed relationships.
“You really think Brad has any cute friends?” I ask.
“I’m sure he does. And, they’re all doctors.”
“Doctors, huh?” I admit the idea is growing on me.
“Oh, I know!” Ella exclaims, stopping her double stroller in front of the Godiva store. “There’s this new doctor I met last week at the Jensens’ cocktail party.”
“Go on.”
“He’s very successful, too. He just moved here from L.A.”
“Do you mean ‘successful’ as in drives a convertible, or successful as in not so great looking?” I clarify.
“Relax, he’s adorable. I think he used to surf or something when he was younger.”
Did she say surf? Suddenly images of an FBI agent slash wave riding Keanu come rushing back to me. “What’s his name?”
“Damon.”
Hmm… Damon. I kind of like the sound of that. “Last name?”
“Freeman. So, do you want to meet him?” Ella asks, her eyes shining with that light all married people get when recruiting to their side.
“Okay, I’ll meet him.”
“Yay! Oh, you’ll love him. Oh, you know what? We’re having a barbeque next weekend. I’ll invite him, and you can meet him then.”
Twin Number One starts fussing again, throwing his soggy biscotti on the ground. Ella picks him up and scrunches her ski-jump nose. “Uh oh.”
“What?”
“Timmy needs a change. Will you order the chocolate fingers?” Ella calls over her shoulder as she wheels the baby bus away.
“Sure,” I say to her retreating back, but I’m not sure she hears me as she makes a bee-line for the family restroom, holding Twin Number One at arms length.
Hmm… maybe single life isn’t so bad after all?
I enter the Godvia store, and instantly the smells of chocolate and toffee surround me like a comforting hug.
I order a 1/2 pound of chocolate fingers, which are these little wafer things with caramel and dark chocolate and, oh, they taste like heaven. I have them throw in two white chocolate truffles, three caramel chews, and a small box of cherry filled bon bons. I’m going to the gym anyway, I might as well live a little, right?
I exit the shop significantly cheered and settle myself on a bench in the mall to wait for Ella.
You know, maybe she’s right about this blind date thing. Maybe I really am ready to get back out there and date again. I mean, I am over Brandon. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t meet some fabulous man and fall head over heels in love. In fact, as I nibble away at my heavenly purchases, I find I’m almost excited about the prospect of a blind date. With a doctor no less. Now that’s what I call getting right back on the dating horse with gusto. Suddenly I’m bursting to call Kit to tell her the good news. She’ll be so proud of me.
I reach into my denim shoulder bag and pull out my cell phone. I punch in the number to Kit’s suite at The Grand and hope she’s there. I’m just about to give up when Kit picks up on the fourth ring.
“Hello?” her groggy voice comes through the phone. She sounds like chain smoker, and I get the distinct impression she’s been up all night.
“Kit. I just agreed to let Ella set me up on a blind date.
There’s a pause. Then Kit asks, “Who is this?”
“It’s Mary! Kit, are you hung over?”
“No. Maybe. What time is it?”
“It’s almost two.”
“PM?”
“Yes.”
“Shit. I’m late for rehearsal.”
“Kit, did you hear me? Ella’s setting me up on a blind date. A real one.”
“Wait, you’re dating again?” Her: Tone of mild surprise.
“Yes.” Me: Beaming with pride.
“And you’re starting with a blind date?” Her: A note of are-you-nuts creeping into her voice.
“Well, yes.” Me: Slightly uneasy now.
“And Ella’s setting you up?” Her: That’s it, you are nuts.
“Was that a mistake?” Me: Shit. I am nuts. She’s right. What was I thinking? A blind date?!
“You think I shouldn’t go? I mean, should I tell her I changed my mind? It’s a mistake, right? I should have said no. I should start out slow, like with someone I’ve dated in the past. Right? An ex-boyfriend. A re-date? What do you think, Kit? I mean, should I re-date someone? Should I tell Ella to forget about the barbeque?”
There’s a pause on her end, but I know she’s still there because I can hear her groan.
“Kit?”
“Sorry, Mary, you’re breaking up…” Kit does a fake swooshing sound that I know is her because it also sounds like a chain smoker. Then she hangs up.
I stuff two more chocolate fingers into my mouth, trying to calm the fear I can feel quickly rising into a full blown panic attack. Kit’s right. What was I thinking? A blind date? Those never work out, and who needs that kind of pressure their first time back into the dating world? I devour another handful of chocolates, certain I can feel my butt expanding already as Ella returns with the twins.
“Sorry,” she says plopping down on the bench. “The joys of motherhood.”
Oh boy, I can’t wait.
Ella reaches her hand into the Godiva bag and roots around. “Didn’t you buy any chocolate fingers?” she asks.
I look into the bag. They’re all gone. Hunh. I wonder how that happened?
“I’ll go get some more,” I say and try to ignore the look she shoots me.
Chapter Six:
Kit, the Ace of Clubs
The red curtain falls in front of us. The crowd is still cheering wildly and I can see roses being thrown onto the stage, blood red petals peeking under the velvet curtain. Vlad gives my hand a squeeze before Petey ushers him off to recharge his powers. Fine by me. I’m in no mood to socialize tonight anyway.
Number one thing I hate about staying out all night – the morning after.
Or, in my case, the afternoon after. Though, really it’s all kind of running together now. After I met up with Vlad at the Back Room’s VIP lounge we went to a private party at some whale’s suite at the Mirage. Then for cocktails at Pucks, then to the Venetian for an after party.
I didn’t actually make contact with the paisley printed carpet of The Grand until this afternoon. Which gave me just enough time for a quick nap before going on stage tonight.
I pick my way over the show’s aftermath to my dressing room and kick my shoes into the corner. They land in a jumbled heap. They’re my sworn enemies at the moment. I flip on the frame of lights surrounding my mirror and take stock. Luckily the stage makeup has covered the worst of the dark circles. I unscrew the top off my cold cream and slather the stuff over my face, quickly wiping it off with a towel. I’m doing a messy job of it, and I know I probably have goo in my hair. Don’t care. All I care about is falling back into that big feather bed of mine. The false eyelashes come off, and the wig goes the way of the shoes just as the door to my dressing room opens. I sit up a little straighter as I catch that scent of spicy aftershave and strong vodka.
“Hello, Kit,” Vlad says, coming up behind me.
“Hi.” God, I wish my voice sounded deep and husky when I’m tired instead of high and whiney.
“You look tired,” he says.
“A little.” Understatement of the year.
“Ah, my poor pet,” he says, leaning down so his voice purrs in my ear. His breath on my earlobe sends a shiver up my spine. Suddenly I’m wide awake again.
And then he starts rubbing my neck. I can’t help it, a moan of pleasure escapes me.
Oh, what I wouldn’t give to have those hands massaging all over me. What I wouldn’t give to have him sweep me into his arms and carry me up to my suite, away to Vladland forever. Or hell, at this point, even for one night. We could get away with it, you know. I mean, who would ever find out? Petey? Not likely. He’s busy counting the receipts for the night. And The Troll wife is an ocean away. We could do it. I could sleep with Vlad and no one would be the wiser.
Except me.
Just as I’m wondering who let that disconcerting thought wander into my fantasy, the door to my dressing room opens and Petey’s beady little head appears.
Vlad drops his hands to his side, and my skin feels instantly cold in their absence.
“Vlad?” Petey says.
Vlad sighs, almost as if he was having the same fantasy I was.
“Yes?” he responds.
“Vlad, your wife-” Petey begins, but Vlad cuts him off.
“Yes, yes. I’ll be right there.”
Petey lingers a moment, looking from Vlad to me, and I suddenly wish his puny little head would explode. Just pop right off his bean counting body. So that the next time Vlad’s wife calls, there will be no Petey to answer the phone. There will be no interruptions to my massage, and I’ll be able to dwell in my fantasyland as long as I like.
But his head doesn’t explode. Instead he says, “Right,” and pops back out, closing the door behind him.
Vlad visibly relaxes as soon as Petey leaves. He leans down and plants a kiss on the top of my head.
“Get some sleep, pet,” he says before following Petey’s head out the door.
Get some sleep. A minute ago it was all I could think about. Now, my hormones are charging with such a rush I’m not sure I’ll ever sleep again. Right, get some sleep. Only if you promise I won’t dream about you again, Vlad. Only if I can make myself forget every fantasy I’ve had over the last two years. Every wink, every look, every so much more than employer-employee neck massage.
I strip off the sequins and pull on an old pair of Nike sweats I find in a pile under the vanity. They’re wrinkled and sloppy looking, but I just can’t bring myself to squeeze my body into last night’s jeans. Beside, I think someone spilled a tartini on them last night and they stink. Let wardrobe handle them. I’m going to bed.
Running
a quick hand through my tangle of hair, I grab my bag and switch off the lights. My sneakers squeak on the polished floor of the hall, making my head pound with too many Manhattans, not enough sleep, and way too much pent up lust.
I make my way down the quiet corridor, past Petey in his counting room, past the security office. I almost get to the elevators, but as I pass Vlad’s dressing room I hear raised voices. I slow down. It’s not unusual for Vlad and Petey to have it out over something, usually Vlad’s extravagant spending habits, but Petey’s in his office.
I stop at the door to Vlad’s dressing room, checking over my shoulder lest someone catch me eavesdropping. I try to catch a word or two, but Vlad’s speaking in Russian. Damn. Well, what did I expect? At least I think it’s Russian. What the hell do they speak in Latvia? Maybe Latvian. Okay, so he’s yelling in Latvian.
Then I hear a second voice. A woman’s. I freeze. And God help me, I actually put my ear to the door. Okay, if Petey sticks his beady little head out of his room now there is no way I can claim I’m just passing by. I am 100% eavesdropping.
The woman’s speaking in Russian too. A cold sensation washes over me. I put my hand over my other ear. Leaning into the door, wishing like hell they weren’t so thick. Why would they need dressing room doors this thick anyway? Probably to keep people from eavesdropping.
And then I suddenly realize how ridiculous I’m being. It doesn’t matter who he’s talking to. So he has a woman in there. Fine by me. It doesn’t matter because he’s married, and I’m just his assistant, and no matter how he massages my neck that’s all I’ll ever be as long as The Latvian Troll is in the picture. Which she will be. Because Vlad doesn’t divorce. End of story.
Thank God the realization hits me when it does, because just as I straighten up, the door comes flying open, and I’m face to face with the other woman.
She is gorgeous, at least 5’10” and could double for a supermodel. Long, slick, black hair hangs down around her face like a thick, velvet curtain. Her long lashes bring out her dark eyes, and she has those pouty kind of lips that not even collagen can duplicate. And she’s looking at me with big eyes, all round with surprise, her perfect porcelain doll cheeks flushed with pink.
What Happens in Vegas Page 6