What Happens in Vegas

by Halliday, Gemma

  So, I decide to take it upon myself to move Petey out of the equation.

  I rinse out my coffee cup and put it in the sink. I saunter across the room again, swinging my hips in the loose shirt.

  “Petey, can’t this wait until later?” I ask. “Vlad and I were a little busy before you showed up.”

  Petey looks up, blushes bright crimson, then promptly glues his eyes back to the stack of papers in front of him.

  “Oh, uh, yeah. Sure. This can wait. We’ll, uh, look over it later.” Petey moves to gather his papers, stacking them into sloppy piles, all the while trying to avoid looking at me. Hmm… funny, he’s had no trouble ignoring me for the past two years.

  Only Vlad stops him.

  “No, no. We’ll do this now. Kit and I were done here.”

  I freeze. Petey freezes. Petey looks from Vlad to me. Vlad’s still engrossed with the report in his hands, not even glancing up at me. I’m not sure what my face looks like right now, but it suddenly feels like it’s made of stone. The mere effort of blinking a struggle as I process the words. We’re done here?

  Petey looks about as confused as I suddenly am. He hovers, papers in hand, not sure whether to set them down or pack them back in his briefcase. “Um, okay,” he finally says, picking up his red pen again.

  “I’ll see you at practice this afternoon, Kit,” Vlad says. A statement, not a question.

  “Right.” My throat develops an odd lump in the back, and my eyes begin to sting. With great effort I force my legs to move, to carry me back to the bedroom. Petey sends a look my way that can only be interpreted as pity. Petey pities me? Suddenly I feel sick to my stomach.

  I quietly close the bedroom door behind me, my eyes still stinging and beginning to cloud over. I will not cry, dammit. I had an amazing night with Vlad, and I will not cry.

  Only nothing is the way I thought it would be. I thought Vlad and I would share scrambled eggs and toast in bed. We would feed each other strawberries. We would make love again and again. We would share a hot, steamy shower. He would fucking kiss me goodbye.

  I gather my clothes into my arms, quickly swap Vlad’s shirt for my own and throw on my skirt from last night. I sniff hard, forcing back the tears that threaten to explode from my eyes. I stomp into the bathroom, one boot on, checking my reflection. My hair is a mess and my makeup is smudged. I run a hand through my spiky locks and wipe at the mascara rings circling my eyes. Shit. It just makes them worse.

  Whatever. I give up. I take a deep breath as I find my other boot and fling open the doors of the bedroom.

  “I’m leaving now, Vlad,” I say as I cross the room to the front door. Petey looks up, pity still in his eyes. But Vlad doesn’t. His head stays bent over an invoice as he calls, “Three-thirty, Kit. Don’t be late.”

  Right. Fine. Three-thirty.

  I open the front door and walk out, letting it fall closed behind me with a sickening thud. I press the elevator button. I press it again. I attack it, pressing over and over again until the bell dings, and the steel doors fly open. I throw myself into the carriage and let out a sigh as the doors swing shut behind me.

  And only then does the entirety of what has happened hit me. I slept with Vlad. I slept with my boss. A married man. I slept with him, and nothing will ever be the same between us. He’s not in love with me, hell he didn’t even look at me as I left. Tears fall over my cheeks now, and I can’t seem to stop them. I thought when Maria showed up she would ruin everything Vlad and I had. But she didn’t. I did.

  Oh, God, what have I done?

  Chapter Sixteen:

  Mary, the Queen of Hearts

  He’s late.

  As if embarrassing myself in front of an eligible doctor, being hit on by a wookiee and being put in the role of fag hag bride-to-be weren’t bad enough, I am now being stood up by David’s fabulously straight (supposedly) showboy. If my mother’s face weren’t already frozen by botulism, I’m sure she’d laugh herself a new wrinkle over this one.

  She called again, by the way. My mother. She left a message on my machine while I was playing poker last night. It went something like this: “Mary? Mary, are you there? All right, fine. I’ll talk to your machine then. (As if it was a personal affront to her.) Samantha and I made an appointment for you to get your hair done at Capelli Bonita before the ceremony, so please don’t be late. I don’t think we can get another appointment and God knows you need it. (Gee, thanks!) Oh, and I need the name of your doctor friend (as if she believes I really have one) for the place cards. That’s all. Oh, and no more Oreos before the wedding!”

  Of course the first thing I did after viciously hitting the delete button about fifty times was sit down in front of Letterman and eat an entire bag of Oreos. Ha! Take that, Mother.

  I wish I’d had such a great comeback for the message Sam left right after my mother’s. “Hi Mary, it’s meeeeee! (That’s ‘me’ with four syllables.) So, my sorority sister, Shelly, you know the one with the totally cute new nose (as if that narrowed it down), anyway, she, like, said she knew the perfect place for you to throw my bachelorette party. It’s this place called Men and they’re supposed to have… (dropping into a whisper) naked dancers. You know, that, like, show everything. Anyway, (back up to perky volume) I thought you could check it out and see if it’s way cool or like totally gross or what. Thanks, sis. Ciao!”

  K – not that I don’t enjoy seeing a naked butt or two on HBO, but I have a sinking feeling that seeing real live guys with there you-know-whats all dangling in my face will be much more “like totally gross” than “way cool.” I immediately called Ella and made her promise she would come with me for moral support. She’s such a good friend, she didn’t even “eww” once at the thought of naked you-know-whats.

  Speaking of good friends… I’m going to kill David. My date is now almost twelve minutes late. That’s bordering on really late. As in standing-me-up late. I swear, if this guy stands me up, David will never hear the end of it. I played nickel go-fish with his mother for crying out loud!

  I’m just about ready to call David and tell him what an ass he is for setting me up with a stander-upper, when the phone rings.

  “Hello?” I say, picking it up.

  “Hi, may I speak to Mary Halligan please?”

  Great, a telemarketer. No one I really want to talk to uses my full name.

  “No thanks, I don’t want any,” I say and hang up.

  I straighten my top (black silk tank with white polka dots that I got for 15% off just by opening an Old Navy account), tug at the hem of my skirt (white with black polka dots that are this close to being the same color black as the top), and check my hair (tied with a cute Jackie O style scarf that draws attention away from the frizziness) once more in the mirror before checking the time again.

  He’s now fifteen minutes late. The official he’s-stood-me up mark.

  That’s it, I need chocolate. I open my goodie cupboard only to find that post mom’s message I have eaten all the Oreos in the house. Great. I’m contemplating whether I’m desperate enough to eat a bag of stale chocolate chips when the phone rings again.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Is this Mary Halligan?”

  Damn, it’s that telemarketer again. This guy just can’t take a hint. “Look, I don’t want any. What part of that don’t you understand?”

  “How do you know? You don’t even know what I’m offering.”

  “Oh really? What are you offering?”

  “Dinner and a movie.”

  Wait a minute…

  “Who is this?” I ask hoping against hope that I didn’t just hang up on my date.

  “Jacob Emmerson.”

  “Are you my date for tonight?” I ask, halfway hoping he is (because at least I wouldn’t be being completely stood up) and halfway hoping he isn’t (because hanging up on a guy is not a good way to start a blind date).

  However, he just kind of chuckles. “Are you asking me out, Mary?”

  “Are you
David’s friend?” Why do I suddenly feel like I’m playing twenty questions?

  “David? Wow, you have a lot of boyfriends, don’t you?”

  That answers that question. He’s not my date. Anyone who knows David knows he’s not my boyfriend. Well, anyone except his parents. Which means not only have I been stood up, but I have some weirdo on the line who apparently knows my name.

  “Do I know you?” I ask. I’ve heard of this sort of thing. Women getting weird phone calls in the middle of the night from psychos breathing heavily. Except it’s barely seven, and he’s not breathing heavily, just asking me out.

  “I didn’t get a chance to properly introduce myself the other day. I’m Chewbacca.”

  “You’re who?”

  “From the Star Wars wedding?”

  Oh. Great. The wookiee.

  “How on earth did you get my number?”

  “Yellow pages dot com.”

  “Well, lose it,” I say and hang up.

  The phone immediately rings again, but I let the machine pick it up, grabbing my purse and dashing out of the apartment before I hear the freak propositioning me again. Well, at least if the showboy doesn’t work out, I can take a wookiee to my sister’s wedding. Wouldn’t my mother have a field day with that!

  * * *

  Only he did show up. And he was gorgeous. Blond hair, blue eyes, and a polo shirt fit so tight it rippled over his abs. And, somehow, someway, with some sort of divine luck shining upon me, I am not screwing it up.

  I almost had a heart attack when I first saw him. Aaron, as he introduced himself, pulled up in his Porsche just as I was leaving my apartment building to go strangle David. He apologized profusely, saying there was some sort of accident involving kids drag racing on I-15, and he didn’t have my number. I was tempted to tell him that he should try information, because apparently any freak can get my number that way, but I didn’t. Instead, I smiled, said, “That’s all right” and got into his Porsche.

  Three cocktails, one shrimp Florentine, and two chocolate mousses to die for later, here we are at Balentine’s on Fremont. The lights are dim, just low enough to hide the remnants of last Saturday’s pimple, instrumental music is being piped in from discretely hidden speakers, and the soft candlelight from the table is shining on Aaron’s blue eyes in a way that makes me glad I shaved my legs. And, best of all, I am not screwing this one up.

  “You have the softest hands,” Aaron says, taking one of my hands into his own.

  I giggle and, I think, blush. God, I’m acting like a twelve year old with a crush, but I don’t care. It’s fun, and he is so hot I’m practically melting.

  “I use lotion,” I say as he runs his fingertips over the back of my hands.

  “I can totally tell,” he says. “You know, looking acrosst at you, you are so beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” I say and I think there’s a perma-grin stuck on my face. The likes of which I haven’t felt since that trip Brandon and I made to Cancun last year where it rained, and we had to spend the whole week in the hotel room.

  “You make me want to just reach acrosst the table and eat you up.”

  While I wouldn’t mind Aaron nibbling on me a little (and, oh, can I think of where I’d like that nibble) that’s the second time he’s said that word. Acrosst. With a “T” at the end. And even though my insides are a gooey as a chocolate kiss in July, it’s just a tad annoying. I know he means “across,” and it’s just a little thing. Maybe he’s just nervous. Flustered by my beauty. (Hey a girl can dream, right?) Wow, his eyes are so blue. I mean, really, really, blue. I wonder if they’re contacts?

  “So, how long have you danced?” I ask unable to keep my gaze from sliding down to the shrink-wrap fit of his polo shirt. Wow, he is built. I bet he goes to the gym like five or six times a week. I’ve got to remember to go work out with Ella again.

  “About four years now. It’s fun. Sometimes I wish we didn’t have to wear such skimpy outfits, but the pay is good.”

  I can’t help my gaze from sliding back down to those well toned abs and wondering, how skimpy? “Tell me more,” I say, discreetly checking the corner of my mouth for drool.

  “Well, I started dancing at the Bellagio, which was cool. But a couple years ago I auditioned for Jubilee and when I got that I just moved acrosst the street to Bally’s.”

  I cringe. There he goes again. Does he just not know how to spell the word? Would it be rude to spell it for him?

  What am I thinking? Yes, it would be rude, and by the way, who the hell cares how he spells the word? He is gorgeous, I am single, it has been six months since I’ve been with a man. Not to mention the fact that my mom would go gaga over a cutie like this.

  As long as he doesn’t talk.

  “So, auditioning must be tough.”

  “Not really. Alls you have to do is smile pretty for the producers.”

  Alls? Cringe.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Yeah, you know, just smiling at them can really extinguish you from the others.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It can extinguish you. You know, set you apart.”

  Ooooh… distinguish. Okay, this is getting bad. I have to make this guy stop talking.

  “Do you want a bite of this chocolate mousse?” I ask, not waiting for him to answer before sending a forkful his way. He takes it, his lips slowly gliding over the fork prongs, and I actually feel my insides quiver. Funny, I thought that was just something that girls in romance novels books did, but I swear to you, I quiver. Suddenly I can think of a whole lot of other things that mouth could be doing besides talking.

  I think he notices the look in my eyes, because he leans close to me and says, “Let’s get outta here.”

  Oh honey, that’s one thing I am delighted to hear you say.

  * * *

  It takes us an agonizing ten minutes for Aaron to pull his Porsche up to my apartment building. He gets out and opens the door for me. Before I’m even halfway out of the car, he takes my hand and pulls me to him, wrapping both arms around me. Gotta love that kind of initiative.

  “Hello, beautiful,” he whispers, his lips so close I can almost taste the chocolate mousse on them.

  “I’ve been wanting to do this all evening,” he murmurs as his lips make contact. Soft lips. He must use some kind of vitamin E chapstick. And they’re skilled too. That quiver is back with a vengeance, and I’m twice glad I shaved my legs tonight.

  Aaron pulls away, sliding his lips down my throat, nuzzling my earlobes. It tickles, and I try not to giggle. I’m barely even aware of the fact that we’re standing on the sidewalk in plain view of anyone.

  I feel Aaron’s hot breath against my skin as he whispers, “I’d like to kiss my way from one end of you clear acrosst to the other.”

  Okay, so Aaron’s not the brightest crayon in the box. In fact, he’s almost as dim as that yellowy-green color that doesn’t even show up unless you’re coloring on black construction paper. But, I’m having a serious internal dilemma over whether or not this matters. On the one hand, he could be my ticket out of the singles-only table. On the other hand, I will spend the entirety of Sam’s reception listening to him talk about dancing “acrosst” the floor and my lovely dress that really “extinguishes” me from the other bridesmaids. Not to mention the fact that the second he opens his mouth, Mother will know he’s no doctor and certainly no member of the country club set.

  So, maybe he’s not really wedding date material. However, there’s still the fact that it’s been six months since I’ve been with a man and I have a hot guy attached to my neck like a suckerfish. Maybe there’s still a chance I could persuade him not to talk while I drag him up to my bedroom cavewoman style.

  “So,” he murmurs against my neck, “Alls you have to do is say the words and I’m your pompadour.”

  Huh? “My what?”

  “Your pompadour,” he repeats. “You know, like your lover.”

  I stifle an unladylike snort. “Um, actuall
y a pompadour is the hairdo my grandfather used to wear,” I say. “I think you might mean paramour.”

  He blinks his beautifully blank eyes at me. “Sure. That’s what I said.”

  Okay, I know I’m going to hate myself in about two seconds for saying this, but…

  “I’m sorry, Aaron. I’m just out of a relationship and I really don’t think I’m ready for this yet.”

  Yep. I hate myself. And here I shaved my legs for nothing.

  “Oh,” he says, his mouth turning down just a little at the corners. God help me I actually lick my lips as I watch his mouth. It’s the most perfect mouth mine has ever touched. “Okay. Well, I understand I guess.”

  “Thanks,” I say, gritting my teeth together to keep from changing my mind.

  “Well, I’ll see you around then,” he says and gets into his Porsche and starts the engine. Then, Aaron drives away and I am left standing on the sidewalk with my dignity.

  I hate my dignity.

  Chapter Seventeen:

  Ella, the Full House

  “Mary, where are you?”

  “Who is this?” she mumbles into the phone.

  “It’s Ella,” I say. “Remember, the person you were supposed to meet half an hour ago?” In light of his moping like a sulky three year old, Mary and I promised to take Julio out for morning mimosas today to get his mind off David. She said she’d meet us at The Chapel of Love and we’d walk over to café Nicole’s. Only Julio and I have been here sitting on the heart shaped sofa for exactly thirty-one minutes, and apparently Mary’s forgotten all about us.