by Cary Hart
“Ahhh! I remember,” I follow her down the long hall weaving in and out of the hustle and bustle of the twenty-four-hour chapel. “My mom told me if I stayed backstage, she would give me a bag of quarters at the end of the week.”
“That’s right, kid. Harold and Darla only came in for the Sunday buffet, but when they saw you trying to get those plastic money suckers, they wanted to help.”
“The bags of quarters?”
“From Harold and Darla. Each week, they would give your momma twenty dollars and a bag of quarters and told her to treat you both to something nice.”
“I can’t believe it.” I smile at the memory. “You know, I still have one of those rings to remind me of…” I look around as we finally reach a door—the back door—to the outside—not her office. “Dottie, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure you didn’t invite me in to send me right back out.” I nervously chuckle, unsure of what to think.
I just admitted I have nowhere else to go. If she sends me out this door, and on my way, I’m done. Coming to Las Vegas was a gamble, and unfortunately, I lost it all.
“Kid, cool your tits. This…” Dottie opens the steel back door, and a young man comes running past her shouting something about babysitting and not his job, “is my office.”
Following her out, I throw my hand over my shoulder. “What’s his deal?”
Dottie shrugs. “Eh, he’s always complainin’.” She sets the bags down before she grabs her pack of smokes and begins to light up.
Taking a step forward, Dottie’s eyes get big as she shouts, her cigarette somehow hanging from her mouth, “Get the door!”
Using my super stealth ninja reflexes, I grab the door just in the nick of time. “Geesh, Dottie. You scared me.”
“Well, you scared me.” She fiddles in the bag as she continues to puff and talk. “If that door would have shut, we would’ve been locked out.”
Grabbing a box of cigars, she unwraps the plastic and pulls one out.
“Um…Dottie? I’m not sure how to say this, but smoking those…” I point between the two death sticks, “at the same time…I’m not sure if it’s—heathy?” I watch in amazement as the ash grows longer and longer and still doesn’t fall.
Dottie is standing there, talking, and in between sentences, she puffs on it a couple times, the cig burning, the ash still not falling. How in the… Seriously, this has to be some kind of world record. She hasn’t flicked it off once, and the cig is almost half gone.
“Ehhh,” she grunts. “It’s not for me.”
“Oh…um—well?” I wrinkle up my nose at the thought of smoking one myself. “I’ll have to pass.” I wave my hand in front of me. “Not my thing.”
“It’s not for you.” She flicks her stick, lighting the cigar from the cigarette butt before she tosses it to the ground, stomping it out. “It’s for him.” She takes a couple puffs before she steps around me.
“Who?” I peek around the door and come eye to eye with a massive bearded beast—with horns.
“Baaaaaah!” The beast shouts his battle-cry and begins to charge.
What the…? “That’s a goat!” I scream like a little girl.
“Kid, the door!” Dottie croaks out.
“Shit.” I reach my hand out and barely grab the handle before it latches.
“What’s wrong? Never seen a smokin’ goat before?” Dottie places the cigar in the beast’s mouth.
“He tried to kill me and eat me for dinner.” I’m yelling, pointing at the thing that just tried to attack me. “And he smokes. A smoking goat tried to kill me and eat me for dinner.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, kid. Burt, here—” she adjusts his cigar, “is a vegetarian.”
“But he growled and bared his teeth. He was ready—to—attack.” I’ll be damned if I get eaten by a massive goat who needs to shave. His beard is out of control.
“That’s his smile?”
“Oh-kay.”
Dottie bends down and whispers something in the goat’s ear.
“What are you doing? That goat is armed and dangerous.” I look around. “We should call animal control.”
“Animal control?” she repeats. “For a smokin’ goat?”
“Fine—a smoking goat that tried to kill me.” I take a step back to give myself a head start…you know, just in case Burt tries anything fishy.
“Kid, you’re scaring Burt Reynolds.” Dottie, who is on #TeamBurt, is now standing in front of him, shielding him from me. Me! “He’s had a rough couple of years since Sally Field left him at the altar.”
“Let me get this straight. Burt Reynolds, a smoking goat, was left at the altar by none other than Sally Field, another goat.” I tilt my head back and laugh. “Let me guess. Was there a black Trans Am involved?”
“Kid, this isn’t Smokey and the Bandit, but you’re close!” Dottie reaches out her hand. “Now, hand me that box over there. Burt here needs another stogie after what you put him through.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
I look at the two in front of me. Dottie, a forever forty-nine, wig-wearing, fake-baking, smokes way too much, doesn’t give two-shits, has a shot for breakfast kind of woman, and this goat—who smokes—and now that I’m getting a good look—is smiling.
Only in Vegas.
Less than forty-eight hours ago, I was a waitress in New York auditioning for anything that came my way, and when I say anything—I do mean anything and everything. My rent was more important than my reputation. Commercials, reality shows, an STD educational video—you name it, I was there, and each time I held out hope they passed. Whatever they were looking for, I was the opposite. Every. Single. Time.
My only claim to fame? A GIF.
Yup, coffee in one hand and cell phone to my ear, I walked right in front of the camera while they were shooting a live newsfeed. As soon as I realized what I had done, I froze, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. Now, my little twenty-second claim to fame is used to enhance someone’s social media feed.
“Kid, sit down.” Aunt Dottie takes a seat on the old church pew by the dumpster out back. “And tell me why
you’re really here.”
Scanning the area, I find a brick, use it to prop open the door, and take a seat. “Well, I was living paycheck to paycheck working my ass off to get nowhere, basically,” I admit.
I left for New York right before I turned eighteen with Monica Marti, my best friend since eighth grade. I was going to become a famous model/actress, and Monica, a Page Six reporter. Her Uncle Tony owned a celebrity photography business—aka super stalker of the rich and famous—and needed an assistant. Neither of us could afford to go on our own, but putting our money together, we found a studio apartment that somewhat fit our budget.
Needless to say, New York was hard. Monica never got that job. Instead, she runs a social media gossip blog, and I worked as a waitress by day and bar hostess by night.
“Well, I have to admit. Since your mom passed, I haven’t been able to keep up.” Dottie lifts a brow and pauses. “Murdered. Since she was murdered…” I know exactly what she’s going to say. “By the sneaky slut, Steffy Sinclair—she knew what she was doing when she polished those brass poles.”
“Aunt Dottie, Mom wasn’t murdered. She died of a brain aneurysm.” I place my hand on her leg and give it a
little squeeze.
I miss my mom dearly, but Dottie lost not only her best friend but the closest thing she had to a daughter. We were her family. One minute, they were backstage trying out a new scented body oil, and the next, Steffy was daring my mom to show her one of her famous Lola of Las Vegas routines. Climbing the pole, she transitioned from a rainbow to a nose-breaker drop when her body went limp and fell to the ground. Aunt Dottie swears Steffy did something to the poles when she waxed them, but the hospital autopsy report said otherwise.
Dottie reaches around, her hands showing her true age, and pats my cheek. “I’m sorry, kid. It still hurts.”
> “I know, Dottie.” We both sit there. Neither of us speaking, just silently remembering life with Lola.
“Let’s get ya back on track. You’re broke and tired of New York,” Dottie says as she picks up her pack of cigs and lights another.
“Well, yeah,” I admit. New York would have been amazing if I could have caught a break, but doing what I was doing for almost eight years, it was hard. Not only mentally, but physically as well. “I was working just to survive, and any extra money went into headshots, fees, agents, updating headshots—it was just never-ending.”
“I keep lookin’ for you on the tube. I thought your momma said you got that part for a vag cream commercial,” Dottie mumbles with the cig hanging off her lip.
“Well…I did, but my scenes were cut during editing, but the bright side…” I hold up a finger, “I still got paid.”
“Better than nuttin’ I guess,” Dottie rattles.
“Basically, Aunt Dottie, I failed—big time.” I hold out my hands. “Monica heard about this reality show, here in Las Vegas, where they were casting previous reality show personalities and thought maybe my little famous GIF moment would make me applicable for the job.”
“Oh, kid…”
“Yeah, oh is right. I had a meeting with Dirk Dinkleman, who decided that even though I wasn’t technically qualified for the role, he would give me an audition anyway. All I had to do was sit on his “casting couch” and fondle little—and I do mean little—Dirk Dinkleman, if you know what I mean.”
“I would have pinched his nut sac.” She smiles, the cigarette still between her lips and ash growing long.
“Ew.” I shake with laughter. “Just the thought of touching that man had me running in the other direction.”
“And that is how you ended up here. To see your Aunt Dottie.” She grins.
“Yup—it took every dime I had to come here. I had just enough for a red-eye and hotel for one night.” I reach into my pocket and grab a wad of bills. “The only money I have left to my name is the collection of two dollar bills you would send me every birthday.”
“You only have forty-eight dollars?” Dottie seems concerned.
“Yeah.” I shake my head. “What was I thinking?”
“And you didn’t plan on going back?” she questions.
“I wasn’t sure what was going to happen. I just knew I needed to take the chance.”
“Kid, you rolled the dice and won.” Dottie stands and reaches for my hand.
“I won?” I glance up at her in confusion. “How?”
“Because you just hit the jackpot.” She gives my hand a tug, and I stand. “Welcome to the One—Stop—Wedding—Shop.”
Every day, it’s the same. Wake up, check my list, shower, organize the list, coffee, add to the list. My life—is full—of lists.
Who runs the world? Girls Lists!
Without them, I would be back in New York serving up all-you-can-eat hotcakes, but instead, I’m in the city that never sleeps, running the twenty-four-hour One Stop Wedding Shop. Thanks to the lists and Aunt Dottie.
She was right when she said I hit the jackpot. After our talk, she marched us right back inside and demanded Harold and Darla give me a job in exchange for a small paycheck and a place to stay. Apparently, the One Stop Wedding Shop really does have it all: a level of honeymoon suites and a top floor with a handful of apartments for trusted employees.
Darla took me under her wing and showed me the ropes. That lady…she was something else. To her, this wasn’t just a place for couples to get married. She wanted them to have a full, magical experience. It didn’t matter if they just met or were eloping to escape the madness. Her goal: to keep love alive.
Darla was the ultimate matchmaker, and even though Harold encouraged her to stop meddling in everyone’s business, he gave her all the means to play cupid. That’s how the Honeymoon Hideaway was born.
It’s not unusual to see couples, who barely know each other, rush to the altar. Actually, it’s what keeps us in business. We have four chapels dedicated for those clients—the walk-in’s. Darla lived for that kind of love. It’s how Harold and she met. She was a cocktail waitress at the Golden Nugget and Harold was a high-roller. After a few hours of exchanged glances, he followed her out and courted her right to the Little White Chapel. Darla vowed to keep their love as alive as it had been that night. She never wanted to forget.
So, when she would see the look of doubt between two newlyweds, she would offer them the Honeymoon Hide-away, a suite stocked with everything to keep the romance alive and the doubt away. Love is work, but chemistry—it’s undeniable. It’s what brings them here—The Honeymoon Hideaway.
Knowing their story, and how this crazy wonderful place came to be, I couldn’t help but stay and continue to run it—especially after Darla suffered a major stroke that landed her in a nursing home. Harold couldn’t bear the thought of being away from her, so he followed. Unfortunately, things took a turn for the worse when Darla’s heart just couldn’t take it anymore and stopped beating in the middle of the night. Harold, who had been beside himself, begged them not to take her away. He just wanted one more night with his wife, his soul mate. They were able to give him a few hours, but that’s all he needed. Harold held her in his arms until he finally fell asleep himself, letting forever take them both under.
So, now I’m here, with the rest of the employees, keeping the One Stop Wedding Shop alive for Harold and Darla until their grandson finally decides to show up and take responsibility, but I’m counting on him being the typical trust-fund baby too preoccupied and self-absorbed to even care about this place. Hell, I’m even hoping he forgot about it since he couldn’t even spare a moment to attend his grandparents’ funeral. What a jackass.
Noticing the time, I glance over my list before tucking my cell into the hidden pocket of my functional, yet totally fashionable, navy jumper. Grabbing my to-go mug, I rush out the door.
“Hey, Vegas,” Sully, our resident limo driver, greets me in the hall, coming home after a long night of driving around the city.
“Good morning, Sully. Crazy night?” I ask the same question I do every morning. Sometimes, we stop and chitchat about some of the stories from the night before.
“Beyond.” He puffs out his cheeks, eyes wide. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Sully laughs, shaking his head as he unlocks his apartment door—a sure sign today is one of those days I’m not getting a story.
“You know, you really should write a book,” I joke around, but if he ever did decide to do it, I’m sure it would be a bestseller. I mean, I would buy it.
“You don’t say?” He winks.
“Get some rest! It’s Friday,” I holler over my shoulder as I keep walking.
Sully groans. “Don’t remind me.”
“Mornin’, Vegas,” Mikey, the janitor and part-time goat watcher, mumbles, keeping his head down.
“That bad?” I glance back, but he continues on, ignoring my question.
“Don’t mind him. Burt gave him a hard time last night.” Sue-Lee, resident acrobat and Mikey’s fiancé waives her hand in dismissal.
“Oh no. Please tell me that meddling goat didn’t crash the reception? I’ll kill Burt myself,” I mutter as I bring the mug up to my lips, instead of steaming coffee I find it cold and empty. “Crap, forgot I was out of coffee.”
“Mindy made a fresh pot.” Sue-Lee holds up her paper cup like a beacon of hope.
“I was counting on that.” I lift my mug. Mindy is one of the bakers who comes in between shifts. It works better for her to keep an eye on her high school son, and things running fresh and smooth in the kitchen. “So, was it the reception?”
“No, they would’ve called you. Apparently, Axel took Burt to the basement and smoked a few joints.” Sue-Lee tried not to crack a smile, but something tells me this is a story I’ll eventually want to hear.
“How’s Burt?” I chuckle.
“Dottie has him outside. He has the munchies.” S
he points down the hall. “I better get going. I need to check on Mikey.”
“See you later.”
“Till tomorrow,” she calls out.
This is my everyday, and honestly, I don’t know how I survived before this. Over the past year, these crazy zany characters have become my family. Without them, there’s no way I could have ever kept this place going. I just wished my mom were here to see everything I’ve become.
Looking back, running to New York was a desperate move. I was craving to fit in and only got ignored. Las Vegas…it’s different. You don’t have to fit in to be accepted. You just have to be you.
Harold and Darla, they saw a little girl who never gave up searching for that ring in a machine filled with gumballs, and by some luck of the draw, I came back, and they saw a woman with the same determination. They gave me a chance, and I refuse to let them down.
It’s funny how things work out. This job was only supposed to last a few months until I got my feet on the ground. Now, here I am, eighteen months later, running the One Stop Wedding Shop. It started off as their dream, but now—it’s mine.
I push through the doors of the industrial-sized kitchen with one mission only: fill my coffee mug, ignoring everyone and everything that could get in my way. “Good morning, my friend,” I whisper to the glass carafe as I fill the mug.
“You have a little icing right here,” a very sexy, very male voice interrupts my moment with caffeine from somewhere behind me. Mindy giggles in response, and I take a sip of the scorching liquid before I whirl around to see why there’s a strange voice soliciting a giggle from my baker.
“What the heck?” I bark out. I mean, I have only had one sip, so I can’t be held entirely responsible for my short fuse.
“Oh!” Mindy’s voice rises an octave. “I-I didn’t see you come in.” She takes a step back, but I’m not sure if it’s to get away from me or the suit who had his hands on her.
“I’m not sure what’s going on in here, but…”
“Well, Mindy here…” the suit interrupts, “was just explaining how she was making a pretty complicated cake,” he says as he turns around, licking the little bit of icing from the pad of his thumb.