Married to the Enemy

by R. S. Lively

“Well, we need to change that, don’t we?”

  I place my hand on her lower back and guide her out of the store. We walk to the casino. She glances around, taking in her new surroundings.

  Thousands of slot machines were on the floor, dinging and ringing, playing the typical casino symphony. On the other side is where all the table games are. If my girl wants to play blackjack, that’s what she is going to do.

  “Wait, we need cash, right?”

  “I have cash. Follow me, Cherry.” She walks behind me and almost breaks her neck as she watches a cigarette girl walk by in practically nothing. A black leotard covers her like a one-piece bathing suit, and she wears stockings with red heels. On the trays are a variety of cigarettes and cigars.

  “I see why men like it here so much,” she comments, still watching the girl bend over to offer men the sticks. “They aren’t even looking at the tray. They are looking at her rack.”

  “Girl’s gotta eat, Cherry. She knows that.”

  We make it to the cage, and I get out my license along with my key. “Stone. I’d like—” I turn to Whitley. “How much do you want?”

  “A hundred? If that’s okay?” she asks, rubbing her left hand down her right arm.

  “A hundred thousand, please, out of my vault,” I say to the clerk.

  Whitley starts coughing, smacking her chest like she is choking. Her eyes water and I pat her back, worried that she might need a doctor or something.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nods. “I meant a hundred dollars.”

  I toss my head back and laugh at her joke only to see that she isn’t laughing along with me. I clear my throat, holding my fist in front of my mouth.

  “Oh, you are serious.”

  “Deadly.”

  “Cherry, you can’t play with a hundred dollars here. Especially in blackjack.”

  “Well, why not?”

  “Because people who play with a hundred dollars go play at Circus Circus.”

  “There’s a circus here? How cruel!”

  I rub her lower back with a shake of my head and a chuckle. “No, it’s a hotel. No harming of animals of any kind.” I love how naïve she is to Vegas. It’s so refreshing.

  Her cheeks turn red from embarrassment. “I knew that.”

  I shoot her a wink as the clerk brings me my stack of cash. I place it in my jacket pockets and take Whitley’s hand, taking her to the blackjack tables. I grab a cocktail waitress, ordering us a few drinks as we settle in two seats. The table is full after we sit and Whitley is spinning in her chair, nervous.

  “What if I lose?”

  “Everyone loses. It’s okay. This game is all about learning when to hit and when to stay. I’ll show you. Don’t worry.”

  I give the dealer a few thousand dollars for the each of us, and he gives us our chips. They are an assortment of blacks, blues, reds, and greens. Most of them are black. I throw in two black for my ante and Whitley does, too, mimicking me.

  “Closed.” The dealer swipes his hands over the table, signaling that the table is full, and a hand is about to go out.

  He begins to hand out everyone’s cards, and Whitley is about to pick it up when I hold her hand down. “No touching the cards yet. So, the goal here is to beat the dealer. As long as you don’t bust—meaning getting over twenty-one—and you get a higher number than the dealer, you win. Hopefully, you have beginner’s luck.”

  “Me too!” she jumps in her seat in excitement, and she flashes a big smile at the dealer who smiles back.

  “Good luck!”

  “Thank you! I promise not to be mad if you win.”

  Everyone at the table laughs, and Whitley narrows her eyes at the men surrounding her. “No need to be rude. I'm just being honest.”

  The waitress takes that moment to bring over our drinks, and I thank her, leaving her a good tip. I sip my drink, hiding my smile behind my scotch as the men quiet down. The dealer shoots me a wink, understanding that my Cherry can take care of herself.

  Whitley watches as the men before her fold, hitting when they shouldn’t have. When the dealer gets to her, he flips her card, showing that she has two fives. She looks at me for help. “What do I do?”

  I scoot over, placing my hand on her thigh, where it belongs, because anywhere else would mean I’m not next to her.

  “So, you have two options here. You can hit, because together you only have ten, so you have a good chance of not busting. The other option is, you can split these two cards—since they are the same number—and double your chances at getting twenty-one.”

  She nods as I speak, letting me know that she understands. “I want to do that.”

  “Tell the good man.” I point toward our dealer.

  “I’d like to split, please.” She asks in a tone that’s sugary sweet.

  “Remember, only the dealer can touch the cards.”

  She nods again, watching as the man lays her cards next to her. “Hit or stay?”

  “Hit.” She giggles, waiting for him to throw the card down.

  “Eighteen. Hit or stay?”

  She glances at me with questions in her eyes. “I should stay, right? Because I’m so close to twenty-one?”

  “Yes, usually when you get sixteen, it’s not recommended to hit, because you will most likely bust.”

  “So many rules. Okay, I’m staying on that one.” She says, her tongue flickers out to find the straw in her drink.

  The dealer moves to the next five. “Hit or stay?”

  “Hit me!” she exclaims. Then her eyes widen in horror. “Don’t hit me.”

  All the guys at the table won’t stop looking at her. They are cracking up at watching her play for the first time, and I don’t blame them. She is a real sight to see. “He knows what you mean, Cherry. He won’t hit you. If anyone did, I'd kill them.”

  “I have a feeling you aren’t joking.”

  I grab a cigar off the tray from the cigarette girl and stroke a match, puffing until smoke is swirling in the air. “I’d never joke about your safety.”

  The dealer averts his eyes from me. He lays down a card, and damn, it’s a ten. “Fifteen.”

  “That’s not a good number, is it?”

  I hiss, clicking my tongue. “That’s tough. Any professional would be angry that you took a hit on that, because it’s probably a number they need. But we aren’t pros here. So, if you want to risk it, do it. Remember, the dealer always has to hit on his on deck until he has seventeen or higher.”

  She considers my words and sips her pink, fruity drink. “Hit me.” Whitley covers her face with anticipation, peeking out through her fingers.

  Fucking adorable.

  The dealer lays down her next card, and it’s a six. “Twenty-one!”

  Everyone at the table claps, hollering for her success.

  She jumps out of her chair, pointing at the deck. “I won!” Whitley does her happy dance, throwing her arms around me as she celebrated. I kiss her neck, proud that something as simple as cards makes this woman so happy.

  “My turn.”

  The dealer flips my card. “Twenty. Hit or stay?”

  “Stay.”

  The dealer flips his hand. “Fifteen.” He hits. “Twenty-two. Dealer busts.”

  He flips his hands over, showing the cameras that he doesn’t have anything in his palms and deals us our earnings before repeating the move.

  “Why does he do that?”

  She is curious about everything. I love it. “To show the cameras that he isn’t stealing. They have a lot of rules they have to follow.”

  “Open,” he says, spreading his arm out to show that the table is open for bets.

  “Want to go again?”

  “Hell yeah.” She puts her previous winnings and matches it for the next round.

  “Closed.” He swipes his hand over signaling that no more bets are being taken.

  “I love this,” she grins, watching the man deal the cards quick.

  When he gets to her
again, she gets blackjack right off the bat. “Hot seat!” the dealer yells, and a crowd starts to form.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’ve won three hands in a row. Your seat is the seat to be in.”

  “Well, too bad. I’m freaking comfy. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I lift my hand, signaling the waitress to bring us another round of drinks. We stay at this table for the rest of the night. She doesn’t want to leave her spot since she’s doing so well. I figure I’ll show her the city tomorrow. It isn’t a big deal. She wins, and loses, but mostly wins every hand, until she has about fifty-thousand in winnings. I don’t think she knows she has that much. We pound drink after drink, laughing and becoming friends with everyone at the table. Everyone cheers when she and the dealer go head to head.

  She wins again.

  She laughs so hard that she falls out of her chair, wasted off tequila sunrises and high off winning.

  “C’mon you. Let’s cash this stuff in,” I slur and narrow my eyes when I check my watch. It’s two in the morning.

  “Let’s hit the townah.” This time is her turn to slur.

  I place all of our winnings in my vault and decide we will handle it tomorrow. Right now, my girl wants to explore Vegas.

  “Let’s take shots! I love those. Whiskey makes me horny, but vodka makes me sleepy.” She stumbles, running into the wall.

  Both of us laugh, and I catch her around the waist with my arms, happier than I’ve ever been.

  “Fug−it,” I shout, swaying us in the middle of the casino like we are dancing to a sad song. “Let go g’married.”

  She shakes her head. “I can—can—can’tah,” She emphasizes the ‘t’ since she stumbles around the word, “—Marr’you. We don’t even like da’ same t’ings.” Her words slur.

  We stumble our way to a couch and sit down, watching everyone blur by.

  “Is—” I hiccup, “—bout the tree thing?”

  She nods. “I know I’m gettin’ better at not speakin’ any’ting—,” she hiccups, and the little squeak echoes throughout the casino. “But I’s’ill care.”

  “I’ll plant you ten thousand for’ery tree I cut down.”

  “Weally?” she hiccups over her ‘r.’

  Her bottom lip starts to quiver, and it pulls at my heart. I summon all my strength to try to say the next sentence clearly: “I’d do anything for you, Churry.” I stand, righting myself when I stumble a bit.

  She nods, throwing herself in my arms. “I don’ ’ave a ring.”

  I drag her down the hall and out the doors in the chilly Vegas night. It’s dry, but the night is beautiful. “We c’n fix that.”

  A few hours later, she has the biggest rock in Vegas on her finger, and I have two golden wedding bands in my pocket.

  “We’re off to Elvis. The wonderful wizard of Vegas.” She skips down the street, sipping her mixed drink. We’re still drinking, but somehow the cold has restored our ability to speak in full sentences.

  “Sup! I’m getting married!” she yells to a crowd. “That’s him. That’s the guy. Isn’t he hawt? Like—super.” She takes another drink of her daiquiri. “He has a really big dick too,” Whitley giggles. “I love it.”

  The crowd cheers and asks if they can come to watch us get married.

  “Fuck it, let’s go!” I shout, taking my fiancé by the hand as a group of us go to the chapel.

  What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas!

  Whitley

  My body.

  My mind.

  My soul.

  It all hurts. I groan, squeezing my hands against my head. It throbs as the sunlight blares through the curtains. I grab a pillow, tossing it over my face, sighing when my vision gets dark but groaning when the pillow puts too much pressure on my head.

  What the hell did I drink last night? I haven’t even moved yet, but I know the room is spinning. My tongue is stuck to the rough of my mouth, dry as a cotton ball. My breath, my pores—everything reeks of alcohol. Why does drinking come with such horrible consequences? Every time I get a hangover, I tell myself I’m never drinking again.

  It’s the most constant lie I tell myself.

  I turn my head to see Logan laying on his stomach with hands under the pillow, his face turned in the opposite direction of me. Even still, in my hungover state, his back muscles send my heart racing.

  I sit up, groaning when my stomach flips, threatening to upchuck anything I had to eat or drink last night. As a matter of fact, I don’t remember much after blackjack. I know that whatever it was, we had a lot of fun, but what the hell did we do?

  Oh, well. I stretch, cringing as a bad whiff of body odor wafts from under my arms. It is time for a shower. I need to wash off the night.

  The sun catches something shiny, reflecting it on the wall, reminding me of what the ocean looks like on a beautiful hot day. The more I stretch, the more the reflection moves with me. Almost like the sun is reflecting off me, or something.

  I turn right and left, checking to see if maybe either of our phones are in the bed, but no. Nothing. I lace my hands together, stretching out my fingers, and then suddenly I feel something against my ring finger. My lungs stop working as a few hazy memories come to me.

  Faster than the speed of light, I pull my hands in my lap and let out a cry when I see the gigantic diamond on my left ring finger along with a wedding band.

  “No, no, no. This is a joke. This didn’t happen. This couldn’t have happened.” I shoot out of bed, ignoring my lurching stomach, sober as yesterday. Nothing like thinking you got married to knock the alcohol out of you. I run around the room, checking everything to see if this is real. Finally, I see it there, on the nightstand. Our phones, and a sheet of paper.

  I pick it up with a shaky hand. “Oh, god.”

  It’s a marriage certificate. The state of Nevada is written across the top.

  “This can’t be happening. It’s a joke. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.” I start to sweat and my stomach flips over again. I can’t tell if it’s because of this or the hangover at this point, since my entire body is freaking out. I pick up his phone and slide through the photos and stare in horror at what I see.

  We are with a group of people. A random group of people that I’ve never seen before a day in my life. They’re popping a champagne bottle in the background as Logan and I kiss, holding up the wedding certificate, proud like we had planned it or something. I keep swiping, seeing a ton of photos of us at the church, standing in front of a horrible fake Elvis.

  “This happened. This happened,” I whisper, trying to figure out what the hell we were going to do.

  I mean, this couldn’t happen. One, I’m too young. And wouldn’t Logan want a prenup? Wouldn’t he be scared that I’d take all his money? I’d never do that, but rich people take precautions, I know.

  “Logan!” I run over and shake him awake.

  His handsome face screws tight, making his forehead crinkle.

  “No, too early.” He swipes my hand away, and that’s when I see the matching wedding band, shining against the light as mine did.

  “Logan! You better wake up!” I yell, and he rockets off the bed red-eyed and ready to fight.

  “What? What’s wrong? Where’s the fire?”

  “The fire? Here! Here is the fire, Logan!”

  My voice raises with every word when I point to my ring finger, and then grab his hand to show his wedding band. “Do you remember this? We got married!”

  “We did? You know, now that I think about it, I think I remember being with a group of people that celebrated with us.” His brows scrunch as he tries to remember the events from last night. When nothing else comes to mind, he smirks, looking smug. “How awesome is that?!”

  “Awesome? Awesome? We got married, Logan. Married. Do you understand the significance?”

  His jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth. “Of course, I know the significance. We love each other. Why not get married?” he asks
in a low tone, one that sends a shiver up my spine, and not in a good way.

  “Why? Because maybe we have only known each other a month.”

  “Does time matter when you fall in love? No. Sure, we didn’t have a big wedding with our friends and family, but we still can. It isn’t a big deal.”

  “We still can? You can’t be considering this—”

  His face has a blank expression on it, but with how fast his chest is palpitating, I’m assuming he is more upset about my outburst than the actual news of getting married. “You’re not?”

  “How can you even think that? We can’t be married.”

  “Why?” he shouts making me jump.

  “Because we don’t know each other. Yes, I love you. I fell in love with you, but Logan, this is crazy. I’m your wife. I’m not ready for that. Plus, wouldn’t you want a prenup or something?”

  He yanks his pants on, and that’s when I notice his underwear is missing. “Wait. Did we have sex last night, too?” My heart races as I run to the bathroom to check myself for any dried come.

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember, Whitley.”

  “Oh my god.” I search through the trashcans for any sign of a condom or a wrapper but find none. “What if we had sex without protection, Logan? I’m not on birth control! I could get pregnant.”

  “Then we take it one step at a time, and cross that bridge when we get there.”

  “How can you be so nonchalant about this?”

  “How can you act like being married to me is the worst thing in the world, Whitley?”

  “It—I don’t think that, Logan. But I’m a waitress, and you’re a billionaire. We’ve just barely started dating. Maybe I do want to be married to you, but I didn’t think I’d be making that decision so soon! I mean, how the hell am I going to forever fit in your life? I’m not fancy gowns and parties.”

  “I know what you are. That’s what I love about you. That’s why I love you. Don’t you see that? You’re not from my world. You’re my complete opposite, and you made me fall in love with you. I haven’t ever felt love before. I don’t know what it’s like, but it has to be this. You’ve turned me inside out. You’ve bared me to you. I don’t want a prenup. I’ll never want a prenup with you. Do you want my money? Fucking take it. Take it all. I’ll be nothing without you anyway.”