Just for the Weekend

by Susanne Matthews

  She sat up quickly, moaned, and fell back onto the bed. Her head was spinning, and it wasn’t a pleasant sensation. She closed her eyes and forced her mind to focus. What exactly had happened last night? She concentrated so hard it hurt.

  She vaguely remembered getting dressed and going out for something to eat. They’d taken the limo. It had been almost midnight, and there had been people everywhere. Sam had insisted they celebrate the rescue as well as the beginning of their relationship. They’d had more champagne. He’d talked about getting together with Liz, Jane, and Charlie, but it had only been the booze talking. After this weekend, he’d be off to Wales and back on stage in August. He’d ring another woman’s bells, and she’d live the rest of her life on memories of what might have been but couldn’t be.

  They’d made no promises to see one another, at least none that she remembered, but why would they? They still had tonight. She focused her mind on last night once more. They’d gone down to the Strip and moved from one casino to the next. Memories of a large video screen and fireworks flittered through her mind, and she recalled dancing in the street. Images of brightly lit casino floors and ringing bells warred in her mind with others of fancy beverages in glasses of all shapes and colors. What the hell did she drink last night? She sat up again and gripped the bed for support.

  Whoa! Take it easy. If the planet would just stop spinning a second, I’d be fine.

  She stood gingerly and walked to the bathroom. She washed her puffy face—too much alcohol, not enough sleep—took two acetaminophen tablets she found there, and then returned to the bedroom. Her stomach roiled.

  So this is a hangover. Not good.

  She wrapped herself in one of the bathrobes she found on the floor at the foot of the bed and padded out to the living room for some water. She stopped dead as the scent and color hit her. Given the precarious state of her stomach, the aroma of what must surely be a hundred roses nauseated her.

  The room was filled with blooms in every imaginable color. Why in the world would Sam send so many? She blinked her eyes and saw a card on the table. She reached for it and opened it.

  Good morning, Mrs. Mason.

  I hope the headache isn’t too bad. I have business to attend to, but I’ll be back by two. Think about where you’d like to go for our honeymoon. I have a couple of suggestions.

  Love, Sam

  Her heart pounded wildly. Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt as if the world had stopped spinning and reversed itself. For a brief moment, she was elated.

  Mrs. Mason?

  The wonder of it thrilled her. The handwriting on the card was definitely his. It was bold and large, an extension of the man himself. She plopped into the nearest chair and stared at the note in her hand, awed by what the words implied.

  She looked around the room, trying to find something to kick-start her brain. Further along the table was a picture of the two of them standing in front of a pair of white and gold wedding bells. Instant Bliss Chapel was emblazoned in gold under the picture along with the names Sam and Cleo Mason, and the date. She stared at the number. July fifth. She’d been married earlier today. You’d think she’d remember her own wedding. That wasn’t something a girl was supposed to forget.

  She scrutinized the photograph. She and Sam were smiling, arms wrapped around each other, their left hands clasped in front of them. She wore her white eyelet dress, the silver and turquoise jewelry Sam had bought her at the Skywalk, and on her wild hair sat what was definitely a small veil. She held three red silk roses in her hand—the same three roses sitting on the table beside the photograph. Her eyes were a little glazed, but she looked deliriously happy, as did Sam beside her. In fact, he had a smug, sappy, satisfied look on his face as if he’d just gotten exactly what he’d wanted. She’d seen the look on the faces of too many five-year-olds not to recognize it.

  Cleo gazed at her left hand holding his in the photograph, and then examined her hand. The gold band in the picture decorated her left ring finger. She shook her aching, throbbing head from side to side. She didn’t feel like a new bride. She felt confused and sick—suddenly, deathly ill.

  The implications of what she was seeing roared into her mind like a freight train out of control.

  Oh God. What have I done? I’ve married a man I’ve known less than forty-eight hours. I’ve married a male stripper! How the hell am I going to tell Dad? This can’t be real.

  Black spots floated in front of her eyes, signaling the onset of a migraine. Her head pounded so hard she was sure it would split open. The sickly sweet smell of the roses gagged her. She barely made it to the bathroom before she was violently sick. Empty, trembling, more miserable than she’d felt in years, she stood at the basin and splashed cold water over her face. How had this happened? She looked over at the shower and the images of what had happened in there warmed her. She started to relax, enjoy the sensations the recollection spread through her body, until the reality of what she’d done hit her once more. It had to have been the champagne!

  Oh God! How could I have been so stupid, so careless?

  She’d had sex; copious sex; wonderful, mind-blowing sex, with a male entertainer, a man she didn’t know, who’d probably had more sexual partners than she’d had. Horror filled her as she realized something else: they hadn’t used protection.

  Cleo’s half-crazed imagination went wild. She could have caught some terrible sexually transmitted disease. Hell, she could be dying! Even worse, she could be pregnant. Sam would have expected her to be on the pill or something. Every horrible image from every health class video she’d ever been forced to watch danced through her mind.

  Like an automaton, she walked back to the table and slipped into the closest chair. What was she going to do?

  Think, Cleo, think! she ordered herself, but her brain adamantly refused to obey. She put her head down on the table and let the tears flow. She’d been raised with a strict moral code, one she’d always followed, not because she had to, but because she wanted to. She never acted impulsively. She always took the time to weigh every choice she made. Mitch was right; Cleo had never had to make a tough decision and that was the way she liked it, but now? She’d thrown all her values out the window, and where did that leave her? To say she was morally bankrupt was an exaggeration, but she certainly had shown a complete disregard for the ethical values that had made her who she was. Somehow being married to a stranger who happened to be an exotic dancer wasn’t going to be one of her finer moments. She had to figure a way out of this before anyone learned the truth.

  She reached for the marriage certificate on the table. Son of a bitch! She’d signed her real name, although, drunk as she must have been, the signature was wobbly and hard to recognize. Maybe Sam wouldn’t be able to see the difference between Cleo Jones and C. C. James written all as one word. Who the hell were Roy McNamara and Dolores Howard listed as the witnesses? Reverend John Howard had officiated? She stared at the certificate feeling like Alice through the looking glass. Was it legal? If you got married totally out of it, did it count?

  Panic filled her. Was all this part of some clever scam leading to blackmail? She’d seen a news program on that topic just a few months ago. It had been about a place in Mexico or Columbia, she wasn’t sure which. She moved into the bedroom as quickly as her pounding head and unsettled stomach would allow, and checked the bedposts for hidden cameras. There was a smoke detector in the ceiling above the bed. Could a camera be hidden in there? She thought of all the things she’d done in that bed and felt the color drain from her face. Was she going to end up on some porno site on the Internet? She’d lose her job for sure!

  She looked at the clock. It was almost twelve thirty. Sam’s note said he’d be back by two. She needed to get away as fast as she could. If she disappeared, she couldn’t dig the hole any deeper. She thought of Liz’s comment yesterday about Sam’s fear she’d vanish. Had he been clairvoyant?

  She needed time to think, time to process what had hap
pened to her, and time to figure out what the worst-case scenario could be. She had to pray she hadn’t told him the truth last night and he wouldn’t know where to find her.

  Cleo returned to the bedroom to get dressed and was a little disconcerted to find her suitcase in the closet. They must have brought it upstairs last night. This alcohol blackout was frightening, and no matter what happened, she never intended to drink enough to allow it to happen again. She’d love to take a shower, but that would take precious time away from her escape.

  She donned one of her more casual outfits. The last thing she wanted to do was draw attention to herself. She stuffed the white purse and red bag she’d used yesterday and everything else she had into the suitcase. She grabbed her oversized handbag, opened it, and checked to see if the money she’d hidden in the cosmetic pouch was still there. It was. She stuffed the bills into the pocket of the denim capris she wore. She put on her ballet flats and closed the suitcase. She dragged it into the main room, picked up the photograph, Sam’s note, and the marriage license, stuffed them in her purse, and after one final look, she hurried out of the suite, making sure the door locked behind her.

  The suitcase was heavy, but she was terrified she’d meet someone in the hallway, so she carried the bag down two flights of stairs before taking a chance on the service elevator. Thank God it arrived empty. She pressed the button for the garage’s lowest level and prayed no one would stop the car on its way down. Sam had told her there were no security cameras in this part of the hotel, because it catered to powerful guests who valued their privacy. She hoped he’d been telling the truth.

  In the garage, she climbed three flights of stairs to the employees’ outside entrance, and then walked five blocks north, wheeling her suitcase behind her. She wore oversized sunglasses to block out some of the blinding light. Sweat ran down her back. Anyone looking at her would see a distraught woman—one of many who came here and had lost more than she could afford to lose. With all the crazy people on the streets of Vegas, she trusted no one would notice one more.

  Satisfied that she was far enough away from the Rio, she pulled her wild hair into a messy ponytail, put her baseball cap on and hailed a cab to take her to the bus station. She waited in line and bought a ticket on the next bus leaving town. Fortunately, it was headed for Carson City and would leave in twenty minutes. When she arrived, she’d take a cab to the airport, collect her car, and drive home to Gordon’s Grove.

  Cleo pulled out her cell phone to call Mitch. There was no way she could leave without telling her where she’d gone. She’d have the police looking for her in no time flat.

  The phone rang three times before her friend answered. “Hey, Cleo. I wondered when you’d call. Your note just said later today. I see you collected all your stuff. You looked like you were having a great time last night. How is making love with a hero-demi god?”

  “Mitch, I’m in trouble.” Tears slowly rolled down her cheeks. “I’ve done something incredibly stupid.”

  “So, you had a bit too much to drink and had sex with a gorgeous man. Get over it. Wasn’t it good? Don’t tell me he changed his mind and doesn’t want to see you again?”

  “Will you listen to me? It’s worse than that. I married him.”

  “You what?” Mitch screamed into the phone.

  “Apparently early this morning I became Mrs. Sam Mason. I don’t remember doing it, but that doesn’t make it any less real. I have a raging migraine. I have to get away from here. I have to think. What if it’s some kind of blackmail scam or an Internet porn thing? Mitch, the things I did … If this gets out, I’m ruined. It’ll kill Dad.”

  “Cleo, calm down. You’re talking silly. Have you got any proof of this crazy blackmail porn idea of yours? I’m a pretty good judge of character, and Sam and Charlie aren’t the kind of guys to pull something like that. I think Charlie wants to see me again when the weekend’s over. As for being married, you’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m not kidding, Mitch. I have the damn official State of Nevada license, complete with seal and my real name on it, a wedding picture, and a stupid ring turning my finger green at this very moment. How much more proof do I need?” Cleo tried to calm herself. She needed to think straight to find a way to fix this. She certainly didn’t want anyone listening in on the conversation. She lowered her voice. “I’m a school teacher. I can’t be married to a Chippendale, no matter how much money he throws around, and you know it. He isn’t a prince, and I don’t believe in Cinderella stories. I gave up on fairy tales a long time ago. Something isn’t kosher, and I’m not sticking around to find out what it is.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Cleo heard acceptance and disappointment in Mitch’s voice.

  “I’m going home and praying all the way that I didn’t tell him my real name and address. I need you to promise not to tell him where I am.”

  “I think you’re overreacting, but you’re my best friend, and I’ve got your back. Call me when you get home. It looks like our fantasy weekend is a bust.”

  “Hey, it’s not your fault, Mitch. I did this to myself and I have to accept the responsibility for what happened. I went into it with my eyes open. I knew the danger of any kind of relationship with Sam. Now, I have to figure out how to pick up the pieces and clean up my mess. I’ll call you when I get in. Take care. I’m sorry if I ruined your weekend.”

  Cleo turned off her cell phone and waited for the bus.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Two hours later, her face pressed against the window, Cleo’s head throbbed, and despite the fact she wore sunglasses, the light felt like sharp needles poked into her eyes. Her nether regions were sore, and the hard bus seat constantly reminded her of what she’d done and why she was fleeing the city as if the hounds of hell were after her. She must have dozed. She sat watching the desert landscape flash by. It was far less wonderful than watching it pass beneath her in the helicopter.

  It was after three. By now, Sam would have realized she’d gone. She should have left a note, but what could she have said?

  The first thing on her agenda was to find a way to dissolve this marriage. Maybe she could file for a divorce in Reno and send the papers to Sam as soon as she got the marriage expunged, but where would she send them? She could probably have them delivered to Chippendales at the hotel, but she wouldn’t want to see the papers mixed in with fan mail. Besides, he’d be in Wales until the end of the summer, or was that a fabrication, too? She was sure, despite his note, he’d be as happy as she would be to put all this behind him. They’d had a lot to drink. He probably regretted this spur of the moment marriage as much as she did. He might not want anyone in Vegas to know how stupid he’d been either. LJS Enterprises would be the safest bet. Liz could intercept the delivery at the Rio. No matter what else had happened, he’d been a hero last night. He’d saved those men and the company would know where to reach him.

  She took out her phone and searched the Internet for LJS Enterprises. Several entries popped up on the page, and she clicked on the first one. There was the missing piece in the puzzle that was Sam. No wonder he hadn’t fit her idea of an exotic dancer. Stunned, she read the information provided. LJS Enterprises, a real estate development corporation active worldwide, had been founded twenty years ago by Sam Mason the second, who’d died tragically with his wife in an airplane crash. The company had been named after the founder’s children—Liz, Jane, and Sam Mason. The current CEO was Samuel James Mason the third. The entry listed his degrees and mentioned some of his noteworthy accomplishments. He hadn’t lied about everything, but he’d lied about what really mattered. He didn’t lie about his name or where he was from—I did that.

  He wasn’t a Chippendale, no he was far worse than that. He was a multimillionaire playboy who had more money than she could ever imagine. No wonder Matt and Walter had spoken so highly of him. He was the boss. The car, the limo, the damn helicopter all belonged to him. He probably owned the suite at the hotel too.

  Sh
e opened the next entry. It was a Tattler article. “Mr. Love ’em and Leave ’em Strikes Again” was the headline. Sam’s picture, that gorgeous smile of his in place, stared up at her with another of a redhead in tears.

  “I’d never lie to you,” he’d said. But he had lied. Now she felt worse than ever. He’d made a complete fool of her. She didn’t have to worry about the marriage. It had to be false. Sam Mason, a man who took what he wanted and tossed it away when he didn’t need it anymore according to the article, would never get married in a tacky Vegas chapel. She should feel better, but she didn’t. She was hurt. She’d liked Sam, really liked him, and the sex had been fantastic. It would take her a long time to get over this. Against her better instincts, she’d fallen for him and she didn’t think she’d ever be able to mend her broken heart.

  Everything he’d said about taking her places to see the wonders of the world like icebergs in Alaska had probably been a joke. If he’d wanted a relationship with her, a real one, he’d have told her the truth yesterday. Had it all been an act just to get into her pants? God, she felt cheap. The flowers, the gifts, the extravagant helicopter tour—they’d all been part and parcel of his plan for seduction. But seduction was what I’d wanted. She’d known right from the start she’d only be one in a long list of others. I can’t blame all if it on him. I was a willing participant.

  Leaving, running away, had been the right thing to do—the only thing she could have done. She’d salvaged her pride. It wouldn’t keep her warm on a cold night, but the memory of how gullible she’d been would.

  What if you’re wrong? What if it was all real, and you’ve thrown away the best thing that ever happened to you?