“Great. I’ll be there.”
“So, will you be attending the reception solo?” she asks, drawing out the word “solo” into a four syllable taunt.
I take a deep breath, reminding myself that my mother went through a long, painful labor to bring me into the world.
“I will be bringing a fabulous date, Mother.”
“Really?”
Did she have to infuse that word with so much disbelief?
“Really.”
“Hmmm. Who is this superman of yours?”
“He’s… a doctor.” Okay, so I am not delusional. I know the odds of Mr. Gorgeous actually attending my sister’s wedding with me are about a million to one. I did slip him my number before I left the party, but the fact that I had barbequed sauce on my sweater, not to mention that most of my makeup had sweated off, was probably not a real big turn on. So, in reality, I know he won’t call. But am I going to let my mother think that I drove a perfectly nice doctor away? No way.
“Really? A doctor, huh? If you say so, Mary. Just, don’t be late for the fitting. Oh, and if you happen to lose a pound or two between now and Sunday, that wouldn’t be a bad thing.” And my mother hangs up. Nothing like a call from Mom to brighten my day.
My stomach gurgles again, and I look down at the clock, willing Mr. Waterworks to wrap up the I Do’s.
And then, just when I thought the day couldn’t get any worse, Han Solo and Princess Leia walk in.
No, I’m not kidding. The bride is wearing that long white robe thing and even has the cinnamon buns hairdo. Han is in full getup and is dragging a blaster pistol that looks way too heavy for his scrawny arms. I would laugh, but honestly I just don’t have the energy today. I sign them in, help them pick a song (big surprise they whip out their own CD – Theme from Star Wars). They ask if Rev. Thicket will dress up as Obi-Wan Kenobi, and I go ask. Yes, the Reverend is more than happy to play along. Then their bridesmaids and groomsmen show up. Luke Skywalker, an Ewok, and – get this – Chewbacca. Suddenly pink satin doesn’t sound like such a bad deal to wear to a wedding after all. I get them all situated, Reverend Obi-Wan gets in position, and I start the theme music. In a galaxy far, far away, a wedding took place, of epically dorky proportions…
So, you would think the low point of my day was when my mother told me I am to be the overweight pink puffball at my sister’s wedding. Or, that it was where I realized my job is basically a coordinator for the mating of the geeks. Nope. Just wait, it gets better.
Han and Leia are sitting on the love seat in the lobby, kissing and already preparing for their honeymoon on the Moon of Endor (a.k.a. the Tropicana to those of us in the real world). They’re waiting for the bridesmaid to get out of the bathroom. Apparently it takes a while to pee when one is in an Ewok costume. I’m sitting at my desk, trying not to watch Han and Leia make out, trying not to digest the information that even freaks like these have found someone to spend the rest of their lives with while perfectly normal women like me get left in the dust for perky cocktail waitresses named Candi with an “i”. When in front of me appears a vision in fur. The wookiee.
“Is there something I can do for you?” I ask, trying really hard to keep a straight face as I talk to a six foot stuffed animal.
“I hope so,” it (he?) says. “I was wondering if you could help me get a phone number.”
“Sure,” I say, pulling up a yellow pages screen on my computer, glad he didn’t ask me if I knew where the next pod racer station was.
Though, my relief is short lived, as he adds, “Yours.”
Yes, folks, I have just been hit on by a wookiee.
I smile what I know is the weakest smile of my life. “I don’t think so.” I slowly close the yellow pages screen.
“Oh. Well, we’re having a reception at the Tropicana. I’d love to see you there?” he asks hopefully.
What, do I actually look like I date freaks? Granted the stressful blind date has resulted in a pimple brewing on my chin this morning. And I’m sure I’m not looking my freshest considering the pork rib cramp-o-thon. Okay, and my hair is a little fried from all the spraying and curling yesterday. But, come on!
“Sorry, I have to work.”
“What time do you get off?”
“I don’t,” I say, hoping he gets the point. Me no date aliens.
“Okay,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s smiling or crying behind the ridiculous mask.
“But I’m warning you,” he adds, “I don’t give up easily.” His eyes do a slow sweep from the top of my frizzy head down to my C cups. Good God, is the wookiee staring at my breasts?
“Yes, well, I have it on good authority that Darth Vader is due to arrive with his Storm Troopers any minute, so I’d high tail it out of the galaxy if I were you.”
I think I hear him laugh as he walks away, joining the Imperial couple and the Ewok who’s finally emerged from the bathroom.
I have a fleeting image of my mother’s face as she finds out my love life has disintegrated to this and physically shudder. If this is the best I can do, I’m seriously screwed.
Chapter Eleven:
Kit, the Ace of Clubs
Julia Roberts looks out her window. It’s Richard Gere, climbing the fire escape despite his terrible fear of heights. Their eyes lock, and instantly she knows. He’s the one. The love of her life. They kiss, and I swear to God I feel tears shining in my eyes.
I’m holed up in my twelfth floor suite, watching sappy movies in my underwear and trying to convince myself I’m Julia Roberts. And not Glenn Close. The crazed other woman. That is so not my role. I was born to play the leading lady. I don’t want to be the bunny boiler any more than Vlad wants to rub The Troll’s bunions. And the really, truly sad thing is, even Glenn Close got more action than I did – all I ever got was a neck massage. So, just how pathetic does that make me? I’m the pseudo other woman.
I hit the rewind button and torture myself by watching Julia get her man one more time. I get as far as Richard’s limo ride when a knock sounds on the door to my suite. I grab a pair of sweats from the pile of clothes growing by the window and throw them on as I mute Pretty Woman. I look through the peephole.
Shit. It’s Vlad.
I try to scan the hallway behind him to see if Maria’s with him, but the field of vision is too small. I open the door, praying with all my might that Vlad’s alone, and The Troll’s fallen out of a ten story window somewhere. Hell, if I’m going to be the villainous other woman I may as well go all out.
“Hello,” Vlad says as I open the door. His voice is low and gravelly, like he hasn’t slept. He’s wearing the same tailor made slacks he had on last night. He looks tired, but at least he’s alone.
“May I come in?” he asks.
“Of course.” I step back, holding the door open for him even as I process this request. I can count the number of times Vlad’s been in my suite on one hand. It’s one of those lines we just don’t cross, though, believe me I’ve thought about it. Only in my fantasies I’m usually not dressed in sweats, but lacey Felina lingerie and little else. Dammit. Did I even brush my teeth this morning? I can’t remember.
“So,” I say as he comes into the room and I close the door behind him. “Where’s Maria?”
“On a plane. Back to Latvia.”
“Oh.” A plane? Back home? Somehow I was under the assumption she was here to stay. Suddenly I’m very aware I’m in sweats and haven’t brushed my teeth. “So, she’s going back home?”
“Yes. She was only in town for a short while. She, uh…” Vlad falters. He lets out a breath and scrubs a large hand over his face. His eyes dart around the room as if looking for something. I will him not to notice the pile of room services trays and half eaten bag of Doritos spilling crumbs onto the sofa.
He doesn’t, his gaze glossing over the room. I’ve never seen Vlad like this. He looks drained and disoriented, like he’s not even sure why he’s here. He seems almost… vulnerable? Never in a million years would
I have thought the word “vulnerable” applied to Vlad the Magnificent. But as he stands awkwardly in my suite, I’m suddenly reminded of a lost child, alone and confused.
“Do you want to sit down?” I ask, indicating the chaise by the window. Being the only crumb free surface I can find on short notice.
“Thank you.” Vlad sits, rubbing his big hands together. And then he just sits there. Staring. Like he doesn’t know why he’s here anymore than I do.
“Do you have anything to drink?” he finally asks, his eyes still aimlessly scanning the room.
“Sure.” I cross to the mini bar and pull out a bottle of Smirnoff. That works. I sloppily measure out a serving into a glass of ice, ignoring the fact that it’s early still. He looks like he needs it. I pour myself one as well. Hell, if Marie is the topic of conversation, I’m going to need it, too.
“Here,” I say, handing him the glass. He takes a long sip. Then winces. I know it isn’t the quality vodka he’s used to, but he doesn’t comment.
“So, my wi-” He winces again, shaking his head. “Maria is gone.”
“So you said.”
“She, uh, was just in town to bring me some papers.” Vlad pauses, taking a deep breath as if steadying himself. “Divorce papers.”
The Smirnoff sticks in my throat, burning a hole there as I stare dumbly at him. Did I hear that right? “Divorce?” I ask.
Vlad sighs, looking down into his glass. “Yes,” he says heavily. “She is divorcing me.”
Wow, am I glad I poured that drink. I take deep swig now, my head swimming as I’m rendered totally speechless by this latest development. In my movie Vlad leaves her for the burning love of his beautiful and irresistible assistant. I never imagined she would be the one to let go of him. I mean, come on. He’s fucking magnificent.
Only he doesn’t look so magnificent right now. He leans his elbows on his knees, his body bent as if it’s just too heavy to hold up anymore. His head hangs so the light filtering through my curtains shines on his golden hair like a halo. He looks like a fallen angle, beautiful and defeated. I can’t help myself, I take a step closer and put a hand on his shoulder. I feel his muscles relax beneath my touch, his posture slumping further.
“She says she met someone new.” He’s still staring at a spot on my carpet as he speaks. “Someone in Latvia. She cannot be married to a telephone anymore.”
“Oh Vlad, I’m so sorry,” I say, regaining my voice. He looks up at me with an attempt at a smile, as if he doesn’t really believe that any more than I do.
“I am sorry, too. But it’s not as if we had a real marriage, you know.”
“I guess not.”
“No. We never did. Did you know it was arranged?”
“No. I didn’t.” The last thing I want to hear are the details of his marriage to The Troll. Hell, I’ve spent the last three days trying to think of anything else but his marriage.
However, I don’t say this. Vlad obviously needs someone and right now, I’m all he has.
“Yes. Our parents arranged it when she was very young,” he continues. “Her father is a great man in Latvia. Like your American senators here. It was a great honor to marry her.”
Now I wince. She’s a past-her-prime model for crying out loud. What kind of honor is that? But I keep quiet. He needs a friend, a shoulder to cry on. And besides, at the end of the day he’ll be single, and she’ll be an ocean away.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat.
“I wanted to spare her the embarrassment of a divorce, but she…”
He trails off and I can see his eyes getting all shiny, almost like he’s ready to cry. And as much as I can’t express how utterly gleeful I am that The Troll will soon be out of our lives for good, my heart breaks just a little for him. I know he doesn’t love her. Hell, he hasn’t seen her for three years. But it still can’t feel good being cast aside for someone else. A feeling I can relate to almost too well lately.
“Vlad, I’m so sorry,” I say again, and I find myself putting my arms around him.
And he puts his arms around me, too.
And we sit there, holding on to each other.
He’s warm, like a huge blanket wrapping around me. I sink into his body, my face pressed against his chest so I can hear his heart beating. I inhale deeply the exotic sent that is Vlad. His hands slide down my back, pulling me closer to him, as his lips whisper into my hair in Russian. I have no idea what he’s saying. Don’t care. It feels wonderful, and I don’t ever want to move.
But he does. He loosens his hold, pulling back to look at me. His lips part slightly, vodka flavored breath rushing out as his eyes focus on mine. And I swear he can see right through me. All the longing, jealousy, lust, and loneliness.
And something shifts. His eyes don’t look glassy with tears anymore but suddenly dark with something else. Understanding, compassion. Need.
Before I can register what’s happening, his lips are suddenly over mine, touching mine, caressing mine like they belong to him. I sink into him, my brains screaming that this is it. Kit has arrived as leading lady. Everything around us melts away until all I’m aware of are Vlad’s lips on mine. Soft, hungry lips holding me in a way that feels more amazing than any dream I could have conjured up. The moment is perfect. He is perfect.
The ecstasy lasts an entirety of three seconds before he abruptly pulls away.
“I… I’m sorry Kit,” he says, quickly standing up. He looks down at me, rubbing his hand over his face again. The tiredness has vanished and he’s breathing hard, the dark look still in his eyes as they trail over my face.
Before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet, reaching toward him again. “No, I-”
But I’m not sure how to finish the statement. I’ve been dreaming of this moment for the last two years? I don’t want you to stop? I want you to take me right here and now even though I’m wearing the rattiest pair of sweats I own instead of sexy lingerie?
“I’m sorry,” he says again, turning and quickly crossing to the door. Before I can think of a protest that doesn’t make me sound pathetic, the door shuts behind him.
My body falls into the chair he’s just vacated, and I stare at the closed door, digesting what just happened. The afternoon cocktail, the shocking divorce, and the hormone rush leave me slightly dazed and it takes a moment before it all sinks in.
Maria is history. Vlad will be single. Vlad just kissed me.
One thing about Vegas – your luck can change in an instant.
* * *
“So, how did the big date go?” I ask. Mary and Ella exchange a look, and Mary groans, sinking into the velvet covered booth.
“Not good,” she says over the techno music pulsing around us.
“Well, what can you do? It was a blind date.”
“Words that should be stricken from the English language.” Mary takes a large sip from her martini glass.
We’re at the Back Room, now open to the public and packed with club kids. The dance floor is wall to wall skin, and the neon bar is a hum of activity. Emilio is tending again tonight. As soon as he saw us, he started sending free drinks over to our table. I think he’s flirting with me. I can’t help it, I flirt back. I’m in a good mood tonight. After the worst possible week, I’m shaking the dust off, and we’re celebrating. Only Mary and Ella don’t know it.
As much as I’m bursting with the news of Vlad’s divorce, I can’t bring myself to tell them. Ella would get nose crinkly and say I broke up their marriage. Never mind that I had zero to do with it. Never mind that, despite my fantasies, I never even touched the guy until this afternoon. She would still judge. It’s what she does.
And Mary wouldn’t get it either. Mary still believes in finding The One, not realizing that for many of us there are several ones. No, there’s no way she would understand how my boss’s impending divorce has me so euphoric I am even flirting with the Back Room’s bartender.
“Another round, girls?” Emilio asks, coming over to our booth against the wa
ll. Despite the bar packed with people trying to get Emilio’s attention, our glasses haven’t been empty since we got here. Fine by me. I’m lapping up the attention tonight.
“Fill ‘er up,” Ella says, giggling as she passes her glass to Emilio. He gives me a wink before turning away to mix her another gin and vermouth.
“So, is he single?” Mary asks as he walks away.
“Who?”
“The bartender guy. He’s really cute.” She sips her martini, eying Emilio’s backside as he pours gin into a metal shaker. I admit the sight is pretty nice. I really don’t even have the heart to tell Mary that Emilio is out of her league. Don’t get me wrong, I love Mary and think she’d make a great girlfriend for some guy. But I’d hate to see her get hurt counting on someone like Emilio to settle down into her picket-fence dreams.
“I think he might be gay,” I say, thinking it’s the kindest way to let her down.
“Oh.” She does a little sigh as she wistfully watches him shake that martini.
“So, are we still on for pink poker tomorrow night?” I ask, tactfully changing the subject.
“Yes we are,” Ella answers. “I’m bringing paradise punch, and I expect you all to be on time tomorrow.”
Mary and I silently roll our eyes.
“Oh, and David won’t be coming to the game,” Ella adds. “His parents are in town, and he’s showing them around. Julio will be filling in for him.”
“Oh goody.” Mary’s breaks into an evil smile as she rubs her palms together. Poor Mary hasn’t quite mastered the art of bluffing, and the only way she ever wins a hand is when we have fresh meat at our games. Honestly, she wouldn’t do so badly if she didn’t fold ninety percent of the time.
“So, Julio’s not going out with David and his parents?” I ask.
“Well, I don’t think David’s exactly told his parents about Julio. They’re still expecting a Juliet.”
“Ooooooh,” Mary and I say in unison, drawing out the syllable.
“Wait, how on earth does David expect to fool his parents into thinking he’s straight? Are these people blind?” I ask.
What Happens in Vegas Page 11
