Infinity + One

by Amy Harmon

  Pierre pursed his lips and tapped them with a manicured finger. Then he picked up his phone and punched in a number. He repeated my list of demands, even the part about Thor, and asked, “Can you do it?”

  He listened for a few seconds and said, “I’ll send them your way.”

  THE 2012 BLACK Charger owned by Malcolm “Bear” Johnson was recovered in Albuquerque, New Mexico, last night during a drug raid on a popular, local nightclub called Verani’s. Local law enforcement and DEA coordinated the sting in the early morning hours, detaining everyone inside the club. People in the club report seeing Bonnie Rae and an unidentified male believed to be ex-con, Infinity James Clyde, who for a time, was believed to have possibly abducted the singer. Interestingly enough, the songstress turns twenty-two today. Fans of the singer have been sending messages on social media, wishing her a safe return and many birthdays to come, but doubts about her innocence are mounting. Club-goers claim Bonnie Rae Shelby actually sang to them before the bust went down. A bartender on duty claims Bonnie Rae was clearly at the club to purchase drugs, though it isn’t clear at this time why the singer and her companion were not apprehended by police. Police sources say there were some vehicles reported stolen in the area around the time of the raid, and that it is likely the pair have stolen yet another vehicle in their attempt to evade capture.

  Ms. Raena Shelby has put out yet another statement that her granddaughter is being held against her will, and that she believes Mr. Johnson was attacked by Shelby’s captor or captors, when Mr. Johnson didn’t provide sufficient ransom for her release. When pressed for more information on ransom demands, Ms. Raena Shelby claimed she could not comment further.

  PIERRE TURNED OUT to be a Godsend—albeit a slightly expensive one. He took the $200 I slipped him with a whisk of his hand and without a blink of his eye. But when I mentioned needing a room for an hour to freshen up, he gave us two keycards for the indoor pool, which had restrooms and showers, and he didn’t charge me. I almost wept. Every girl knows you can’t go dress shopping with hat hair and old makeup. It would be like trying to run a marathon in cowboy boots—you were screwed before you even started. Finn was nervous about being separated, even for a shower, but after seeing the mostly empty pool area and restrooms, he caved. Forty-five minutes later, still dressed in our old clothes, but with clean skin, hair, and teeth, and fresh makeup for me, I think we both felt a whole lot better.

  We were directed down the street several blocks to a wedding chapel with a giant, stained-glass window and a mural of Elvis as an angel painted along one side. A man dressed like Little Ritchie was playing the piano, and a wedding was in session as we made our way past the room designated for nuptials to a long hallway. Pierre had insisted the hallway led to a set of stairs that would take us to Vegas’s best kept secret—a wedding boutique that was so fabulous (his word, not mine) that only the locals were aware of it, and only the most well-connected locals, at that.

  We clomped down the stairs until we reached the bottom. An unremarkable door with a little gold plaque above it greeted us with the word Monique’s. Monique’s had a nice ring. Not as nice as Vera Wang . . . but we were in Vegas, and Vegas was more about cash than class, and I was a hillbilly, so I didn’t know what I was getting picky about.

  We pushed through the door and were greeted by creamy neutrals and soft lighting. It smelled like vanilla and leather. Expensive but approachable.

  Monique was a tiny woman with a beehive she’d borrowed from another decade. She paired the beehive with all back—slim black trousers and a fitted black shirt covered by an equally fitted black vest. She wore men’s dress shoes—white with black toes and heels, and no jewelry besides the horn rims she paired with deep red lipstick. Her style was the love child of Amy Winehouse and Sammy Davis Jr.—and it worked. I expected a thick, fake, French accent, but instead she greeted us with a smile and a twang as thick as my own. I felt like hugging her and breaking into a Loretta Lynn tune, but I restrained myself.

  With a few questions she took charge, sending Finn away with a man who was as large as she was small, as furry as she was sleek, and nearly as impressed with Finn as I was. I hoped he was safe. Finn shot me a nervous glance before he disappeared behind an ornate partition. And then Monique started pulling dresses with the speed and focus of a squirrel storing nuts, mumbling as she did, eyeing me through narrowed eyes magnified by her giant glasses.

  The first few were beautiful, but the sparkle and the fluff didn’t quite mesh with the boyish cut of my hair—and I looked a bit like Ken’s little brother trying to moonlight as Barbie. I’d done my best to glam it up with slicked back hair, dark eyes, and glossy lips, but it wasn’t enough, and I told Monique my opinion regretfully, pointing to my shorn strands. She tsked and brushed my fears away.

  “It’s a pixie cut. And it’s sexy. Nobody ever thought Tinker Bell looked like a boy. Why do you think all those lost boys stayed lost? Tinker Bell is a succulent little morsel, and so are you, Sunshine. We just have to find the right combination.”

  She changed tactics after that, though, and when she helped me slip a slinky swath of white satin over my head, she stepped back with a satisfied smirk on her face, her eyes running from the top of my head to my bare toes.

  “Tell me you don’t love it,” she said, triumphant.

  She moved away so I that I was alone in the mirror. I stared at my reflection with pleasure. The neckline of the silky white slip dress hung from thin straps, kissing my breasts, and skimming the hollows and swells of my body all the way to the floor, pooling the slightest bit at my feet. It almost looked like French lingerie, something a 1930s movie star would wear with fuzzy-toed, high-heeled bedroom slippers. I turned, admiring the way the drape left my back exposed, long and smooth from the nape of my neck to below my waist, the most revealing part of the dress. I felt both provocative and demure, like a virginal bride on her wedding night. It was perfect.

  I faced the mirror again, trying not to run my hands over the silky fall of white. I was afraid I would ruin it or smudge it, and I didn’t want to risk it. I had to have it. This was the dress I wanted to wear. This was the dress I wanted Finn to see me in.

  And then, like my thoughts had conjured him, he was there, reflected in the mirror, standing several feet behind me, his hands shoved into the pockets of his slim black trousers—the fitted, black suit coat, pristine white dress shirt, and black tie making him look like someone I’d never met. The only thing that was the same was his smooth hair, still pulled back at his nape. Monique approached him and started fussing with his lapels, but his eyes were on me, wide and unblinking. He didn’t smile, didn’t wink. He just looked.

  I felt hot, but I shivered. I grew faint and then flushed. And my breath felt trapped in my lungs. I stared back at Finn staring at me, unmoving. Monique glanced up into Finn’s face, waiting for him to answer her. She’d asked him something, but he hadn’t heard. Her voice trailed off, and she glanced at me, and then back at him. And then she fanned herself as if she, too, was flushed.

  “Good, Lord,” she breathed. “I hope you two have booked the chapel.”

  Booked the chapel?

  The wedding chapel.

  I realized what she was saying the same time Finn must have, because his blue eyes darkened, and his throat worked, but he didn’t look away.

  “I’ll just grab a few things I think you’ll need—shoes so the dress doesn’t drag, maybe some earrings. No other jewelry . . . except for a ring, of course,” Monique suggested dryly, and she flew off with fluttering hands, like a blackbird with a nest on her head.

  We didn’t watch her go. We were too busy drinking each other in.

  “Would you?” Finn said.

  I turned away from the mirror, from our framed reflections, and faced him. He stood maybe six feet away, but he made no move to close the distance. I tipped my head, not daring to believe, and watched his lips move around the words as he tried again.

  “If I asked you. Would you?
”

  His face was taut with emotion, and he’d taken his hands from his pockets, the moment too intense for casual posture. They were clenched at his sides, and I stared at them, at the six dots on his right hand. Six dots. Six days. I’d known him for eight, loved him for six. And I wanted to love him for a million more. My eyes left his hands and found his face. He looked terrified.

  “Yes,” I said, not sure why we were speaking so softly. Words that meant so much should be bellowed, shouted, screamed, so they could echo and reverberate. Maybe it was fear that stole our voices—fear that loud words would scare away our courage. And maybe it was reverence for the hovering promise that arced between us like static, snapping and crackling in the vanilla-scented air.

  “Yes,” I said again, more firmly. And I smiled. The smile threatened to split my face in two, but I couldn’t contain it. I watched the terror in Finn’s face ease, and the tension in his jaw relax into a smile that tried to match my own. And he threw back his head and laughed, the jubilance laced with incredulous relief and a touch of disbelief too. He clasped his hands over his head and turned in a circle like he didn’t know what to do next.

  “Are you gonna kiss me, Clyde?” I said softly. “’Cause I’m thinkin’ that would be appropriate.”

  My back was suddenly against the mirror, my feet dangling above the floor, his arms wrapped around my waist, his mouth pressed to mine. I yanked at his hair, loosening the band, and I smiled against his lips as his hair created a curtain around our faces. He kissed me soundly, a performance worthy of his thousand dollar suit, and then kissed me again, though we didn’t raise the curtain for the encore.

  IT WAS SURPRISINGLY easy. Stunningly easy. Effortless. Monique’s wasn’t just a boutique—it was a full service wedding center—rings, ceremonies, flowers, photography, all in an hour. With one call, Monique had us in a limo, which took us to the license bureau, where we walked inside, presented ID, signed our names, paid the $60 license fee, and were out again without a blood test, a long wait, or even an autograph request. Monique had taken care of that too. The woman seemed to know exactly who I was and had made sure we were brought in a side entrance and whisked back out again, and the bureau clerk didn’t seem surprised to see us or give two cents if our faces were in the tabloids. It was Vegas, I reminded myself. I had the feeling Monique and her contacts had seen it all. The limo then hurried us back to the chapel, where we were squeezed into a fifteen minute window between previously booked appointments.

  I didn’t want Elvis at my wedding. I loved him, but not that much. Little Ritchie was out too. No music. No fake flowers. No walks down the aisle on the arm of a dead rock ‘n’ roll icon. Instead, we were escorted to a little room with an actual minister and a row of tiny candles, and side by side, in a couple of words, we said we would. Richer and poorer—Finn flinched at that like he didn’t like that he was the latter. In sickness and in health—it was my turn to wince. I knew Finn thought I was a little crazy. My gran thought I was a lot crazy. Or maybe that was just how she liked to make me feel. And finally the words ‘”Til death do us part”—and we looked at each other then, knowing exactly how death could part us from the ones we love.

  “I do,” I said.

  “I do,” he said.

  All done.

  They provided a witness, we exchanged simple rings—I wouldn’t have been surprised if our fingers turned green beneath our cheap bands, but as long as Finn wasn’t turning green, I couldn’t care less. Monique threw in the slim, gold bands with the $500 I paid for the rush wedding package, and the $3,800 I laid down for our fancy duds, which included everything from our underwear to the diamonds in my ears, along with a few extra pieces of silk and lace that Monique was sure I would need, and which I gladly agreed to.

  I added a tip for her and another $100 tip for Pierre. They had both saved—and made—my day. If we ever made it out of the mess we were in, Monique was going to be my new go-to girl for dresses. I was good to people who were good to me, and I told her as much. Plus, I was going to be hiring my own people from now on. Gran would not be calling any more shots, starting today, starting now, starting with the man who I’d just pledged to love all the days of my life.

  He was sober and serious, silently observing it all, like the process was an elaborate equation he hadn’t yet solved, but when he said “I do,” I believed him. And when I said, “I do,” I meant it with all my heart. And considering that my heart had swollen in size, filling my chest so I could hardly breathe, that was saying something. I was surprised I wasn’t floating, the sensation of helium in my head was so pronounced that I clung to Finn’s hand to hold me down.

  We posed for some pictures, but made them use a disposable camera, which we took with us, not eager to see our wedding pictures splashed everywhere before we even made it to LA. It was our secret, our moment, and we would tell the world when and if we felt like it.

  We retreated to the boutique and changed our clothes, though I kept on the lace panties and pulled on the matching bra. We relinquished our finery to Monique, who packaged it carefully in garment bags that were constructed like padded cells, complete with reinforced compartments and straight jackets. We walked out of the boutique three hours after we had arrived, bags over our shoulders, rings on our fingers, and a five hour bus ride before us. No romantic honeymoon for Bonnie and Clyde.

  We stopped at a deli, and Finn bought us sandwiches and cupcakes with frothy white icing and sprinkles, the closest thing we would get to wedding cake on our big day. When Finn stuck a thick candle in mine, I started in surprise.

  “Did you steal that from the ceremony?” I asked, laughter making me wheeze.

  “Yeah. I did. I grabbed it and snapped it off at the top and shoved it in my pocket in case I didn’t have the chance to buy birthday candles.” His mouth twisted in a small grin. “I think I got hot wax on my tuxedo pants.” The smile faded, and he leaned forward and kissed my lips gently. “Happy Birthday, Bonnie.”

  “I forgot,” I said with wonder. And I had. The last time I’d thought about my birthday was before Finn pulled off the highway in that dumpy little town and rocked my world behind a run-down café that had seen much better days, but never a better make-out session.

  “No more hard birthdays. Only happy anniversaries. Deal?” Finn entreated sweetly.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and licked at the frosting around my giant candle. It had been the best birthday I’d ever had—the best day I’d ever had, no contest. I sent a little love note skyward, hoping Minnie could forgive me for making new memories on our day.

  “Deal,” I said, my eyes holding Finn’s.

  “You wanna shake on that, Bonnie Rae Clyde?” He grinned widely at my new moniker.

  I laughed and nodded, extending the hand that wore his ring. Gran was going to crap her pants. I laughed even harder. Yes, indeed. It had been a very good birthday.

  THEY BOARDED THE bus without hassle or second glances. Finn made Bonnie put her hat back on and her glasses too. She was beautiful enough to receive second looks for that reason alone, and the more they could play down her looks, the easier it would be to keep her identity hidden. The bus departed right on time, and Finn breathed a little easier, knowing they would be in LA, even with another stop, in roughly five hours.

  He had felt a slight but ever-increasing drum beat of trepidation since they’d left St. Louis, the pitfalls and problems at every turn creating a sense of unavoidable disaster that even the ring on his finger could not completely drown out. He was happier than he’d ever been, and he was more terrified than he’d ever been. He was madly in love, yet he hardly recognized himself. And he should have known the final stretch would go no smoother than the rest of the journey had.

  Forty-five minutes outside of Vegas, the bus broke down. It started to cough and shimmy, and the bus driver babied it along to the closest exit, which fortunately was not in the middle of nowhere, though Primm, Nevada was the strangest town Finn had ever seen, plo
pped down like a tiny island in the middle of the desert—an island so small it made Vegas seem like a continent. A strip mall that was built to look like an old western town, several hotels, and a roller coaster that ran between manufactured rock mountains were the main attractions, and in the darkness, he felt a little like Pinocchio visiting the island where all the boys turned into donkeys. What was it called? His mom had read Pinocchio to him and Fish when they were little, and it had struck a chord in him. Fish loved the story and asked for it every night, but Finn wasn’t as entranced. He related a little too closely to poor Jiminy Cricket trying to keep Pinocchio in line.

  Pleasure Island. The answer popped into his head. That was it. The island that bewitched boys and turned them into asses. He hoped Vegas hadn’t done the same to him. Initially the driver asked the passengers to stay seated and remain on the bus, but after a half hour of conferring with his supervisors, he informed the passengers that another bus was being sent to their location to take them to Los Angeles. The driver gave them an hour and reiterated that the journey would resume on the new bus at ten thirty, and to please be prompt so they wouldn’t be left behind. He gave them a quick tour-guide style run-down of the available restaurants and sites to see in Primm, including a huge Buffalo shaped pool at Buffalo Bills Hotel, and the roller coaster that Finn was suddenly determined to ride. But when the bus driver mentioned that the bullet riddled car of the infamous outlaws, Bonnie and Clyde, was on display at Whiskey Pete’s Hotel and Casino, he and Bonnie looked at each other in wide-eyed wonder.

  Finn had started to laugh, almost choking on his disbelief.

  “Now that, Infinity, is a sign,” Bonnie drawled, and immediately scowled. “William’s sign is still in Bear’s car. I’ve got to get it back. If I only come out of this trip with one souvenir, that’s the one I want. A cardboard sign and a big, blond husband. That’s all I ask.”