Card Sharks (21 page)

Bijoux sat there, chewing her nails, and finally blurted out, “I'm scared. My credit cards are maxed out and the ATM ate my card. I borrowed money from Donny and paid him back
after gambling like a lunatic at craps and getting very lucky.” She swallowed hard, her voice cracking as she blurted out the rest in one breath: “I don't know how I'm going to live without my money, and I don't know why I can't find someone to love me, much less someone who can afford me.”

Marianne put her arm around Bijoux's shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “First of all, you will find that guy someday. I promise. And second of all, I want you to know that if I had that kind of money, I'd give it to you. And in the meantime, what's mine is yours. You know that.”

Bijoux looked at her and smiled for real. “I know. And I adore you for it. But you don't even have close to what I need, so there's no point in bankrupting you for pocket change.”

The girls shared a laugh.

“And as for the guy . . .” Bijoux started.

“Do you mind my going out with Peter?” Marianne asked suddenly. “Sometimes I think you do. You say you don't . . .”

“Stop right there. I see right through you,” Bijoux said gently. “Don't use me as an excuse not to go out with Peter. If Donny stays, I'll hang out with him tonight so he's not alone. You need to move on already.”

Bijoux put her hands on Marianne's shoulders, flipped her around to face the mirror, and pointed at the lipstick sitting on the bureau. “Apply and resume course. You have a date. Go forth and date. Do not fall back into the Donny quagmire.”

“I can't believe you haven't found someone wildly in love with you yet. Your massive vocabulary makes even me a little hot.”

The two of them started laughing and Marianne knew they were going to be okay.

“Apply . . . and resume.”

Picking up the lipstick, Marianne bent toward the mirror and just stopped, looking into her best friend's eyes in the mirror's
reflection. “I don't want to go back to all of that, Bij. I can't take it anymore.”

Bijoux teared up unexpectedly, but blinked it back in time. “Then just decide. Go forward. Just say, ‘This is it.' ”

“This is it,” Marianne whispered.

Bijoux nodded and cleared her throat. “If we don't stop talking about this, we're going to both mess up our makeup. Here, finish up with the lips, and I'll show you how to do that cool thing with the false eyelashes.”

P
eter was true to his word, from the red rose at the start of the night to the bottle of champagne at the end. Even the way he looked at her as she came back towards him from the ladies room was having the excellent effect of distracting Marianne from the earlier stresses of competition.

His gaze swept from the tips of her strappy sandals to her silk Pucci-inspired ruffle-bottom miniskirt, up past the slice of skin peeking out at the abdomen and over the tight-fitting combination lingerie/tank layers where he lingered over her cleavage before they locked eyes.

He left a hot, delicious flush on her skin. The kind of sensation guaranteed to make a girl forget about a crappy day at the poker tables.

“You look fantastic,” he said as she sat down again.

Marianne smiled. “I borrowed it all from Bijoux.”

“It looks great on you.”

“You've seen me dressed up before.”

“Not for me.”

She cocked her head and studied his face. Peter looked
very upscale-L.A.-goes-to-Vegas in a nice suit saved from being too formal by a
Swingers
-esque shirt with a funky collar. With his blond hair and blue eyes, he was almost too pretty, more Bijoux's type than hers, really, but still good enough for any girl to gamble on.

Bijoux was so right.
Don't mess this up.

It had been quite a while since Marianne had enjoyed a full-scale night out like this. Cocktails to start, a little wine with the tasting menu and a bottle of champagne with dessert. She may have been exhausted from the competition, but her sense of fun wasn't stunted in the least. And Peter was certainly a worthy companion.

“I love this,” she said, looking around the restaurant. “I love being out of the office. I love being in the tournament. I love wearing Bijoux's fabulous clothes and being on ESPN and not having to wake up at seven in the morning every single weekday. I love knowing that there are people who do this professionally. They don't have schedules. They don't have to play when they don't want to. They travel around to different places. And oh, my God . . . can you imagine having a job where the primary verb used to describe what you do is ‘play'?”

“Funny.”

“What?”

“I've been thinking lately that my lifestyle's been just a little too unstable. Traveling around to different places so much can make it difficult to have a relationship,” he said.

Marianne met his eyes. “Let's get out of here.”

“We just ordered more champagne.”

“We'll take the bottle. Let's go breathe fresh air.”

The champagne arrived, Peter asked for the check, and Marianne stuck the champagne bottle behind her back and marched toward the exit with it after they'd paid. “Come on. Let's make a break for it.”

She hit the down button on the elevator and looked mock surreptitiously over her shoulder, the champagne bulging noticeably out of her clothing.

“You act like you're doing something naughty,” he said.

“I am. I'm staying up late on a school night.”

Peter's brow furrowed. “Are you sure this is a good idea? You've got to play tomorrow.”

Marianne frowned.
What's with the mother act?
“Stop being such a goody-goody. You're supposed to encourage my outrageous behavior. I've been obsessing, and I need some distance. This will be good for me.”

Peter shrugged and held the elevator door open for her. In the elevator Marianne took a swig of champagne, then passed it to Peter, who did the same. She had it back under her jacket by the time the elevator hit the ground, and they left the casino for the Strip outside.

The fresh air felt nice and cool against Marianne's skin. The farther she walked from the casino, the freer and happier she felt. There were people everywhere, dressed for the evening, ready for fun. The upbeat vibe of a city just beginning to get started was contagious.

“Where do you want to go?” Peter asked.

“Wherever our feet take us.”

He held out his arm, she tucked hers in his, and they marched off down the Strip with the bottle of champagne swinging from Marianne's grip. Every casino was lit up to the maximum possible extent. “Take my picture!” Marianne yelled, running away from Peter to pose in front of the Eiffel Tower.

Peter pulled his camera out and snapped a shot as Marianne modeled with her arms outstretched, the bottle spilling forth bubbly.

“Stand up on the riser,” he said, snapping more shots.

More champagne for both of them, and then it was, “Let's go to the Aladdin!”

More camera angles, shots, Marianne posing on various structures, running from place to place, nearly out of breath, her neck aching from staring up at the glitter and hum infusing the night sky.

Peter started shouting posing instructions, playing photographer to Marianne's model as they ran up and down the Strip, weaving through mobs of tourists, dodging the flyers thrust at them from strip-club purveyors, leaping by the opening doors of limousines and taxicabs lining both sides of the street, and stopping in front of the most outrageous monuments the casinos had to offer. Bally's, Paris, Aladdin, the MGM, turning up again on the other side of the street to New York-New York, Monte Carlo . . . . . . and a dead stop at the Bellagio.

Marianne ran to the ledge overlooking the water at the Bellagio casino and clasped her hands. The Bellagio fountains had just started, kicking up majestic waterfalls in a choreographed display as the most romantic-sounding tenor kicked in from hidden speakers.

The champagne was kicking in, too, in the most marvelous way. Marianne felt delightfully muddled. She climbed up on the ledge and raised her arms out at her sides. “I don't feel like Marianne tonight! I'm someone else!”

“Marianne, get down,” Peter said from behind. She looked over her shoulder. His face was a mix of concern and admiration.

“No,” she said, turning around and picking up one foot. “Take my picture.”

He hesitated.

She reached down and removed her shoes, swinging the stilettos dangerously around in one hand as she picked her foot up again and balanced, her ankle shaking as she swayed on the ledge. “Take my picture. I dare you.”

Peter raised his camera and took the shot. Marianne posed again, nearly losing her balance. “Take my picture.”

He took another picture. “Take another one.” He did. And suddenly he just started snapping away as Marianne twirled and posed and mugged on the ledge.

“That's great, Marianne. Keep going. You're fantastic,” he called out.

She turned too suddenly then, and staggered back, then forward; Peter ran up and caught her by the waist, pulling her off the ledge and against his body.

Still giddy from the most recent glass of champagne, Marianne let her brain switch to autopilot. She wrapped her arms around Peter and allowed herself to indulge. He pressed her against the concrete and kissed her madly as a light mist from the fountains dampened the back of her neck. Champagne lust on a Vegas night. Didn't get any better than this. She pulled him even closer to her, sneaking her hands under this clothes and igniting her own desires with the heat coming off his skin.

He must have been feeling something similarly intense, because he tore his mouth away from hers and said with a minimum of slurring, “Marry me.”

“It's Mari
anne,
silly.”

Peter laughed and ran his finger over her lips. “Marry me, Marianne. Let's just do it. Let's be wild and crazy and just do it!”

“If you ask me again, I'll know you're serious and I'll take you up on it. Don't ask me if you don't want me to call your bluff.” Marianne pushed away and leaned against the stone railing, taunting him with her smile. The opera music swelled and then faded away, and the water slipped into the lake almost as suddenly as it had started.

In the shocking new silence, Peter raised his camera for a close-up. “Marry me, Marianne. Give me the big ending to the story.”

I don't want to go back. Old job, old boyfriend, old life. I can change things in an instant. I don't have to go back. Go forward.
Marianne stared into the camera lens, her body still buzzing with want. “Yes, let's,” she said. “Let's be wild and crazy and do things we don't do. Let's be a pair of someone elses tonight.”

He took the picture and then lowered the camera. “Let's,” he said rather urgently, then wheeled around and stepped out into the street, full-on New York–style, arm out, whistled loud and clear, and hailed a cab like there was no doubt the very next one was theirs. And it was.

It pulled up and Peter leaned down to the open window. “We're getting married. Take us where you take people in this town to get married.” He opened the car door and ushered Marianne inside.

The cabdriver seemed a little blasé for Marianne's taste, threatening to quash the swashbuckle of the moment by saying, “There's not just one place. There's lots of places.”

Peter crushed a twenty-dollar bill into the cabbie's hand. “Take us to the best one. And take the long way.”

The cabdriver took the twenty, smoothing it out in an infuriatingly nonchalant way. “The Strip is the long way.”

Peter hopped in, and the cab took off with a lurch. Marianne squealed with laughter as Peter reached out and slammed the door shut and they merged into traffic.

The lights of the Las Vegas Strip blurred into rainbows of color through the windows as Peter pressed Marianne down into the backseat and covered his mouth with hers.

Hands everywhere they should and shouldn't be, Peter with no shirt on pouring champagne from above into the lipstick-smeared mouth of a laughing Marianne. Champagne-wet skin, hot mouths . . . the damn ride ended much, much too soon.

They tumbled out of the cab, Marianne and Peter tossing
money over the front seat and falling on the sidewalk in hysterical laughter.

Peter stood up first, his shirt and jacket crumpled in one hand. He tried to grab the empty champagne bottle but missed. It rolled over the curb and shattered on the street.

“We'll get some more,” he promised, helping her up with a little too much gusto. Nearly toppling over to the other side, Marianne finally found her balance.

The wedding chapel stood before them, an enormous architectural confection of white paint and plastic floral decorations in pink, green, blue, and yellow. Just like the cakes from those crappy street-corner bakeries that smelled like chemicals, looked so pretty, and tasted so fake.

Arm in arm they mounted the steps to the wedding chapel, pushed through the heavy glass doors, and headed up to the reception desk.

“Ooh, look!” Marianne pointed to the Polaroid pictures of the day's earlier wedded couples tacked to a bulletin board. “They have costumes. We have to get dressed up.”

“I am dressed up.”

“No, I want to wear something special. I want a costume.”

“I don't wear costumes,” Peter said.

Marianne blinked, finding herself becoming irrationally upset.

“But you'll look great in a costume,” he said.

Peter leaned over the desk, his elbow missing the edge and just barely avoiding smacking his face hard on the counter. “My fiancée . . .”

Marianne giggled. Peter grinned, and Marianne had never been more sure in her life that spontaneity, adventure, and a total lack of planning were the way to go.

He began again. “My fiancée would like whatever package you've got that has costumes in it.”

“All of them come with the costume option.” The clerk pulled a chapel brochure from the clear acrylic holder on the desk and pointed to the choices A, B, and C. “We have Aloha Hawaii Elvis, Classic Elvis, and Pink Cadillac Deluxe Elvis. It's not in the brochure yet, but we've just added a less expensive option, the Lisa Marie.”

“Aloha Hawaii, please. And I want a large, frothy pink dress.”

“That won't match,” Peter said.

Marianne frowned. “I don't care. I want to get married in paradise wearing a large, frothy pink dress. If you have issues with that perhaps we should step through that side door for a moment and discuss it.” She pointed to a door. It said,
RESTROOM
—
UNISEX
. She blinked and moved her finger to the right. “I mean, that side door.” She pointed to a door that said,
MARRIAGE COUNSELING
—$15
W
/
PREPURCHASED ELVIS PACKAGE
.

Peter shrugged and plunked down a credit card. “Indulge the lady with the Aloha, if you would, please.”

The woman beamed. “Oh, honey, that's not bad at all. She'll look lovely.”

The credit-card receipt printed out. She stuck it on the counter and followed it up with two plastic glasses, which she filled from an open bottle on her desk.

Marianne and Peter took the glasses, clinked them, producing more of a dull
plunk
sound than a
clink
, and downed the champagne.