8
FUDDLED. ZOZZLED. SPLIFFICATED!
MABEL
“Tequila is good. I should more drink tequila. I mean, drink more tequila,” I giggle as I sip the yard-long watermelon-and-lime swirled frozen margarita, pulling too much of the sugary, icy concoction into my mouth and giving myself an instant brain freeze. I wince, snapping my eyes shut as the pain blooms from the roof of my mouth through my head, feeling like an instant migraine. But because I’m tipsy (okay, maybe a little more than tipsy), the sudden loss of vision sends me careening off balance, tipping backwards in my platform heels. I fall backwards into Ryder’s chest, and his arm slips around my waist as he steadies me.
“I think you and tequila have had enough of eachother for one night,” he laughs, and I stomp my foot in protest while taking another long sip from the straw. I glance over my shoulder, and maybe it's the shoulder-length, wavy brunette hair tucked under a backwards baseball cap on Ryder’s head—he had the brilliant idea to hit up a costume store for wigs and colored contacts so we could hit The Strip unrecognized and have some fun without the pressure of being Ryder and Mabel, Team USA representatives and children of an athletic dynasty—or maybe it’s the liquor goggles and violet contacts in my eyes that have me warming up to him, but even though I’ve found my footing, I continue to lean back against his solid chest as we mosey slowly down Las Vegas Boulevard.
I’d never admit this before today, or in the daylight without the cover of darkness and hard liquor, but pressing up against Ryder feels better than I could have ever imagined.
You’re seriously telling me you didn’t know?
I might not be ready to deal with that open can of worms yet, but fuck me if it doesn’t have my belly feeling all swoopy and warm. The street is crowded, and we find ourselves in the middle of a group of strangers waiting to cross one of the pedestrian bridges built over the multi-lane roadway. In a sea of people this large, the likelihood of Ryder or I beingrecognized is very low. We might be two of the most recognizable faces in our niche sport, but outside of the Games every four years, where most of the population knows us by our last name and the Team USA snowsuits, it’s not like we’re a couple of pop stars walking into a restaurant in New York City. Still, the blonde wig on my head is giving me a sense of security I never feel when I’m out in the public eye. If I’m not in my house, I have to beon. I have to be Mabel Quinn, Winter Games darling, master of her craft, uplifter of her parents’ legacy. Even if ninety-nine people in any room don’t know who I am or wouldn't give a fart about me even if they did, I have to be on my best behavior for that one person who does know and care.
I hate to admit this, probably even more than I hate admitting how good it feels to let Ryder hold me, even for a second, but going out in disguise was a smart idea. I never would have thought to do this myself, and I’m having a fantastic—albeit a bit blurry—time, so I have to give Ryder credit where credit is due.
In my mind, though. I’m not going to say that I think he’s clever out loud.
“Aww, Marshmallow. I think you’re clever, too.”
Oops.
“I never said you were clever.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I did not.”
“Should we check the replay?” He cocks an eyebrow at me, and damn. Those evil green eyes really shine bright under the lights of the strip.
“You can’t take anything I say seriously right now, Rye Bread. I am positively bombed.”
“Bombed? What are you, eighty years old? Say ‘drunk’. Christ, Mabel. I’m gonna have to get you a leash.” Ryder chuckles and slips his hand into mine, intertwining our fingers just as I’m about to stumble into the poor guy in front of me.
“I’m fuddled. Zozzled. Splifficated!” I suck down the rest of my frozen concoction, slurping until a hint of brain freeze settles in.
“You’re adorable. Come here.”
I’m whipped to the edge of the sidewalk towards a blur of pink sequins before my fuddled, zozzled, splifficated brain has time to catch up with those two words.
You’re adorable.
On their own, they don’t mean much. Kittens are adorable. Axolotls are adorable. Your parent’s best friend’s kid that you’ve known since she was in diapers and only see as a sort-of little sister is adorable.
But at the poker table…
Most days, I find it impossible to keep my eyes off of you.
“Oh my god, look at this gorgeous specimen of a woman. Oh, you are just a doll. And those legs! I could bounce a quarter off that ass. Come here, darling! What’s your name?”
See? That is how a grown woman’s beauty should be appreciated.
Two women dressed as classic Vegas showgirls, their heads adorned with bubblegum pink and champagne feathers extending a mile high from their headpieces, their breasts pushed up to their chins in bedazzled push-up bras and legs encased in shiny pantyhose and tantalizing fishnets take me by the hands and begin to fuss over me. One runs her fingers over the hair on my blonde wig while the other gently pinches my cheeks and tilts my face back and forth, admiring my red lipstick. I give them fake names—Ginger, because of my hair—as well as Ryder’s—Dante, because he’s the devil. The women “ooh” and “ahh” over me, and even though I can spot Ryder slipping a few bills into the teeny tiny waistband of their hip-hugging thongs—everyone on the Vegas strip is just trying to make a buck, I can’t fault these ladies for that—I feel like I’ve entered some sort of gay girl fantasy land full of glitter and curves.
Ryder stands back and snaps picture after picture of me and the showgirls—Kitty and Lola, because they’re not using their real names either—and when a passing stranger asks if he’d like to join, Ryder passes off the phone and joins me in the puddle of sparkles, where we laugh and pose until I’m pretty sure all the space on his phone has been used up.
“Let’s do shots!” I scream, pulling Kitty and Lola towards one of the sidewalk bars boasting the strongest, sweetest high-octane liquor on the strip. Ryder groans, probably because he knows I’m one whiff of vodka away from being completely knackered, but he follows anyway and throws down a card while the bartender pours twelve shots.
