We came to a stop, where a lot of excitement appeared to be going on across the street, but it didn’t draw anyone’s attention but mine.
This was Vegas, after all.
Something was always happening.
“There. We are going there. Today is gonna be a good day.”
“What’s happening in there?” I asked, taking a mental note of the men and women, all in similar outfits to ours.
“A wedding reception. Masquerade style.”
“For us?” I knew that couldn’t be true.
“Sure. . . just don’t tell the bride and groom.”
He winked from beneath his pretty mask—the decorations so similar to mine. And then as the lights flashed, indicating it was safe to go, we crossed the street.
I didn’t tell him I didn’t want to invade someone’s wedding. I was under order to behave. So, I kept my mouth shut and let him guide me inside, to a private event that we weren’t meant to be part of.
I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a drink, after being encouraged by my husband. He even ordered himself a whisky, once he realized the tab was on the bride and groom.
The bride and groom, who were complete strangers to us, were enjoying their day, intoxicated by the served wine they shared and high on their love for each other.
They danced and shared delicacies somewhere near the head table. I’d been told to avoid that area.
This room filled with love was nothing like our wedding. Mine and Hell’s.
I watched with a hateful stare as the liquid in my husband’s mouth burned its way down his throat.
Again, he didn’t cover. And I, again, didn’t care. It wasn’t the throat issue I hated, it was him.
He laughed, licking the taste from the fullness of his lips, and I fucking hated that he looked good while doing it.
But whatever was burning him—maybe the flames of hell, calling him to return—lingered.
“I have to go to the bathroom.” He placed his tumbler down and dropped from his stool at the bar, where we’d spent the evening. He’d been a moody bastard all day, but that wasn’t new. His mouth claimed to be disappointed that I refused to take his hand to dance more than once, but that was just an excuse.
“I can drag you with me, or I can trust you to stay here. Don’t think I won’t find you if you leave.” He pushed back my hair to whisper in my ear.
“Where could I possibly go?” I looked at him dumbfounded. Apparently,to the police station, didn’t enter my head, thanks to my fifth, sixth, or seventh glass of whatever this cocktail was.
“Good girl,” was all he said as he slipped out, and I felt a weird kind of rush to my core. I tightened, straightened, and returned my attention to the bar.
“Can I have another?” I asked the busy bartender, who was serving another woman at the other end of the bar.
The bartender returned a nod as I slurped the last of the orange liquid through a straw that had been glued to my lips for hours.
“Enjoying that?” A man pushed the barstool at my side between his open legs. “I’d offer to get you another, but seeing as drinks are free. . .” he started, before my drink’s replacement was set in front of me.
I switched the glasses, placing my straw into the full glass, and pushing the other away. I smiled in thanks atthe bartender, as he collected it.
The guy at my side made his order and gave thanks while I took another sip. Another long sip. I had no idea how many of these I’d drank, but it was a lot, proven by the dozen trips to the restroom I’d had to make.
“Do you know the bride or the groom?” the man asked, a smile lighting up what I could see of his face.
I looked him over, smiling at his blond hair, shining as bright as the sun beneath the romantic lighting.
Blond. . . his hair brought feelings of comfort to me.
