“I’m going to Susie’s for the night,” I told him. I knew Lucas didn’t particularly care for my coworker and close friend, so heading to her for solace would add insult to injury. Susie was gay, and Lucas had this weird jealousy thing about her.
“Baby, no. Let’s talk this through.”
“I have to go back to work.” I was working on a case, a sleazy billionaire playboy suspected of tax fraud. The offense seemed really serious, and the office would have to send someone undercover to check him out. I looked at the clock. Already past one. I’d been gone longer than my allotted break. Dammit, I was going to have to stay late.
How could I think about going back to work?
I spun on my heels and headed to our bedroom, where I tossed a change of clothes and my toothbrush into an overnight bag. Lucas appeared in the doorway, shoulders slumped, paunchier than ever, having only put on his boxers. He wore the blue ones with the anchors. My favorite ones. Monica did seem to have good taste, at least.
I picked up my phone where I’d left it plugged in. One new text message, from Lucas: I hope you have a great morning! I love you! We’re out of milk, can you get more on your way home?
It was the last bit, about the milk, that pushed me over the edge. “You asked me to get milk while you were screwing your trainer?”
“Don’t say it like that, baby.”
I took a deep breath. I was right in my first instinct to get out, to think before I said something I’d regret. “I’ll talk to you soon, Lucas. I need some time.”
“Baby, no!”
Had he always called me baby this much, or only in times of duress? I didn’t like it.
“I’ll call you.”
I pushed past him. I expected him to do more to stop me. To reach for me, to sit me down and force me to talk it over. He let me walk right by him, down the stairs. I paused at the doorway, looking over my shoulder like Lot’s wife. Nothing.
Two days later, I returned and told him we were done. He was an ass about it. Reminded me if I wanted to throw it all away, the cost of the wedding was on my cards. He had no responsibility for the debt I’d accrued if I suddenly decided I didn’t love him anymore. I threw the ring, and it bounced off his forehead… but you already know that part.
My work needed someone to go to Las Vegas to meet billionaire Scott Creed and figure out what they could about his finances. Have a few drinks with him, see if they could get him to talk about the upcoming Creed-Hall merger, and figure out if it was legit or a paper corporation. Susie told me I should do it. Yeah right, they have people specially trained for this kind of thing. I’m an accountant. I… account.
Susie dragged me in to see Mr. Fallon—who’s kind of sleazy under the best of circumstances—and explained her idea, detailing how she and I should go together, just two girls having fun in Sin City. Mr. Fallon looked me up and down in a way I wasn’t entirely comfortable with and told me I was just the woman for the job. Have a few drinks, get him to loosen up, see what I could find about Creed-Hall. Meanwhile, the rest of the trip, Susie and I would forget about real life and enjoy the city. We booked a room in the Flamingo, got a great deal on airline tickets, and headed west.
As we flew over the Mississippi, I regretted my decision to throw the ring in Lucas’ face, wondering how much I could have gotten for it. How much money I could have won in Vegas with it. While Susie dozed beside me on the plane, I busted out my sketch book and drew cathartic drawings of murdering Lucas.
I’m making myself sound terribly callous, I know. I was hurting, trust me. I’d been with Lucas for four years, and I loved him. I pictured myself having his babies. I was still trying to decide if I wanted to send his mother a card—she was a lovely woman and I’ll miss her like crazy. I couldn’t trust him, though. He’d wrecked our relationship, and that could never be mended. My love wasn’t like a Kintsugi vase, broken and repaired into something more beautiful than ever, gold making it stronger. My heart was closed for business.
# # #
Which brings me to the present. To my brain-splitting hangover, and to the luxurious hotel room I found myself in. I saw a garment crumpled on the floor. A dress so tacky it had to be expensive, blues and greens, glittery like a mermaid. What the hell had I done? The pieces started to fall into place, dropping from the ceiling like Tetris blocks. This was Scott Creed’s room. Putting the pieces together to the best of my muddled knowledge, I had, over the course of a night, become Scott Creed’s wife.
Scott
I probably would never have noticed the brunette at the bar if she hadn’t dumped her drink on my shoe. The martini glass had been filled with something pink and sweet, and she managed to soak the lower part of my pant leg, my sock, and my eight-hundred-dollar Burberry wingtip.
She wasn’t my usual style—I’m not much of a hunter. I let them come to me. Short skirts, high heels, expensive hair. The girl with the drink seemed much more natural, like someone who wasn’t out trolling for a good time. She wore nice slacks, low sling back heels, and a sleeveless top. When she bent over my foot with her napkins, trying to sop up the mess, I could see the contours of her white bra and the tanned flesh of her breasts. Exciting.
“I’m so sorry. I’m such a klutz. The floor jumped up at me! We are spinning, after all”
We were in the bar at the top of the Stratosphere, all of Las Vegas rotating beneath us. I usually stick to classier establishments, but this one had always been my favorite. My friend Ryan and I were visiting Vegas this week to blow off some steam and have some fun, so I could make peace with my debauchery. It was time to settle down.
Even thinking the words made me cringe.
I had plans next Thursday to ask Giuliana PostvanderBerg to be my wife. Every time I reminded myself of this fact, I made a face like I’d bitten into a lemon. I knew she was looking for a husband. She had scads of cash from her first husband and her father, had all the right breeding, and she was gorgeous. I couldn’t pull off the Creed-Hall merger without shedding my playboy ways, and a match with a wealthy socialite would show them I was serious.
Giuliana was a bore, slightly mean, and a bit of a drunk, but I could manage her the way most of our set managed our spouses. We’d each take a lover—or several—after a few months, but as long as everything looked good for the Creed-Hall merger, and as long as we both were discreet, our marriage would be fantastic. In a year or so we would quietly divorce and go our separate ways.
I’d run my idea by her at a fundraiser for the New York Philharmonic, and half in the bag, she’d said it sounded like an excellent offer. She’d subtly groped my crotch, then staggered away. I could work with this.
For now, though, I was in Vegas mode. No consequences, no repercussions. I could do what I pleased for the next two nights. Giuliana and responsibility waited for me across the continent.
“Let me get you another drink,” I offered the woman.
“I should be getting you a drink! I may have ruined your shoe. I’m so sorry.”
“Scott Creed.”
“Mackenzie Taylor.” She stuck out her hand, and we shook. Her fingers were sticky from the drink. I reevaluated her figure under her clothes as we spoke. Some curves, generous tits, amazing ass. Her slacks were off the rack and didn’t fit quite right, the top bunched weirdly, and as I’d noticed before, when she bent over she gave the whole world a killer view. She might be fun for the evening.