“Hey,” she replied. She pulled out her own chair and sat. Neither one of us, I noticed, wore our rings.
“How are you feeling?” I asked while at the same time she said, “I’m sorry I was such a bitch this morning.”
Simultaneously, I said, “Don’t worry about it” as she said, “A little better, thanks.”
We stopped talking, an awkward pause. She laughed. I liked the lines of her throat, the way the tendons stood out. What a weird thing to notice.
“I’m kinda hungover myself.” I gestured to the drinks on the table. “I’m way more excited about this water than the margarita.”
Mackenzie’s face fell a bit. “These are the best margaritas on the strip.” I highly doubted that. “I mean, there may be some that cost more and are more fancy, but every sip of these takes me back to Key West when I turned twenty-one. Puts me on the beach there.”
Her little story gave me more fond feelings towards the cheesy tourist place than I’d had before.
Her cheeks reddened, and she looked down at her hands. “How was your day?”
“Good. Relaxing. Went to the pool for a while with my friend Ryan, got a massage. Tried to drink every drop of water I could get near my face. I watched Ryan lose a whole bunch of money on a slot machine. Pretty average Vegas day after a rough Vegas night.”
“But not an average Vegas night.”
“Ha, no. Not by a long shot.”
This was the part where I probably should suggest having the marriage annulled so we can move on with our lives.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Mackenzie suggested.
“Sounds good to me.” I finished my water but left the margarita.
Mackenzie
I almost didn’t recognize him dressed like a normal person. If you studied him closely, though, you’d notice the sunglasses probably cost close to a thousand dollars. His collared shirt, plaid in shades of greens and blues, wasn’t from Gap or Old Navy—you know, places I shopped—but from H&M or something more costly. His soft-looking maroon t-shirt probably cost about fifty bucks. Don’t get me started on the sneakers. He didn’t seem as cocky as he had last night. He wasn’t wearing his ring either. Seeing his naked finger made me feel a little better.
I’d called Mr. Fallon as soon as my stomach had stopped screaming at me. He’d doused me with accolades over the phone, telling me how I was a natural go-getter and showed an initiative like he’d never seen.
“I was worried you’d crumble when your fella left you,” Fallon had said. I opened my mouth to remind him I had been the one to leave the fella, but it wasn’t worth it. “Remember, Mackenzie. When God closes a door he opens a window.” I was confused… Did he think I was falling in love with Scott Creed? “Your personal life may be in the shitter, but your career’s really going to take off. We might be able to use you in some of the other offices like this.”
My boss’s approval created a glowing in my mind, regardless of whether it should have or not. No matter if he’s a sleaze-ball who spends more time ogling me than he probably should. Susie got in the shower, and I sat alone in the room. Our windows looked over the backside of the hotel, a few air handlers and a rooftop. I was basically prostituting myself for my job.
He’d mentioned a raise. Detangling my finances from Lucas’ was going to be expensive. A new apartment, a new car. Those student loans dangling over my head. My credit card debt. No more shared expenses. Ugh, I’d have to get my own Netflix account. I pushed the thoughts out of my head and texted Scott.
Now, we left Margaritaville, the titular song following us to the crepuscular strip. “You’re not much of a Parrothead, are you?” I’d have fun with Scott because I had to. Thoughts of Lucas still crept in, still hurt. Well, this was my fling. We’d just get an annulment at the end, that was all.
“I’m sorry?”
I laughed at him. “Jimmy Buffet fans are called Parrotheads.”
“By who?”
“Themselves. It’s a thing.”
“I’d punch anyone who called me a Parrothead.”
“Would you really?”
Scott chuckled. “No. I wouldn’t. I can’t remember the last time I punched someone.”
“I can.” Vividly. “Eighth grade, Missy Fontaine. She kissed my boyfriend under the monkey bars.”
Scott let out a slow whistle. “That’s serious.”
“It totally was.” I caught myself. I wasn’t supposed to actually be having fun with Scott Creed. This was all a ruse. An act.
“So do you self-identify as a Parrothead?” he asked, pronouncing the word carefully, like something foreign.
“No. I mean, not really. The diehard fans are really intense. I just like the restaurants, and because I have fond memories of them with my family, I’m kinda into Jimmy Buffet. But I don’t think I rise to the rank of Parrothead.”
“Would you be offended if I said I was relieved?”
“You know, I think I would be.”
I laughed, he laughed, and we found ourselves in front of the Bellagio fountains sharing an incredible moment. The song Singular Sensation played, and the water and lights danced to the music. Of everything I’d seen in the city, this fountain was my favorite. People pressed in around us to watch the fountain show. In the crowd were buskers: Vegas show girls charging for photos, a guy break dancing (who was actually really good), a guy dressed in a Transformers outfit, and Hello Kitty.
I thought of my brother, who couldn’t resist the slot machines, horse racing, any of it. He’d be so jealous if he knew I was here. The carnival atmosphere sort of contradicted the elegance of the Bellagio and the fountains. I let my gaze rise. Somewhere up there was the penthouse suite where I’d consummated my wedding night. My empty, still-tender stomach groaned at the thought. I wondered how long before one of us acknowledged that we’d gotten married last night after knowing one another only four hours.
Scott and I stood beside each other, not touching. The space between us was conspicuous and electric, and I wanted to close it, but didn’t want to want to, if that makes sense. This was business. Strictly commercial. I looked around, groping for words. I immediately regretted what floated out of my mouth. I meant them to be conversational, inspired by the little advertisements for call girls and strippers that litter the strip.
“I’ve never been to a strip club.”
He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Do you want to?”
“Uh.” Nice work, Mackenzie. Way to dig yourself into this hole.
“There are some here that are much classier than average. If you want to do it right, this is the place. I mean, there are also some really sketchy ones, so if you wanted to go to a dive, we can make that happen, too. Ladies’ choice.”
“The nice one?” I twisted my voice up in a question.
Of course Scott Creed would be an expert on Las Vegas strip clubs. This was the man whose email bragging about a “hat trick” with three of the most beautiful supermodels in America had leaked the year before. None of the women denied it, just smirked smug, satisfied smiles at the camera.
I, apparently, had experienced this coveted lovemaking the night before and remembered none of it. What does Mackenzie Thomas have in common with supermodel Ivanka Moriarty? We’ve both been in bed with Scott Creed. She didn’t get to marry him, though.