What Happens in Vegas Read online

  WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS

  TWO NOVELS

  VIVA LAS VEGAS

  ELVIS HAS NOT LEFT THE BUILDING

  * * * * *

  VIVA LAS VEGAS

  by

  GEMMA HALLIDAY

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  ebook Edition

  Copyright © 2010 by Gemma Halliday

  http://www.gemmahalliday.com

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  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  * * * * *

  VIVA LAS VEGAS

  * * * * *

  Chapter One:

  Mary, the Queen of Hearts

  When you work in a Vegas wedding chapel, it’s hard to believe in true love.

  Take today, for example. I watched twenty-one different brides march down the aisle, including a ninety year old great-grandmother of thirty, two drunken sorority girls, three Midwestern vacationers, a handful of impulsive thirty-somethings with tick-tocking biological clocks, and one six foot tall drag queen in Vera Wang. And, God help me, I was jealous of each and every one. Why? Because they had a groom. That rare and elusive breed of man that actually stands at the altar, watching his soulmate approach with love in his eyes, instead of bolting for the nearest exit at the mere mention of white taffeta and tasteful bouquets of calla lilies. I hated that their men actually said “I do” to the all important questions: Do you promise to stick around even when the makeup and Spanx come off, when she starts wearing cotton briefs instead of lace thongs, and even when the sex becomes routine and the toilet seat being up becomes the main topic of conversation in your lives? But most of all I hated them because instead of being one myself, I was nursing a bruised ego of a woman who has been dumped by her fiancé in favor of a cocktail waitress named Candi with an “i”.

  “I’m going to do it,” I announce to the room at large, hoping my resolve sounds stronger than it feels. “I’m sending the ring back to him.”

  Three faces turn toward mine over the folding card table that is my dining room. Three pairs of eyes blink in disbelief.

  “Are you sure?” asks the first pair of eyes - big, blue and set in a face rimmed with a soft, blonde bob. Ella Campbell, former Vegas It-Girl turned Queen of Suburbia. Ella used to be a showgirl at Bally’s before she traded in her feathers for marriage and motherhood. Now she spends her days at Mommy and Me, never wears heels over two inches, and generally smells more of Desitin than Chanel.

  “Of course, she’s sure. He was scum. Slime. A grade-A asshole. He left her for a cocktail waitress. I mean, how cliché can you get?” asks the second pair of eyes, rolling toward the sky in their signature drama queen move. David Shepard. 6’2”, a heart of gold, and the biggest flamer you ever wanted to meet. With thick, wavy hair, deep brown eyes and long, black lashes, David is way too pretty to be a man.

  “Okay, so he has some issues, but this is really final. If she sends the ring back, it’s really over,” Ella counters.

  “You should have pawned it,” says the owner of the third pair of eyes, narrowing in on the deck of pink playing cards in her hand. Kit. (Just Kit. I’ve been trying to pry her last name out of her for the past two years, but she won’t give it up. Secretly I think she’s related to the Kennedys or the Rockefellers or something.) She pops a wad of watermelon-scented gum between her teeth, blowing the occasional pink bubble between her candy apple red lips. I can always count on Kit to tell it to me straight. She’s a magician’s assistant at the MGM Grand who comes with an attitude as brassy as her short, spiked hair.

  “I couldn’t pawn it,” I argue. “It’s…” I pause. “Well, it’s… I mean, we were together for two years.”

  All three pairs of eyes roll toward the ceiling in unison, and I think I hear David mumble another “puhlease!” under his breath.

  “I’m not pawning it,” I repeat. “I’m sending it back to him, and he can do whatever he likes with it.” Except give it to Candi with an “i”. Then I’d have to hire a hit man.

  “You’re a bigger person than I am, honey,” David says. “I spend two years with an asshole, I’m keeping the ring.”

  “Five card stud, nothing wild.” Kit shuffles her deck of pink Chippendales cards and begins doling them out across the table. Kit spent a year dealing blackjack at the Mirage and knows how to handle a deck of cards with style. “So,” she says, eyeing me, “how does it feel to be asshole free?”

  “It feels like shit, how do you think it feels, Kit?” David answers for me, taking a sip from his wide brimmed glass. (Purple Hurricanes tonight, courtesy of Ella.)

  “Why would it feel like shit?” argues Kit. “She’s finally over the creep. That should feel good, right?” She turns to me for confirmation.

  “Right. It feels…” I pause, trying hard to come up with a word that puts a positive spin on being alone again.

  “Liberating?” Ella supplies.

  “Liberating. Yes, it feels liberating.” I am such a liar. It does feel like shit.

  “Liberating, huh?” David asks, clearly not convinced.

  “Well, if he truly wasn’t your soulmate, then I’m glad you’re letting Brandon go,” Ella says.

  Kit elbows Ella in the arm, and David shoots me an apprehensive look. “I thought we agreed never to speak that name again,” he says.

  I manage a somewhat convincing smile back. I’m fine. Really. Hearing the name “Brandon” clearly doesn’t affect me anymore. Brandon Davis Asherton the third. There, see? I can hear the whole thing and still not be reminded of the pain, horror, anguish, and humiliation of getting V.D. Very Dumped.

  “Right. Sorry, sweetie.” Ella puts a hand on my arm.

  I do that half smile, half frown, brave little soldier face. “Really. I’m fine.”

  Luckily I have such good friends that they all pretend to believe this.

  “Right.” Ella pats my hand. “So, is it my turn?” She always has a hard time following the game. Truth be told she usually loses the most too.

  “Yes, Ella, it’s you,” Kit says popping her gum impatiently.

  “Okay, I’ll put in a Dior, then.” Ella throws a tube of Passion Pink lipstick into the pot.

  Secretly, I think David and Kit let Ella keep playing because her husband is a doctor. Translation: Ella’s credit card has no limit. In fact, I think half the items in my cosmetic bag are due to Ella’s poor poker skills.

  The four of us have met every Tuesday night for as long as any of us cares to remember, playing a game we invented called Pink Poker. So named because it started with a deck of pink playing cards w
ith pictures of deliciously underdressed Chippendales dancers on them. Somewhere along the line one of us dug into her purse for more funds (probably Ella) and instead of finding green found only an odd assortment of cosmetics. Believe me, playing for a tube of Dior Passion Pink, M.A.C. Perfect Touch Foundation and a three inch long eye pencil is a lot more interesting than a stack of blue and red poker chips. At least it is to us. Now, a casual observer might think, “Hey, what about David? Does he get all tickled pink over lipstick?”

  “Is that Passion Pink?” David asks, picking up the tube Ella laid on the table.

  “Uh huh.”

  “I’m in.” David lays out a half-used compact of Satin de Chanel.

  “I fold,” Kit says, eyeing David’s foundation raise.

  “I’m in.” I add my own freshly bought Cinnamon Spice nail polish. Sally Hansen brand.

  “Good Gucci, is that drug store shit again?” David looks pained.

  “Sorry, I’m on a budget.”

  “When are you not on a budget?” he asks.

  I elect to ignore that comment, as I feel my card table décor speaks for itself.

  “Ella, any cards?” Kit asks, stack of Chippendales raised.

  “No, I’m good.”

  David and I share a glance. This could mean she has a really good hand. Then again, it could mean she’s bluffing. Or, more likely than either, she has no idea whether her cards are good or bad.

  I look at my cards. Five of spades. Seven of hearts. Ten of diamonds. Two threes. Shit.

  “David, you?”

  “I’ll take three, honey,” he says, sliding his discards across the cracked vinyl table.

  “Mary? Any cards?” Kit asks.

  I look from Ella to David. David’s wearing his stone poker face. I search Ella’s perfectly oval face for any signs of a tell. She’s viciously twirling a lock of her shiny blond hair around her index finger. Is that good or bad?

  “Earth to Mary?” Kit prompts.

  “Three cards please,” I say, keeping my precious pair of threes.

  Kit slides three across to me and turns expectantly to Ella.

  “M.A.C. eye shadow. And I call,” Ella says, biting her lip.

  David looks over the powder blue shade and shrugs, throwing in an eyeliner pencil.

  “Mary?”

  I peek at my new cards. A four of hearts. A six of clubs, and a Jack of spades. Shit. While the Jack of spades is nice to look at (a fireman wearing only his hat and suspenders – be still my beating heart!) but he doesn’t help my hand any.

  “I fold.”

  “Oh come on, Mary. You always fold,” David says, taking another sip from his Purple Hurricane.

  “I do not.”

  Fine. I do. I’m a habitual folder. But, I’ve lived in Las Vegas long enough to know that poker is all a game of odds. If I’m only holding a pair of threes, what are the odds either one of them has a worse hand than I do? Honestly, about the same odds that Brandon will walk through my front door, fall to his knees and beg me to take him back because he realizes now that Candi with an “i”’s perfect Barbie body is no comparison to my sparkling personality.

  “So, are you in or not, Mary?” Kit prompts, all eyes expectantly on me.

  The Jack may be nice eye candy, but he isn’t going to help me bring home the jackpot. Story of my life.

  “I fold.”

  * * *

  “Congratulations, and thank you for choosing The Chapel of Love,” I say in a singsong voice to the drunk couple staggering out the door. The groom throws me a wave before lifting his new bride into his arms and carrying her (oh, God, I hope he doesn’t drop her!) to their dusty Camaro in the parking lot.

  As soon as they’re out of sight, I sit back down at my desk, and check off their names in my big heart-shaped ledger. Mr. and Mrs. Clive Shankman, my fifth couple today, and it’s not even lunch.

  I admit it. I, Mary Halligan, am a Wedding Coordinator at a Vegas quickie chapel. Though “coordinator” is really just a fancy way of saying I help the happy couples pick out a song from a cheesy CD of ‘80’s power ballads five minutes before they march down the aisle to be wed by the Reverend Alvin Thicket, dressed to the nines in full Elvis attire. On a good day Elvis and I can send thirty couples off into marital bliss. Or at least onto a night of amazing honeymoon sex before waking to the realization that what happens in Vegas doesn’t always stay here.

  I file the Shankman couple’s paperwork in the metal cabinet by the door and, for the tenth time today check to see if the mail has been picked up yet. Nope. Our box is still full of outgoing marriage certificates, bills, and one tiny brown package holding a two and a half carat ring that has spent the last six months on my nightstand taunting my still single status. I take it out, turn it over, set it on the edge of my desk. As convincing as I might have been with my friends last night, I’m not sure I’m really ready to do this. Sending the ring back is admitting defeat. Clearly I’m not stupid enough to want a guy back that cheated on me, but letting go of the perfect life we had planned together is a lot harder than any of my friends realized. They already have their perfect lives. Mine was slated to begin as soon as I became Mrs. Asherton, and now that I never will… well, I’m not sure what my perfect life is.

  The door to The Chapel of Love flies open and a leggy brunette walks in, cell phone glued to her ear.

  “Shut up!” she says in a Valley Girl accent as she gives me a one finger wave. “Shut up! (beat) Shut up! (beat) Shut up! (beat) Well, that is like way cool. I’m so psyched for you! Ohmigod, I have to go. I’ll call you later. Ciao!” She flips the phone shut with a click. “Hey, sis,” she says, plopping herself into one of the heart shaped chairs gracing the lobby.

  “Hi Sam,” I respond.

  Meet Samantha, sorority poster girl, Rodeo drive frequenter, and, oddly enough, my sister.

  Technically, I guess Sam is my half sister, the product of Mom’s marriage number two, her brief foray into the world of sports. Sam’s dad is a former pro baseball player. Hence my sister’s long, lean physique. Though I never actually met my father, Mom says he did a Houdini act at the Palms. Hence my ability to make men magically disappear.

  The only thing Sam and I really had in common growing up was a crush on Keanu Reeves (circa Point Break) and a tendency to whine whenever Mom introduced us to our newest “Daddy”. If memory serves, Mom is currently on the lookout for marriage number four. (Five if you count the brief weekend she married the club’s tennis pro who turned out to be wanted for stealing a case of Wilson rackets from a Big Five. Daddy number four is currently doing five to ten in Atwater.) When people ask my mother why she never had a career, she says, “I do. It’s called marriage.” The sad thing is, she’s not kidding.

  “Ugh, it’s hot out there. Can you believe they don’t have air conditioning in the Tiki Room? I mean, it’s a tanning salon for crying out loud. It gets hot.” Sam fans herself with a brochure for the Hoover Dam from the tourist rack by the door.

  “Go figure.”

  “Anyway, I just came by to tell you brunch with Mom will be at Bertolini’s tomorrow. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

  Our weekly mother-daughter brunch. How could I forget? No matter what’s going on in our lives, it’s an absolute mandate that we all drink mimosas and eat eggs benedict at least once a week together. Then my mother can feel like she’s done her duty and go sip Bloody Marys at the country club with a guilt free conscience.

  “I’ll be there with bells on.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.”

  Sam’s cell phone rings again and she flips it open like an extension of her hand. “Hello? (beat) Shut up!”

  I try not to roll my eyes at the varying degrees of shutting up in Sam’s world, as the front door opens again and a young couple in cutoffs comes into the lobby. She’s in a tiny pink shirt that reads “Princess” across the front and a cheap novelty veil. He’s in a faded “I’m with stoopid” T-shirt. They make their way gi
ggling and holding hands to my desk and even before they get here I have the box of cheesy CDs open.

  “We wanna get married,” Princess says, only slightly slurring her words due to one too many courtesy drinks at the blackjack tables. (It’s an educated guess.)

  “Yeah. Quick,” Stoopid adds, leaning in to stick his tongue in Princess’s ear.

  I hand them the necessary paperwork (which basically consists of making sure they can spell their own names), take their $42.50, and show them the CD collection. They pick Journey’s Greatest Hits. Reverend Thicket (dressed as Rhinestone Elvis today) escorts them to the chapel (a.k.a. the gazebo decorated with fake roses and pink paper-maché hearts in front of two rows of folding chairs) and begins the ceremony.

  I settle myself back behind my desk just in time to hear the end of Sam’s conversation.

  “I love you too, pumpkin. I’ll see you tonight. Ciao!” Sam flips her cell shut and sighs deeply. “He is so going to do it tonight.”

  Sam has a way of assuming that everyone else knows exactly who and what she’s talking about. With most people this results in a lot of “huh?”s and “well, duh!”s. Luckily through many years of sharing a Strawberry Shortcake themed bedroom with my sister, I speak “Sam.” In this case the “he” refers to her boyfriend, Trevor Pinkerton of the Palm Beach Pinkertons (at least that’s how my mother refers to him), and the “it” is asking her to move in with him, something Sam has been not-so-subtly hinting at ever since she realized dorm living consisted of bunk beds and modular furniture.

  Trevor is Sam’s high school sweetheart and, in her naive I’m-still-dating-my-first-boyfriend-ever world, The One. Even when I assured her that once they both went to college she would want to experience other guys, my little sister assured me that she and Trevor were in love. So, being the incredibly wise twenty-something big sister (Okay, more like twenty-something-ish, which I’m thinking covers everything between twenty-five and thirty-five and I refuse to get more specific unless dealing with Uncle Sam or my gynecologist), I patted her on the head and said, “Good luck,” as my sister went blindly into the dating piranha’s tank that is UNLV.