CHAPTER EIGHT | ACE
The last time I had worn a suit was at my father’s funeral. It was rented from some cheap shop at the mall; cheap black polyester that swished when I walked and smelled like someone else’s sweat masked with musky air freshener.
Asher insisted on matching me, but the shop didn’t rent out suits for eight-year olds. The smallest men’s size was the best they could do. That suit practically swallowed him whole, but he wore it proudly as he stood by my side. We even had matching dark sunglasses. Ash thought we looked like the Boondock Saints. I was just glad that he found something to smile about.
I wondered what my brother would have to say about the suit I was wearing now.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror, trying to come to terms with the man staring back at me. I didn’t look like a Boondock Saint, and I sure as hell didn’t look like Ace Boone.
The suit I wore now was a lot nicer than the one I had rented for my old man’s funeral. The black wool was thick and smooth, and the lapels on the jacket had been freshly starched. There was even a sprig of flowers pinned to the front.
They were fake flowers, of course, which seemed appropriate considering how everything else about this night was fake, too.
The final piece of the outfit was a black silk tie draped over the top of the mirror. I pulled it down and roped it around my neck, then stared down at the two ends stupidly. I had never tied a tie before. I had no idea what to do.
I glanced back up at my reflection, as if the man in the mirror could help me.
“Out of all the stupid shit you’ve done in your life,” I told my reflection. “This has to take the cake as the stupidest.”
“Sounds like someone is getting cold feet!” a man’s voice chuckled back at me.
In my drunken state, it took a few seconds before I realized that the voice hadn’t come from the mirror, but rather from behind me. I turned around and saw Elvis Presley standing in the doorway of the dressing room.
Well, not the Elvis. He was just an impersonator. Vegas was teaming with fake Elvis Presleys. This one happened to be one of the better ones I’d seen. He had a jacked up bouffant of jet black hair and a tight white spandex jumpsuit embellished with rhinestones.
“I’m not getting cold feet,” I told Elvis. “I just think this is a fucking stupid idea, and I’m trying to remember why the hell I agreed to it in the first place.”
Elvis chuckled again as he strutted into the room.
“If I had a dollar for every time I heard that,” he said, “Well... I wouldn’t have to wear this dumb outfit anymore.”
“Thanks, Elvis,” I sighed. “That’s very helpful.”
“You want something helpful?” he glanced at me over the rim of his cheesy gold sunglasses. “Here.”
He reached into the front of his jumpsuit and pulled out a thin metal flask.
“Elvis juice,” he said, passing it to me. Then, in a secretive whisper, he added: “It’s Four Loko mixed with Everclear.”
I unscrewed the cap on the flask and took a whiff. That was a mistake. I immediately felt a dry heave roll up the back of my throat.
“Jesus, Elvis, are you trying to kill me?!”
“I’m trying to do whatever it takes to get you down that aisle,” he said. Then he glanced at the watch on his wrist and added, “We’re gonna have to speed this up. I’ve got another wedding in forty-five minutes, and the bride and groom want me to be Jailhouse Rock Elvis.”
He patted me on the back, then left me alone with the flask. The dressing room door had barely closed behind Elvis, when I heard a soft knock. Then it creaked open again, and Sienna slipped in.
I hadn’t seen a version of Sienna O’Malley that wasn’t beautiful, but this had to be the best one yet. She was wearing a little white lace dress that ended just above her knees, and her strawberry blonde hair was pulled up into a crooked knot on the top of her head. She was somehow adorable and sexy all at once, and that wasn’t just the whiskey talking.
“What are you doing in here?” I asked. “You know it’s bad luck for a groom to see the bride before the wedding.”
“I’m not sure those rules apply to fake marriages.” She cocked her head and smiled playfully.
A fake marriage; that’s exactly what this was. As fake as the plastic flowers pinned to my lapel.
It was Sienna’s idea. She had suggested it back at Red Rock Tavern. Well, I guess the technical term would be “proposed.”
At first I thought she was out of her fucking mind. I had to take a shot of whiskey just to wash the shock off my face. But the more she explained it, the more it started to make sense.
Getting hitched was the only way that Sienna O’Malley could protect me in a court of law. Apparently the state of Nevada has this law that prevents a wife from being forced to testify against her husband and vice versa. Spousal privilege, she called it.
It was a crazy idea… but it was a guarantee. It was the best kind of promise she could give me.
The more whiskey we drank, the more it started to look like a win-win. Sienna would get all the information she could possibly need, and in return she would keep the High Rollers off the Gaming Commission’s radar. As an added bonus, she’d also be targeting some of our biggest rivals.
We’d point the gun, and she’d pull the trigger. If you ask me, that was the perfect marriage.
I guess that was why I agreed to it. And now, here we are at the Little White Wedding Chapel, drunk off our asses and getting ready for a 2 A.M. ceremony officiated by the king of rock n roll himself.
“You look pretty damn good as a bride, Blondie,” I said, unable to stop myself from smiling.
“You look pretty alright in a suit,” she smiled back as she padded towards me.
“Yeah, well don’t get used to it.”
Without saying a word, she reached for the ends of my tie and began looping them around until she had tightened a perfect knot around my neck. Then she pressed her palms against my chest, and her eyes fluttered up to meet mine. She opened her mouth like she was about to say something, then she clamped her lips shut.
“What?” I asked. “You already thinking about what I’m gonna do to you in the honeymoon suite?”
“What?! No!” she blushed furiously, her eyes widening.
“Then what are you thinking about?”
“It’s… nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“No, it’s…” she ducked her head and buried her face in my chest, giggling drunkenly. Somehow my hands found their way around her waist, and I pulled her even closer.
“Come on,” I whispered. “You’re not allowed to have secrets when you’re married.”
She kept her head low, but her eyes rolled up towards mine.
“It’s just that… we’re probably going to have to kiss,” she said.
There was something so innocent about the way she said it. It was almost… sweet.
“What’s the matter? You scared of a little kiss?”
“No! Of course not! That’s not it—”
“Are you scared of me?” I asked, then I lowered my voice to a whisper and added, “I may be a monster, but I can be gentle when I need to be…”
Her chest pressed into mine and I could feel her heart pounding through my suit. She tightened her grip on my lapels.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she insisted stubbornly. “And you don’t need to be gentle with me.”
“You saying you like it rough?”
“No! I didn’t mean it like that,” she stammered, her cheeks turning bright red.
“Relax,” my hands tightened, gripping her hip bones through lace. “It’s just a kiss.”
She swayed slightly against my chest, but her eyes stayed locked straight up at me.
“Haven’t you ever kissed a boy before, Sienna O’Malley?” I teased, barely recognizing the low hum of my voice. I had never heard myself talk that way before.
“Of course I have,” she said bashfully, like it was a confession. Then started to ramble. “I mean, not recently. It’s probably been years. I’m not exaggerating, either. Literally years. I guess I’m out of practice. It’s just been so long, that I’m not ever sure I—”
I pushed her chin up with my finger and pressed my lips against hers. She immediately went silent, and her lips lost track of the words they were trying to say as they fell open to my tongue. A second later, her tongue was twisting around mine.
Out of practice, my ass.
Finally I had to force myself to pull away. Her eyes immediately rolled up to me. She looked confused.
“Let’s save something for the honeymoon, eh?” I teased, winking down at her.
We stepped out of the dressing room and into the chapel, which was done up in cheesy 1990s wedding decor. Drunk Elvis was already waiting for us at the altar, and when he saw us coming, he tapped a button on the CD player at his feet. A pre-recorded version of the wedding march began to play.
I glanced down at Sienna.
“You think we’ll regret this in the morning, Blondie?”
“100%,” she nodded solemnly. “But I think we should do it anyways.”
That was good enough for me. I offered her my arm, and then we walked together, side by side, down the aisle.